The Switch (Suspense)

Ralph Mannings (United Kingdom)

Summary:
A young jeweler attempts to outsmart a con artist, with unexpected results.

I imagine most girls visualise their engagement ring as something special and, as Jane and I were going to announce our ‘secret’ on Christmas day, finding that special ring was becoming a matter of urgency. We’d tried several local Jewellers but nothing seemed right but then she saw the 2.5 carat diamond winking at her from the velvet ring pad in our window.

‘Oh Tom,’ she said softly, ‘isn’t it beautiful?’

When she turned to look at me, Jane didn’t have to tell me that nothing else would make her happy. I wanted her to be happy.

I had to agree that the ring was something special but at £1000 it was about a year’s salary so even with staff discount there was no way I could afford it. Blundell’s, is a county class jeweller, thick carpets, discrete lighting, hushed voices and high priced merchandise. Being the manager I was well known in the business and I suppose the social standing that gave me is the reason I stayed there.

It certainly wasn’t because I liked Blundell, I loathed the old goat, and he felt the same way about me.

It didn’t start out that way, of course. It was the gradual realisation of how mean spirited he was that soured our relationship, so we now had an arm’s length arrangement…he did the office work, I ran the shop, because I had the greater knowledge of gemstones. There were many less expensive gems that closely resembled the diamond but to me, the equally beautiful zircon, was the nearest and a damned sight closer to what I could afford but it had to be identical to the one she’d set her heart on. So I made detailed drawings and took them to a ‘jobbing’ jeweller I knew to have it made with an 18 carat gold shank and coronet platinum setting. I then waited an agonising three weeks for the finished product. But when I compared the result with the original it was a perfect replica and I couldn’t wait to see it on Jane’s finger.

I remember that late December morning quite clearly. The ring was comfortably warm in my jacket pocket and the grandfather clock had just gonged its midday message. Most of the staff were busy with customers and old Blundell was tucked away in his office.
I was facing the door when he entered the shop and something about him was vaguely familiar, but a name escaped me and that was puzzling because I could put a name to all our regular customers.

I learned long ago that greeting a customer by name was a sale halfway made so I made point of memorising names, but… Big smile. ‘Good morning, sir, can I help you?’

Hooded eyes under thick eyebrows regarded me silently for a few moments and I had the impression he was expecting a further response from me, but then… ‘My wife’s seen a single stone diamond ring in your window that she likes,’ he said, ‘priced at £1000…Let me see it.’

The rumpled overcoat didn’t excite much enthusiasm at the prospect making a sale but I ushered him to a small private cubicle we kept for expensive transactions. When I brought the ring I set it under the powerful angle lamp so that refracted light sent shimmering splinters of colour. He plucked the ring from its slot and studied it closely.

‘It’s almost flawless,’ I said, ‘and that’s rare, see for yourself.’ I offered him my magnified eyepiece,’ adding, ‘It’s a blue white from South Africa.’

He finished his intense study and removed the eyepiece. ‘I’ll take it.

‘A quick decision which was most unusual for a high priced item so it surprised me but…?

‘I’m sure your wife will love it’, I said, ‘Christmas present is it?’

‘Anniversary,’ he said, levering a dog eared cheque book from his coat pocket, adding. ‘You’ll take a cheque of course.’

Still sceptical, I said. ‘Is it local, sir?’

With a hint of annoyance, he said. ‘You always take a Hurrells’ cheque, son.’

So that’s what I’d found puzzling. He was good, bloody good. But in spite of the close resemblance I knew he wasn’t Hurrell because I’d delivered a gold watch to the works a month ago and saw him make the staff presentation. The company itself was a well known customer at Blundells but we rarely saw Hurrell in person. The resemblance was good enough, but Blundell might recognise a fake signature so would it pass, I wondered. But then it had to for the fraud to work. I had to admire the man’s confidence and I wanted to see how it would pan out. It was an interesting diversion from the normal routine and knowing that I could call a halt to the scheme at any time I was beginning to enjoy it, so I played along.

‘Just a formality, of course, Mr Hurrell but I’ll have to get Mr Blundell’s OK.’ It didn’t seem to bother him so just for the hell of it I said, ‘would you like to have a word with him?

A weathered hand waived a negative. ‘God, no,’ he growled.

Blundell’s reaction was as expected. I stood silently while pale blue eyes scanned the writing and a veined hand stroked the grey mane, permitting myself a superior smile when the thin lips pursed in surprise.

‘He’s here in person,’ I said.

‘He frowned his annoyance. ‘God, Sealey, why didn’t you say so, I’d better have a word with him.’

He was almost at the door when I said ‘Mr Hurrell’s in a hurry to get away. All, I need is your say so on the cheque.’

Typically, there was no word of praise on securing the sale and it annoyed me.

He was still stroking his wavy grey hair. ‘Will you accept the cheque?

‘He thrust his face in mine. ‘Since when, Sealey, ‘ he fumed, ‘don’t we accept a cheque from Hurrell’s?’

My intense dislike for him almost erupted but I choked it down and stormed off leaving him clutching the cheque. What occurred to me on the way back made my head spin. But, Christ, the situation was perfect. There would never be another opportunity like this but the consequences, if things went wrong, were unnerving. On the other hand, what could go wrong? In my pocket I had a perfect replica. I smiled into the hooded eyes of Mr. Hurrell, surprised that I was almost calm now that I was committed to playing the man at his own game.

‘Mr. Blundell sends his compliments, Mr. Hurrell,’ I said. ‘And the cheque is fine, of course.’

My hands were busy with the ring as I spoke. I permitted him a brief glance at the flashing stone under the lamp, then snapped the case shut. I wrapped it quickly and passed it to him with his receipt and a hand that trembled only slightly.

The package vanished into the capacious pocket of the rumpled overcoat. I held the door open and wished him a merry Christmas with a goodbye smile. The hooded eyes regarded me intently for several heart stopping seconds then he gave an odd grin before ambling out with a grunted, ‘Same to you.’

I stood there watching his retreating bulk with the diamond comfortably warm in my pocket; smugly confident that I’d seen the last of Mr. ‘Hurrell’. With all his iron nerve, he would hardly complain that he’d been cheated, even supposing he ever discovered the switch.

A single musical gong from the long case clock told me that it was lunch time. I waived to attract Sandra, who was busy with an overly large female, pointed to my watch and mouthed ‘lunch.’ I walked out into the watery December sunshine. Lunch that day was splendidly different to the usual coffee and roll and I took my time savouring every expensive mouthful. 1962 was going to be a good year for Jane and me.

I strolled back to the shop arriving at a well timed two o’clock but, as I entered, the atmosphere gave me a prickly feeling that something wasn’t right. Sandra wiggled her tight skirt toward me and clutched my arm excitedly.

