The Gorgon

by Tanith Lee

The small island, which lay off the larger island of Daphaeu, obviously contained a secret of some sort, and, day by day, and particularly night by night, began to exert an influence on me, so that I must find it out.

Daphaeu itself (or more correctly herself, for she was a female country, voluptuous and cruel by turns in the true antique fashion of the Goddess) was hardly enormous. A couple of roads, a tangle of sheep tracks, a precarious, escalating village, rocks and hillsides thatched by blistered grass. All of which overhung an extraordinary sea, unlike any sea which I have encountered elsewhere in Greece. Water which might be mistaken for blueness from a distance, but which, from the harbor or the multitude of caves and coves that undermined the island, revealed itself a clear and succulent green, like milky limes or the bottle glass of certain spirits.

Grinning on the Way to See Mom Die

by Brian D. Hinson

Aunt Sara doesn’t like phone calls, so I get a text that Mom’s dying, hospital address included. I sigh a long one. A weird mix of emotions wrestle in my gut. I reply: Ok thx.

I know how this went down. Mom got really sick, delayed telling anyone because she doesn’t like doctors or medical bills. But she likes alcohol and self-medicates. A doctor had warned her a few years ago that her liver was about to give out. Aunt Sara didn’t say what was wrong with mom. She figures I know. If I were a betting man, I’d lay $100 on cirrhosis of the liver. Easy bet. She’s already had hepatitis and edema in her leg. So, the end has come.

I call Mom’s cell and no answer. Must be the real deal. I call up Lil’ Bro. He’s my older brother Ollie but he’s shorter than me by a foot. He’s four eleven but if you ask, he’s “five fucking one.”

“I’m a little busy,” he answers.

“Did you hear from Aunt Sara?”

“Is this important?”

“Mom’s dying in the hospital.”

Pause. “Good. Thanks for the word, though.” (Continue Reading…)

The Dreadful and Specific Monster of Starosibirsk

by Kristina Ten

I know what you will say. You will say to me, Arseny, there are enough real monsters in this world—why do you make your own? But before I begin, before you make your judgments, like the others, before you tsk-tsk-tsk our failures and tell me what you would have done, there are some things that you should know.

You should know, first, that things were very bad in Starosibirsk.

You should know, also: We were once a small village of simple people on a wide, calm river. Not less, not more. We could spell the first name, father’s name, and surname of everyone we knew. The homes and church and the shed for storing forest berries, we all built ourselves from strong larch wood.

The river came from the north and brought clear, cold water and many fish, among them an uncommon sturgeon known for the saltiness of its eggs. The people of Starosibirsk knew not to catch this sturgeon, nor eat its eggs, as doing so would bring a lifetime of bad luck upon the village. We heard the warning songs as children, learned to recognize it quickly and cast our lines elsewhere.

The same was not true for others in the region. For them, this caviar was beaded gold. Okay, it was not like the Ossetra you get in the western cities. But at their local markets, ten tins sold for more than a berry forager could earn in a season. So people traveled from great distances to fish in our river and eat in our cafes, to sleep in the modest guesthouses we had erected for them, or lie sleepless, fantasizing about their wealth.

The sturgeon was longer than a man and fat around the middle. On the shore, proud rybakov posed for photographs with their prizes before carrying them away. It was understood that the sturgeon was not to be slaughtered within Starosibirsk limits. In their own villages—or, in times of impatience, just outside ours—they hacked dull knives through the pale bellies and harvested the eggs inside.

Returning fishermen visiting our tavern spoke freely, so we knew: Each fish contained millions of brown-black eggs in a mass so dense, they came up in whole slabs without crumbling. Fishermen lifted handfuls over their heads and hurrahed, saying “Here is Pavel’s university education!” and “Here is Masha’s extravagant wedding in the Balkans!” Later, they dragged the gutted fish to their kitchens on plastic sleds to be made into soup.

Then everything changed. (Continue Reading…)

Henry

by Phyllis Bottome

For four hours every morning and for twenty minutes before a large audience at night Fletcher was locked up with murder.

It glared at him from twelve pairs of amber eyes ; it clawed the air close to him, it spat naked hate at him, and watched with uninterrupted intensity to catch him for one moment off his guard.

Fletcher had only his will and his eyes to keep death at bay.

Of course, outside the cage into which Fletcher shut himself nightly with his twelve tigers were the keepers, standing at intervals around it with concealed pistols ; but they were outside it. The idea was that if anything happened to Fletcher they would be able by prompt action to get him out alive ; but they had his private instructions to do nothing of the kind, to shoot straight at his heart, and pick off the guilty tiger afterwards to cover their intention. Fletcher knew better than to try to preserve anything the tigers left of him, if once they had started in.

The lion-tamer in the next cage was better off than Fletcher, he was intoxicated by a rowdy vanity which dimmed fear. He stripped himself half naked every night, covered himself with ribbons, and thought so much of himself that he hardly noticed his lions. Besides, his lions had all been born in captivity, were slightly doped, and were only lions.

Fletcher’s tigers weren’t doped because dope dulled their fears of the whip and didn’t dull their ferocity; captivity softened nothing in them, and they hated man. (Continue Reading…)

Heavy Rain

by TJ Price

I’m standing in the doorway where you last stood before you got up on a chair, slipped the belt around your throat like a necktie, and kicked the chair out from under you.

I imagine for the hundredth time how you expired, gasping like a fish in the air. Shitting yourself. Pissing yourself. Twisting like a windchime in a gale.

Two months have passed, and I still cannot entirely scrub the stains from the floor. (Continue Reading…)

Spirit Husband

By Uchechukwu Nwaka

Don’t collect gifts from strangers.

Don’t pick up money on the streets.

Don’t take food in your dream.

The spicy fried exterior of the akara melts over my tongue, and the soft baked beans within seep into my taste buds. The flavour ripples into my teeth and tickles my ears and waters my nose. I stuff my mouth full with three buns before the particles go the wrong way and the coughing begins. The pepper enters my eyes and I rub at them with the heel of my hand.

My eyes scan the wooden table. It’s no bigger than the desks in the orphanage’s classroom where we learned arithmetic and English. A silk tablecloth is draped over its surface, laden with a large ornamental bowl filled with aromatic akara. To my left, a loaf of bread sits on a flat plate, radiating waves of warm goodness. To my right, the steam from a bowl of pap condenses over its transparent cover. There’s a tin of Peak milk and Milo beside it, alongside a large unopened sachet of Dangote sugar.

A jug of kunu occupies the opposite end of the table. I’m not interested in that one right now. It’s the clear pitcher of water that I need.

It’s too far, yet when I reach for it, the distance shrinks and my fingers close around the handle. I drain the water without even a cup, and there’s a soothing calm as the water rolls down my throat.

Do I know that this is a dream already? Yes. Do I keep eating?

Yes. (Continue Reading…)