Yesteryear Fiction

Sasquatch STD Breath
By Paul Tristram


I awoke this un-fine morning
in bed with 2 Ogres,
a Cave Troll
and a Druid Priestess
who had long ago gone bad.
Covered in something that did
not look, smell or feel normal?
I slid to the damp flooring,
crawled backwards gingerly
to the bathroom, cringingly
and silently scaled the scolding
window and made my escape,
whilst patting out the singeing
edges of my poor, demented mind.
I made it home safe and sound
although shook up beyond belief.
Got down onto my bandaged knees
and prayed and promised solemnly
to henceforth never again frequent
that dingy part of downtown and
to completely refrain from drinking
neat whisky from half pint glasses.


- - -
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/

Meddle Not In the Affairs of Dragons
By Linda M. Crate


Syn stood furiously at the grave of her beloved friend Chiamaka. Maka was gone. Nothing would bring her back and it made her so livid that she would even think of forgiving that treacherous badger let alone marry him! She had not gone to the wedding as she should have for simply that reason. Syn hated Matthius. He had nearly gotten them killed with the help of an evil dragon. Though, he had asked for their forgiveness he had only got the forgiveness of one: Maka.

She clenched her fist. "How could you forgive that good for nothing no-account lowli—."

"Excuse me, good for nothing no-account lowlife, coming through."

"What are you doing here?" Syn spat, a little more viciously than she intended.

Matthius stiffened. Despite his intimidation by the dragon, the badger would not back away. "Well, we have as much as right as you to be here as you do. More so, I'd say, given we are her flesh and blood."

"No, the children are. You are just a traitor."

"I said I was sorry, Syn."

"Sometimes, Matthius, sorry isn't good enough, you lying hypocritical piece of—." The livid redhead turned her attention away from her quarry to find a blonde haired little girl with Maka's eyes looking up at her, pulling on her dress.

"Your dress is pwetty," she giggled.

"You're so cute," Syn smiled.

Matthius puffed up like a peacock. "She gets that from me."

The faerie regarded the shape-shifting sorcerer in disdain. She punched him with all her strength in the groin. "She gets it from Maka."

"Ow, woman, I wasn't intending on having any more children."

"Good, let that be a reminder of what is to come should you attempt to dishonor my best friend's name so."

"Some best friend you are, you didn't even show up to her wedding."

"Because you were there!"

"Do you really hate me that much?" Matthius frowned. "I apologized."

Syn glared, her black eyes flashing. "You still don't get it. You could apologize until the triple moons were blue, it wouldn't matter. No amount of sorries could take away the fact that you could have killed us, Matthias."

Morgan could sense the fury of his pregnant wife and winced. She had never liked Matthias, she had always been temperamental, and she had always thought traitors deserved death. This was probably made a thousand times worse due to her hormones, at the moment. "Hey, hey, we're not making anyone dinner tonight, okay?"

"I wouldn't eat him if he were the last animal left on earth."

"Syn, be nice. Remember what the healer said. Stress and anger are both bad for you and the babies, no?"

"He's a scullywag!"

"Syn?"

"Fine," she glared.

"You really should forgive him."

"You, too?" Syn whined, looking at him with pathetic eyes.

Morgan almost melted, but knew he had to hold his resolve. "Yes, even me. It's not to hurt you, Syn, but if you don't forgive him, it will destroy you, too. Do you really want that? I don't want that. Your mother couldn't let go, either, and look what happened to her. I don't want you to turn on me or the children like that."

"How could you ever imply? Don't you love me?"

"I really don't think your mother decided one day she would be a crazy, nasty witch from hell that was going to kill everyone. Even the good witch Finnigan insisted that she had been good once, Syn."

Syn blushed, as there was too much truth in this to ignore, and she began to realize her grudge against Matthias was petty. "I forgive you," the dragon remarked. "Please forgive me my foolishness. I cannot believe the worlds I am about to speak, but my husband was right. I will not let this destroy me, but I cannot emphasize enough that I will not trust you. At least, not right away. You will have to prove that you're more than a traitor and I still rather dislike you."

"Well, it's a start," Matthias smiled. He took his children gingerly into his arms and walked away.

Syn shrugged, tossing her scarlet hair to the side. She wound a hand into Morgan's raven locks without warning.

"Syn?" Morgan asked.

"Although your intentions were good, your approach was evil, you must be punished."

"Oh?"

"Not that way, Merlin, I'm not your father, pervert." She pushed him away. "But don't worry, I have plenty of ideas on how I can torture you," she smirked.

"You almost sound as if you may enjoy that," he winced.

Syn snorted. "Well, my love, you know what they say? Do not meddle in the affairs of dragons," she grinned, mischief dancing in her eyes. "You would do well to remember that, and while I do love you...I always have, you will pay for that. That is all." She blew him a kiss before disappearing over a grassy hill, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

"Women are crazy," Morgan muttered, "and they blame it on men." He snorted, deciding that whatever his wife was going to punish him with couldn't be that bad. Especially since she had warned him.


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

One Winged Beauty
By Linda M. Crate


She was not daunted by the fact he was a gypsy.

It only made her more curious. She had read books about them, but that wasn't quite the same as knowing one. They seemed to have a certain mystique about them.

He growled, turning to face her. "Stop following me," he snapped, his dark brown eyes flashing in irritation. He straightened the fabric hairband in his hair woven of many colors, shaking his head so that the golden hoop hanging on his left ear swung at her in disapproval.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"You don't scare me."

He snorted. "I don't?" he asked her.

"No. I've read about gypsies, but I've never known one. Everyone says that they're mean and cruel, but I think that sort of stereotyping lends to say more about the person saying it than those whom they're insulting, don't you think?"

He smiled at her. "You are most peculiar."

"Perhaps," she agreed.

A year later the pair sat with hands knotted on the side of a bridge. Moss grew beneath their fingers but she liked the feel of it. "Aife, what are you thinking?" she asked.

He took in her countenance. Her long flowing lustrous red locks, the contrast of his white pallid flesh against the bronze of hers, her almond shaped green eyes, and her beautiful golden wings with scarlet dragons. "How crazy a beauty like you is to fall for a scoundrel like me." His one wing beat furiously in his embarrassment. He had only been born with one and she had been the only one not to insult him for it. Ever.

She watched his little green wing crested with gold and white moons and trimmed in the same elegant gold as hers were, and she smiled. "Don't be embarrassed. You're beautiful, too."

"Your family will hate me."

"They will love you," she soothed.

Aife looked like he rather thought not, but he said nothing, following only reluctantly when she stood brushing off her long white silken dress with all it's many layers of eloquence. He knocked uncertainly at the door and was met by Orvetta's family. A nosy sister that looked the same age as Orvetta with thick unruly black hair, bronze skin, and black eyes peeped out at him. The rest of the five siblings were brothers and they all looked curiously at him, as well. One was taller than the sister, but the rest were still growing. The taller one had a thick mane of long red hair, pale skin, and obsidian eyes. All the others had black hair as Orvetta's twin and bronze skin with green eyes.

