Toby

By Brittany Groves

It’s a long walk from Founders Cemetery, but I am old, dying, and don’t mind the wait. (Continue Reading…)

The House That Stands Over Your Grave

by Kyle Piper

The first time the topic of the old house on Gray Street comes up, Lew and Kennedy are working on their math homework on the floor of Lew’s bedroom. It’s the first time Kennedy has been over, and when she calls Lew’s little two-bedroom rambler a nice house, he thinks it’s a mean joke until she tells him how bad the place she just moved out of was. That brings up the topic of crappy houses, (Kennedy’s old apartment was infested with bees, Lew’s older brother lost part of a finger helping their dad repair rot in the crawlspace here), and eventually Kennedy mentions the total wreck her dad had driven them past on Gray Street, behind the cemetery. That brings it out of Lew without so much as a thought to the credibility of the claim: just, “Oh, yeah, the haunted one?” Now Kennedy looks like she’s trying to stare a hole through his head so she can determine approximately how much bullshit it houses.

“Did you…” she starts cautiously. “Have you seen any ghosts there?”“Oh, I’ve never been inside. But I mean, I walk pretty close by it all the time. It’s super creepy.” As he says this, Lew realizes how completely stupid it sounds, but he can’t figure out how to express what he feels when he looks at that house through the jagged chain-link fence that separates its backyard from the cemetery where he so often stands. That crumbling stack of ivy-crowded wood looms over the back end of the cemetery, keeping watch over the little eroding rectangles that Lew doesn’t think even count as gravestones. Unkempt vines and brush and pale, pinkish mushrooms poke out through its backyard fence into the graveyard as though the house itself is reaching out to claw at the world around it. He’s sure it’s why the back end of the cemetery is the cheap end. Anyone who can afford the big fancy headstones puts them up front where you can barely see the house and don’t have to look at it when you visit. Lew knows that when he dies, his family and friends will have to stare at that decaying pile just like he does.

“I can definitely tell that it’s creepy,” Kennedy says, “but my gym teacher is creepy. That doesn’t mean he’s a ghost.”

“Okay, that’s not what I meant. Literally everyone who’s gone in there has seen something weird. You can ask anyone who’s done it.” (Continue Reading…)

Oneirophobia

By Todd Keisling

The fluorescent lights here in the basement of St. Joseph’s are noisy by design. You wouldn’t think it of lights, the kind of noise they put off, but the ones down here have a hum that digs into your ears like a gnat. You don’t think you hear them, but you do, and now that I’ve told you about them, all you’re going to hear for the next hour is that lifeless drone.

Mmmmmm.

That’s the sound of this room. It’s the sound buzzing away in the background of the world, an involuntary reaction to existence that goes on and on in its tiring way, leeching time from you, stealing life. For many, the noise is the sound of bureaucracy, consumerism, corporate toil; but down here, one floor away from all those Hail Marys, it’s the sound of consciousness. The dull buzz of being awake.

Like I said: by design. The folks who come down here to our little meetings twice a week do so with the expectation of avoiding sleep. It’s why you won’t find any cots, quilts, or pillows left over from when this place was used as a shelter. It’s why all we have are these rusty metal chairs that squeak when you unfold them and a couple of card tables near the entrance for carafes of coffee and other goodies.

Anyway, hello. Come on in. Help yourself to some refreshments. The coffee is good and strong. No decaf here. There may even be a few pastries left if you’re lucky. I hope you’re not diabetic or have a heart condition. Nothing but sugar and caffeine on that table, believe me. Oh, and the theater masks. I’ll get to them in a minute. (Continue Reading…)

The Sound of a Jackknife

by K. Bosgra

I only took the Tremaine gig because of Shepherd’s recommendation.

“This one won’t pay much,” Shepherd admitted over the phone. People chattered in the background along with an indistinct electronic beat. “But Tremaine’s someone you’ll want to know in a couple of years.”

In the film industry, everyone believed that they knew someone on the cusp of greatness, and most people thought that someone was themselves. I’d usually acknowledge those remarks with a polite nod and move on. However, Shepherd’s phone was full of Academy Award winners who he’d spotted years before they got their little golden idol, so I copied down Tremaine’s contact info.

“He’s not the usual auteur piece of shit.” Shepherd raised his voice over the party. “Even though he looks like he was sent over by Central Casting.”

So I took the meeting. Anthony Ivan Tremaine entered my workshop wearing a black turtleneck sweater, faux leather pants, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Even at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday, he looked like a glossy headshot brought to life. Compared to him, I felt trashy in my faded t-shirt. I expected Tremaine to speak with the affected accent of an American who spent a few too many weeks in Europe, but he actually seemed to be trying on a little Joe Pesci to see how it fit. “You the guy?”

“I’m the guy.”

(Continue Reading…)

In Haskins

by Carson Winter

Everyone, both the young and the old, went about their lives as usual on the day of the Mask Festival. The downtown streets were covered with colored leaves and Mr. Burkett still waved at children and swept in front of his storefront. Mrs. Farley still clucked to Mrs. Durant on how the new teachers at the old school would not and could not teach their children anything. And the policemen still ate lunch at the Morrison Deli on Main. Normality ruled with benevolent routine. But still, as the leaves fell, and the stage was erected, the people of Haskins braced quietly for their most insistent tradition.

At the fairgrounds, Jennifer arrived early to help set the stage. Her eye sockets hung loose and rubbery around her blue eyes. She was the first Jennifer to have blue eyes. The mane on top of her head was coarse and tawny. Flies buzzed in her stomach and she was thankful she was Jennifer because Jennifer always had to stay busy. Cindy was already there, cross-legged and cutting orange leaves out of construction paper, looking prim and sweet in her blue dress.

She nodded to Cindy as she found a pair of scissors. When Cindy did not return the movement, Jennifer decided that her eyelets must be misaligned. (Continue Reading…)

Controlling Your Weeds

By Rachael K. Jones

I always mow it twice a week during peak season. Some might consider that excessive, but if you want to keep a lawn happy, you’ve got to put in the work. That starts with regular mowing. The ideal height is three inches in spring and two inches in fall, which protects against pest incursion and cuts down on the amount of watering needed. Now that’s a little longer than your average grass this far South, but here we grow something a little more unusual than your average Kentucky bluegrass or bermudagrass. A twice-a-week schedule helps me stay on top of my lawn’s needs. Plus it gives me an excuse to patrol the yard for weeds.

People have strong opinions on lawn mowers–gas versus electric, push versus riding. I’m of the opinion that any mower will work, as long as the grass gets cut. My granddaughter likes the riding mower at her elementary school, but gas mowers are loud. Hear that roar? Hush now and listen, Aiden. It’s distant now, but you can feel it in your jawbone, like an approaching bomber on a cloudy day.

Now we get to the important part: you’ve got to stay on top of weeds. They creep in from outside the yard, carried by wind and birds and those nasty little brats who think it’s funny to jump my fence when they lose a soccer ball. One of these days, they’re going to find more than just their soccer balls waiting for them in my yard, and then they’ll wish they’d learned the respect their parents neglected to teach them.

Hey now, Aiden. That kind of language is uncalled for. I’m not being unreasonable. A man has a right to defend his property. Especially from weeds. (Continue Reading…)