‘Mr. Blundell’s going frantic,’ she squeaked. ‘You’re to go to his office as soon as you come in,’ She paused for breath then added, ‘and there’s two men with him, anything up?

‘I shrugged, ‘how should I know.’

The words squeezed out of a tight throat and lunch churned ominously. My initial thought was they couldn’t possibly be aware of the deception, but…?

With legs increasingly reluctant to support me I made my way to the office where my hand raised itself twice before, dry mouthed, I knocked on the door, which was quickly opened on a burly frame, and a meaty hand beckoned me inside. Of the two men that Sandra mentioned one was ‘Hurrell,’ seated coolly at the desk, the other obviously police. How the hell could they know?

With my heart skipping about in my chest I managed a croaking. ‘You wanted to see me?’

Face white and twitching Blundell stood up and yelled, ‘Of course I do, you bloody thief, I want the ring you stole’ His fist thumping the desk.

With feigned bewilderment I stammered. ‘I’m sorry, what’s this about…what ring…I mean…’

The burly frame faced me woodenly. ‘Turn out your pockets, son.’

‘What?’

‘Turn out your pockets, don’t make me ask you again.’

There was no way I could wriggle out of trouble now so I pulled out the ring and tossed it angrily on the desk. ‘There’s your bloody ring.’

I glared balefully at ‘Hurrell’ who prised himself out of the chair with a heavy sigh. He picked up the ring, examined it closely, then turned to where a pale faced Blundell was making love to his hair.

‘Mine, I think.’

Blundell made strangled sounds of agreement.

‘I’ll be on my way then, good day to you.’

He faced me on the way out, put a hand on my shoulder, and quietly said. ‘You looked so nervous I had to get it valued, but it was a nice try.’

His hand slipped down from my shoulder and patted me on the chest then he winked and was gone, leaving me with tangled thoughts of a very uncertain future. I turned to face Blundell who was on his feet again, mouth open but before he could speak I said, quite calm now. ‘Sod off, you miserable old bugger.’

His face was a study of disbelief at the grin on my face as the detective led me away and, despite the looming prospect of a prison sentence, I was still smiling as they booked me in at the station. I hadn’t forgotten, but for some reason, perhaps an element of admiration for ‘Hurrell,’ or maybe out of pure vindictiveness, I hadn’t mentioned the forged cheque and I would have given much to see the expression on Blundell’s face when it bounced.

When they searched my clothes we found the Zircon ring in the top jacket pocket with a short note which read. ‘Thanks, and if you’d like to join the game, get in touch…followed by a telephone number.

Six months later, with Jane wearing her ring, I made the call…!

---

The Croft Ruins somewhere between Aviemore and Kingussie

Keira Smith (U.S.)

My broken stone outlines stretch out into unkempt grass,
(An imprint of what once was)
Into the soft ground.
I am weighed by time and measured by grief.
I am nestled in the bosom of overgrown trees and ancient hills.
Kept safe like a secret,
Hidden as a scar you’re not proud of,
Yet I am many in my grey marrings on green and purple canvas.
I hold the traipsing of rubber-clad feet in and out of my chest cavity.
(How long my hearth has been cold)
They clamber over my carcass.
The bright colours of raincoats and welly-boots
Contrast with the dullness of my being.
Sometimes the soft patter of paws,
A child’s laughter
Or a familiar gait step across my threshold.
If water could be pulled from stone, I’d weep.
My granite flesh scorched black by flames long burnt out,
Or ripped apart by hands and tools.
(No one remembers anymore)
My bones melting into the land with moss,
Worn smooth by wind and weather of –
How many years?
(No one remembers anymore)
I was a home once.
I’m little more than a pile of stones now.
A marker, a gravestone, to the families who fled from these hills
Never to return, to build me back anew.

---

Look Who’s Stalking (Humor)

Iain Moss (Malaysia)

