The Coward Who Stole God’s Name

By John Wiswell

Who is the most beloved person alive? Is it one of those actors who plays superheroes? Is it a political leader? Maybe you’re a galaxy brain and say Beyoncé? No matter who you pick, you know you’re wrong. There’s always that better person who we love so unquestioningly that we forget they’re there. Sometimes, we forget why.

“Gavin Davenport?” I repeat into my phone. “You’re kidding me. He wants me?”

On the other end of the line, my editor York is practically squealing. “Apparently he reads your stuff. He mentioned The Redacted Man by name.”

I grab at my ribcage. Gavin Davenport read The Redacted Man? I’ve been reporting for twenty years but this is a chilling shock. I feel like I’m a teenager and my parents just found my browser history. The Redacted Man was so negative. I regret every phrase in it that could’ve been sharper.

I ask, “Is this a prank?”

York says, “I’ve checked with everyone. Davenport wants you to write about him. Sam, this is titanic. We’ve never done anything this big.”

My brain flails trying to contextualize the invitation. Years of absence broken—and by me? This is like being asked to write an extra chapter for the Bible. Nobody talks to Gavin Davenport. He’s barely let himself be photographed since the shootings.

I ask, “When do I go?”

“Today. You’ve got three hours.”

I grab for my keys. “Three hours?”

“Don’t be late. Remember the last person who disappointed him?” (Continue Reading…)

Chainsaw: As Is

By Gillian King-Cargile

All thirteen of us cousins and half-cousins and step-cousins were there that Memorial Day at my Grandma’s house when Dustin ripped into his leg with the chainsaw. This was in New Jersey. In the Pine Barrens. There were thousands—maybe hundreds of thousands—of trees to chainsaw. That’s why Grandma had the chainsaw in the first place. To push the Pine Barrens back. To keep away the trees and the things that hid in their needles. Things with wings and hair and hooves and scales and claws.

I was the oldest and the only girl in the mess of cousins, so I was supposed to be in charge. I was the one who lived the closest and helped Grandma the most—dusting her cobwebs, mowing her sandy lawn, turning the TV up louder and louder and louder so she could hear the Weather Channel and watch for nor’easters and hurricanes hurrying their way up the coast.

That day I was also make-shift mom to twelve boys, aged six to sixteen, who only saw each other all at once maybe once or twice a year. When they got together, they always wanted to do something big. Memorable. This year, they wanted to chainsaw down a tree or make a YouTube video about chain-sawing down a tree. I told them not to be stupid. I was the only one Grandma let use the chainsaw, and I was in charge, as the aunts and uncles said, because they didn’t want to deal with their monster kids while they drank beer and shooed flies away from deviled eggs and crab salad and burgers.

Dustin was the one who got the chainsaw out of the garage, off the work bench I’d left it out on like a dare. “I’ll show you how it’s done,” Dustin said. But he’d never touched the chainsaw before—never helped with yard work because of the ticks and the sunburn and the fact that he was only kind-of related to us because his dad married our aunt and he was only here on vacation. (Continue Reading…)

Wanted: Bone-White Skull-Patterned Lace Trim

by Kelsea Yu

The stroller on the side of the road caught Nina Wong’s eye as her Fiesta rounded the bend on her way to work. She slowed down, noting the FREE! sign taped to its handles. Free was about the only price she could afford right now, since Will had been gone a month, taking with him his half of the rent. Money was tight.

Especially with a baby on the way. (Continue Reading…)

All the Ways to Hollow Out a Girl

by Gwendolyn Kiste

It’s almost noon on Friday when the neighborhood boys murder me again for the third time this week.

They do it with their hands today, bulging knuckles blanching white, their sweaty fingers wrapped tight around my throat. The three of them circle over me, grinning and guffawing, like this is a fraternity hazing and not my life at stake.

We’re in a field out behind the high school where we’ll all start ninth grade in a few months, provided I live long enough to see it. Crushed beneath their weight, I kick and scratch, desperate for this time to turn out differently. Then all at once, the world fades to a dusty gray, a familiar numbness coming over me, and that’s when I know I’ve died.

I’ve never asked the boys—and I doubt they’d tell me—how long I stay dead, but judging from the fact that the sun never dips too far across the sky while I’m gone, I’d say it’s no more than a few minutes. From my end, it feels like only an instant, the same as waking from a long night’s sleep, when it’s as if no time at all has passed since you closed your eyes.

The boys come back into focus, hazy at first, their bodies still lingering over me. I hate that they get to watch me while I’m away. The thought of them pushing nearer, crowding around the husk of me. How they get to be with me, even when I’m not here.

“How are you feeling?” one of them asks and helps me to my feet, as though he honestly believes he’s a gentleman. The question, of course, isn’t for my benefit. These boys are genuinely curious what happens to me, where I go, what it’s like. That’s part of the fun for them, though let’s face it: most of their fun comes from the killing.

I don’t answer them. Instead, I inch away, one small step at a time. While I can think of a few things they do deserve, an explanation isn’t one of them. Besides, I have to be quick and get out of here, or else they might try to do it again.

“See you tomorrow,” they call after me, snickering, and I wish I could cut their tongues from their mouths, so I never have to hear them laugh at me again. (Continue Reading…)

The Curious Case Of Susan Styles

Catherine Lord

“Susan Styles,” the name is not a romantic one, and yet it is associated in my mind with a curious series of incidents, which, were I a member of the Psychical (or ghost investigating) Society1 I might have brought under the notice of that body.

I first heard of Susan Styles some two years ago. (Continue Reading…)

Swing Batter Batter

by Richard Dansky

A baseball clubhouse is a weird place. You’ve got California prep school kids rubbing elbows with good old boys from Texas and Louisiana, and guys from the Dominican and Venezuela mixing with guys who grew up in the inner city and still found their way to baseball. Nothing in common, and yet, all sharing a love of the game. Most of us, anyway – every so often you run into a guy who’s just playing for the paycheck, but the truth is that baseball’s a beautiful game, and it’s fun. You want to be out there in the field. You want to get up to the plate and take your hacks. You want to play. (Continue Reading…)