"All right, all right, let him breathe," came a voice. He recognized the woman as lady Syn. She was more lovely in person than they gave her credit for in ballads. Her hair was the same wondrous scarlet as Orvetta's but her eyes were black as an ebony pitch which contrasted beautifully and mysteriously against her pale white skin.

Orvetta's mother was a beauteous woman in her own right and the way she carried herself intimidated him a bit.

"It's okay, she's a dragon, she intimidates everyone," Orvetta whispered into his ear.

"Dragons have very good hearing, Orvetta, and I really don't think I'm all that intimidating."

"Until you annoy her that is," grinned Orvetta's father, peeking over his wife's shoulder. He had long black tresses, the same green eyes as Orvetta possessed, and the same dark skin.

Aife watched as the family hugged and embraced one another. Lady Syn broke apart from the others and observed him and watched his little wing twitch in what seemed to be a twinge of embarrassment.

"Why are you embarrassed?"

"You're all so beautiful, but then you have I. Barely worthy of your daughter's love—."

"You are beautiful. Just the way you are."

"I told him the same thing," Orvetta nodded.

Later that night as Aife gazed upon the countenance of the woman he had been courting for a year now, he smiled. His eyes watched as she walked across the bridge, tossing her shoes into the river below, closing her eyes as she walked, allowing the silk of her dress to dance across the moss as butterflies and dragonflies seemed to pirouette in the wind and all the spaces between her wings. "Your family was nice, but you'll never meet my parents."

"Why?"

"Because I ran away from home. They told me that I would never have anyone to support me other than them and that I'd never make anything of myself. I vowed to prove them wrong."

"Oh, Aife. Perhaps, they didn't mean—."

"I know what you will say and one day I will forgive them, Orvetta. But I can't. Not now, it's too painful."

"Just don't let it destroy you," she warned, hopping off the bridge, shoes forgotten. She drew near to him.

He smiled taking her hand in his own. "I won't." He cleared his throat. "Will you marry me, Orvetta?"

Magic seemed to well up and dance in her eyes and her eyes laughed with all the joy shimmering in her cheeks. "Aye, aye, a thousand times aye!"

Aife laughed. "Who would think such a beauty would fall for someone like me?"

Orvetta shook her head fervently. "Nay. It is I that is lucky to have such a one-winged beauty for my own. No one will ever hurt you, my love. Not while I'm around."

"Likewise, my lady," Aife smiled, his heart content. He knew he would always love her just as she would always love him and that was all the comfort in the world he needed.


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

The Underwhelming Tale of Jason Wells
By Cooper Davis Smith


Jason Wells wasn’t a good man. Though considering the others in the world he wasn’t too bad either. Like millions of others he was content living a perfectly grey life. Never drifting too far left or right nor speaking aloud about his opinions, in fact he never had much in the way of opinions at all. Jason Wells was, for all intents and purposes, Norman Smith who was also Julia Lawrence who was also John Doe.
Jason was born on August 13th of 1984. He went through school as a perfectly average student and graduated with one picture in the East Thompson High 2002 Yearbook. Jason wouldn’t see any of his “friends” again until his 10-year reunion.
As far as his adult life Jason aspired to be very little. He held a safe job as a phone salesman with a security company. It was his job to call people, bother them at their most inconvenient times, and then offer them something they did not care about in the least. It will suffice to say that Jason was not very successful.
It would be incorrect to say that Jason was depressed but it would be equally incorrect to say that Jason was happy. Jason was goop, the kind that rattles around an egg before you crack it open into a frying pan. Living in a permanent state of goop, Jason was undetermined.
He could have been a fireman, or a doctor, or even a vigilante crime fighter. And all it took for Jason to realize his potential was dying. Despite a completely average life, one filled with untraveled roads and never opened windows, Jason had a truly unique death.
On the evening of October 8th 2014, Jason was killed in a boating accident. That is, a boat being transported by plane fell from the sky and crushed poor Jason. The only solace the medical examiner could provide Jason’s family was that the death was painless. The only thought Jason had just before death was: Dear God, I have never experienced anything so painful in my life.
And so came the end of Jason Wells and the beginning of the review process. I am Jason’s reviewer. It is my job to determine whether or not Jason is allowed to go on to the next life, a mystical hootenanny of serenity and enlightenment; or if he should be condemned to reincarnation, the celestial equivalent of waiting in line at the DMV. I am one of many that review thousands of souls every day. In fact it was my idea to reincarnate Genghis Kahn as a cat in Mongolia, but this is not my story. It was Jason’s and he was not faring well.
Looking through his life, I see a rather large amount of: things never said, experiences never had, and risks never taken. These all weigh heavily on my final decision. At first glance it appears that Jason, like so many millions of people, will be reincarnated into a second life, one that is exactly the same. The only difference being that he won’t remember anything from before. It is on closer inspection that I change my mind.
Jason never had much of a thought. He never tried to exceed expectations and would only do what was put in front of him. Like his work, or helping an old woman with her groceries, or even helping a cat out of a tree.
Jason never had any aspirations, he was never happy, and he most certainly never gave a second thought to helping a person in need. In a world where so many people thought about what they could and would do, Jason just did.
Jason Wells was born on August 13th 1984 and died on October 8th of 2014. It is my review that approves a move onto the next life. Effective immediately.


- - -
A writing student who loves to travel and learn. My interests include culture, religion, mythology, and pizza.

Stairway to Heaven
By Linda M. Crate


The wind howled with a ferocity that shook the last of autumn's leaves from the safety of their tree mothers' arms. Yellow, orange, and vibrant furious scarlet leaves the exact hue of his wife's hair flew to the ground in a slow, suspended motion as if time had froze them in a delicate ocean of air.

Sighing softly he paused from his swift walk to observe his mother's grave. Today marked the one year anniversary of her death. His father had secluded himself from everyone since then and it seemed that his father had let the monstrous side of his vampire self take the stead of where his humanity once laid. His father had really loved his mother. She had been his one, and though many people disapproved of their antics (even he) he was sad that she was gone. His father seemed so broken.

"You know you promised him you'd never leave," Morgan whispered. "I don't think he's ever going to forgive you for breaking that oath, mother." He frowned slightly. "I made Syn promise me, too, and if she goes before I do then I'm probably going to wind up the same way father did."

"No," came a voice. "You better not."

Morgan turned to see his father there, watching him with pained eyes.

"You have her beautiful eyes," Florian whispered. He cleared his throat. "And you better not turn out that way. I think Syn would give you hell to pay in the after life should you be like...I am," he said brokenly. "And one day I will tell Lucy off for leaving me. She promised she never would. It's not like her to break a promise." He looked as if he wanted to cry, but he refused to.

