By Tejaswinee Barua She was an aura, the colors of the rainbow, the black of the stormy clouds, the curls of frosty air, the warmth of a cozy hearth. She was a contradiction in herself, both yin an…
Source: Magnificence
Category: Fiction
The Toxicity of Tears
By T.N. Haynes Flouting restraint they come, Finally Dry screams like naked razors scraping rust from atrophied ducts. Her eyes meet mine and politely flick away. Ashamed? No … (not that) Gratified…
Source: The Toxicity of Tears
Sharks
By padrespaleale Underneath the calm sharks gather, waiting in the deep, silent they sense weakness. The smell of blood guides them to their prey. The sea bubbles their sense of peace shattered in …
Source: Sharks
New Fiction by George Gad Economou: “Helen”
I went to bed alone; that much I know for certain, despite the bottles emptied, the junk injected, the glass smoked, locked within my apartment for days, abhorring the light, avoiding the sun, embracing the permanent midnight fighting with the page during the waking hours, battling with the numbness of the soul, the desolation.
I woke up next to her; the cold, pale corpse of my childhood’s love.
In the substance-induced dreams I was back at junior high, when my heart was still unbruised, my liver virgin. With the whole world ahead of me, all roads wide open, all I had to do was pick the path and follow it to the end. It’s too late now, yet in my sleep I smiled broadly, for I recalled how it feels to be outside the pit of shit. And there she was, too, smiling at the beach, when the question was popped and the first dagger was driven through a heart that was destined to be broken into millions of pieces oh so many times. Yet, I didn’t know at the time and even the pain of love felt real and delightful, for it ignited a fire in the soul; a fire that was never meant to be extinguished.
And as I slowly opened my exhausted eyes, I stared at the decomposing body lying next to me; my arm around her waist, my body pressing up against hers, and I wanted to move, to jump, to disappear, but I couldn’t; chained to the bed, the substances still in control and all my muscles too heavy to obey the desperate commands of my panicking mind.
Suddenly she moved, turned to look at me, and the cold, dark eyes pierced through mine, staring straight into my soul. I couldn’t move, yet I saw a future that never unfolded taking place inside my head; a future that didn’t involve countless empty bottles of bourbon, cooking crack-cocaine, smoking meth, shooting junk. In the cold, dead eyes I witnessed warmth, safety, sanity. I smiled, despite the fear that overwhelmed my barely beating heart, and I wished to close my eyes and disappear into the fictional future reflecting in those dark eyes I hadn’t had the chance to stare into because of wrong decisions.
Her mouth opened slightly, exposing the falling teeth, the rotting gums, the green tongue. An invitation for a kiss and I was still not ready to kiss the devil, even though I had sold my soul years ago. Her hand reached for my cheek and the blood froze in my veins, a chill traversed all of my bones. Numb, I wished to jump out the window and disappear into the night, but couldn’t move.
She pressed her body closer to mine, and once more I could see a future in another city, with brighter prospects. I also saw the mediocrity of that future, the lack of the one thing that has maintained my sanity throughout years of abuses. And I couldn’t decide, couldn’t pick the right choice. It didn’t matter, either, because she was right there, next to me, rotting away with every passing minute and all I could do was accept her touches, her embrace, her forceful kisses.
With no end in sight my mind was too exhausted after a week of sleeplessness and of abusing every drug known to man. She smiled and despite the rotting teeth and gums I saw the hidden beauty, a beauty which I lost due to wine decisions, and a single tear rolled down my eye.
Abruptly, her face was replaced, and others took her place in my bed; I was surrounded by corpses and ghosts and I couldn’t run away. Standing accused in front of those I hurt, and those I lost, I could only accept the jury’s verdict and I was condemned to a slow, painful death and I smiled at the idea of the grave.
The ghosts evaporated, the sentence had been dealt, and the jury was therefore disbanded. Yet, she remained, her empty eyes still reminding me of a life never lived, of moments never experienced; was it for the best? I asked myself, and there was no place where I could find an answer.
