The Fruits of

By Chelsea Davis

They’d long since passed the point where road gave way to trail gave way to forest. Bright green ferns now rose to their knees. Around them, old-growth redwoods loomed forth. It had been like this for miles: only trees, ferns, the sweet scent of pine, and the two walkers, lost and silent.

At least, Amber was fairly sure they were lost. Anton’s navigational methods didn’t exactly inspire confidence. The gruff, stout man in a camo sweatshirt and buzzcut—both style choices that were, she now suspected, aspirational rather than markers of actual military service—barely ever paused to check his compass or beat-up map. Amber didn’t dare question him, though. He had a fragile ego and a short temper, a powder keg of a personality that had both scared and intrigued her when they’d first met behind Danny’s Pub last month. He’d told her, then, with a smug calm that made her breathe harder, that she had literally nothing to go on without him and his knowledge of the nightfruit. “Zilch. Zip,” he’d slurred in the bar alleyway, slashing his Miller from left to right in the universal gesture for “nothing.” His small eyes had shone watery in the red light of the bar sign above the back door. “Also, first hint of funny business and I’ll leave you out there. Don’t care how far we are from the road.” She’d nodded, handed him the cash, watched him count it.

At least it wasn’t dark out yet in the woods, she told herself, her boots sinking into damp soil again and again. Judging by the sun’s place in the sky, they still had two more hours of decent light. Two hours from now they would hopefully have found what they were looking for. And then it wouldn’t matter whether she could see well. (Continue Reading…)

James Courtney Goes Home

By Jamie Grimes

The personal effects of the late Mr. James Courtney found their way to me some months after his passing, once the stipulations of his will had been addressed and the remainder of his belongings had been picked over by his friends and family. He had made a promise to me long ago, and I to him, and now, some decades after he’d done his part, the rest was mine to fulfill.

His steamer trunk was left like a flag staked in the yard, the ghosts of a former life reminding me of the claim they had on my soul. Inside were a pile of well-worn journals, some wadded papers cushioning a couple of chipped dinner plates, and a few books. In with all of this was a letter addressed simply “To Thomas.” In it, Courtney recounted the better part of the last two decades of his life, during which time he never married, made but a few close friends, most of whom helped him put his meager fortune into “charities benefiting the advancement of our peoples.” He wished me great health and lamented that he could never bring himself to come back to the island no matter how he longed for it.

Underneath the letter, next to the plain brass urn containing Courtney’s earthly remains, lay a troublesome volume I’d hoped never to have the ill fortune to see. I’d heard tell of Henry Barksdale’s Statements and Observations Concerning the American Negro Species. What colored person in learned circles hadn’t? So obnoxious it was in its assertions, in its blanket characterizations of a whole people as nothing more than savages tamed to the brink of enlightenment by their enslavers. I had more than half a mind to burn it on sight, but with that urge came an appalling curiosity, and I found myself thumbing through its overwrought suppositions, its “there can be no doubts” and its “undeniable facts” about “the primitive American Negro.” No wonder the world is as divided as it is. If this is the thinking of one of the South’s allegedly preeminent minds, what hope is there in finding our common humanity?

I cursed Courtney for bequeathing me this nonsense, but I was quick to apologize. Never get on the wrong side of the dead. With Barksdale so fresh on my mind—with his feverish rantings about his last days on Ediwander Island in my hands—I ought to have known better. (Continue Reading…)

Every Last Gossamer Strand

By C.J. Dotson

The high windows of the Bluebird Lake Lodge ballroom let in warm afternoon sunlight. Gilded embellishments glowed upon white columns and high door frames, ornate chandeliers glittered, and bloated black flies swarming outside the glass made the light seem to flicker. The insects, tiny intruders from a different kind of place than this, had noticed me so quickly—I’d arrived at the Lodge and its surrounding campground only half an hour ago.

Mother must be lonely. Or whatever her version of loneliness is.

Unsatisfied? Hollow?