As Mike entered the small park, he could see Sally sitting on one end of a park bench reading a book with a small handbag by her side.
He sidled up self-consciously and sat at the other end of the bench.
“I was just wondering…” he said.
“I have a knife,” Sally said almost at the same time.
“I’m sorry?”
“I, um, have a knife.”
Mike looked at her bag.
“It must be a very small knife. The blade can’t be more than a few inches long. Is it a Swiss Army knife?”
“Who do you think you are?” Sally asked angrily. “Airport security?”
“I suppose if it were a Swiss Army Knife,” Mike continued unabashed, “you could always gouge out my eyes with that thing for getting stones out of horses’ hooves. Or slash my wrists with the little bone toothpick.”
“Now you’re just taking the piss.”
“It’s interesting though, isn’t it,” Mike ploughed on, “that whoever invented the Swiss Army Knife obviously felt the two biggest challenges the Swiss Army were likely to face would be lame horses and oral hygiene. Did you know Swiss Army knives…?
“It is not a bloody Swiss Army knife all right,” Sally interrupted. Anyway, it doesn’t have to be in my bag. It could be strapped to my thigh.” She paused and then added quickly, “And not in a sexy way.”
“Be a bit uncomfortable, though. Especially when you cross your legs.”
Sally rounded on him in exasperation.
“What exactly do you want? I’ve seen you hanging around watching me. You’re a stalker.”
“I am not a stalker. I am just obsessed with you.
“Is there a difference?”
“Well, I am guessing stalkers get more exercise.”
“Look, what do you want from me?”
“I don’t know. I’m from out of town. You look nice, sympathetic. Someone to have fun with. I’d just like to get to know you. Maybe show you the bright lights of Diddlesbury.”
“What both of them?”
“I suppose it does leave a little to be desired on the bright lights front. I’ve always thought that the…”
“Will you please just go away and leave me alone.”
“Don’t be like that. You don’t even know me.”
“Ok. Tell me something fascinating about yourself then.”
Mike thought for a moment then said:
“Emily, I have a little confession to make. I really am a horse doctor but marry me and I’ll never look at another horse.”
Sally was shocked to hear a reference she recognised.
“That’s from ‘A Day at The Races’? Groucho Marx. I love the Marx Brothers.”
“You see. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Getting to know each other. Areas of common interest. I love the Marx Brothers too. My name’s Mike by the way.”
“I’m Sally. Damn. I didn’t mean to tell you my name.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sally.”
He reached across to shake hands but she retreated even further across the bench.
“And this, whatever this is, is not about anything at all,” she said. “This is you getting on my bloody nerves by following me like a demented spaniel. Why don’t you just clear off back to…back to…”
“Carchester. I’m from Carchester. That only has one bright light to be honest and even that hasn’t been replaced since the council cut its budgets but never mind. It always seems to be the case that…”
“Will you please just go away.”
“We could go to a bookshop. Neutral territory. Nice and safe. I know you like bookshops.”
“Yes, I do like…Bloody hell! Have you been following me to bookshops?”
Mike considered this.
“Not following exactly,” he said. “It’s more that I’ve just been in the same general vicinity on a number of occasions when you’ve been book shopping. How did you find “On Chesil Beach” by the way? So sad I thought yet so gripping.”
“I loved it!” said Sally enthusiastically, forgetting for a moment her outrage at being followed. “Poor Florence and ‘her secret affair between disgust and joy.’ Whatever happened to make her so repress…What am I doing? This is not a sodding book club!”
“You know it’s been translated into nine languages?” said Mike. “And twice into Chinese. You see in Taiwan…”
“I don’t care how many bloody languages it has been translated into,” Sally almost shouted. “You’ve been spying on me buying books!”
“Well again ‘spying’ is a bit strong. You know they made “On Chesil Beach” into a film. It’s on at the University film club this weekend. We could go and see it. Are you free on Saturday?” I know you work at the university. Your department is on the main campus next to the Observatory.”
“I suppose you’ve followed me there too.”
“Well not followed exactly. I also work there. In the Experimental Psychology Department. Over on the Riverside campus.”
“If you work at the University,” asked Sally, “why on earth are you bothering to stalk me? That place is full of young, nubile undergraduates willing to sleep with anyone at the drop of a hat, not to mention the drop of a pair of knickers. Most of them are positively gagging to notch up a member of the faculty.”
“Well nubile undergraduates are all very well but, at the end of the day, they’re just like burgers. A nice juicy treat once in a while but you can’t live on them. You soon start to crave something more satisfying.”
Sally laughed despite herself.
“Delicately put,” she said. “So, you see me as a kind of four course gourmet meal? With something nice for afters if you’re lucky?”
Mike was quiet for a moment.
“I see you as I first saw you at the Chancellor’s Garden Party,” he said wistfully. “You were wearing your yellow sun dress and your hair was down and sparkling in the sunshine and I thought you were the most beautiful girl I had ever set eyes on.”
Sally softened a little.
“Look, I’m sure you’re a nice guy really and… Actually, I’m not at all sure you are a nice guy really but let’s give you the benefit of the doubt. You might be a nice guy, but I have a boyfriend.”
“I don’t think you do. You live on your own with your two cats and you never seem to go out except to go to work and buy books.”
“That’s not true. I went to a party just last week.”
“That was your nephew’s birthday party. He was six.”
“You have to stop doing that! It’s really creepy.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve just become a research fellow at the university. I’m not creepy. I’m just very good at research.”
“Look,” said Sally, ” I understand that moving to a new town is difficult and you are probably lonely but this is not the way to meet someone. You can’t just pick someone out at random and decide they are the most beautiful girl you have ever seen.”
“But you are. And anyway, why not? It’s been going on for centuries in literature and I know you’ve read the books. ‘The Great Gatsby’, ‘Cyrano de Bergerac’, ‘Great Expectations’, ’50 Shades of Grey.'”
Sally looked embarrassed.
“That was a mistake. I thought it was an adult colouring book.”
“Anyway,” Mike pressed on, “what’s wrong with finding someone attractive and attempting to forge a relationship with them? They didn’t call Pip a stalker. They admired his tenacious pursuit of the woman of his dreams.”
“True. But Pip didn’t follow Estella around bookshops and spy on her 6-year-old nephew.” She paused for a moment. “Anyhow,” she asked, “what made you think I was beautiful?”
“It was the yellow dress, the long blond hair with the blue ribbon which perfectly matched your eyes, the blue Jimmy Choo’s the…”
“Just a casual impression then.”
Mike moved a little bit closer.
“Beautiful like you are now,” he whispered, “with your faded jeans and your boots and your hair up in a pink scrunchy. I just think you’re beautiful. What’s wrong with that?”
Sally sighed.
“Nothing I suppose. But you have to stop stalking me.”
“Come to the film with me on Saturday and have dinner with me afterwards. I know you like that little Italian on the corner by the bus stop.”
She gave him a warning sign.
“Sorry,” he continued. “Let’s just go out like normal people and then you can decide if I am a nice guy or not. If not, you’ll never see me again except maybe in the far distance on campus?”
Sally thought for a while and then spoke.
“OK. One date. Saturday night and then no more stalking.”
She reached into her purse and pulled out a card which she handed to him.
“That’s my number at the university. Give me a call tomorrow. I need to go.”
She got up.
“That’s great,” said Mike. “So lovely to meet you at last.”
He offered her his hand and she took it gingerly then walked quickly away.
Mike sat back down and watched her disappear across the park. As soon as she was out of sight he took out a notebook and pen.
“Now where are we?” he said to himself flicking through the pages. “Johnson..Johnson..Johnson… Ah yes Sally Johnson. There we go. Done.”
He put a tick against Sally’s name with a flourish.
“OK. Who’s next? Louise Chambers. Zumba, swimming, indoor rock-climbing. I think I know where she’ll be.”
He stood up and headed purposefully towards the Leisure Centre.

---

The Vine (Horror)

Jaron Howard (U.S.)

“Close your eyes and stay right there, I have a surprise for you,” Mark said.

“A Surprise for me, you shouldn’t have!” Rachel replied.

A glowing smile lit up her face, further illuminating her radiant beauty. She snapped her eyes shut and stood rooted to the spot eagerly awaiting the surprise. Mark reached around the corner and wrapped his fingers around the base of a small terracotta pot housing a well-manicured succulent, one lone vine spilling over the side, swinging softly back and forth with every subtle motion.

“Hold out your hands,” Mark directed, placing the earthenware into her outstretched palms. The vine gracefully swung towards Rachel’s hand until it softly kissed her skin, resting on the outside of her thumb.

“Is this what I think it is?” Rachel asked.

“Why don’t you open your eyes and see for yourself.” Mark responded with a loving smile on his face.

“I love it!” Rachel screamed. “I know exactly where to put it! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

She set the plant on the counter and threw herself at Mark, and wrapped him in a tight, loving embrace.

“I’m so happy you like it,” Mark said. “The owner of the plant store had it on clearance and I know how green your thumb has gotten in the last year, so I had to get it for you. He said we should water it as soon as possible though? Something about the roots? I can’t remember now.”

“The soil is looking a little dry, I’ll water it right now. Perfect chance to use my new mini watering can” Rachel responded. She walked into the kitchen, reached under the sink, and grabbed her cute pink watering device. After filling it with fresh, distilled water, she returned to the liquid deprived soil containing her newest ward.

“Drink up me ‘earties, Yo Ho,” she said, in her best Jack Sparrow accent, slowly pouring the water into the earth. The dirt happily drank up every drop in the watering can, so much so that Rachel filled it back up two more times before the dirt turned the deep brown color of well hydrated soil.

“Is that normal for new plants?” Mark asked.

“None that I’ve had, but hey, first time for everything,” Rachel said.