From within the darkness the eternal flames appeared a preview of what’s to come and I smiled, barely, at the future waiting around the corner. A final kiss from the frozen lips and warmth flooded my numb body; it lasted only a second. She was suddenly gone, I was still there, and the flames were extinguished. With nowhere to run, with no dreams in which I could find refuge, I got up.
I sat heavily on the couch, stared about the dark room and breathed in the perfect stillness of the night. All alone, once more, and my sole companion were my memories, those of the past lived and those of the future that remained a stillborn.
And as I filled my glass pipe, getting ready for yet another week of staying awake amidst the binges, I heard a loud, complaining sigh from my bed and the blanket was raised.
New Fiction by George Gad Economou: “Sounds of the Night”
There’s nothing extraordinary about hearing the toilet flushing in the middle of the night; unless, of course, if you live alone.
At 3 am, the flushing startled me. It had been a long time since anyone had slept over at my place. I was trying to sleep off three bottles of wine. My head was heavy and my body numb. I didn’t jump off the sofa, as perhaps I should have, instead I raised my head from the soft pillow and peered into the darkness.
The darkness looked back. I saw the familiar ghosts that have been surrounding me for years and the known whispers still lingered in the air. There was, at the same time, something new, a fresh breeze of evil that froze everything in the room. If I could have, I would have run, but in my hazy state all I could do was observe. The bathroom door creaked as it opened and closed. I saw the shadow standing in the kitchen.
I was still trying to figure out whether I was dreaming, while still staring befuddled at the shadow lighting a cigarette in the kitchen; the blue smoke arose quickly and evaporated. There was no other sound but of the crackling of the burning cigarette while the clouds did not allow the pale light of the moon to illuminate the room.
The shadow seemed all too familiar. I froze, lying face down on the couch, glaring intensely at it from underneath the blanket. The shadow began talking, but despite the perfect stillness I could not hear its voice. Alas, I recognized the words used, as they were the same words I often uttered while standing at the kitchen having a quick smoke: “just one more sip, just one more drag, and I’m coming to bed”.
A pile of dirty clothes hid the bed, not having being used in months; not since the final whispering ghost exited my life for good. Still on the couch, safe underneath the heavy covers, I heard the words of the shadow echoing in my head, even though no sound reached my ears.
The empty bottles laid on the floor, amidst the layers of dust, stale tobacco, and wasted blow, and yet, there was nothing I could do. The faintest light penetrating the loosely sitting blinds on the window reflected on the glass and hit my eyes, bringing forth memories of better times; of nights, where my bed was occupied and I drank and smoked my life away in the kitchen, wishing to be alone.
Suddenly, I was all alone, with no one to call and ask how I am doing, and I wished for the past to become the present and for the future to be different than the blanket made of snow that was waiting for me in the corner. The shadow in the kitchen put out the cigarette in an ashtray that shouldn’t be on the counter and walked in the main room with confident steps.
I still could not discern its features; I could not tell the identity of the night intruder. I couldn’t move, I was numb, both from the drink and the fear, and the shadow idly sat at my desk chair, its fingers hovering over the keyboard. A shiver ran through my spine, I wanted to react but was helpless.
I heard the keys being pressed rhythmically creating music I had long forgotten, and my heart sank. The shadow had taken my place, while I was still suffering from a headache that could kill even the most savage dinosaur. More voices echoed in my head, words long ago uttered by lips, memories erased by drink.
It all came back, as the shadow typed purposelessly, the keyboard suffering under the brutal writing and smoke began filling the small room. There was no oxygen and I was suffocating slowly, while the shadow seemed unfazed by the ever-changing environment. I sat up, finally, ignoring the tremendously violent jolts of pain that shot through my body. My head on the verge of exploding, barely able to hold my eyes open, I looked around and I was all alone. The smoke had evaporated, the shadow vanished.
Only the bottles on the floor indicated the reality of the situation, and I looked about in complete bewilderment. Once more alone, the voices in my head had ceased and the perfect quietness of the night was reigning. It didn’t feel good, even the shadow was a pleasant change of rhythm and I laid back on the soft pillow, as I observed the room spin around me while fighting my urge to vomit.