"Father?"

Florian shook his head and merely bent down to the tombstone. "I need some time alone with your mother."

Morgan understood and walked away, watching his father with worried eyes. He could see his father talking to the tombstone rather enthusiastically as if his mother were still alive and standing before him. His heart stammered a bit when out of the thick haze of dark clouds there stood an image of his mother. He could see every part of his father go stiff when the spirit of his mother took form before her tombstone.

She waved at Morgan a moment with a faint smile before turning her full attention to Florian.

"It's time to come home," she whispered. "I've been waiting for you."

"Lucy, you promised you wouldn't leave."

"I never meant to," she whispered. "But my poor little heart just couldn't beat any longer, my love," she insisted. She played with his hair gently, something that had always calmed his father down in the past when she had been living.

"Come back to me."

"I can't," she said sadly. "But you can come with me," she remarked.

Florian looked at her with uncertainty for a few moments before he allowed her to take his hand. "This time, Lucy, you better not break your promise."

"I would never," she said gently.

Morgan blinked as both his mother's spirit and his father simply disappeared without a trace. He pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming, but it was true. He could sense that his father was happier now, wherever he happened to disappear, and he also noticed that where there was one tombstone there were now two and between the two Celtic crosses there grew a rose with petals of both blue and green.

"Well, fine then, leave without a goodbye, you jerk," Morgan muttered. Yet he couldn't cry despite the appropriateness of it given the situation. He glanced at the rose of blue and green and couldn't help but snort. Blue had always been his mother's favorite color and green had been his father's. "You always accused her of being a hopeless romantic, I think you were, too."

Then without warning a black leaf fell on his head with a rather sharp harshness Morgan hadn't come to expect from leaves. "Ow! Fine, fine, I'll give you two some privacy." Rolling his eyes, Morgan wandered home.

He wondered how Syn would take his news.

"Morgan?" Syn remarked as he entered into their castle. "What's wrong? You look paler than death," she frowned. It was unusual for he was usually as dark as his father. She put a hand to his forehead to make sure he wasn't warmer than usual.

"My father just walked into heaven."

"What?"

"My mother just grabbed his hand and he disappeared with her."

Syn blinked. "Morgan, are you sure you're not ill? That seems rather impossible."

"I know that," he answered. "But I assure you, my dear dragon, he did just that."

The faerie frowned over at her husband, her wings whirring rather dubiously until one of the wildflowers she had been keeping in a vase went completely black before her.

"Okay, Florian, I believe him," she remarked, putting a hand over her heart. "Did you really have to kill my flower?" she insisted. As if to answer her one of the pans hanging in the kitchen fell on her head. "Ow, would you tell your father to be nice?"

Morgan snorted. "Clearly your disbelief annoyed him, and you know what he's like when you tell him to be nice."

Syn rolled her eyes. "One would think he'd be spending more time with your mother and less time harassing me." Almost as if the spirit had just considered this, she felt the presence of Florian leave as quickly as he had come. "Oi vey."

Morgan grinned. "So you believe me now?"

"Yes, clearly the extraordinary happened today. I have never heard of a spirit taking a living person into heaven with them."

"Syn?"

"Yes?"

"My mother promised my father not to leave him just as you promised me not to leave. You better not leave," he insisted.

Syn gave him a small kiss on the forehead. "I wouldn't dream of it."


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

Flower Crowns & Unending Love
By Linda M. Crate


It was her birthday and they were simply sitting with one another. It was just the way he liked it. Just him and her. It was almost as if the outside world did not exist.

He couldn't help but chuckle as she clumsily plopped onto the ground. She was slightly intoxicated, and it amused him for he still remained sober. However, he promised her that he wouldn't allow her to do anything too horrifically embarrassing whilst under the influence should she drink a bit too much in her merriment.

Florian snorted as she made a daisy chain and tried to put in his hair. "No, Lucy," he insisted, trying to push it away.

Lucille pouted at him in an innocent, childlike way. "But I made it for you," she pouted.

Florian smiled at her sadly. "All right." He picked the dainty crown from her hands and placed it in his hair, glaring at any of the onlookers that were snickering at him and his queen. She snuggled closer to his shoulder and he pulled her onto his lap.

Except the occasional snigger of onlookers.

"Lucy?" he asked as she mumbled something incoherently into his shoulder.

"You're the best present ever, but thank you for the gifts."

He snorted, though, he appreciated the sentiment. "You're welcome, my dear Lucy."

"Ian?"

"Hmm?"

"I will always love you, how long will you love me?"

He snorted. "Well, I'm wearing flowers in my hair so that means forever," he answered her.

She gave him a crooked smile before passing out into his shoulder, and he just held her there, stroking her long dark brown locks lovingly.

He was simply glad that the war was over. That the counsel was disbanded, that there was a time for peace. That they no longer had to fight goblins, dark elves, evil vampires, demons, werewolves, or any of the like. That he could just sit here with his faerie in his arms and nothing would interrupt them.

He pulled a face, finally annoyed with the onlooking throng of scoffers, giving them his famous d'Ernos death glare before disappearing into his large abode.

When she woke the next morning, he brushed her hair from her shoulders. "Morning, Lucy."

"What on earth are you wearing flowers in your hair for—," Lucille began. She gave pause as she remembered. "I'm so sorry," she remarked, reaching for the flower crown.

Florian, however, tilted his head so she couldn't reach it. "I liked it. It made me look more manly," he joked, laughing.

She blushed furiously. "Oh, Ian," she said, shaking her head. "I love you."

"Not as much as I love you, Lucy," he remarked. He smiled noting her eyes were green, the shade her eyes changed to when she was happy. He was glad that she was content. It made him to feel good to know of all the people in the world that could make her happy it was him that she chose, and he wouldn't trade his swan for anything in the world.

She was the only force in the world that could calm the monstrous side of his vampiric soul.


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

The Running Dragon
By Linda M. Crate


Her fiery red hair echoed more loudly than the crimsons and oranges painted in the clouds. The faerie ran. She knew that cowardice was found in doing so, but the dragon had never found anything had scared her so much as love.

She knew that this was too good to be true, that he couldn't possibly love her and so she would run. Let him be distracted by the throes of war. He would come to see that she was right and it would have been foolish to pursue anything.

A goblin cackled evilly beneath a pile of leaves as it sprang upward at the faerie, vile pointed teeth exposed and ready to bite.

"Out of my way," she roared, holding out one hand, engulfing the creature in magical flames that shone a vivid black blue. Her black eyes flashed dangerously. "I don't have time for distractions. I have to get away."

She paused as she felt someone watching her.

