Love Like Thunder

by Jim Bihyeh

After he pitched his nylon tent in a nearby juniper grove at the base of the hill, he slept until moonrise. Then, under the pale light, he unfolded his steel trench-shovel and walked uphill toward the cemetery, looking for love.

Three fresh granite tombstones glinted with new sand mounded before them; the last resting place for three of the Ganado students killed that week. Dondo noted them as he searched for older love. Deeper love.

He found it at a medium-sized granite tombstone next to a clump of rabbit brush. The name read: “Elinore Tsosie,” born April 19 1933, died November 18, 2004. 71 years old. Perfect.

Dondo squatted over his haunches beside the grave, holding his hands over the sandy earth like he was warming himself beside a campfire. He pinched sand from the base of the tombstone, tasted it, then spat to the north. Here was love. He dug.

The Copse

by Robert Mammone

A woman carrying a tray of drinks emerged from the kitchen. She was tall and spare and the loose clothing she wore only accentuated the impression. Sarah noted with alarm the condition of her hands, all knobbed joints and cracked skin. Setting the tray down, the woman looked at each of them, her head bobbing birdlike on a thin neck.

“This is my wife, Margaret,” Standish vaguely waved a hand in her direction. Sarah thought her eyes distant. Sarah extended a hand and Margaret responded. The woman’s hand was rough, like bark. The grip was limp, and Sarah was glad to let it drop. Margaret’s lips parted in a blank smile, revealing a set of large, blunt teeth stained a remarkable shade of brown.

“Would you like a drink?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Linda’s Appointment

by M.C. Norris

Passing the hall, he heard a sigh emanate through their locked bedroom door. That was a good sign. It was an indication Linda was still breathing, at least, and probably still able to speak. The morning after an appointment, she was always so sore, so exhausted. Often, she’d sleep well into the afternoon. Sighs, coughs, little Linda-noises, they were the beacons that guided Lewis through a haze of uncertainty that filled those hours before she’d allow him to view the balance of her attributes.

Linda’s appointments were just part of the deal. She’d made that clear before they ever tied the knot. “They’ll come for me,” she’d told him, “from time to time.”

I Am Your Need

by Mort Castle

Read by Sarah Tolbert and Ben Phillips

Marilyn Monroe lies naked and dying.

You can see it there, at that spot on her forehead where electrolysis permanently removed her widow’s peak. Just beneath the skin’s surface, a blue black flower grows.

It is Death.

There is the promise of finality in her every tentative breath, the sporadic sighings, the intimation of ending.

Marilyn Monroe is dying.

I am her death.

Suicide Notes, Written by an Alien Mind

by Ferrett Steinmetz

He had been trained, as all of us had, to assemble his rifle by touch – but to our dismay, we discovered that Private Sperling could do it in near-silence. He pushed the parts together with delicate care underneath the stiff, thin sheets of his bunk bed, the click of pins and bolts so muffled that none of us heard a thing in the cramped confines of our modular shelter.

In our defense, we were doped up on Lithium. But even if we hadn’t caught the faint scratching of the cleaning brush, plunging in and out of the bore like an obscene masturbation, we should have heard him crying. Afterward, Sperling’s bed was a smear of stains – grease on the sheets, tears on his pillows, blood on just about everything else.

We didn’t know the Decharai had made contact with him.

Fourth Person Singular

by Dale L. Sproule

Every night since I was seven years old he’s swooped down at me out of the darkness of sleep: a pale, skeletal boy with thin arms thrust out like wings, eyes like white domes in black craters, mouth open as he screams acceleration.

His name is Wren.

Got Milk?

by John Alfred Taylor

“Now paint in little white eye sockets.” Colin told Briony. “And teeth at the bottom.” He’d already had her draw India-ink crossbones under the big black mole.

“You’re sure this won’t piss-off your dermatologist?” Briony asked, squinting in concentration as she bent to her task at his left side.

“Not Doc Schulmann. He likes his laughs. Should have heard him joking when he snipped off the tags in my armpit.”

(Colin hoped he and the Doctor would still be laughing two hours from now, but wasn’t going to bother Briony with gloomy possibilities. At least his mole had smooth edges and was still all one color.)