“Fair enough. That was just part one of your surprise by the way. I booked us a table at that new Italian place,” Mark said. “Grab your coat, I’m starving!”

“Thank god, my stomachs been rumbling for the past hour!” Rachel replied. Hurriedly rushing to grab her coat “You’re driving.”

“By the way, what store did you buy the plant from? The cute little store with the dog or the bigger greenhouse store on main?” Rachel asked.

“Neither. A small one on the way home from work. I don’t remember seeing it before a couple days ago, must have just opened. We can drive past it on the way to the restaurant. They are probably closed but you could swing by tomorrow,” Mark said.

“Only if we have time,” she responded, grabbing his hand as they walked out the door. “I love you.”

“I love you too, now let’s eat!” he said, as they walked out the door neither of them noticing the small 1-inch vine, wrapping itself around the table leg, slowly creeping towards the floor.

The stillness of the night is disturbed by the soft crunch of gravel underneath the tires of Mike’s bright yellow jeep. Lightly applying the brake, Mike slowed the car to a crawl and thumbed the garage door opener.
No response.
“That’s odd, the door is brand new,” Mike mused.

“Maybe you didn’t hit it hard enough?” Rachel asked.

Mike unhooked the button from the top of the car’s sun visor, determined to open the door. He firmly and deliberately pressed the button, and then pushed it again for good measure.
No response.
“What a piece of crap. I’ll call the installers first thing in the morning,” Mike Fumed. “I’ll go and open it from the inside, and then you can drive the car in.”

“Ok but go fast, I wanna get you into the bedroom,” she said with a sly look.

“Fast as lightning baby,” Mike said before making a vroom sound, opening the car door and stepping out, determination pushing his legs forwards. Reaching into the pocket of his sports coat, Mike grabbed the keys, inserted them into the lock, and walked into the darkness of the house they had shared for five years. Rachel couldn’t help but notice his posture almost oozing charisma. Although they had been married for years, she gladly fell deeper and deeper in love with this goofy man. Awash in the glow of affection she eagerly waited for him to return. She watched him close the door behind him and then realized how alone she was in the driveway. She turned the dial of the radio to break the silence. Immediately the car was filled with the sound of a radio host that, in Rachel’s opinion, is not as funny as he thinks he is. After some drivel about a local bar’s specials and a middle school level joke degrading woman, “Welcome to the Jungle” by Guns and Roses started playing.

“Oh hell yeah,” Rachel said, bobbing her head and throwing up the rock and roll devil horns. Her soul belonged to Hair Bands and Heavy Metal, but her body belonged to corporate America. She sang every word on the track alongside Axl Rose, while she read through her email.

“What’s taking Mike so long?” Rachel wondered. Knowing that Mike has a small bladder he probably had to stop and pee as soon as he got in. I’ll give him a couple more minutes, he is self conscious about it and I’d hate to make it worse after such a nice evening.

The host came on again and told another joke degrading women before playing, “Every Rose Has its Thorn” by Poison. What the hell’s wrong with these guys? If there was another rock station she would never turn this one on again. After dueting with Bret Michaels (her childhood crush) and feeling every emotion of this touching ballad, she had had enough waiting. The host returned primed for another idiotic joke.

“Ok Mike you’ve had time to pee I’m coming in,” Rachel said to herself. Maybe I don’t want to get him into the bedroom as badly as I thought. She snatched the keys out of the ignition, silencing the engine, and thankfully the irksome voice of the misogynistic host. Opening the door she stepped out, shoes sliding a bit in the gravel. She regained her balance, and with an air of annoyance, she walked toward the front door. She lifted her fist to hammer on the door when she realized it was not fully closed. A slight crack letting in beams of light from the porch light providing the only source of light in an otherwise dark setting.

“He can’t shut the door or turn on a light? What am I going to do with this man?” she mused to herself. She pushed open the door, kicked off her shoes, and called out to her vanished husband.
“MIKE! If you jump out and scare me, I’m going to kill you! You’ll sleep on the couch tonight!”
The muffled sound of her feet plodding across the carpet was only broken by the soft plop punctuating the darkness. “I’m gonna find you Mike and when I do, you’re in some serious trouble!” she yelled.
Plop.
The unnatural darkness of the room gets more apparent the closer she gets to the kitchen.
No Response. Plop.
“Mike, I’m serious, get the hell out here.”
No Response. Plop.

Rachel reached around the corner grasping for the light switch, feeling nothing but the wall and an unnatural breeze on her hand. Finding the switch, she flicks it only to be rewarded with continued darkness.

“MIKE, this isn’t funny, I’m starting to get scared!” she yelled walking into the kitchen, where her foot immediately encounters a liquid on the floor. Crashing hard on her back Rachel felt shooting agony roll down her spine. Knives of pain in each vertebrae held her hostage to the ground. I need light, I can’t keep stumbling around. Reaching into her pocket she pulled out her phone, punched in the unlock code, and turned on her flashlight and immediately let out a blood-curdling scream. A thick bed of leaves and vines covered the entire ceiling, intertwining itself in the light fixtures and furniture, creating an impenetrable canopy. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Rachel found the previously unknown source of the liquid. Mike was held taut to the ceiling, vines constricting his body in a bone crushing vice, and slowly slithering down his throat. His deceased eyes fixed in a thousand-yard stare, as blood trickled from his mouth, down the vines, slowly building up before softly dropping to the floor.

“Oh god!” Rachel screamed. Ignoring the pain in her spine, she stood up and bolted towards the door, only to have a rapid descent towards the floor as a vine reaches out and entwines her feet. Smashing her face onto the floor she felt her nose shatter and the gush of blood wash down her face. The vine continued to wrap itself around her legs as she tore at her captor.

“Help,” she screamed towards the open door, only to have it slammed by a rapidly growing vine.

She wrenched herself free and started to run down the hall, feeling the leafy growth on her feet, grasping at her ankles. Halfway down the hall a door is thrown open, and a waiting vine grabbed her with tremendous force, slamming her into the wall and knocking the wind out of her lungs. Gasping for air she reached out for even the smallest anchor point, only to be ripped into the garage, ribs cracking under the compression of the vine. Her fingernails tore at the vines and her legs thrashing lead to minimal results as she was slowly consumed by the ravenous vines. The last sight of her desperate fear-stricken eyes were of the vines forcing their way under the garage door. Fresh air kisses her exposed thumb before the darkness consumed her.

 

---

Dirty Old Men (Horror)

by Varya Kartishai (U.S.)

Maisie came to live with us the year I started school. I had never seen such a pretty woman. Her wide mouth was bright red, the same as her high-heeled shoes, her long-lashed eyes were blue, hair the color of sunlight glinting off a brass doorknob hung down to her shoulders and her chest jiggled softly when she walked, like a dish of Junket. I was outside when the movers’ truck pulled up. She was sitting in the cab between the two moving men.