The fae locked eyes with Wyvern and she saw his disapproving gaze. She knew that he couldn't understand but Morgan deserved better than her and she wouldn't let him make a mistake. She wouldn't let him be trapped as she always felt by anyone by her side that was not him. She had loved him since she was twelve and while she knew that would never change, she didn't want him to be imprisoned by her need.

She was certain he only said he loved her out of pity. She couldn't be embarrassed that way.

Just because her desire and love for him rain deeper than the deepest root of the oldest tree didn't mean that he would ever feel the same.

Wyvern quickly crossed to her, grabbing her arm. "Syn, don't—."

"No," she insisted. "Don't judge me, Wyvern. I have to. If he loves me, he'll find me. But I can't take that chance that he really doesn't...that he just misses her—I can't. It will destroy me."

"He wouldn't have said it if he didn't mean it, I suspect," Wyvern insisted.

She felt bad for what she was about to do, but she had to. "You don't know that for certain and neither do I," she retorted, sending a magical barrier that cut his contact off from her. "Forgive me, I must go!"

Wyvern followed after her as she ran. She was like a wild animal. She was frenzied and in a panic, he was certain she didn't know what she was doing. She was just acting on instinct and she had always been one to run from her problems despite being smart enough to know that wasn't going to help her. "Oh, Syn," he sighed, massaging his temples. He knew that he would have to talk to Morgan, get him to see the way Syn did and help convince him to manipulate Syn into staying. "You, dragon, are one very complicated person."

Syn ran toward the sea shore, but it wasn't coming quickly enough. She closed her eyes and took upon her dragon form. Her large black wings would make her fly more quickly to the island and so decided that she would do this as the more distance between them the better. She had to think everything through.

It was too good to be true. She couldn't have heard him right. He couldn't have meant it. These were the things that swirled through her mind as she flew through turbulent skies.

A part of her knew that this was wrong as she was doing it, but another part of her insisted that this was the way it must be. That if he truly loved her then he would find her and that somehow everything would be okay.

When she reached the island she crashed into the white sand. She had over estimated the distance and it was a bit much even for her. Sighing heavily, she resumed her fae form and felt tears fall from her eyes.

"Do forgive me, Morgan, I pray," she whispered before she passed out on the beach.


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

Turn of the Worm
By David Castlewitz


Children of all types, sizes, and ages were thrown in the pit and the worm enjoyed eating them. Sometimes they were hairy-faced, their bodies covered with scars, their eyes full of fear; these were tasty, though the muscles somewhat stringy. The worm didn't like the ones that screeched. Screams made its long articulating body vibrate so much that it couldn't rest even after the noise stopped. Long-haired children with soft and delectable bodies were the worst screamers. Sometimes, the worm scurried to a far corner of the farthest room away from the deep pit, to a room where the screams didn't touch it. Later, when the child slept, the worm returned. This was a good strategy and it ate in peace.
Several times, fuzzy-faced children dropped into the pit and the worm tried to nurture a friendship. It sought to hear them speak. It sought to dance with them. It wound its body around their legs, luxuriated in the slime that oozed from their bodies, and let their tears of fear warm it. But these children never lasted very long.
Lying coiled in the middle of the deep pit, the worm retracted its thick eyelids, raised its knobby head and looked up at the circle of light whence came the children. When young and inexperienced, the worm didn't know to move away from the light. It stayed coiled, head raised, eyes wide, and watched the children fall.
A few landed on its body. The sudden pain brought an angry roar that made the sides of the pit shake. Small rocks vibrated loose and trickled to the bone-littered floor. Aching from the assault, the worm squirmed away to nurse its ache while the victim who'd caused it struggled to its feet or crawled on hands and knees to a corner where it huddled in darkness.
The worm always found them later and ate even if its innards throbbed with pain.
Slithering through old bone-cages helped ease the hurt, the worm learned over the course of its first few years. The rough material massaged the leathery skin. Back and forth it slid; against gristle and dried sinews and old skin turned to rawhide. While the worm tended to itself, any victims watching from an ineffective hiding place whimpered or cried, their body releasing a pleasant stink the worm sniffed with joy.
When a strange child jumped feet-first into the pit and landed with legs apart, an odd stick-like thing in one hand, the worm reared up from where it lay coiled, opened its toothy maw and stuck out its tongue to taste fear in the air. That it tasted nothing, annoyed the worm. Fear smelled hot and enticing, with a tangy flavor that lingered at the back of its mouth and brought saliva to the tip of its long black tongue.
The strange child's hair splayed out from under a shiny cap that made the worm gag when it lapped the hard material. With a roar, the worm pulled away from the child, drew itself high above the cap, but not far enough away to avoid a sharp sting across its leathery body. The child's stick, glinting in the light from above, struck again; the hurt was worse than anything the worm ever felt before. Yellow liquid seeped from its tail. Another strike severed a piece of the worm's body.
With a dry-throated scream, the worm opened its maw wide, its front row incisors dripping spit, and attacked.
The child's head covering tasted of metal, a substance the worm detested. It ingested the body, but the torso stuck in its throat and the worm coughed up the mangled corpse. After that, it feasted on the arms and legs only, and found that even these had that sickening metallic taste it abhorred. A yellow-white scab formed where the worm had been cut and the indigestible parts of the child oozed from the wound, creating a burning sensation that lessened over time.
At the side of the pit, in a shallow pool of slime, the severed piece of the worm squirmed and stretched and wiggled. Soon, a pointed tail appeared. An oblong head with two round eyes and thick eyelids grew. As did a small mouth with tiny sharp teeth and a black tongue.
This second worm feasted on what remained of old meals, ingesting tiny bones, bits of leather, and even the waste the first worm had ejected from under its scab, where a tiny sphincter had grown to exercise control over bodily secretions.
The first worm watched this new entity and when a crying child dropped into the pit it taught the newcomer how to feast. It slithered close to the warm body that had once been part of its own and had become an entirely new thing.
A companion.
They'd share the pit, the worm thought. Happily. Because this new creature, so much like itself, would be a much more amiable friend than any of those crying, frightened children.


- - -
After a long and successful career as a software developer and technical architect, I have turned to my first love: SF and fantasy. I have published several stories in Weirdyear, Farther Stars Than These, Fast Forward Festival, Encounters and other online as well as print magazines. Search the web and you’ll even find some of my earlier military history articles. My longer work can be found at https://www.amazon.com/author/davidcastlewitz

A Future Bright
By Linda M. Crate


It seemed hopeless. The beast was roaring and devouring men as if they were apples it were plucking off an apple tree.

Yet she had always been made of stronger ilk than most of the women of her time. She was no shrinking violet, she would rise to the occasion.

The autumn wind danced around her shoulders and blew thick strands of her hair into her eyes.

Lucille felt an unfavorable chill slipping over her shoulders and she turned to access the situation around her. She was fairly certain that someone was watching her, but whomever it was kept to the shadows as sinuously as if it were their lover.