I was determined to start afresh; quit the bad habits and become a new person. I sat up, struggling to ignore the horrific pain that arose in every inch of my suffering body, and filled my glass pipe with some freshly-cooked ice. It was time to stay awake, fight for the dreams I had betrayed.
The first cloud of blue smoke arose in front of me and I saw thousands of faces arising from within it; faces long forgotten, eyes once adored, lips once tasted.
Another puff was dragged and the crackling of the pipe was the only sound that violated the peace of the night, overshadowed abruptly by the flushing of the toilet.
Announcing the Advent of “The Chamber” Magazine
Self-portrait, August, 2016
Beginning in January 1, 2017, this will be the location of a new on-line quarterly magazine for short stories, poetry, and other short works of the horror genre. You can find the guidelines for submissions on my current Submissions and Announcements page, which will remain the same, with the only exception being that the word limit for submissions for “The Chamber” will increase from 1,000 to 2,000 words.
I am creating this magazine primarily because it is not fair to my contributors to submit a work for publication, when that work will be at the top of my blog posts for only a day, and then that author and his readers will have to wade through a morass of unrelated blogs to find that one post. To remedy this, I will create a separate page on my blog for my new magazine, “The Chamber”, where each quarter’s selections will appear on a separate page for eternity (or until WordPress folds, or until I give it all up and wander off to buy a bar in Key West or etc.) Issue 1 will appear on January 1st. Cut-off date for submissions will be November 30 (I don’t want to work over Christmas). Selections will probably be made by December 15. Send submissions per the Submissions and Announcements guidelines, but specify Submission for “The Chamber” in the subject line, if you want your work published in The Chamber, or Submission for The Blog, if you want to be published in the regular blog. I will continue to publish submissions in my regular blog until December 31.
Why call it “The Chamber”? The word chamber has numerous sinister and macabre connotations: a chamber of horrors, a torture chamber, one chambers a round into a rifle, etc. A chamber can also be where a sorcerer, an alchemist, or a member of the Inquisition stores his library. It is with this last connotation in mind that I am developing my Chamber for the storage of my selection of sinister and macabre works from the best up and coming authors that seek to contribute to my blog.
So, start editing your best, most powerful material and see where this new venture takes us! I want powerful, hard-hitting material that leaves its readers gasping and awe-struck at the end.
New Microfiction by Ryan C. Bradley: “Material World”
You feel it closing in all around you. It’s down the hallway with the slanted floorboards with their warped bulbs of hardwood. You can feel it as you jiggle the handle of the doors to your daughter’s room and it jiggles in your hand like a loose tooth. There it is, all around her.
by Isabella Quintana
October 21, 2014
Your daughter is the picture of innocence, rocking in a tiny chair, hugging her Barbie close. You think of the way she cried when she brought Barbie into the bath and the doll’s hair clumped and pulled off at the scalp when she tried to brush it and how happy she was when you spent the next week switching that Barbie out for other’s with more hair so your daughter thought that Barbie’s hair was growing back. When you looked again, the original’s hair was longer and fuller, and the others bald. You didn’t tell your daughter, but you switched it back.
How could this thing be in her?
But as you get close you feel the air around your daughter and it’s cold, like stepping into a freezer on a summer day.
You rip the Barbie out of her hand. She cries out. You tell her this is for her own good, and see the tears in her eyes. She is too young to understand. You snap the doll over your knee, and for a second you believe your daughter is safe.
There’s a static in the way it comes out of the Barbie into you. It adjusts to its new home, in a way that you never adjusted to yours. It is you now.
###
Ryan C. Bradley has previously published fiction in The Gothic Blue Book V, apt, Pinball, and others. His nonfiction regularly appears in Wicked Horror, Dread Central, and Diabolique. In 2015, he won the 2015 JP Reads Flash Fiction Contest. His first novel, Friday the Furteenth, is being serialized at Channillo.com. You can learn more about him at https://ryancbradleyblog.wordpress.com/.