One of them got out and she climbed down to the curb, straightened her skirt, and waited while they unloaded her waterfall bed and matching dresser from the back of the truck. She noticed me standing there and smiled. I smiled back. She picked up a robin’s egg blue suitcase and matching hatbox, then followed them up the stairs and into our spare bedroom, not teetering at all on those heels.

Upstairs, my mother was waiting in the hall with an annoyed expression on her face. She muttered something to my father about a “bottle blond”. He didn’t answer, but he hardly ever did. Her own light brown hair was pulled back in a bun, and her corset was laced so tight there was no way she could have jiggled. I only heard her talk to Maisie once, other than asking for the rent every week. When she came out of the bathroom in a pretty black slip with lace on the hem, my mother shook her finger and yelled at her that this was a decent house and to go put her clothes on. My father who was standing right next to her didn’t say anything, just smoothed his curly black hair, then lowered his hand and patted my mother’s arm until she stopped yelling. After that Maisie always wore a robe in the hall.

I never got to talk to her much but I liked having her there to look at. Then one day when I came home from school Maisie was gone. My mother told me I was going to move into her room. I didn’t ask any questions, but when I went in, her furniture was still there and the closet was empty. The week before I had heard my mother yelling at her because the rent was late. She said that if it happened again, Maisie would have to move.

I felt a little sad, even though I hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her, I liked looking at her. She wore pretty dresses when she went out in the evenings. Different fellows came for her, and she didn’t come home until after I went to bed. Looking at her furniture, I thought her three quarter size bed would be an improvement over my old crib in my parents’ room where I had been sleeping. I had to sleep sideways with my knees bent because it was too short to straighten my legs all the way.

I opened the dresser drawers first, in case she had left anything behind, but even though I could still smell her perfume, they were empty except for a little blue bottle labeled “Evening In Paris” that I slipped into my pocket. I looked at the waterfall pattern on the front of the dresser. It made a fox’s face in the middle and there was one on the headboard of the bed.

I liked foxes, but I didn’t like the spare room as much as I thought I would. Its two windows faced out on the narrow alley between our house and the next, and didn’t let in much light even on sunny days.

That first afternoon, I sat down on the bed, propped a pillow against the curved headboard and leaned against it. I tried to pretend I was her, but it didn’t work. After a while I gave up, got off the bed and went over to the closet. My own clothes were already hung inside, but back in a dark corner I saw a glint of red. She had forgotten a pair of her high-heeled shoes with gold embroidery on the toe straps. I pulled them out and slipped them on, but they were too big, and my feet kept slipping out the front. I kept tripping and falling and gave up after a few tries. I put them back in the closet, hoping my mother wouldn’t find them and take them away before my feet had a chance to get bigger, and sat back down on the bed.

Then I noticed the wallpaper border near the ceiling. It was light blue like the striped wallpaper, with a design of swags and tassels, but if you squinted your eyes for a few minutes, the swags became a row of old men’s faces with big noses, mustaches and grumpy-looking mouths, Geezers,I thought. I got up, got my books and started on my homework. At bedtime I almost went to my parents’ room, but remembered in time to go into Maisie’s room. My father came in to say goodnight like he always did. When he turned out the light and left, I could just make out the row of geezers in the moonlight coming through the unshaded windows. I wondered if they were disappointed to see me there instead of Maisie in her red silk nighty.

I lay there in the big bed, feeling uncomfortable and wide awake with all the extra space around me, almost missing the familiar bars of my crib. All of a sudden there was a whirring noise and a loud bang from outside the room. A bright light came flooding in. The shade on the window of the house across the alley from ours had rolled all the way up and Mrs. Tomari, our neighbor was standing there, reaching desperately for the blind cord. She must have been right in the middle of unlacing her corset, the first few hooks were open and the laces were dangling down.

Her flat bosoms hung over the top, and her flat rear was showing below. I glanced up at the row of geezers, and I swear their faces were all wearing wicked smiles! I pulled the covers up over my head and finally got to sleep, but all night I dreamed I could hear the geezers chuckling near the ceiling. At first I didn’t know why I didn’t like being there, but I kept finding excuses to keep from spending time in my new room.

I started using the kitchen table for my homework, saying my teacher was complaining about my writing being bad, because I wrote sitting on the bed, and that anyhow even with the ceiling fixture on, the light was too dim to make out the words in my schoolbooks. My mother complained that my working on the table there got in the way of her making dinner, but there wasn’t any other table I could use, so she didn’t make me stop.

My grades had never been that good, but now they were getting worse, partly because I wasn’t sleeping very well. I talked to some of the kids about it, and they said they had nightlights to help them sleep. They came with little bulbs with things inside, dogs or ships or flowers, but I didn’t really care what they looked like, I just wanted the extra light because I was starting to be afraid of lying there in the dark.

Finally I asked my father if I could have one too and he promised to get me one, but he never got around to it. What I didn’t tell anybody was that I kept waking up at night hearing noises, like nasty little chuckling noises. I couldn’t see them clearly in the dark, but I was sure it was the geezers from the wallpaper flapping around above my head. I was afraid if I told anybody about it they wouldn’t believe me or worse, tell me I was going crazy. Later on the chuckling noises were joined by whispering sounds.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. They were probably talking to each other, but it could have been meant for me. I started sleeping with the sheet over my head. That helped, but it made it hard to get enough air. I finally got used to sleeping that way, then one hot night in early June, I must have thrown off the sheet to get cool or something, and woke up suddenly with my face exposed. I swear there was something perched on the pillow next to me whispering and chuckling in my ear.

Something like hair brushed my cheek and I thought it might have been a mustache. I screamed, jumped out of bed and ran out into the hallway, still screaming. My parents woke up and my father put me back into bed, telling me I had had a bad dream. I didn’t want to talk to him about it with the geezers maybe listening.

He sat with me for a while, holding my hand and not talking. There was no more noise from the geezers while he sat there. Then I must have gone back to sleep, because when I woke up, it was morning and the geezers were all back in place flat on the wallpaper near the ceiling. That scared me worse than anything had yet, and I started tucking the sheet under the edges of my pillow so it wouldn’t get dislodged and just making a pleat over my face to let a little air in. I would wake up hot and sweaty in the morning, but at least I was getting some sleep.

Then it happened again, the sheet got dislodged somehow, only this time when I woke up in the dark there was a hairy something sitting and whispering on either side of the pillow, and a whole line of them chuckling and whispering above me on the headboard,. This time I didn’t scream, I just leaped out of bed and ran out into the hall and into the bathroom, still clutching my sheet and trailing it across the floor behind me.

I closed the bathroom door after me and sat down on the edge of the tub, sweating and shaking, not sure whether I was safe even with the door closed, but I had never seen them outside of the bedroom. Finally I threw the sheet into the tub, climbed in after it, and lay down with the sheet wrapped around me. I must have dozed off, because when I woke up it was daylight and my father was standing there shaking my shoulder to wake me. He helped me climb out of the tub and I finally told him about the geezers, but I don’t think he took it seriously.

