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I waited for Dr. Pendleton in one of the many uncomfortable wooden chairs in the foyer, a glass of champagne bubbling gently on the table beside me. I seethed on the ornately uncomfortable chair as frustration brewed within me. As a grown man, I should be free to live as I wish, but as the eldest, I was the heir to my family's wealth and my mother's unrelenting expectations. One aspect of me would love nothing more than to fail their test and let them make my brother the heir. But a stronger part raged against this thought. I am firstborn; I’ve dealt with their picking, berating, and haranguing my whole life. I deserve it. Not perfect Marlon. He can live in a slum for all I care, where I know I’ll end up if he inherits it all. And so a deal was struck. I would accept a radical new treatment from Dr. Julius Pendleton that will supposedly cure my love of opium. In exchange? I keep my position as primary heir, I get a thousand pounds, and my parents get some sort of compensation. All in exchange for my beloved opium. I had no plan to keep my promise, of course. Once my parents were dead, I could live as I wished. God willing, the money I’ve paid Gilcrest and his merry band of thugs will help my parents to their great reward. I reached for the neglected glass of champagne when the door opened from the library, admitting a tall, slender woman with pale skin in a nurse's uniform. “Mr. Huston, are you ready?” I opened my mouth to speak but found myself arrested by her appearance. She was not beautiful. Her green-stained lips curved in an expression that looked like a mockery of a smile. Her face was porcelain smooth but, in a literal way, looked more like a doll than a human being. It was disconcerting because I drank in imperfect perfection and felt a familiar stir in my pants; perhaps I could arrange an after-visit. If she knew what was happening in my mind, she gave no sign save for a tightening at the corners of her eyes as though in restrained amusement. I averted my gaze and approached the library door. Affixed to the inside of the door was a large, 8-pointed star with brass letters ADF above it. I walked into the library behind the nurse. Just inside waited Dr. Pendleton; he cut a tall, slim silhouette against the light of the fire. The room was a study in burnished wood and green lead glass, giving the room an inviting atmosphere. Over the fireplace was an unusual family crest, an octopus coiled around a two-masted merchant ship holding objects aloft in its tentacles with the phrase, ‘devorabit omnia’ below the image. Dr. Pendleton smiled thinly, “Welcome, Alex, to my humble office.” He pointed to one of six white calfskin leather chairs, each large and overstuffed to the point of absurdity. I glanced at them briefly and settled into the one he directed me to, closest to the fire; it had been chilly out, and this was most welcoming. I sat in the generously padded chair; it embraced me like fat Aunt Margaret, uncomfortably warm and with too many soft bulges. Dr. Pendleton’s reedy voice directed me, “Please take a moment to settle. The chair may initially be overwhelming, but it’s here to give you comfort and safety.” I sank into it as I sat there; each movement caused me to settle deeper into its plushness, like cozy quicksand but without the drowning death at the end. “Comfortable?” I nodded, my mouth suddenly dry. “Wonderful. We are participating in a pharmacological study with people who currently smoke opium. During this study, you’ll be asked to smoke a modified blend of opium designed to eliminate any further desire for it. Are you still willing?” Only in the way a hostage is a willing participant in a kidnapping, I thought bitterly. But I kept this to myself as I nodded again, licking my lips. “Can I have water?” Dr. Pendleton’s bland smile creased briefly at my interruption, and he motioned to the woman dressed as a nurse, who left without speaking. “When was the last time you used opium?” The nurse returned and handed me a green-tinted crystal goblet filled with water. I swallowed eagerly before saying, “Ahh, well, as per your instructions, I haven’t in the past week.” I paused as I fought the sense of nausea that I’d been battling since I began abstaining. “It’s been a very hard week.” Dr. Pendleton took the goblet from me and handed it to the nurse. “Well, we are very grateful for your strict adherence to the program. It will help ensure the success of the treatment. The process is very precise.” He sat on the table's edge so we were eye to eye. “Now, you should be aware previous participants have reported feelings of euphoria, vivid visions, and most importantly, a complete elimination of the desire to smoke in the future. The