The King in Yella

Kaaron Warren

I’m always returning to Rapptown in my thoughts. Unbidden, unwanted, I’m taken back there. A hint of yellow. The smell of smoke. These things blind me to the present. I haven’t lived there for sixteen years, since I was seven, and mostly what I remember is dreamlike and unreal. That’s what kid memories are like, right? Blurry and odd, not making much sense.

Sometimes I’m transported by these subtle things and other times the method is more concrete. The arrival of the brooch was as concrete as they come. Accompanied by a note from my mother (sorry, was supposed to be for your 21st but forgot! I am a dopey drawers. love mum.), such note stained with what I hoped was red wine and perhaps suntan lotion, envelope postmarked Brisbane.

I remembered this brooch, although no one I knew ever wore it. It sat on my father’s dressing table in a purple velvet box, and every now and then I would sneak in to spy on it, touch it. I thought then it must be worth a million dollars or more, because it was made of a dull, yellow metal that must be gold. My father said the King in Yella gave it to him and I remember the look on his face; of reverence and of fear at the same time. When my father died and we left Rapptown, it must have been packed away; only my mother could answer to that. (Continue Reading…)

Resilience

by Christi Nogle

Jason gets home while I’m at the sink. He comes up behind me, holds me around the waist, and tickles the side of my face with his soft new beard. We watch the young squirrels shake a tree branch, listen to them chatter through the open window. They zoom across the front yard and across the street.

“How was it with Dr. Emory?” asks Jason. He already realizes his slip. “Watson, sorry.”

“Watson-Newcamp, actually. She’s wonderful, just as promised,” I say.

As soon as I say it, I wonder if I mean it. The new doctor, just thirty or thirty-five, struck me as someone I might do yoga or lunch with, but she spoke just as slowly and gently as Dr. Emory. Her round eyes were so dark you almost couldn’t make out the pupils.

“I’m glad he left you in good hands,” says Jason. I think he might stay and talk, but he has chores too. He takes the garbage and recycling bins out the back door, then our son Simon comes rumbling down the stairs. That’s all I see of either of them until dinner.

Simon’s ten now, but he still doesn’t know about my past, so we don’t speak about the new doctor over dinner or while we wind down in the living room. I’m thinking of her, though. When she asked what I’d like to talk about, I assumed that she wanted to hear my story, though doubtless she already knew a lot. When I was six, I was the sole survivor of an attack that left my entire immediate family dead. Watson-Newcamp didn’t let on that she knew anything in particular. She just let me speak. (Continue Reading…)

“Billy’s Garage”

by Richard Dansky

Billy was a weird kid.

I don’t mean he was weird in the sense that he liked roleplaying games or heavy metal or anything like that. He wasn’t really into that anyway, and the kids who were, well, they were only nerds of one stripe or another.

Instead, he was just kind of creepy. When you talked to him, you got the feeling he was focusing on a point about an inch inside your skull instead of making eye contact. He talked about weird stuff, too, if you could get him to talk, which wasn’t often. Mostly he kept to himself, and mostly the rest of us liked it that way.

But I drew Billy as a lab partner in biology, which meant that he and I had to talk on a regular basis, and I guess that got him thinking we were friends. We weren’t, but I at least tolerated his conversation, which made me closer to him than anyone else.

One day we were supposed to dissect frogs. A bunch of kids in the class begged off, claiming it was against their religion or something when really they were just afraid it was going to be gross. But not Billy. He was totally into it, at least until the dried-out frog carcass we were supposed to take apart landed in front of us.

“Shit,” he said.

“Watch the language in front of Mrs. Stamper,” I said. “She’ll send you to detention.”

“Oops,” he said, and then “Thanks.” He prodded the frog with the scalpel we had been provided with. The frog, being long dead, did not react.

“It’s a shame,” he said. “All these frogs have been dead for ages. They’re dried out. Their ghosts are gone.” (Continue Reading…)

The Lodger

by Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes

“THERE he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Mr. Bunting’s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

“I can’t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week’s fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.

“Well, it’s none of your business—now, is it?”

“No; that’s true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet—”stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till to-morrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again——” (Continue Reading…)

The Lodger

by Marie Adelaide Belloc Lowndes

“THERE he is at last, and I’m glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain’t a night you would wish a dog to be out in.”

Mr. Bunting’s voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long, and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.

“You needn’t feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is known as a useful maid.

“I can’t think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week’s fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.

“Well, it’s none of your business—now, is it?”

“No; that’s true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger’s the first bit of luck we’ve had for a very long time.”

Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger’s quick, singularly quiet—”stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.

“It isn’t safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won’t wait till to-morrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife’s narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd’s yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again——” (Continue Reading…)

A Box of Hair and Nail

By Geneve Flynn

Little Sister clipped the last nail from Big Sister’s slender toe and carefully placed it in the carved rubberwood box. She made sure she had twenty clippings and, although her club foot made it difficult to crouch, she checked that every piece of hair she had trimmed from her sister’s head was accounted for.

Big Sister snorted, not unkindly. “You don’t still believe that old tale, do you?” She examined her reflection in the pocked mirror on her bedroom wall. Even with the window open, both sisters were covered with a sheen of sweat: at least, Little Sister perspired; Big Sister glowed. “Bapa was only trying to scare you into behaving.” The young women shared a sorrowful glance. Their mother had passed six years ago from tuberculosis. Last month, their father had been killed in a logging accident in Sabah. Another piece of their shrinking family gone.

“No, it’s true,” Little Sister said, pushing the ache in her chest away. “If a man steals your hair and nail clippings, he can take it to the bomoh and have him cast a spell on you. Then you’ll be under the man’s control. You’ll have to be his wife forever.”

“I will be no one’s wife,” Big Sister said with a sniff. “I don’t care what magic the shaman does.” She shrugged out of her slip and pulled on the brightly coloured top and skirt of her kebaya. It was much more form fitting than their father would have allowed. She swept her thick, glossy hair up into a bun and applied a slick of lipstick. She grinned and headed for the door. “My life is going to be only kissing and fun.”

Little Sister watched as Big Sister walked along the path that led to the village, her hips swaying with each step. Any number of suitors would be awaiting her presence at the dance. Little Sister never went; no one could see past her deformity. She only ever left the house to visit the wet market or to buy fruit and vegetables.

As Big Sister rounded the bend and disappeared from view, the bushes behind her parted. Little Sister stared, breath held. There had been wild boars in the area lately. They could be dangerous if meddled with.

A thick-set, bow-legged man emerged.

The bomoh.

Little Sister frowned. Had she summoned him with her talk of love magic? What if he had overheard Big Sister’s disparaging words? She watched as he crept after her. Prickling cold ran down Little Sister’s spine. Even from her position at the window, she could see the avarice on his face. (Continue Reading…)