The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

VI

It was tall, yet not so tall as it seemed, because it did not stand on the floor, but hovered with its feet a foot or more above the floor. Its feet—it had feet, but I don’t know what their shape was. They had no shape—just as its legs and torso, arms and hands, head and face were without shape—without fixed form. They writhed, swelling and contracting, stretching and shrinking, not greatly, but without pause. An arm would drift into the body, be swallowed by it, come out again as if poured out. The nose would stretch down over the gaping shapeless mouth, shrink back up, into the face until it was flush with the cheeks, grow out again. The eyes would spread across the face until they were one enormous eye that had blotted out all the upper face, then contract until there was no pedestal, then three, then two again. The legs became one thick leg, like a pedestal, then three, then two again. And no feature or member ever stopped its quivering and writhing until its contours could be determined, its shape recognized.

It, or he, was a thing like a man, who floated above the floor; with a horrible grimacing greenish face and pale flesh that was not flesh, that was visible in the darkness, and that was as fluid, and as unresting, and as transparent, as tidal water. (Continue Reading…)

The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

IV

I spent most of the day fidgeting in and out of my room. The general vagueness of my job in this Temple hadn’t bothered me much before—I had had plenty of even more aimless operations in my twenty years of sleuthing—but now that Dr. Riese had found something to worry about—even though it was probably a medical worry and out of my field—I began to get restless, uneasy, irritable.

Dr. Riese did not show up that evening as he had promised. I supposed that one of the emergencies that are a regular part of a doctor’s life had held him elsewhere, but his not coming annoyed me.

I sat in my room from half past six on, with my door open, looking at Gabrielle Leggett’s door. Mildred took a tray into the girl’s room at a few minutes past seven. When she brought me mine I asked her how Gabrielle Leggett seemed to be.

“She’s all right, I suppose. I don’t think there’s much the matter with her but showing off.”

“What was she doing?”

“Sitting at the window, looking out, posing, if you ask me. How is it you’re not going down to the dining-room tonight?”

“Tired of eating in the graveyard atmosphere.” (Continue Reading…)

The Hollow Temple (Part Two of The Dain Curse)

by Dashiel Hammett

I

Eric Collison came into my office. There was too much pink in his eyes and not any in his skin. He sat down and said:

“She can’t go. They can’t let her go. You’ve got to go with her.”

His voice, like his face, was dull and tired and hopeless and bewildered.

“Miss Leggett?” I asked, though I didn’t need to; and then: “How is she now?”

“You’ve killed her.” (Continue Reading…)

The Man With A Serpent In His System

written by Jane Marciano

He darted into the alleyway as the thud of heavy boots clomped straight on past him up the road. Jordan panted for breath, chest heaving, eyes bulging. Only as his breathing returned to normal did he realize that he was still clutching the old woman’s bag. Collecting his wits, Jordan felt inside for the purse and chucked the bag over his shoulder into the road behind him.

Only sixty quid! It hadn’t really been worth the effort. It wasn’t compensation enough for the curses and clawing she’d given him before Jordan had finally knocked her down with a right that’d sent her head bouncing on the pavement. She’d lain there, bleeding and whimpering that if her husband had been alive, he’d have been sorted out. Huh! That was a laugh, he was a match for any man. Gingerly Jordan felt his torn cheek and his fingers came away bloody from the deep scratches. Bloody old hag! Still, he doubted the bitch’d last the night.

The footsteps were coming back his way at a gallop. The policeman must’ve realized the perp couldn’t have got that far so quickly and had retraced his steps. If Jordan was caught, he knew it would be a long, long stretch for him this time. (Continue Reading…)

What He Woke

by Jess Whitecroft

The Woke thing was out of control, in Caroline’s humble opinion.

Everything was woke. Lawyers were woke. The media was woke. Even Strictly was woke now, with same sex couples dancing together and all. Blue hair, almond milk, lattes, tofu, lifeboats, LGBTQ or however many letters they had in it these days – all dreadfully woke. The condemnation of tofu as a malign left-wing influence should have been a tip-off really, especially coming from the lips of the Home Secretary herself, but it was still a shock when Caroline discovered that even her breakfast was woke now.

“Avocado toast?” said Tom. “Really, Mummy? You’ll be growing out your armpit hair and buying a pair of Birkenstocks next.”

“Very funny, dear,” she said, and poured herself some tea. Tom had always been a clever boy, quick with a remark. It was just that now he was forty-five and a Member of Parliament, and somehow still under her feet.

This was largely the fault of Tom’s wife, who had yet to learn the role of a politician’s wife. Caroline knew it well, Tom’s father having been the MP before him. When your husband was caught being indiscreet with another woman you took it on the chin and accepted that men were like that. Similarly, when there were financial irregularities, you accepted that politicians were corrupt, and it was ever the same the world over. What you didn’t do was cause a big stink and kick your husband out of the house, especially when kicking him out would interfere with your mother-in-law’s ability to enjoy an avocado in peace. (Continue Reading…)

Bonesoup

By Eugenia Triantafyllou

In Greece, we have a saying: You must eat the body part you want to grow stronger. Or maybe that’s just something my grandmother used to say.

After partying with friends until the early hours, Katerina and I take a detour before we go home. The meat market in downtown Athens houses three restaurants and they all open at five in the morning for the workers who unload pounds of meat all night long. There, we sit at a small square table, a sheet of wax paper serving as tablecloth, and I eat tripe soup to cure my endless hangover. But especially my upset stomach. It’s not like the ones my grandmother makes; it lacks substance. But it’s good enough.

Katerina takes a look at my plate and scrunches her face.

“That’s disgusting,” she says. But soon enough she gives me one of her smirks, to show that she means well. Always soft, even when she wants to be mean.

I smile and let the warm, gelatinous broth slide down my throat.

“A stomach for a stomach.” (Continue Reading…)