New Prose Poetry: “I am Assaulted.” by Larry Thacker
In constant struggle with some barely met
demon-god’s angels, just over my shoulders,
along the path of my spine, hovering near
my ears, observing every thought, watching
my faulty movements, keeping time on a watch
I hear ticking but have yet to find hidden
among my debris. Counting breaths. Whispering
their dreaded counting of days. Moving with me,
forever me. I have lost count of their faces.
Their choruses beg attention, un-focusing me,
in languages I’ve given up hope understanding,
an alien tongue lashing, familiar to maddening.
I catch only fragments of messages, tones,
inflections, infections. My struggle, a prayerful
resentment, to find a perfect key, my own
tabula meditatum psychonum. Something to eek
the translation toward wholeness – some gift to
weaken cracks into the sealed gate where they
stand hunched about, listening to my weakened
fists pounding on the other side. They command
my waking hours and somewhere in my dead
sleep, my dreams un-spared. They frighten
my inner workings, these messages, urgent.
I spot wings in the corners of my eyes, shadow-
wrapped in life’s clutter. I turn, they evade,
cleverly plunging from sight. This awful game
they insist upon. They distract me from my days,
a thirsty tick just out of reach, drawing my energies
almost too slowly to notice. Slowly, like the many
voices growing in the veins of ancient trees.
I hear you, yes. Oh, by the gods I hear you…
###
Larry D. Thacker is a writer and artist from Tennessee (US). His stories can be found in past issues of The Still Journal, Fried Chicken and Coffee, Dime Show Review and The Emancipator. His poetry can be found in journals and magazines such as The Still Journal, The Southern Poetry Anthology: Tennessee, Mojave River Review, Broad River Review, Harpoon Review, Rappahannock Review, and Appalachian Heritage. He is the author of Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia, the poetry chapbooks, Voice Hunting and Memory Train and the forthcoming full collection Drifting in Awe. He is presently taking his MFA in poetry and fiction at West Virginia Wesleyan College. More stuff at:www.larrydthacker.com
New Prose Poetry: “Remains” by Larry Thacker
I am bound to only the portions of books you’re paging through, a forced patience as you deliberate over the aged leather bindings and titles, of chapter and verse, of gradual plot developments and story arcs, the lovingly slow conflicts unraveling over black on beige onion skin thinness, so hauntingly unrushed even for me with the bottomless well of time in this shaded condition. Long uninterested in my own company.
I hear your steady breath mouthing words as you read and it still aggravates hell from me. I would gladly hover here, over your shoulder for years, as this slightest presence, a forever company in poetry and story, word, letter, and pen, if I could but accomplish something more than some slightest benign breeze on the curtain. An afterthought after a boring day. An aftertaste after a sip of tepid wine.
But sometimes, when you have finally given in to sleep’s call in the early morning dark and startle suddenly awake to find that book turned to a different page than you remember, it is then I have just barely mustered enough of a whisper to turn the page, yet you have missed it and I am exhausted in this lost state. Again, undetected. Again, left to my own retched company.
###
Larry D. Thacker is a writer and artist from Tennessee (US). His stories can be found in past issues of The Still Journal, Fried Chicken and Coffee, Dime Show Review and The Emancipator. His poetry can be found in journals and magazines such as The Still Journal, The Southern Poetry Anthology: Tennessee, Mojave River Review, Broad River Review, Harpoon Review, Rappahannock Review, and Appalachian Heritage. He is the author of Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia, the poetry chapbooks, Voice Hunting and Memory Train and the forthcoming full collection Drifting in Awe. He is presently taking his MFA in poetry and fiction at West Virginia Wesleyan College. More stuff at:www.larrydthacker.com
New Fiction by Alexander Zelenyj: “The Flies Will Be Here Soon”
Something compelled the little brown sparrow to drop from the sky and enter the glade. It swooped down and down and down to light onto the gnarled branch lying in the grass. Another bird, a blue jay, was already resting further along its twisted length and turned its head at the new arrival.