Maybe she’d be happy to see me. (Continue Reading…)

The Half-Pint Flask

By DuBose Heyward

I picked up the book and regarded it with interest. Even its format suggested the- author: the practical linen covered boards, the compact and exact paragraphing. I opened the volume at random. There he was again: “There can be no doubt;” “An undeniable fact,” “I am prepared to assert.” A statement in the preface leaped from the context and arrested my gaze:

“The primitive American Negro is of a deeply religious nature, demonstrating in his constant attendance at church, his fervent prayers, his hymns, and his frequent mention of the Deity that he has cast aside the last vestiges of his pagan background, and has unreservedly espoused the doctrine of Christianity.”

I spun the pages through my fingers until a paragraph in the last chapter brought me up standing:

“I was hampered in my investigations by a sickness contracted on the island that was accompanied by a distressing insomnia, and, in its final stages, extreme delirium. But I already had sufficient evidence in hand to enable me to prove ”

Yes, there it was, fact upon fact. I was overwhelmed by the permanence, the unanswerable word of the printed page. In the face of it my own impressions became fantastic, discredited even in my own mind. In an effort at self-justification I commenced to rehearse my impressions of that preposterous month as opposed to Barksdale’s facts; my feeling for effects and highly developed fiction writer’s imagination on the one hand; and on the other, his cold record of a tight, three dimensional world as reported by his five good senses. (Continue Reading…)

Some Say Art Deals with the Unexpected

By James Dorr

ART: The quality or expression or performance of that which is pleasing to the senses; that which is raised to more than ordinary importance.

ARTIST:  One who produces art.

Is art permanent?  I seem to remember they said that in school, but what about music?  I mean, I know there are records and tapes now, but what about before those things were invented?  Would an original performance conducted by Beethoven be any less art because it hadn’t been taped?  Or an opera by Verdi be called commonplace simply because it hadn’t been filmed?

Some say art deals with the unexpected.  A couple of senators — you know, in Washington — say it’s obscene.  I say it’s beauty.

Just that:  Beauty.  It takes in the rest.

The unexpected?  The discovery of beauty in that which is plain.  The found importance.

My wife doesn’t understand art. (Continue Reading…)

Tree of the Forest Seven Bells Turns the World Round Midnight

by Sheree Renée Thomas

Thistle stepped over an upturned root that twisted from the dark, wet earth.

“Your mama live near the river?” “Naw.”

“Your mama live in a tree?” “Nope.”

“Then what we doing?”

“Mama the river and the tree.” She moved with deliberate grace, each footfall a code that unlocked another hidden key. Wilder should have known. Every other word out of her mouth was some strange, cryptic poetry. She was more siren than sage, more whistle than song. In the few months they’d been hanging, he had gotten used to her “magic woman” guise. Bohemian bruja, wide-hipped hoodoo. Unlike the other women Wilder tried to lay with, Thistle felt sincere. At least she was original. Most other relationships Wilder had had, all ended the way he felt now, lost. With the others he would soon lose interest — or they would, tossing him back on the street, the fascination over before it had begun. Then he’d be off, duffel bag in hand, looking for cover. To Wilder, everyone worked so hard to be just like the next. What was the challenge in that? (Continue Reading…)

At the God Show

by Shaenon K. Garrity

6:15 A.M.

“It’ll be Pternoch the Fisher,” Sheila overheard one pilgrim say to another. “Why did we bother coming?”

“May the Green Damsel stitch your mouth shut until your blasphemies cease,” said the other. “We come to honor Her and reveal Her glory.” There was a silence as the two filled out their name tags, then, “Where’d you hear that from?”

“Everyone’s saying it. It always goes to the Sanguine group, and this year Pternoch is the Sanguine with the buzz.”

“It wasn’t a Sanguine last year. It was an Amoratus.”

“And look how that turned out. The judges will play it safe. It’s all politics.”

His companion snorted—whether in disbelief or reluctant agreement, Sheila couldn’t tell.

“I’m telling you. The fix is in.” (Continue Reading…)