Brushing that aside she tossed her thick mane of dark brown hair to the side, her grey-blue eyes taking in the situation. Four slayers laid slain already—and her partner was nowhere to be found.

She eyed the hydra with disdain, growling as another slayer went for yet another head. "Does it not have enough heads?" she shouted in disgust, grinding her heels into the dust. "Enough of that. Go for it's heart, you fool!"

Petula nodded approvingly. "Lucille is right," she hissed to the others. "Listen to her."

She watched the young girl as she tucked and rolled, putting herself closer to the heart of danger and yet close to the creature's heart. The counsel woman watched her prodigy as she took down the beast on her own, smirking as the blue black blood of the creature stained the girl's sword and the beast shrieked in agony before falling dead at her feet.

"Quite pathetic," Petula scoffed, glancing around. "That a fourteen year old girl can take down a beast easier than the lot of you," she retorted. She glanced at Lucille. "You show good potential, I think you can convince Evan that you should be a slayer yet," she winked. "You, there, take her sword and clean it."

"Why should I have to—?"

"Do as you're instructed and don't ask questions," Petula snarled, narrowing her eyes at the young man.

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's okay, I can—."

"Don't be silly," Petula interrupted. "I know you're more than capable of cleaning your own sword. I don't want you to. We need to discuss your future with Evan."

"Yes," came a voice. "It seems that you show good potential indeed," Veronique remarked. It had been a long time since Lucille had seen the woman. Veronique had been the one that had saved her when she was a mere child from dangerous creatures that had slain the rest of her family. It was because of Veronique that she wanted to be a slayer. "Good technique, you have a good eye for that sort of thing."

"Thank you, Lady Veronique."

"Veronique to you, Lucille," the woman smiled.

It was the first time that Lucille had ever seen the woman smile. "Okay, Veronique," she remarked, inclining her head with a smile of her own. Her eyes slipped into the green they always did when she was happy.

"Evan will meet us at The Spotted Deer," Veronique went on. "He sent me after you."

"Was it your presence that I felt then?"

"Yes, and you felt my presence in the midst of all that chaos?"

Lucille nodded. "Yes, m'lady."

Veronique smiled. "Evan will be very pleased. You show much potential indeed. He has never been partial to lady slayers but he has made exceptions in the past for Petula and myself, I think you will find great favor in your chosen profession with him."

The girl smiled. For the first time in a long time she felt good. She had done something noteworthy and no one would ever take that from her. She would show those men that women were just as good slayers and hopefully champion for more women slayers in the future. Goodness only knew the world didn't have a shortage of monsters, though, Lucille was determined to make a mark in their numerous number.

"It is good to see you smile," Petula noted. "You are far too serious."

"I'm usually lost in my own little world," Lucille protested. "But I will pull myself from my ruminations tonight."

"Wise decision," Veronique nodded. "Your future is very bright, young Lucille."


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

Blood Ran through the River Softly
By W. T. Paterson


Follow the gentle river and you shall find the tales of those who have lived to see the changing of times. Walk along the banks and hear the woods speak of their unforgiving past. Smell the beautiful flowers that weep under the full moon. Follow the blood upstream, against the current, and the world will tell you its story.

All were affected, including a village of fisherman and shell collectors by the ocean. With wings on their backs, they became like the birds in the sky. Fishing from above the water allowed them to catch rare and exotic fish or hunt for seashells. The wind would always be their companion, letting them lift and fall without fear. Even seafaring birds admired the men and women by the sea who lived with wings.
Here, the blood had all but absorbed into the soft water. Pink wafts would swirl by as delicately as leaves in the breeze. Yet, soon it stained the seashells in swirling patterns. The fish began to breathe it through their gills eventually driving them to madness. When children dug in the sand, the beach would appear to bleed. The people of the land soon began to whisper of unnatural change, one that would force them to abandon their flourishing life.
The fisherman with wings lost their business and no one would buy shells from the cursed land. The fish swam to the depths where even light refused to go and hid from death. Without food, the villager’s wings fell off and they could no longer soar. Some fell from the sky and were swallowed by the sea. On their way down, they’d pass by the hiding fish whose eyes were mad with fear and ask “Why have you done this to us?” But the creatures would answer “be gone! Do not let them see you!”
The villagers nearly starved and had to move from their homes to new lands hoping that the stigma of being cursed would not follow. They settled in a place far from the ocean that had once brought vibrancy. Now to survive, they built tall towers and stages where people would come to watch daring and impossible acts. It was here that they became magicians and high wire trapeze artists to prove that they could still find the courage to fly.

Travel further upstream through the Forest of Fire, past the Aging Cliffs and you see the echoes of a lost culture. Houses built into trees that resemble a human hand. Human hands are delicate by nature, but strict in symbolism.
Before the blood ran through the river, they used to rise and watch the sun sparkle across the surface in shapes like diamonds. They believed it to be the face of God. Inside of their houses were the sacred diamond shapes hanging from windows, across their walls and placed with ink inside of their skin. This was the way of the culture and if you did not believe in the way of the sparkling diamond, you were shunned. Such beauty cannot be denied. This is another reason why hands were important to them, because the five points of the diamond were like the five fingers of the hand.
Soon the blood began to venture down the river changing the shapes of the sparkling water. The face of God changed and the people feared an unspeakable evil approached. A child was born and a cleansing ritual was performed, but as they placed the baby underwater it came up with blood dripping from its forehead and face.
The culture cried and begged for forgiveness from the river, but in the days that followed only more blood appeared. It was a sign, they thought, a punishment from their God. Others said it was natural, an affair that was out of their control and thus the village was split in two. A war erupted and both sides battled claiming their idea of an impossible situation was the only true answer. After many deaths, the surviving members found only more blood not just in the river, but also on the soil. To punish themselves for being so blinded by hatred and inability to reason, they cut off their hands and burned down their houses leaving everything they had once built.
They traveled the land and watched magicians and high wire trapeze artists perform impossible acts, but they could not clap though they desperately wanted to.

Upstream, the blood becomes thicker. It is denser than the water that pushes it towards the ocean. The blood in these parts often stops and looks upon the castle where a King was betrayed by his brother. A Queen dishonored sits by a window forever staring into the swirling currents floating by. The ripples remind her of a courtship in springtime under cherry blossoms where a kingdom was waiting to be led into the new age. Her visions were strong and powerful and her voice found the King’s ears time and time again. But a brother stricken with jealousy and charm had found the Queen’s lips over and over.
The King could not deal with secret affairs. He dove into the river never to resurface. His brother blamed the Queen and fled the land. Now she sits alone hoping that one day, she will find the courage to jump as well.