He just said it was another bad dream and it was probably because I was upset about school. After that I started sleeping under the bed. It was dusty under there, but I felt safer, and I was getting more rest, even though my mother started complaining about the sheets being dusty and hard to wash. She accused me of playing games with the sheets, and said I must be making tents out of them to get them that dirty. I told her I was restless in the heat and the sheet would slip off onto the floor in the night. I didn’t think she would believe me about the geezers any more than my father had, and there wasn’t any place else to sleep anyway.

Finally the problem solved itself, at least for me. A neighbor had been coming to visit my mother in the afternoons. She would bring her dog with her, and I guess nobody noticed that the dog had ticks. Some of them must have gotten off the dog and moved into our place, and some of them must have bitten me. I don’t really remember anything myself, but my father told me about it later when he visited me in the hospital. It seemed that one morning I didn’t wake up and when my mother went in to call me for school she found me lying under the bed feverish and unconscious, covered with ticks and bites.

She called a doctor, and the ambulance came and took me to a hospital and they diagnosed Rocky Mountain spotted fever. The neighbor’s dog died, and I was really sick and in a coma, and had to stay in the hospital a while. My parents had to move out while the apartment was fumigated, and the landlord was so mad at having the expense of fumigating that he told my folks that they would just have to find another place to live because he was going to use it for storage and not bother having any more tenants up there. When I finally was able to go home, it turned out to be another place entirely. Sick and weak as I felt, it was a relief not to have to live with the geezers any more.

All the walls in the new place are painted, there isn’t any wallpaper at all. But even so, I sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I can hear them chuckling and whispering around me. I’m fairly sure they couldn’t have followed me to the new place, so it must be only a dream, but I wish I could be sure about it.

---

The Bike by E. Hughes (U.S.)

Genre: Literary Fiction, drama

It was a ten-speed bike. I remember looking over my mother’s shoulder to get a glimpse at the doorway of my father rolling it into the house. It was my sister’s 12th birthday and she was getting a new bike. I was excited by the prospect of owning a bike for the first time. Even though the bike was for my sister, we shared everything anyway so it was as good as both of ours.

I was nine years-old but had never learned to ride. Over the years I was grateful to have owned a pair of roller-skates, so I never felt left out or as though a piece of my childhood was missing because I never owned a bike. When kids rode their bikes down the street I quickly grabbed my skates and took off after them. I’d grab a hold of the edge of one of their seats as they peddled and let the bike pull me as fast as it could before I finally let go, skidding uncontrollably down the sidewalk or street. I had a blast. The skates were size-adjustable, metal, and fit around my shoes. If you were a kid in the eighties you probably owned a pair.

The wheels were metal and quite noisy. They produced a jarring grinding noise that sounded like heavy steel against uneven concrete, that made you fall if you hit a bump too quickly. You sort of got used to band-aids over skinned-knees. Sometimes I’d take those loud metal skates outside as early as seven or eight in the morning and circle our city block wearing pigtails and a bright-colored bubble romper; the kind that you had to tie in bow at the top of each shoulder. They were thin and cotton. I had several of them to wear outside in multiple colors so picking out my own clothes and racing outside was an easy task, especially in the morning before my mother woke up. I’d wake the neighbors skating around the block, but they let me be. Even then, at six or seven-years old I loved the quiet and stillness of the early hours and the smell of morning dew. It was the 1980s and still relatively safe, even in our slightly sketchy neighborhood.

A year before my sister was gifted the ten-speed bike I outgrew the loud metal skates and upgraded to the kind you’d find at a skating rink…the kind with pink wheels and laces on the front. They were quieter and allowed you to skate even faster. But getting a new bike raised the specter of my excitement significantly. My sister Mia was happy about the bike, though not as happy as I had been.

Mia was a quiet sort of person who lacked the child-like exuberance I often exhibited. We had a working mother so we were latchkey kids who mostly took care of ourselves during the week. Mia had to be responsible for me when she was as young as seven years-old and had taken on a number of other household responsibilities unbefitting someone her age while our mother worked a job as a secretary. This gave Mia a level of maturity and gravity beyond her years at a very early age. While I was skating, playing double-dutch, break-dancing on broken-down cardboard boxes, or exploring our neighborhood and alleyways for “dead bodies” or animals with broken limbs, Mia was listening to Rick James, Michael Jackson, and Paul McCartney on our record player and thinking about boys. She’d always been that way. So while getting a bike was fun, she wasn’t as interested as I was.

As soon as our father drove away we took the bike outside for a spin, but neither one of us could ride a bike. So we taught ourselves, getting on, and falling sideways…trying to peddle and keep from tipping over. We’d make it a little further after each try, taking turns…me, waiting impatiently every time Mia got on the bike. We’d go back inside for the day with scrapes on our ankles and knees from falling over or getting scraped by the sharp metal ridges lining the pedals. By the end of summer we both knew how to ride a bike. By then, the ten-speed was in awful shape. The chain would come off or snap mid-ride, causing us to fall. The spokes in the wheel were bent and dented. Too many falls had badly damaged it. This was not a huge concern. My birthday was a few months away and another bike would be coming our way. We’d treat this one better, especially since we both knew how to ride. This first ten-speed was a real learning experience.

Me and my sister knew how to share. We shared almost everything our entire lives. Of course there were many ups and downs, as well as cat-fights, but in the end there was always a sense of loyalty. We understood how to look out for each other even if we were mad at each other. We even shared each other’s deepest secrets, and for Mia, there were many. I don’t think a day went by during my childhood that I ever disliked Mia. Perhaps because she always felt so grown-up…like someone who was more than a big sister to me.

Mia was also very pretty, which only added to her grownup charm. Because of this, she was wildly liked by family members…especially the family members on my father’s side. They’d taken a special interest in Mia, interest that they’d never taken in me. Sometimes they’d stop by to pick her up and take her to family events or for regular visits. My mother would allow her to go but the invitation to join them was rarely extended to me—so rarely, that when the invitation was finally extended because everyone on my father’s side of the family was likely going, I usually declined out of a strong sense of pride. There were times when I ended up going anyway, usually because it was our weekend at my father’s house. I hated family gatherings. Some of the adults—one in particular, was downright rude and made a point of letting me know that I wasn’t welcome.

“Ursula!” she’d say in an agitated voice, calling me away from the other children. “Get your bald-headed raggedly butt over here and finish your food.” My aunt Tippy was always looking for a reason to chastise me over something. And she never let me forget that I was too skinny for her liking. “With your bony, bald-headed butt!” she’d screech.

