Oneirophobia

By Todd Keisling

The fluorescent lights here in the basement of St. Joseph’s are noisy by design. You wouldn’t think it of lights, the kind of noise they put off, but the ones down here have a hum that digs into your ears like a gnat. You don’t think you hear them, but you do, and now that I’ve told you about them, all you’re going to hear for the next hour is that lifeless drone.

Mmmmmm.

That’s the sound of this room. It’s the sound buzzing away in the background of the world, an involuntary reaction to existence that goes on and on in its tiring way, leeching time from you, stealing life. For many, the noise is the sound of bureaucracy, consumerism, corporate toil; but down here, one floor away from all those Hail Marys, it’s the sound of consciousness. The dull buzz of being awake.

Like I said: by design. The folks who come down here to our little meetings twice a week do so with the expectation of avoiding sleep. It’s why you won’t find any cots, quilts, or pillows left over from when this place was used as a shelter. It’s why all we have are these rusty metal chairs that squeak when you unfold them and a couple of card tables near the entrance for carafes of coffee and other goodies.

Anyway, hello. Come on in. Help yourself to some refreshments. The coffee is good and strong. No decaf here. There may even be a few pastries left if you’re lucky. I hope you’re not diabetic or have a heart condition. Nothing but sugar and caffeine on that table, believe me. Oh, and the theater masks. I’ll get to them in a minute. (Continue Reading…)

The Sound of a Jackknife

by K. Bosgra

I only took the Tremaine gig because of Shepherd’s recommendation.

“This one won’t pay much,” Shepherd admitted over the phone. People chattered in the background along with an indistinct electronic beat. “But Tremaine’s someone you’ll want to know in a couple of years.”

In the film industry, everyone believed that they knew someone on the cusp of greatness, and most people thought that someone was themselves. I’d usually acknowledge those remarks with a polite nod and move on. However, Shepherd’s phone was full of Academy Award winners who he’d spotted years before they got their little golden idol, so I copied down Tremaine’s contact info.

“He’s not the usual auteur piece of shit.” Shepherd raised his voice over the party. “Even though he looks like he was sent over by Central Casting.”

So I took the meeting. Anthony Ivan Tremaine entered my workshop wearing a black turtleneck sweater, faux leather pants, and gold-rimmed spectacles. Even at eleven-thirty on a Tuesday, he looked like a glossy headshot brought to life. Compared to him, I felt trashy in my faded t-shirt. I expected Tremaine to speak with the affected accent of an American who spent a few too many weeks in Europe, but he actually seemed to be trying on a little Joe Pesci to see how it fit. “You the guy?”

“I’m the guy.”

(Continue Reading…)

In Haskins

by Carson Winter

Everyone, both the young and the old, went about their lives as usual on the day of the Mask Festival. The downtown streets were covered with colored leaves and Mr. Burkett still waved at children and swept in front of his storefront. Mrs. Farley still clucked to Mrs. Durant on how the new teachers at the old school would not and could not teach their children anything. And the policemen still ate lunch at the Morrison Deli on Main. Normality ruled with benevolent routine. But still, as the leaves fell, and the stage was erected, the people of Haskins braced quietly for their most insistent tradition.

At the fairgrounds, Jennifer arrived early to help set the stage. Her eye sockets hung loose and rubbery around her blue eyes. She was the first Jennifer to have blue eyes. The mane on top of her head was coarse and tawny. Flies buzzed in her stomach and she was thankful she was Jennifer because Jennifer always had to stay busy. Cindy was already there, cross-legged and cutting orange leaves out of construction paper, looking prim and sweet in her blue dress.

She nodded to Cindy as she found a pair of scissors. When Cindy did not return the movement, Jennifer decided that her eyelets must be misaligned. (Continue Reading…)

Controlling Your Weeds

By Rachael K. Jones

I always mow it twice a week during peak season. Some might consider that excessive, but if you want to keep a lawn happy, you’ve got to put in the work. That starts with regular mowing. The ideal height is three inches in spring and two inches in fall, which protects against pest incursion and cuts down on the amount of watering needed. Now that’s a little longer than your average grass this far South, but here we grow something a little more unusual than your average Kentucky bluegrass or bermudagrass. A twice-a-week schedule helps me stay on top of my lawn’s needs. Plus it gives me an excuse to patrol the yard for weeds.

People have strong opinions on lawn mowers–gas versus electric, push versus riding. I’m of the opinion that any mower will work, as long as the grass gets cut. My granddaughter likes the riding mower at her elementary school, but gas mowers are loud. Hear that roar? Hush now and listen, Aiden. It’s distant now, but you can feel it in your jawbone, like an approaching bomber on a cloudy day.

Now we get to the important part: you’ve got to stay on top of weeds. They creep in from outside the yard, carried by wind and birds and those nasty little brats who think it’s funny to jump my fence when they lose a soccer ball. One of these days, they’re going to find more than just their soccer balls waiting for them in my yard, and then they’ll wish they’d learned the respect their parents neglected to teach them.