There are rumors that at the origin of the river, you can find a hole in the world. It is a gash so deep that the Earth itself bleeds from it and this is why blood floats down the river softly. They say that it is natural, that sometimes the world needs to open up and bleed. In time, perhaps we shall see the scars that we could not prevent and it will be then that we will see the return of life to the river, softly.


- - -
W. T. Paterson is a Chicago writer who's work can be seen in places like Maudlin House, Procyon Press' Anthology, and Whispers from the Past. Send him a tweet @WTPaterson

Two People with the Same DNA
By Donal Mahoney


I was out hunting mushrooms early one morning with my gunny sack and flashlight as is my wont when good mushrooms sprout like little penises. They go good with a fine steak, provided you know where to look for them and I do because my grandfather took me out in the woods many years ago and showed me his secret spot. He’s dead now as is my father but the mushrooms are always there. On the way, however, I stopped under a bridge to relieve myself and found I had company, a gnome with a bulbous nose and a severe case of rosacea leaning up against the abutment and rolling a joint.

“Howdy,” he said, his little triangular hat almost falling off his head.

“Howdy,” I said, affable fellow that I am.

Then he said, “You look like an intelligent gentleman. Maybe you can answer a question no other mushroom hunter has been able to answer all the years I’ve waited for them under this bridge.”

Not wanting to insult the only gnome I had ever met, I told him I’d try to answer his question.

He seemed very happy to hear me say that, took a deep breath and then said, “What two people have the same DNA even though no one in the world wants to debate this issue with me, maybe because they think I’m short on facts, no pun intended?”

Well, I’m no genius but I know that one’s DNA is like one’s fingerprints--singular to that person. No two people share the same fingerprints or DNA. So that’s what I said to the gnome.

“No two people have the same DNA. Scientists proved that a long time ago. Science is always right."

“You’re as dumb as the rest of them,” the gnome replied, taking a long drag on his joint and throwing his free hand in the air with obvious exasperation. His little hat almost fell off.

“If I’m wrong,” I said, "tell me what two people have the same DNA.”

He took another long drag, jumped up, did a little dance and shouted in a high-pitched voice, “Why Jesus and Mary, of course. But you can’t test them because they’re in heaven now waiting for the rest of us.”

I thanked him for his insight, picked up my gunny sack and headed for the mushroom patch, looking behind me all the way to make certain the gnome wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. Apparently he chose to stay under the bridge, rolling a joint and waiting for the next mushroom hunter to take his little quiz.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Bindletooth
By JD DeHart


The elongated face remembered
from some distant place,
a sphere we visited once,
the translucent skin, the invitation
calling to us through the wooded
star-gazing plain, and the tone
cold as malice, swift as the end.


- - -
JD DeHart is a writer and teacher. His first chapbook, The Truth About Snails, is due Fall 2014.

Apparitions
By Antoinette McCormick


The noises began near the end of October.

Three taps on the window, then, nothing.

The first time I heard them, I was half-asleep. Thinking they were only rain against the window, I snuggled under the covers and drifted back into my dreams.

The next time, the sounds shook me from a sound slumber. In their wake, a vague foreboding malingered, clammy and sour smelling as my sweat-soaked sheets. “Only a nightmare,” I tried to tell myself. I’d had more than my share since the accident in April, so again, I paid the noises little heed.

But they continued for a week, and they were always the same: tap-tap-tap on the window, then, nothing: a charged emptiness, an expectant stillness. Each time, I’d surface, clawing at my covers and swallowing a scream. Then, tearful and trembling, I’d sit in bed and stare at the ceiling, the memory of those sounds lingering, clinging to me like a second shadow, a darkness even daylight could not dispel. I cancelled my classes. I couldn’t eat.

Finally, I told my best friend, Aimee. A part-time professor, Aimee owned Ananke’s Attic, Middleton’s only occult boutique. We met in her shop on Saturday.

“You’re not crazy, Devon,” she said, shooing a fly from the rim of her coffee cup. She’d propped the door open to take advantage of any foot traffic on Harker Street. So far, the fly was her only customer. “Grieving people sometimes experience these things.”

“Hauntings?”

“Stephan’s not haunting you, sweetie.” Aimee stared through the window at the falling leaves.

“What should I do, then?” I squirmed in my seat.

She shrugged. “Next time, let it out.”

I nearly dropped my coffee. “Out?”

“Your heart,” she said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Let it out and follow wherever it leads. Just don’t bring back anything heavier than a memory with you this time, no matter how tempted you might be.” Wagging a warning finger at me, she said, “You know what I mean.”

I did. It was a dream I’d had—one whose ending even Aimee couldn’t explain.

While walking in a strange wood, I found an old coin lying in the long grass inside a ring of birch trees. It was silver, an octagon with a hole punched in its center. Strange symbols and flourishes covered one of its sides. I knew it was special, but when I picked it up, the ground gave way beneath my feet. As I fell into a swirling, almost-sentient darkness, I fisted the coin against my chest.

When I awoke, I still held it in my hand.

Aimee said to destroy it, but I couldn’t. It was beautiful, in an odd, primitive way. Stephan didn’t believe how I’d found it, only that we should have it appraised. His friend was a collector. That’s where he’d been headed the night he died. Drunk driver. Head-on collision. Nothing left behind. Nothing.

The over-door chimes shrilled. Startled, I looked up, but saw only a flutter of red and gold on the threshold: an autumn dervish, driven by the wind. Feeling sadder and even more confused than I’d been before, I left Aimee’s shop.

When the noises came again, I stayed inside the dream and opened night’s window. There, on the lawn, a solitary figure slipped amongst the shadows beneath the trees. I knew it was Stephan, but when I called his name, a gust of wind whisked him away in a whorl of dry leaves.

I awoke crying, but knew then what I had to do. The heart’s reach is as long as its cry is loud, and when its ache runs so deep, no measure to reclaim what has been lost seems too extreme. “Nothing heavier than a memory, Devon—promise me!” Aimee’s parting words reverberated in my mind, but I couldn’t listen. If I could dream a coin into existence, why shouldn’t I use that power to reclaim what death had stolen from me?

It seemed so simple…

I lit candles for luck, then willed myself into the ring of birches where I’d first found the coin. Overhead, bare and bone white, branches swayed in the soughing wind, interweaving, forming curious symbols and mysterious portents.

Behind me, a twig snapped.

Still wearing his old cargo jacket and torn jeans, Stephan stepped into a shaft of moonlight. With eyes glinting beneath his hair’s shaggy fringe, he said, “You shouldn’t have come.”

Before he said another word, I pulled him inside the circle and held him fast. The wind screamed, lightning split the sky, and trees crashed. Then, just as it had before, the ground juddered open, and I fell from the dreamlands on a roll of thunder.

I opened my eyes.

Success!

Stephan lay next to me. Maybe it was the candlelight; maybe it was all the time we’d spent apart, but he seemed younger, his features softer. I told him how much I’d missed him, but when I tried to kiss him, he pushed me aside.