nurse and I will monitor your entire session to ensure your safety. Do you understand?” “Yes,” I croak out, throat dry again. “And… the compensation…” between the chair and the fire, I was becoming tired and warm. I suddenly wanted this over. The doctor cut me off. “£1,000 for you when the treatment is complete, as promised.” He removed an envelope filled with cash and set it on the table beside me. As he did this, the nurse brought the opium pipe and set it before me. It was unusual, maybe jade; it glittered blood-tinted green in the firelight, the top open as she pressed the mixture to the saddle. I refrained from licking my lips as the heady scent of quality opium hit me; my mouth watered in anticipation. “I am ready.” Dr. Pendleton smiled again and touched a burning twig to the lamp on the pipe, igniting it. I took several experimental puffs to draw the air through and aid the process. A strong hit of the smoke came, and I was gone. For me, opium isn’t just the high; it’s the whole experience. There’s the smell of it before it’s burnt, I imagine like that of primeval forests, so rich. This had that scent, but it was tainted with the foul, eggy stink of sulfur. Usually, the smoke is sweet yet coy, but whatever was in the added medicine made it sharp and strident, like being scolded. When the smoke hit my lungs, it was like being embraced by thick, sun-soaked mud. Warm and inescapable, pulling my unresisting mind under. Peace found me, and I was no longer afraid. I was no longer myself, transformed into a glorious non-being, unburdened by pain and expectations of the sour sadness that came with the knowledge I’d never be enough for my parents. In my beautiful pipe dream, none of that mattered; I could simply be. The painful thoughts leaked away from my mind like poison drawn from a wound as I succumbed to the opium’s power, drifting lower into the dream space, my one true happy place. I lived in a house by the beach; the sand was warm under my feet. Great basalt cliffs encircled the beach with endlessly black stone arms, a comforting embrace. I fish in the bay in my boat, a simple life. Fishing brings dangers, but I know them. I looked over the boat's edge; the green water flexed with gentle waves, and silvery fish darted below. An octopus lazily floated on the waves as fish struggled in a tentacle. I watched with delight and inspired by the eight-armed creature’s languid movement in the water, I dove in. The cool water embraced me, soaking me through my clothing as I floated on my back. It was as though, instead of staring up, I gazed down at the cloudless blue sky suspended above it by gravity. I drifted on the surface of consciousness in the bay of controlled reality. My body dipped and rose; a lull came over me as I was gently carried toward the mouth of the bay. The waves carried me from my boat, and I was not afraid. I wondered, what’s past the break? I didn’t move my limbs to swim, but thinking about the mouth of the bay drew me closer to the ocean, its dangers, and delights. My boat was barely a dot beyond now, occasionally obscured by a wave, but I was calm. I felt the water was somehow looser, as though its parts were too far apart, and I struggled to stay buoyant; the water was no longer coherent enough to hold me up. The water was colder, and some clouds covered the sun; the waves remained gentle and became foamy. Is it evaporating beneath me? I dipped below the waves into the dark water, the foam lit by the sun like milky stars. I rose again, taking a deep breath and tasting the troubling and unfamiliar flavor of the sulphuric water. I could no longer stay above the surface, the greenish water tinting the world, giving the sun and sky the hue of an alien world. I held my breath as the light from above faded. Silvery bubbles floated past my descending body; their delicacy tickled my skin and left it tingling. The water’s weight pushed me down, and the tingling sensation grew worse as the bubbles raced past me to the surface, as though they gloried in their freedom. The cold and dark were unwelcome additions to my drugged oblivion; I reached helplessly upwards, grasping at the airy water. My chest screamed for me to breathe; an animal panic filled me. I wanted so much to live, to fight against the merciless indifference of the ocean. I hated my life so, buried in soul-deep sadness. Only opium helped me escape, and I was willing to trade my life for this moment of wonder and terror, but my animal self cried to live. It would fight anything for one more breath, something I knew I should not do. Pearls of air slid between my lips, rocketing upwards as my chest ached and the tingling turned to burning. I was cold and on fire, reaching the end of my sanity as I felt the darkness