Hey now, Aiden. That kind of language is uncalled for. I’m not being unreasonable. A man has a right to defend his property. Especially from weeds. (Continue Reading…)

Cheating Death

by Henry Herz

I didn’t join in as my surviving family members conversed over dinner. Usually, the aroma of hearty pork and cabbage bigos stirred my appetite, but today it reminded me of the past, knotting my stomach. I winced—the clinking of utensils on plates like needles jabbing my brain.

Father gently pulled me aside. “What is wrong, my little Marya?” But he knew.

My sigh almost became a sob. “It’s been years, but I still miss them in the worst way, Tato.”

“Me too, Marya.”

Since the passing of my Roman Catholic mother, my father, a brilliant math and physics teacher, no longer suppressed his religious skepticism. By the age of fifteen, I too had lost faith in a deity who’d allowed disease to rip apart a loving family.

Science became my religion, defeating disease my Holy Grail. I vowed I’d wield science to cheat Death itself . . . for I still believed in it.

Father wrapped a strong, comforting arm around my shoulders and led me into the study. Boxes of laboratory equipment cluttered the room.

“What’s all this, Tato?”

He scowled. “My Russian supervisor barged into my lab at school and ordered me to shut it down. Sadly, we have no space to set up a lab here.”

My heart leaped. “Even so, will you teach me how to use the equipment?” It was a rhetorical question, for Father loved nothing more than encouraging his children to learn.

He smiled. “Yes, of course, Marya. Now help me carry these boxes to the shed out back.”

I did not receive a typical education, but then again, I was not a typical girl. Gradually under Father’s guidance, I gained familiarity with the equipment, supplementing my foundation in theoretical science. I filled a notebook with calculations and equations in my ungodly crusade to fight disease and repel Death. But I had no way to conduct experiments . . . yet. (Continue Reading…)

Sea Curse

By Robert E. Howard

And some return by the failing light
And some in the waking dream.
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roofbeam.
—Kipling

THEY were the brawlers and braggarts, the loud boasters and hard drinkers, of Faring town, John Kulrek and his crony Lie-lip Canool. Many a time have I, a tousle-haired lad, stolen to the tavern door to listen to their curses, their profane arguments and wild sea songs; half fearful and half in admiration of these wild rovers. Aye, all the people of Faring town gazed on them with fear and admiration, for they were not like the rest of the Faring men; they were not content to ply their trade along the coasts and among the shark-teeth shoals. No yawls, no skiffs for them! They fared far, farther than any other man in the village, for they shipped on the great sailing-ships that went out on the white tides to brave the restless grey ocean and make ports in strange lands.

Ah, I mind it was swift times in the little sea-coast village of Faring when John Kulrek came home, with the furtive Lie-lip at his side, swaggering down the gang-plank, in his tarry sea-clothes, and the broad leather belt that held his ever-ready dagger; shouting condescending greeting to some favored acquaintance, kissing some maiden who ventured too near; then up the street, roaring some scarcely decent song of the sea. How the cringers and the idlers, the hangers-on, would swarm about the two desperate heroes, flattering and smirking, guffawing hilariously at each nasty jest. For to the tavern loafers and to some of the weaker among the straightforward villagers, these men with their wild talk and their brutal deeds, their tales of the Seven Seas and the far countries, these men, I say, were valiant knights, nature’s noblemen who dared to be men of blood and brawn.

And all feared them, so that when a man was beaten or a woman insulted, the villagers muttered—and did nothing. And so when Moll Farrell’s niece was put to shame by John Kulrek, none dared even to put into words what all thought. Moll had never married, and she and the girl lived alone in a little hut down close to the beach, so close that in high tide the waves came almost to the door.

The people of the village accounted old Moll something of a witch, and she was a grim, gaunt old dame who had little to say to anyone. But she minded her own business, and eked out a slim living by gathering clams, and picking up bits of driftwood. (Continue Reading…)

The Yearning of the All-Devouring Earth

by Marianne Kirby

It’s always when we find a moment of peace that the universe remembers we exist—or maybe it’s less that the universe remembers, and more that it feels bored in our general vicinity and has to do something about that.

The local middle school flooded over the summer. The afternoon rain we expected regular as clockwork arrived and didn’t stop for what must have been two or two and a half weeks before the clouds disappeared completely. Then, on the first day back to school, a sinkhole opened up in the parking lot. It looked like someone had come along with a giant ice cream scoop and dipped out a portion of the asphalt and the dirt underneath it and the limestone underneath that, leaving the edges clean and sharp.

Everyone in town went to look at the sinkhole, to peer into the deep pit. I gazed down into the shadowy basin and I heard that man whispering to me, warning me. (Continue Reading…)