Rising, he kicked his way through the candle ring. When he reached the closet’s mirrored door, he beckoned for me.

“Enough of the silent treatment,” I said. “What’s wrong?”

“Look,” he said, pointing to the mirror.

As I stared at my reflection, my auburn curls flattened and started to turn white. “It’s a trick,” I said. “I don’t understand.” The voice in my ears sounded thin, reedy. “Why are you being so mean?”

“Look!” He’d never raised his voice to me.

When I stared into the mirror again, I screamed. Standing next to me was a boy of no more than fifteen. He pulled something silver from the pocket of his jeans.

“Death’s due.” Stephan pressed the coin into my palm. “Oh, Devon!”

Horrified, I watched Stephan become a toddler, a baby, and then, a glowing seed. While he receded, I withered inside my body’s bony cage. Then, an unseen hand spirited me away into silence and sentient darkness.

Here, suspended in night’s cauldron, I am still waiting, waiting, waiting…


- - -
Student, editor, coffee hound. Loves cheeseburgers and anything that goes "bump" in the night.

Ruby Throat Madness
By Donal Mahoney


He paints hummingbirds not
for people to praise them,

ogle and grovel and buy them.
He paints them because

the birds come fluttering
one after another

and won't go away unless
he paints them, every hue.

They line up like planes
at a busy airport, hovering,

waiting their turn to be put
on canvas, made immortal,

one bird at a time,
framed and hung on a wall.

After hanging each painting
he cleans his brushes and whistles

and waits for the next one to come
and hover in front of his eyes.

He prays the last one will perch
on his brush and stay.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

The Last Laugh
By Linda M. Crate


Iridescent pearls of light danced in the scarlet of her hair brighter crimson than the wings of a cardinal. Her obsidian eyes somehow seemed less sharp and dark as usual in this light and the gold on her wings danced with life, the same ribbons of life that left her lips in a surprised gasp.

He didn't think she had anticipated he'd sing to her.

It was something he had always loathed when people asked him to, for his father was a singer, but his father was also a manwhore of the worst design. He didn't know how his mother put up with it, but he didn't want to think about that. Not now. She was there before him.

The part-fae who had loved him since she was twelve. He didn't know why, he never did understand it. She had explained it to him, but he still didn't understand how a creature as beautiful as she could even stand being in his presence.

He laughed when he finished his song.

"Why are you laughing? You're not teasing me are you?" she pouted, folding her arms.

Even pouting, her beauty could not be diminished. He laughed. The fae could turn into a dragon, but right now she was behaving more like her title: Lady. Lady Syn. The woman who hoisted young children upon her shoulders and told them it was not nobility but character and the size of heart that made a person. The same woman that destroyed other dragons in battle, defended the poor and weak, and was relentless in her loyalty to friends and family even if it put herself in danger. Brave, powerful, and strong she never batted an eye even when looking death in the eyes. She had never acted much of a lady in his presence so he couldn't help but grin, all these years later, she was pouting like a young girl.

"I wasn't," he grinned. "But now I may be. I've never seen you act so much like a lady in my life."

"You are so your father's child, sometimes! You brat!" she insisted, swatting him on the arm. "You just had to ruin that beautiful song you sang to me."

"I meant it."

She blinked, caught off guard. "Morgan d'Ernos, I love you, but you are the most frustrating man in all the history of Atriel, sometimes!" she insisted, waggling her finger.

"My dear, Syn, I just sang you a beautiful, loving heartfelt song and this is how you repay me?"

He grinned as her cheeks usually pale as snow flushed a healthy magenta that not even a sunset could psalm into being.

"I'm sorry, you are right," she apologized. "And it was beautiful," she smiled. "You have a lovely voice."

"And to think you're the singer," he jested. She punched him for that one. He laughed as she hitched her skirts up and ran from him, her wings fluttering in annoyance. "Oh, Syn, you know I love your singing. The whole of Atriel can't be wrong. My fair lady, they all love to hear your voice, and so do I. Won't you sing something to me, my love?"

"Not when I'm this annoyed with you," she retorted, pausing at the rose garden. She bent to use healing magic to restore life to an ailing rose, giggling softly when the plant bent in the wind as if giving her a kiss. "You're welcome, you're sweet, always, unlike my husband who can be mercilessly cruel as a winter's wind."

"Hey!"

She grinned mischeviously. "But I love him, anyway," she remarked, running unexpectedly at him, throwing herself into his arms, snorting when he fell over at the unanticipated weight. "I thought part vampires were strong," she smirked.

"You're paying for that one," he snorted, laughing hard, running a hand through her long crimson locks. "Why are you so beautiful?"

"Morgan."

"I mean it."

"I'm not as pretty as you."

"You are so, you're prettier than any star glowing their light in a night's sky or the sun dancing upon the dew."

Syn snorted. "It's only because you hate the sun."

"No, I mean it."

"Thank you, but you're beautiful, too. Even if you act like your mischevious father a little too often for my liking," she remarked, sticking her tongue out.

He kissed her fondly on the mouth. "Aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"I want my song."

"Later," Syn insisted, pulling herself quickly to her feet, walking away from him.

He had every intention of running after her, but as if on cue one of their children ran up to her, interrupting the romantic interlude. She gave him an apologetic smile that was very unapologetic in nature, as she scooped the young boy into her arms, and she carried him inside the castle and likely to his room. Queen Orchid had been quite generous when giving them their own residence far away from the other subjects.

"You'll pay for that later, m'dear," he shouted after her, his voice carrying on the wind.

"I'm sure I will," she retorted from inside, but there was no fear in her voice. She then shut the window and proceeded to do whatever it was she had taken upon herself to do.

Morgan snorted, smirking after her. "What a woman, and a bigger brat than I, if I can say so; myself." He stood to his feet, brushing himself off. "I think the term exists for her alone." He smirked as she threw open the window like he knew she would.

"That is not smart to say to someone than can breathe fire if she so decides to."

"It is most impolite to eavesdrop, Lady Syn," Morgan grinned, taking a bite out of an apple. He allowed the juice to run down his gloves as he looked at her suggestively. He laughed as she let out a loud, exasperated sigh before shutting the window again. Sometimes he couldn't help himself, he had to have the last laugh.


- - -
Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. She currently resides in Meadville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. Recently her two chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013) and Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014) were published. Her fantasy novel Amethyst Epiphany is forthcoming from Assent Publishing.

Twin Girls, 1948
By Donal Mahoney


Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.

Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days

but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.

When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday

afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.

It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.

When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.

Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper

but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home

with others in a small band
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Peter
By E. L. Mitchell


Purple liquid bubbled over the cauldron. Peter grimaced at his ninth failed potion as he thought, it didn’t seem so difficult when Professor Hopps did it. The class had ended long before, it was past five p.m. but he was still there, wasting bat wings, snake fangs, garlic and pig hearts. It was all in the name of the strength the, supposed to be, orange concoction would give him. Professor Hopps didn’t know he had stayed behind, but Peter was sure she wouldn’t mind.
As it turned out, she did. As his ear reddened from her pinch, she dragged him down the grand, but empty, hall muttering about his safety, his feet scuffing the shined wood, he wondered what color the tenth potion had turned. He never got to see. Lucky for him, Professor Hopps had already fixed it, for it was on its way to becoming a gelatinous green mess that might have eaten through the granite floor of the Potions Room if left alone. Peter was punished, by having to practice more after school. But this time, his Professor would watch every move he made, which meant no more strength potion and certainly no samples for the tryouts.
He only had one week left to train, and it wasn’t going well for him. He ended up with burn salve on most of his arm every other day and the wooden dragon still wouldn’t break apart. If Peter couldn’t even slay the mock version, with hollow eyes, how could he disarm the real thing that would stare him down with onyx stones glistening with the pleasure of eating him whole, in just seven days? That was an easy one, he couldn’t. Coach Yunder thought him a pathetic excuse for a boy as it was, but he was almost a man. Seventeen! He had to show Coach, Professor Hopps, he must show them all.
It didn’t go as planned. After class Peter worked on a hair growing potion. It should have turned white, tasted like dirt and felt fuzzy on the way down. Peter’s was about as successful as his purple strength attempt. He had to try the yellow, apple flavored, pudding-like potion he ended up making. Professor Hopps told him that he would have more drive if he had a tail for a week, or sprouted a tree branch from his torso. Alas, Peter’s canary treat left him sick with a green skin tone for two days. Oh, the girls were falling all over him.
His practice for the dragon slaying team, the last year he could play at school, was going equally as horribly. Peter lost one eyebrow, which looked especially wonderful with his green pallor. During one joust toward the carved beast he almost missed the flame, only to realize his favorite royal blue tunic had caught fire and the hand-sewn gold thread was melting down the torched fabric. He was miserable, to say the least.
The end of the week came and Professor Hopps gave him one final after-school lesson. They were going to make a restorative potion. It restored skin, hair or energy when consumed. The ingredient list was long, but the instructions were simple. Two measures of everything, stir clockwise four times, let rest for five minutes exactly, then remove from the heat. As Peter dropped in the various ingredients, including toenails, baby hair, lizard scales, fish ribs, a bat kidney, witch hazel and lavender, he held his breath. Minutes later the potion was cooling and Professor Hopps was looking it over, wafting the steam into her soft, round face and tasting it with a dip of her right pinky. The smile on her face gave Peter the encouragement he needed; he took a spoonful. It tasted like the feeling of restfulness, relaxation, newness; it was all so refreshing.
He would try out for the team.
And he still wouldn’t make it.
Peter took another swig of his potion, which Professor Hopps bottled for him, and watched the gash and large burn disappear. He decided to give up on dragons, leave them to the fighters in the world. He had a new itch, the itch for power. After-school lessons continued, daunting at times. The Potions Room would fill with smoke, frogs would jump in their cages, bats would flutter, but sometimes he would get it right.
It took a long time. Years. Eventually, though, Peter mastered potion making. By the time he was an old man, still using his restorative potion daily, he had created a new recipe. Some thought him mad, some thought him brilliant, but in the end all that mattered, was that Peter would live forever.


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E. L. Mitchell is a happily married writer with EDS who loves magical realism, dark characters, plot twists and commas. She writes more than she sleeps most weeks, but wouldn't have it any other way. E. L. enjoys sharing her adventures in writing, love and living life as a spoonie.

The Zero Second
By Paul Edward Costa


With my eyes I viewed horrors that others never noticed. With my perception I experienced nightmares that they happily accepted. These visions drove me to my violent actions. These actions led me to exile from my home city. I walked along northern highways, into the forests, and along dirt roads past the trees.

Now I stand at the end of the longest hallway I’ve ever known. I’m waiting for the second when the door in front of me will open. The door shimmers platinum. A small 0 sits in the dead center of the door. The 0 has a diagonal slash through it like in an architect’s blueprints. Legend has it that when the door opens you are briefly no longer confined to viewing life through the subjective optical physics of human eyes. I can’t remember if I’d ever asked anyone to externally verify the way I saw the world. Or had I? The past and the world before the entrance to this hallway seem so far away, beyond the reach of my memory. I don’t feel sure of anything before this moment. What did the entrance look like? How did I find it? I can only just remember passing certain scenes on the way here. I saw a line of business men and other professionals outside a large bus shelter, without umbrellas, waiting for transport in an onslaught of pouring rain. Later I passed a massive crowd of students in gray uniforms filtering into one doorway of a school with thirteen entrances.

I stare at the door in front of me. My eyes look it over. I feel my hands sweating at my sides. Each click ringing out from the door represents another passing atomic second. When I first got here those clicks represented small snapshots of time going by steadily. By now the clicks all morph into a wall of noise washing down the hall. I wonder if my senses have dulled or if time moves more slowly. The roar of seconds rushes through my ears.

Legend states that at the zero second one sees the world through the objective unbiased eyes of the earth’s creator. That vision must be very old.

Finally the zero second comes with no fan-fare, no change in the atmosphere, and no indication that it is in any way different from a trillion other seconds. The door vanishes for one scientifically calculable moment.

Very briefly, I see a dryad in four dimensions, a person made of wood with vines for hair and an emerald aura. It sits atop a glass unicycle bolted to the ground. It pedals furiously. The unicycle wheel moves a belt attached to a machine holding a light-bulb. The faster it pedals the brighter the light-bulb burns, sending endless energy to the dryad through the process of photosynthesis.

The shimmering platinum door appears again. In its dead center sits the technical zero. It looks like the official lettering on the door of a professional’s office.


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Paul Edward Costa has previously published in "MacMedia," "The Flying Walrus," "Timber," "Yesteryear Fiction," and "Entropy," as well as in Diaspora Dialogue's Webzine "Shorthand." He has work forthcoming in "Thrice Fiction." He teaches High School in Ontario, Canada.

Medieval Moment
By Paul Tristram


“The shaft broke off
just under the axe head.
The instant weight loss
made me half-circle.
I clumsily reached
for the knife within my belt.
Then saw a light explosion,
and felt the whole of my face
crush in upon itself
with such a sickening force
that I actually bounced
right out of myself
and stood six foot away
looking down at my
irreparable broken body
in horrific confusion
for a second or two
until my dead Father
and Brother came
and ushered me away
to a massive oak tree
just outside of battles-edge.
Where giddy and exhausted
I passed out, immediately
and came back to my senses
laying by this Gigantic Bonfire
before the feet of all of you!”


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.