“Oh, good morning,” it said.
“Hello,” said the sparrow. “It’s going to be a beautiful day – The sun is so bright.”
The blue jay sounded solemn as it nodded its blue head and said, “We’re lucky to be here to feel its touch.”
The sparrow watched the blue bird, admiring its brilliant feathers. A moment later it turned and began grooming its own feathered stomach with its little beak in order to make itself more beautiful too.
After a while they turned their attention to watch the sun singing the tops of the apple trees in the east, and then crawl its way slowly into the sky overhead.
The blue jay began to sing a song and the sparrow, listening and admiring its melancholy beauty, joined in.
Their voices filled the glade like the sunlight.
“The flies will be here soon,” observed the blue jay. “Here’s one now.”
The sparrow followed where the jay looked. Indeed, just beside them, a fat bluebell had landed on the human lying crumpled in the grass and flowers, rubbing its legs together earnestly where it perched along the edge of the immense raw crater where the animal’s face had once been. The fly’s buzzing was very excited in the quiet glade as it stayed a moment in the red meat there, feasting its fill before moving with a flash to a place on the opposite side of the gaping hole where the blue skin looked cold even in the warm morning sun.
“Yes,” said the sparrow, feeling a sudden sorrow in its heart. “Yes, I see him.” A subtly rancid smell had entered the glade and diluted the vibrant green smell of the apples and flowers, and seemed to grow more pungent every moment passing.
“Let’s leave this place,” advised the blue jay. “Let’s put ourselves in the sky where nothing can touch us.”
The sparrow had never before been invited to fly with a blue jay, and the invitation filled it with pride. It felt beautiful, and welcomed, and safe.
Together they lifted from the branch, away from the quiet dell, and up and up and up into the clear clean sky.
###
Alexander Zelenyj is the author of the short story collections Songs For The Lost (Eibonvale Press, 2014; digital edition: Independent Legions Publishing, 2016) and Experiments At 3 Billion A.M. (Eibonvale Press, 2009); the poetry and essay collection, Ballads To The Burning Twins: The Complete Song Lyrics Of The Deathray Bradburys (Eibonvale Press, 2014); and the novel, Black Sunshine(Fourth Horseman Press, 2005). His fiction has appeared in a wide variety of magazines and anthologies – for a more comprehensive bibliography please feel free to visit his website at alexanderzelenyj.com.
New Fiction by Louis Sisto: “Can I Pour You Another?”
“Can I pour you another scotch, Slick?” Frank asked, a slight giggle escaping his lips as he took another sip. He was not expecting a response, of course, as he stared amusingly at the lifeless figure sitting across the dining room table. The vibrant glow of a small candle in the center illuminated a macabre spectacle as Slick’s face was frozen in a grimace of pain and terror. Long, gaping slashes decorated his face and throat, splitting the skin with the charm and grace that only a vengeful straight razor could provide. Frank smiled to nobody in particular, cherishing the liquor warming up his esophagus.
Sheila is going to love this, he thought to himself.
Frank had known for weeks that Sheila, his wife of two years, was up to something. He had snuck away from the university long enough to follow her around town. While he should have been teaching his introductory to astronomy courses he was instead hunched down in the front seat of his Oldsmobile Antares day after day watching Sheila meet up with Slick, a computer software hot shot, in the parking lot of a deserted factory on the edge of town. The initial sense of betrayal and hurt quickly transformed itself into a darker entity, one he felt growing inside of him like a tumor. It was truly amazing what raw emotion could do to a man, especially one who was always so well-adjusted and even-tempered. He didn’t make much money working at the university, but felt that he was a good husband and deserved more respect. How dare she! Here he was touting off to work in a dress shirt and tie every day trying to make a living while she took her ever-widening, balloon ass to some young smooth talker, basically giving it away like heatstroke at the beach.
Frank wiped a bead of perspiration from his brow as he refilled his scotch glass. He reached into shirt pocket and retrieved a Salem; cigarettes and liquor always were a team, yes indeed.
