No Tomorrows

by Steve Cooper

Six months ago, it was all sugar and no shit. Six months ago, in a private Istanbul club called *Imshi*, I’d snorted coke out of the shallow belly button of an ex-Soviet farmer’s girl, reared on Georgian corn, marinated in Belorussian vodka, garnished in best Turkish blow. Say what you want about the Eastern Orthodox Church, the college of bishops really knows how to throw a party.

The fat commission on that job, though, was running low, and now I was in Leeds, in a filthy hole of a club called *Tiggers*, leaning back against the bar with a little plastic bottle of water and watching the crowd. The boys were thin hungry jackals and the girls were glittering, animated sausage-meat. The place was slaughterhouse-romantic.

I’d come to meet a man on borrowed time. Horton had been borrowing time since 1673, and I had come to loan him a little more.

The Skull-Faced Boy

by David Barr Kirtley

He turned his eyes back to the road, and in the light of the high beams he saw a man stumble into the path of the car. Without thinking, Jack swerved.

The car bounced violently, and then its left front side smashed into a tree. The steering column surged forward, like an ocean wave, and crushed Jack’s stomach.

Dustin wasn’t wearing a seatbelt. He flew face-first through the windshield, rolled across the hood, and tumbled off onto the ground.

The Land of Reeds

by Patrick Samphire

The dead, he had discovered, had mouths and could speak, but they could not be heard.

Or, they could not be heard by the living: the dead talked among themselves with voices of sand and dust. Amenemhet did not wish to talk to the dead. A man who has been murdered wishes to speak to those still living, to lay testament before them, to give warning.

The dead, in their crowded voices, said that Re no longer travelled through the underworld each night. They said that his face was now no more than a ball of fire in the sky. There were no more demons in the underworld, no Apep the serpent, no Amemet the great devourer, no gates, no judges, no scales. There was no Land of Reeds.

The Sloan Men

By David Nickle

Mrs. Sloan had only three fingers on her left hand, but when she drummed them against the countertop, the tiny polished bones at the end of the fourth and fifth stumps clattered like fingernails. If Judith hadn’t been looking, she wouldn’t have noticed anything strange about Mrs. Sloan’s hand.

“Tell me how you met Herman,” said Mrs. Sloan. She turned away from Judith as she spoke, to look out the kitchen window where Herman and his father were getting into Mr. Sloan’s black pickup truck. Seeing Herman and Mr. Sloan together was a welcome distraction for Judith. She was afraid Herman’s stepmother would catch her staring at the hand. Judith didn’t know how she would explain that with any grace: Things are off to a bad enough start as it is.

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Caesar’s Ghost

by Eugie Foster

I saw my dead ferret, Caesar, last night in my living room. I’d dozed off watching re-runs on TV and woke up to the tickle-prick of whiskers against my hand. When I looked down and saw him, I picked him up and settled him under my chin. We’d always slept like that on the couch, him nestled against me, a warm weight rising and falling as I breathed.

I closed my eyes and remembered; Caesar was dead. I sat up, bang, and he was gone.

I told Richard about it the next morning at work.

“I think my ferret’s haunting me,” I said, hoping to start things on a light note after our rocky parting the previous evening.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kathy,” he snapped back.

It was the first time he’d ever been sharp with me. An awkward silence sprang up and clocked in for the long haul.

The Exhibition

by Melinda Selmys

This was the first time in over a century that Garnet had found the courage to attend an exhibition. In those days the fashion had been deliberate deformity; men made with the faces of beasts, or misshapen into the likeness of a turning screw. The art of it had been to make the most severe possible departure from the human form, without creating something too monstrous to be viable; apparently, things had grown worse in a hundred and fifty years.

“Give us a blessing, little mother,” the man standing next to Garnet said to her. He clearly fancied himself a critic of the arts, dressed in the new-style – layers of expensive cloth and furs draped so that they loudly proclaimed the wealth of one who could afford natural fabrics, while doing nothing to clothe or obscure the body of the wearer. His laugh was as joyless and acerbic as bubbling vinegar.

“That one only blesses monsters,” his companion, who was neither male nor female, sipped its wine and ran its fingers along the surface of the blood-drenched ice.