Arcanum Miskatonica

by Mike Adamson

Every university has its reputation—some for solid, middle-of-the- road studies in business, medicine, law, others for scientific research, and hopefully all for excellence. But some have shadows behind their ivy-grown cloisters, dusty corners where past mysteries linger, and some secrets are guarded, not merely jealously, but fanatically. I came to Miskatonic University, in the green hills above Arhkam, Massachusetts, as an eager research assistant for the School of Biology, specializing in molecular genetics. I qualified at Brown in my native Rhode Island, but an unfortunate road accident headed off a placement with a commercial research firm, and when I was once more fit to walk unaided, the most promising berth for my talents was with the laboratories of a competing college. A job was a job, and it was time for my career to blossom—a few years solid research in an academic setting was no bad thing, and should propel me into Big Pharma in due course. My parents, at home in Providence, were entirely supportive, though I recall my father speaking in what I felt a strange manner, the evening before I left. “It’s a fine institution, certainly,” he said, nodding into the gathering twilight off the porch, as the first leaves were turning, the drift of red and gold beginning their rain, though summer’s warmth was not yet a memory. “Do be careful, Rick… I know you are, but… They tell strange tales of that university.” He smiled and shrugged, as if dismissing his own disquiet. “It’s a 19th century classic—and has hosted every sort from the brilliant to the lunatic. It’s whispered their collections feature things science has never yet properly understood, and for the most part are buried away so as not to disturb modern thinking.” (Continue Reading…)

It Takes Slow Sips

by Michael Wehunt

Forty minutes to drive eleven miles, and the daylight was souring over the trees behind the apartments. He had left in the dark and just made it home before the dark. For a moment he sat in his car and watched a white dog being walked in the park across the street, its fur almost shining. People were wearing coats now, but it was only September. It had gotten cold two weeks before his favorite season, the one with her name. (Continue Reading…)

The Red Lady

by Mob

Twelfth bell’s chime,
fairest song, and poppy dew.

For the Red Lady,
‘ fore the Red Lady,
stand anew.

Light flowed through the shutters for many hours, its pale fingers raking the room, yet it was an unexpected delivery that finally roused me.

“Parcel for the young Masters.” A faint voice trickled up from the street.

Henri lolled his head towards me from the chaise-longue. His words tumbled out in a drawl. “I do not possess much by way of mastery this morning, might you get the door?”

“Henri, it is the afternoon already,” I said, but went anyway, trailed by his laughter.

Henri never changed, his languid temperament punctuated by spells of artistic frenzy. Skilled before the canvas, and at a multitude of musical instruments, he formed the beating heart of our little group. Indeed, this master’s house in Montmartre was his.

He promised us a retreat, and retreat we did. From the hustle and bustle of the Academy. From our usual haunts in fair Paris’ cafes and bars. Though we’d met through our music, the quiet decadence of the house let loose our greater pursuits. Henri’s painting, Alec and his never-realised path into sculpture, my own writings. What the Academy instilled in skill and rigour, it stole from us in time and breadth of spirit.

Here, we would steal it back. (Continue Reading…)

Douen

By Suzan Palumbo

I see Mama in de cemetery when dey put de white casket in de ground. She was crying so hard she was shaking like when grandma died and Tanty, Mama’s aunt, had to hug Mama up tight, tight, to keep Mama from falling down.

At grandma’s funeral, Tanty say, “Doux doux Shalini, yuh have to hold up yuhself. Yuh have yuh daughter Samantha to bring up. Yuh must be strong fuh she.” Mama wipe she own tears and stop crying den. But she smile was spoil. I try to come first in school and eat all de rice and provision I hate when she cook dem for dinner, but Mama say she heart was broken. Fuh true she eyes didn’t shine full happy like dey did before.

Dis time in de cemetery Tanty didn’t say anything because even she was bawlin’ like a cow with everybody else. Mama was de loudest. She voice was like a cutlass chopping straight through de noise. Daddy stand up stiff next to she and was silent, like a stone.

I know why nobody tell Mama to hold up sheself dis time. It was because it was me dead in de casket in de bottom of de hole. It was my funeral.

Except I wasn’t in de box.

I was standing behind one of de concrete headstone watching Mama and all meh aunties and uncles bawl. I cry too, because I didn’t remember how I get there and I didn’t want to be dead. (Continue Reading…)

Thirteen Ways of Not Looking at a Blackbird

By Gordon B. White

I.

I am a baby boy. In the bathtub, looking out, past my mother as she cries and holds the already wet washcloth to her eyes. Over her mouth. I am looking into the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.

I see no one.

I do not see my father.

A severed hand floats in the air. Drops of blood fall to the floor, splattering out on both sides of the border between the linoleum and carpet.

No one says, “I’ve sinned again,” as my mother cries.

(Continue Reading…)

The Body Remembers

By P.A. Cornell

It takes a moment before it hits me that the screaming’s coming from my own mouth. Funny how the mind works. I catch myself debating whether to continue or just shut up. My leg—where it used to be anyway—is nothing but mangled shreds that remind me of pulled pork and I opt for silence. I grit my teeth against the pain and watch the leg reform from those shreds of bloody meat for a moment before I have to look away from the unnatural sight of it. There’s no escaping the metallic scent of blood though. The only thing that can compete with it is the acrid tang of my own sweat. Most people don’t notice sweat smells different when it comes from fear. Stronger. More acidic. Trust me, I’ve been at this long enough to know.

Too damn long, actually, but my tour’s coming to an end. Two more weeks. That’s all I’ve gotta last and I can go home, back to normal life—or to whatever semblance of normal those of us who’ve walked through hell can get. (Continue Reading…)