More of a team than Sheila and I ever were
The flickering of the candle allowed Frank to watch the tiny droplets of blood fall from Slick’s exposed carotid artery into his glass. His polo shirt was matted with splotches of crimson, as were his hands, which had been folded on the table neatly in front of him. Frank curiously eyeballed the defense wound slashes on Slick’s knuckles, which were plainly visible, even with the dim lighting.
“Now, Slick, my man,” Frank said as he waved the bottle of scotch in his direction, “are you quite sure that I cannot pour another for you?”
Frank had done a damn fine job. For someone with no history of violence or criminal tendencies, he pulled it off nicely. He had been on his way out the door to the university to work on some research articles when Sheila announced she was going out with her female friends for the day.
“It’s only three o’clock. You’re leaving already?” he had asked. He knew she was full of crap, but was curious as to how she was going to explain this one away.
“We’re going to a concert, but we need to go visit this friend of mine first for her birthday.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “You know how it is, Frank,” she said as she lightly pecked him on the cheek.
Yeah, he knew all too well how it was. He could feel his dark blue eyes seething with hate as he watched her walk back into the kitchen. He closed the door gently behind him, walked to his car and parked it halfway down the street, waiting patiently for her to leave. The research could wait. Frank needed to tend to his domestic business first. As expected Sheila was out the door within the next fifteen minutes and speeding off to meet Slick by the factory. Frank hid behind a tree across the lot and watched the two of them for the next forty-five minutes, as the sounds of her flirtatious laughter suffocated his cheated ears. He cupped his hands over them and squatted down as he tried to block out everything around him. He was trembling so bad that he had wet himself just a tad. There would be hell to pay.
The day’s festivities had ended at Slick’s condo. Frank overheard Sheila agreeing to spend the night and leave for work from there in the morning. He had been chain-smoking around the corner of the building where he could hear everything that was being said; the morons left the bedroom window open. Frank’s patience paid off when Slick left around 10:00pm for a run to the drugstore. Frank met him at his car as he left the drugstore, his hands and the straight razor going on automatic as the bag of allergy pills hit the darkened pavement, accompanied by Slick’s shrill screams. Nobody heard a thing. Frank had his way with him. A job well done.
***
The last few hours had been a lot of work, but the end was approaching. Frank checked his watch as he absorbed another mouthful of scotch.
5:50am
Sheila’s cell phone alarm would be going off in ten minutes, breaking her slumber and welcoming in the work day. Frank had quite a breakfast sight planned for her. He wanted to see her traumatized expression as she came upon Slick’s freshly mutilated corpse seated at the table. Then it would be her turn. The candle flame reflected brightly in Frank’s eyes as he polished off the remainder of his scotch. An alarm went off several minutes later, breaking Frank out of his daze. He smiled as he ran his fingers over the straight razor in his pocket. He could hear muffled footsteps in the bedroom.
Till Death Do Us Part, Sheila
###
Louis was born and raised in Chicago, IL and currently lives in Macomb, IL. He has been writing short stories and flash fiction for years as a personal hobby. He is hoping to one day begin working on his first novel. His flash fiction piece, “On Call,” was published on the Funny In Five Hundred website in January 2016.
New Fiction by Timothy Wilkie: “Gypsy Angel”
The gypsy, pale olive skin and glossy black hair stared at me with dark eyes that seemed to look right through me. “You and your lady friend come inside,” she said. I hesitated. “What are you afraid of?” She reached up and touched my face with her fingers. A scent of peppermint and sage filled my nostrils and made me giddy. “You afraid I seduce your boy friend?” She asked Jane. Just then a policeman walked by and the young gypsy woman stepped back away from me. The policeman glared at her and she disappeared back inside her tent.
I listened for an instant and I could hear the strains of violin coming from within. Sweet and sorrowful it played. We stepped inside and quietly slipped off our shoes before we crossed the plush purple carpet. Suddenly there was a loud creak and when we turned around there was a large gypsy man with a brown felt hat pulled low on his forehead standing in the doorway. “It’s alright papa,” she said. He just looked away and then stepped back into the shadows.
