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…)

Heavy Rain

by TJ Price

I’m standing in the doorway where you last stood before you got up on a chair, slipped the belt around your throat like a necktie, and kicked the chair out from under you.

I imagine for the hundredth time how you expired, gasping like a fish in the air. Shitting yourself. Pissing yourself. Twisting like a windchime in a gale.

Two months have passed, and I still cannot entirely scrub the stains from the floor. (Continue Reading…)

Spirit Husband

By Uchechukwu Nwaka

Don’t collect gifts from strangers.

Don’t pick up money on the streets.

Don’t take food in your dream.

The spicy fried exterior of the akara melts over my tongue, and the soft baked beans within seep into my taste buds. The flavour ripples into my teeth and tickles my ears and waters my nose. I stuff my mouth full with three buns before the particles go the wrong way and the coughing begins. The pepper enters my eyes and I rub at them with the heel of my hand.

My eyes scan the wooden table. It’s no bigger than the desks in the orphanage’s classroom where we learned arithmetic and English. A silk tablecloth is draped over its surface, laden with a large ornamental bowl filled with aromatic akara. To my left, a loaf of bread sits on a flat plate, radiating waves of warm goodness. To my right, the steam from a bowl of pap condenses over its transparent cover. There’s a tin of Peak milk and Milo beside it, alongside a large unopened sachet of Dangote sugar.

A jug of kunu occupies the opposite end of the table. I’m not interested in that one right now. It’s the clear pitcher of water that I need.

It’s too far, yet when I reach for it, the distance shrinks and my fingers close around the handle. I drain the water without even a cup, and there’s a soothing calm as the water rolls down my throat.

Do I know that this is a dream already? Yes. Do I keep eating?

Yes. (Continue Reading…)

The Vengeance Of Nitocris

by Tennessee Williams

Hushed were the streets of many-peopled Thebes. Those few who passed through them moved with the shadowy fleetness of bats near dawn, and bent their faces from the sky as if fearful of seeing what in their fancies might be hovering there. Weird, high-noted incantations of a wailing sound were audible through the barred doors. On corners groups of naked and bleeding priests cast themselves repeatedly and with loud cries upon the rough stones of the walks. Even dogs and cats and oxen seemed impressed by some strange menace and foreboding and cowered and slunk dejectedly. All Thebes was in dread. And indeed there was cause for their dread and for their wails of lamentation. A terrible sacrilege had been committed. In all the annals of Egypt none more monstrous was recorded.

Five days had the altar fires of the god of gods, Osiris, been left unburning. Even for one moment to allow darkness upon the altars of the god was considered by the priests to be a great offense against him. Whole years of famine had been known to result from such an offense. But now the altar fires had been deliberately extinguished, and left extinguished for five days. It was an unspeakable sacrilege. (Continue Reading…)