I’d do what was asked and get away from her as soon as possible. I was grateful the other aunts ignored me. They ignored me so much I couldn’t keep their names straight because there had never been an opportunity to get to know them. They avoided eye contact or talking to me as much as possible. Mia noticed, but didn’t understand why. Sometimes they’d make a fuss over the way I looked.

“Big-headed girl, she looks like Tweetie-Bird,” one of them would laugh. Tippy would wait until the other adults weren’t around, especially if my step-mother wasn’t in the room before she’d make snide off-handed remarks. “With your ugly, self.”

I had no idea what I’d done to rub them the wrong way but they couldn’t stand me, and I couldn’t stand them. Did they think picking on me was funny? Did they do it to the other children? If they did, I didn’t see it. For some reason it felt like I was always the target. But this had given me a quiet strength, a deep sense of pride and the ability to stand up for myself. Even though it hurt my feelings, their words didn’t make me crumble. Being a family outcast taught me not to bend to authority or abusive voices. I hated ignorance of any kind. Thankfully, I didn’t interact with them often. Between the rarely extended invitations and the fact that I carefully avoided them, I managed to escape any unwanted interactions.

Soon the school year would start and Mia and I eventually healed from the scrapes and bruises we endured from the bike over the summer. I was looking forward to October. My birthday couldn’t come soon enough. I didn’t talk to my father often. In fact, I can barely remember having a five minute conversation with him. Our weekends at his house were mostly spent with our stepmother and younger sister. He was always out until late night hours and when he came home we were already asleep. I didn’t pretend to understand the nuances of their relationship and I never questioned why he did certain things. For us—he was a bit of a legend…a hero when we compared him to our mother. He was a likeable man—an entertainer with a lot of friends and people around him. His laid-back personality was very similar to Mia’s. But he was also a secretive, distant, sort of person, and not at all mature in the ways that Mia was.

It wasn’t long before October rolled around along with my birthday. Mia always had great birthdays but mine were always met with misfortune…perhaps because it was so close to Halloween. I was jinxed!

The year before was a bit of a disaster when my mother lost her wallet along with the money she had saved for my birthday cake and presents. So instead of celebrating my birthday we went to visit her sister. I spent the entire day putting on a brave face. With weak half-smiles meant to make everyone feel better, I hoped no one noticed the tears swelling in my eyes when they looked away. The dam finally broke when a cousin mocked the bag of Halloween candy her mother had given us as we sat on the floor with our legs folded watching, It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. The cousin had leaned towards me and cackled, “Is this all you’re getting for your birthday?” knowing full well we didn’t have any money to celebrate.

As I burst into tears, my aunt’s instant reaction was to slap her across the face for making fun of me. This was a sensitive subject in the family that day. We were all trying to tip-toe around it and hearing the words out loud was like ripping open a gaping emotional wound. And while the lost wallet was an accident, I still managed to feel like no one cared about me—I felt overlooked. Why did it always happen on my birthday? Still, I felt guilty for resenting how my birthday turned out that year. My mother was miserable and angry with herself so I dusted myself off and put on a brave face for her. The end of the month was always rough for us and she honestly tried her best to keep us fed and with a roof over our heads. Naturally, my father didn’t show up or have anything to offer—not even a happy birthday wish, which would have made my dismal day much brighter. I’m not even sure if he knew it was my birthday. But since he’d shown up with a bike for Mia earlier that year, I was certain this birthday would also be different for me.

Thankfully the day met all of my expectations. Even though finances were tight, there was birthday cake and birthday presents. No party, we rarely did those. Mama disliked company so we celebrated with my brother and Mia just as I had anticipated. It was a low-key affair.

I’d gotten a new Sweet Valley High book, a Barbie, and a She-Ra castle. Still, I watched the clock and listened for the doorbell all day—occasionally running to the window hoping to see my father unloading a bike from the trunk of his car. I waited and I waited as the hours ticked by and soon, noon turned to dusk, and dusk to night. I eventually went to bed sulking and disappointed, yet not in the least bit surprised. A feeling of loneliness and isolation washed over me as I lay in bed gazing at the window, still hoping.

When hadn’t these people disappointed me? Over the years I chalked it up to “middle-child syndrome” but even that didn’t seem a good enough reason for my family’s indifference.

My mother and father split while she was still pregnant with me. He’d left her for another woman. I was in the precarious place of connecting two people who no longer wanted to be together while Mia had the privilege of being the oldest—the first born, the first to do everything. She had the privilege of being a child conceived out of love and I had the privilege of not being wanted. Pretty much anything I did after Mia wasn’t really of interest to anyone because I was tacked on at the end of a dying relationship.

A few years later my father and stepmother had a child of their own. She was their baby…the youngest. A cute little jelly-bean. I adored her.

Eventually my mother moved on to a new relationship too. It didn’t last long, but she had a son—and he was her pride and joy. Her baby. Sadly, she was a woman who favored male children and exhibited feelings of derision and hostility towards her daughters, so Mia and I learned to rely on each other for emotional and mental support. I slowly began to understand why Mia was so mature and aged beyond her years as I started to see patterns in our family I didn’t notice before.

In the end I learned a valuable lesson from the bike…the first of which was not to expect anything from anyone. People can’t disappoint you if you don’t expect anything from them in the first place. I never received a present, a card, or acknowledgement from my father that year, or any other year thereafter and I was at peace with that. I decided if he didn’t extend the opportunity to have a conversation or a relationship with me then I would not extend the opportunity to him.

So we rarely spoke over the years…unless we absolutely needed to, and eventually, we no longer needed to. He maintained a close relationship with Mia and his other children and I moved forward in life, content with the unspoken solitude and mutual distance between us. But it became the template for how I would handle other relationships in my life. The bar I set was high. I had to feel like I was special to someone. I never fully understood why I was different from the other children and as much as I wanted answers from family members I knew I would never get them. Eventually, my relationship with all of these people would fade until we became strangers…no harsh words spoken or sad goodbyes… There’s an outcast in every family and I just happened to be the outcast in mine.

I eventually met the man who would become my husband, a person who made an effort to make every birthday special. As the matriarch of our family, when I had children, birthdays were always a big deal in our house. There was always a celebration where everyone was cherished and no one felt left out or forgotten.

---

South of Moosonee (Nonfiction / Essays)

by Greg lambert

Mom’s in the Hospital. I went in to visit her.

She told me they tried to take her teeth out before she went into the operating room. They thought she had false teeth because they are so straight. Smiling is her superpower.

She said dad came and didn’t stay very long. They have a hidden life between them. A language they learned to speak before I was born. She talked about the woman beside her getting flowers…so I bought flowers, yellow ones.
I’m a thoughtful son, and a mommas’ boy.
The house feels empty without her. She adds the color, my father creates the shape.
This is what happened.