Sleep eluded me that night. I lay in the darkness upstairs in the old farm house that my Grandmother owned. Our family had lived on this land for four generations and when I was thrown out of my Mother’s house by her new husband my Grandmother had insisted that I come to stay with her. She told me, “Nicky I’m tired of rambling around this huge house all alone.”
Why not I thought? I still had my senior year in high school to go through before joining the Army why not spend it with Grandma. That was one month ago. It was August and that was fair time in Rhinebeck.
I laid in the darkness trying to empty my head of troubling thoughts, carnival gypsies and fortune tellers. It seemed to be impossible though I couldn’t get her out of my head. I could still smell the peppermint and sage that had lingered on her finger tips.
Jane had noticed it and was annoyed by it even though we were just friends. She had mentioned it on the way home. “You’re awful quiet.” She had said in the car.
“Bone tired that’s all,” I had said.
Jane lived next door to my Grandmother and since she was around my age like all Grandmothers she tried to hook us up. I had no interest in Jane except for a friend. It was nice to have someone to hang out with. I was a stranger in a strange land being from the city and it was nice to have a guide. When school started I was quite sure we would drift apart each to our own crowds.
Now I was wide awake again and thinking of my gypsy angel. All my senses were in high gear a heightened sense of awareness. I strained to catch any untoward sound in the house, a creak here and a drip there, my Grandmother in her room next door as she coughed and then turned another page in her magazine.
What was it like in her world? She was around my age my gypsy angel. What was it like on the carnival midway when all the people were gone and you were alone with the spinning tea-cups and the mad-mouse, when the lights were off and the music silenced.
It must be ominous the silence. That’s was what I kept thinking about and what I wanted to know. It was where I wanted to be with her. It was where my heart had wandered off to on this warm summer night as the scent of the carnival lingered on the breeze.
I could see the glow of the lights outside my window and they drew me on like a moth to a flame. I stood at my window and sucked in the smell of grease paint and diesel fuel with just a hint of danger and intrigue mixed in.
After turning on the light on my bedside table I sat on the edge of my bed torn between the world I knew and the world I wanted to know better. It was truly the calm before the storm. I got up slowly and took my pants and shirt off the chair. It was time to decide.
Despite my sense of urgency about the need to be over there and with her right now I moved slowly, carefully down the staircase going to great lengths to avoid the squeaky steps. I silently slipped the chain off the top lock and closed the door softly behind me. I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath I was free.
The magnitude of what I was about to do sent goose bumps down my spine. I crossed the road there wasn’t a car in sight and the only sounds I could hear were the sounds of the generators running at the fairgrounds.
It was a tight squeeze but I snuck under the wire fence where the kids snuck in. It was an absolutely balmy night. There had never been a better night to get wild and crazy and as I walked along the midway I felt like I belonged there.
There was one snack-wagon still open and there were a couple of guys sitting out on a picnic table having a beer. My heart froze what if they said something? I felt beads of sweat pop out on my forehead and my hands felt cold and clammy. They’ll know I thought. They’ll see right through the guise and know I’m not one of them. As they looked my way I started to panic but they just smiled and said, “crazy night.” I smiled back and nodded as they went back to their conversation.
I glided by like a ghost haunting the midway, the center joint, the line joints, and the stick joints were all my play ground, and who will win the rag in a bag I thought. I know, I know, but I couldn’t sleep I had a premonition that something…no everything starts tonight. I was born again to the smell of cotton candy and fried dough. Like drugs they coursed through my veins. Then there she was sitting in front of a sign that said, “DARE TO KNOW THE FUTURE.”
I stared at her I couldn’t help myself. She shook her head and said. ”You’ve come back to me they all do once I’ve laid hands on them they wear the stain of passion on their souls and the scent drives them mad with lust.”
I nodded and took a deep breath the scent of peppermint and sage filled my head and made me tipsy. “Okay, so what do we do?” I replied half in a trance.
