Too Little, Too Little, Too Much

By John Wiswell

As soon as the adults leave him alone, Lark takes a shower to get the smoke out of his hair. He’s tall enough to reach the knobs all by himself. The only shampoo in Uncle Lee’s bathroom is coconut scented. This is Lark’s first time smelling coconut. He likes it. It smothers all the other smells as he suds up, like it’s erasing what he did tonight.

Buried in the towels, he cracks the bathroom door. It doesn’t sound like Father is here yet; he’s still busy with the police. Uncle Lee is talking to Lark’s brother, Brantley.

Uncle Lee asks, “You want some more cereal?”

Brantley says, “No thanks. I’m all full.”

Uncle Lee says, “Then why are you climbing on the counter, buddy?”

Brantley asks, “Where’s your fire extinguisher?”

“Oh. Oh. Let me show you.”

Lark rubs a towel over his head, drying out his hair as best he can, while he watches his uncle down the stairs. It feels wrong seeing an adult be so helpful. Uncle Lee actually lifts Brantley up so he can reach the white plastic extinguisher. Brantley hugs it to himself with both arms and looks up the stairs, at Lark.

Lark hides in the bathroom until Uncle Lee knocks for him. He pretends he was brushing his teeth.

“You’re such a man already,” Uncle Lee says, showing him to his room. “I don’t have beds in here. It’s going to be like camping.”

Lark and Brantley share a room that is too large with too little in it. The carpet is softer than pillows. They lie in sleeping bags that their uncle says they used when they camped one time when they were smaller. Neither of the twins remember that. (Continue Reading…)

Something Stirring Underneath

by Laura Downes

He came in with the rain.

There wasn’t much else for Gideon to do than watch the coffee brew. As each drop landed in the glass pot, it rippled out, distorting his reflection in the dark liquid. Just when he thought he could recognize himself again, another drop fell.

The diner was always quiet this time of night. He didn’t know why Helen insisted on keeping it open twenty-four hours, other than that was the way her mother had done it and nothing ever changed in this part of Mississippi unless it had to. So there Gideon was most nights, just him and the coffee maker and the murmurings from the TV on the counter. Not all that long ago, when he’d been in high school, it’d been a good time to get homework done, but now he didn’t even have that to keep him occupied. The TV was older than he was and only picked up two channels. Both played infomercials this time of night, but he had it turned on anyway, just to hear voices.

—peels and chops onions with just one tap. But what if you need them minced? Well, tap again and—

The bell over the front door was barely audible over the forced cheer of the infomercial host, his smile too wide to be honest as the machine in front of him reduced an onion into smaller and smaller pieces.

“Take a seat and I’ll be with you in a moment,” Gideon said, the rote words rolling off his tongue without him having to think. He’d follow up with an offer of coffee under usual circumstances, but one look at the boy in the doorway told him tonight would be anything but usual. (Continue Reading…)

Chickamauga

By Ambrose Bierce

One sunny autumn afternoon a child strayed away from its rude home in a small field and entered a forest unobserved. It was happy in a new sense of freedom from control, happy in the opportunity of exploration and adventure; for this child’s spirit, in bodies of its ancestors, had for thousands of years been trained to memorable feats of discovery and conquest—victories in battles whose critical moments were centuries, whose victors’ camps were cities of hewn stone. From the cradle of its race it had conquered its way through two continents and passing a great sea had penetrated a third, there to be born to war and dominion as a heritage.

The child was a boy aged about six years, the son of a poor planter. In his younger manhood the father had been a soldier, had fought against naked savages and followed the flag of his country into the capital of a civilized race to the far South. In the peaceful life of a planter the warrior-fire survived; once kindled, it is never extinguished. The man loved military books and pictures and the boy had understood enough to make himself a wooden sword, though even the eye of his father would hardly have known it for what it was. This weapon he now bore bravely, as became the son of an heroic race, and pausing now and again in the sunny space of the forest assumed, with some exaggeration, the postures of aggression and defense that he had been taught by the engraver’s art. Made reckless by the ease with which he overcame invisible foes attempting to stay his advance, he committed the common enough military error of pushing the pursuit to a dangerous extreme, until he found himself upon the margin of a wide but shallow brook, whose rapid waters barred his direct advance against the flying foe that had crossed with illogical ease. But the intrepid victor was not to be baffled; the spirit of the race which had passed the great sea burned unconquerable in that small breast and would not be denied. Finding a place where some bowlders in the bed of the stream lay but a step or a leap apart, he made his way across and fell again upon the rear-guard of his imaginary foe, putting all to the sword. (Continue Reading…)

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…)