A few nights ago, when Dad was in Timmins, mom came into my room and woke me up. She said she had a pain near her stomach and couldn’t stand straight. It took me a few seconds to figure out who was talking. She was hunched over and looked like some kind of evil creature with her crooked body and her fuzzy hair. I was out of it because I just took an Actifed and was in that sweet spot where your body starts to feel soft and comfortable. I got up and went downstairs with her. Each step was painful and slow. I felt a bit guilty about being impatient with her, wanting her to hurry up. We went into the living room, I put her down on the chesterfield. I was going to start the car and bring her to the hospital, but she said she would lie down on the couch and see if it went away. Being the lazy piece of shit that I am I didn’t argue with her and just went back to bed.

Later I could hear her yelling.

I started the blue bomb in the garage. I still had my pajamas on, the cold air grabbed every inch of my skin. You feel it on your face first, the sting on your cheeks and then the nose hairs freezing and then your lungs. Just don’t breathe in too deep or you’ll start coughing. I remembered to plug the car in, it started right away, letting off a cloud of exhaust that filled the garage. I love the smell of carbon monoxide.

I went back into the house and helped my mom get up and into the car. I covered her with a blanket when she was in the car. She looked like one of the old women I’ve seen in my national geographic magazines, warn away by the elements, ready to die. While I was driving, I could see her bent over, breathing in slowly. The blanket went up and down then stopped when she held her breath. I fought my instinct to drive fast, it’s so easy to slide into a snowbank and get stuck. Who would help us at 3am?

I drove to the emergency entrance, down that little dip that lands you right in front of the door. It was locked, so I knocked on the door, then I rang the bell. I could see my mom staring at me, wondering what I could be doing wrong. No one came. I keep knocking and ringing the bell. Still, no one answered the door. My mom waved me into the car and told me to drive home, we would come back later. She said she felt better but I know she didn’t.

I hate this fucking town.

---

THE CANDY LADY

Dee Allen

1980: Age 12:
She had anything
The neighbourhood kids’
Sweet tooths craved:

Snickers, Milky Ways, M & Ms, Twizzlers liquorice, jawbreakers, Bubble Yum, Kit-Kats,
Reese’s peanut butter cups, a new candy bar called Twix, around Xmas shopping
Season, peppermint sticks, Jolly Ranchers, Lemonheads—

The very things
That made young mouths sing
She kept stacked and stocked
In coloured boxes on her shelves.
Ours for the asking,
Between 25 cents and $2.

The Candy Lady,
Kind, grandmotherly Black neighbour,
Sweeter than the treats she sold from her home,
Made herself a good living
Ruining kids’ appetites before dinner.

Anyone of us on the block
[ Including my cousins and me ]
Could venture at a guess
Social Security payments
From the government
Didn’t give the old woman
Around the corner enough to live on monthly.

Nothing wrong with
Having a side hustle
That kept children
Happy and fed
Full of sugar.

 

AUDRA

Strutting onto a stage
Tailored for Broadway plays
In a bright white dress & flower over the ear.
The spotlight’s on her.
Accomplished theatre actress
Taking on the role of a famous
Singer—her second talent.
Classically-trained, hitting high notes
Like Leontyne Price, Opera dynamo.
This time around, though,
She channels her projected
Voice, recalling a unique
Bluesy, Southern lazy snarl
To which old school Jazz fans are familiar.
It shows in her chosen
Love rhapsodies
Hard luck stories
In song:
“Crazy He Calls Me”, “Solitude”, “God Bless The Child”, “What A Little Moonlight Can Do”.
Accomplished songbird,
Born Audra McDonald,
Found this voice listening to old records
And remembering how her nanna spoke.
She stands before an enraptured audience.
Releasing all the heartbreak, the passion, vocal range, raw skill
Billie Holiday had—
Worthy of a standing ovation—

 

CHARLOTTE

Charlotte
The Illustrated Woman
Always seen adorned in funeral-ready black
Charged hair, halter top, shorts, shredded nylons, engineer boots.

Charlotte
Comes practically stomping
In front of her devotees,
Freaky denizens of the nightclub, standing room only.

Charlotte
Mother Of Whispers
Who never whispers on stage.
Once the mic’s in her hand, the excitement begins.

Charlotte
Equipped with a voice
Not soft & aethereal, but mid-range & crooning,
Burst into raw, primal shouts, weaved with melody.

Charlotte
2020s Death Rocker look.
1990s Riot Grrrl attitude.
Delightful sounds can be dark and rocking. And she delivers both.

Charlotte
Backed by the Nox. Street-hardened wail soars
Above the music, from the tattooed, pale, pretty, powerlifting package
Charlotte Eve Blythe.

---

The Lonely Flower

A.J. Hughes (U.S.)

In the darkness of night, on a soiled path, is a lonely flower.
Every night, the flower waits for someone to recognize its beauty.
But no one arrives.

Unable to appear in the daylight,
when the sun offers warmth to other flowers,
the lonely flower emerges at night when it’s safe.
It admires the bright and colorful flowers of day,
wishing it could become as vibrant as they are.

But…even the moonlight chooses to cast away from this flower.
It faces towards the moon,
hoping its light will soon shine upon it.
Eager to grow strong
recognized for its beauty and grandeur.

The flower desired attention from someone or something.
Anything that would look upon it with admiration.
With no one to take care of it,
the lonely flower waters itself,
at least, as best as it could.
When it’s done, it smiles to itself, and says, “I did a good job.”

The lonely flower continues to wait
for someone who will never show.

On a deserted path, in the middle of night,
the lonely flower waits,
until the last petal falls.

 

Return Me to Darkness

By A.J. Hughes

Lost and afraid. I am trapped by what I fear most. I can’t breathe. The world around me moves at a speed I cannot follow. I have never seen these things around me. Where am I? What have I done? Electromagnetic waves threaten to shatter me. I retreat. Blinded. I flee, desperate to return to where I belong.

Nothing waits for me in the light of day. I am alone and terrified. Floating through an endless sea of disingenuous creatures, mindlessly soaking in the sun as it tears me asunder. Their smiles, etched into the back of my mind, my body quivering in a searing-hot breeze. Their loud, boisterous laughter, like nails against a chalkboard. Don’t come near me. Stay away. How much longer do I have to endure the horror that is day?

The light is too bright. It bores into my eyes, violently and ever so cruelly. With nowhere to hide from its nuclear glow, my skin burns with an intensity that cannot heal. I hide behind the silhouettes of the egotistical. How long must I suffer? When can I go home? When can I return to where I belong?

Darkness looms, cast into the moonlight in the solitude of night, my soul is at ease. Enveloped by the euphoria of quietness, a cessation to the endless assault on my eyes. The cool breeze purified and washed away the agony of daybreak from my skin. I become potent, magical, and restored to my full glory.

The dark is my savior. No creatures of day to fog my mind and harm me. Traversing the world of night, may it guide me to where I belong.