“You want to be with me.” She said. “You want to be here when the darkness comes, you want to be in the middle of it all.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I replied.
“No, you are here because I placed a spell on you. Do you have nerves of steel? Are you strong enough to be my lover? I think not go home little boy.”
“Bitch,” I cried as I lunged at her wrapping my fingers in her long black hair and yanking her head around so her lips were just inches from mine. She just stared up at me defiantly. I knew that danger didn’t scare her she thumbed her nose at it. I let her go and fished in my pocket for my pack of Newport. As I lit one up she took it gently from my fingers. “I don’t even know your name,” I said.
“Aishe,” she whispered.
“I’m Peter,” I said.
“I know who you are Peter you have been chosen just for me.” She whispered as she placed her lips to my ear. Then in one motion she spun around me like in a dance and said. “Come with me.”
All my strength suddenly seemed to ebb away and I was entirely at her mercy. I followed her down the darkened midway like a puppy. With a click of her fingers and a wave of her hands the lights came on and the carnival came alive. Invisible hands worked the rides each one longer then the next and ghosts called from the joints promising untold riches if we popped the balloons or made a basket. “Win a prize for the little woman,”a ghostly voices whispered.
Things seemed to be moving faster and faster as Pink Floyd’s Money thundered out of huge speakers all around us. “Perhaps something earth-shaking is happening here.” She laughed. “World shattering, mind bending,” she screamed hysterically as the Tea cups spun faster and faster.
I wanted her now more than ever I took her by the hand and led her off the midway out of the bright lights and on to the soft green grass. She put her hands on my shoulders and closed her eyes. I felt her strong yet sensitive hands work the tension out of my muscles as her fingers probed deeper and deeper. My senses were reeling, I felt high and drunk all at the same time. We tumbled into each other’s arms and I knew that our coming together was right, it was the destiny that I was born for and then reborn to.
I was fully aroused my body shaking as I plunged deeper and deeper inside her. My tongue and fingers centered fully on her ecstasy. Her whispered voice changed to moans and then animal grunts and hisses as her passion grew. Her nails ripped through my shirt and raked my back just before my sweet release.
Suddenly there was a flurry of motion and the man with the brown felt hat yanked me off her. “Watch out boy,” he cried as he raised his rifle and fired three times. On the ground where Aishe and I had made passionate love was a dead Bengal Tiger. The man with the felt hat just shook his head as a single tear ran down his cheek. “She knew she was cursed with the mark of the tiger upon her but she wanted to know love just one time.”
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Timothy Wilkie is a writer/artist living in upstate New York. His short stories “Ossuary”, “The Flaw”, and “The Cell Phone” have been published in The Horror-zine and his story “Sweet Meat” has been published by Massacre Magazine. His art has been featured in The Horror-zine and Arabian Nights. Twice he has received the Golden Poets Award from the American Poetry Association.
Fiction from The Drabble: “Wall” by Jennifer Terry
By Jennifer Terry “You’re so sweet to always volunteer to close the store.” Madison poked her bottom lip out in a bizarre show of solidarity. Bree straightened an antique clock. “You’ll make it u…
Source: Wall
Fiction from “Writings by Ender”: “One Man’s Solitary Sin” by Austin Wiggins
Neat story. Take some time to visit “Writings by Ender“.
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David J. Wilson, a middle-aged secretary of a Southern Californian insurance company, slowly typed the agenda for his boss’ following day. His fingers — because of both his ailments and fri…
Source: One Man’s Solitary Sin
Fiction from “The Drabble”: “Sleep on Needles” by Intrudesite
Slattery’s note: This is not what most would consider “horror” per se, but the ending has such a chilling quality that might bring it into the realm of horror ultra-lite.
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By intrudesite She was just a baby when they diagnosed her with acute leukemia. She did not understand all the words, she feared the pricks given countless times and drawing blood to see if cells s…
Source: Sleep on Needles
Phil Slattery, Writer, Publisher 