close in at the edges of my vision. At last, my final breath erupted from my mouth with the violence of a submarine at crush depth. I was at crush depth. My body gently landed on the slime-covered stones at the bottom, and I inhaled. I had no choice; the animal mind won and didn’t know we were dead. Dr. Pendleton watched Alex’s body sag in the chair; only his head remained visible before disappearing into the infant devourer's soft, leathery flesh. The other five babies gave up the pretense of being chairs and opened their mouths, filled with glittering green teeth. They keened in unison, a cry of celebration and yearning; they all longed to be fed next. The doctor affectionately stroked the creature's pale hide and looked up as the nurse walked in awkwardly carrying a burlap sack; viscera leaked through and shone black on the floor in the light of the fire. She looked at the creature Alex had been gifted to, her eyes raised. “Yes, sister,” the doctor said. “She’s accepted the offering. It is glorious, for we are closer. We must complete the ritual now.” “Glory to the All-Devouring Flesh!” she cried out, joy suffusing her waxen features. “Glory to the Great Feasting. And we are grateful to serve The Ravenous One!” As she spoke, she reached her delicate hand into the bag, pulled out chunks of flesh, and tossed them to the hungry babies, a beard-covered slice caught in the mouth of the closest one before being pulled in by a tentacle-like tongue. “The Huston family has kept their bargain,” Dr. Pendleton said with satisfaction as the infant devourer seemed to shrink in on itself as it digested its meal. He looked at his sister as she licked the gore off her fingers. “Prepare it to go home and begin its new life as Alex.” Brian (he/him) lives in Phoenix, Arizona, with his wife, son, daughter, and long-suffering dog. He's been writing horror and sci-fi for the last 33 years, sidetracked by many things but always hearing the voices of his characters.

My name does not matter anymore. Who I was and what I am have become one and the same: I am hungry and I have been hungry for so long now I eat, of course, after a fashion, what has for now become my fashion, still, I am always empty. People share with me, they sense my need, people who do not know who I am, yet their gifts are always cold. I have forgotten what it is like to take what I want. I have forgotten what it was ever like to be warm, but I can't forget the taste of blood. It would be wrong to. Jim Murdoch has been writing poetry for fifty years and has graced the pages of many now-defunct magazines and a few, like Ink, Sweat and Tears and Poetry Scotland, that are still hanging on in there. For ten years he ran the literary blog The Truth About Lies but now lives quietly in Scotland with his wife and (increasingly) next door’s cat. He has published two books of poetry, a short story collection and four novels.

Tetsudou watched soap swirl around the drain, the bubbles clogging all the holes. He raised the shower head above him one more time and let the warm water wash over him, flushing the last of the suds away. “I am Tetsudou Eiyou,” he said to himself, walking towards the bathtub, “and I will be champion.” He sank into the bath, pleased with the rush of water that cascaded over the edge as he did so. Though he was close, he was not the champion yet. That would be determined tomorrow. But, with the benefit of planning and certain agreements, his statement was more than just bravado. These things were never explicit, not among the other sumo, but concessions had been agreed upon, assurances made. Tetsudou rubbed the wooden rim of the bathtub, enjoying the slick, slimy feel of the old wood under his hand, warped and swollen through years of washes. He sank lower and stretched his feet out in front of him, feeling the water rise up to his chin; he closed his eyes and allowed himself a small smile. “Will you be proud of it?” a voice said. “Who said that? Who’s there?” Tetsudou opened his eyes and looked around the bathhouse. He was still alone, and the voice had come from inside the room. “Can you even call it a victory?” the voice said again. This time, Tetsudou could tell it came from the same bath he was in. He looked across the water, over the bulbous parts of his body that bobbed up and down on the surface. “Show yourself, coward.” Tetsudou let the anger in his voice show. “How can you call me such a thing, when it is I that defends your heart?” “Ignore him,” said another voice. “We all know that victory is gained on the front foot and I am always the aggressive side. You always attack with your right side.” Tetsudou scanned the water again, seeking the speakers. “Down here, you lummox.” There, on each of his breasts (long ago he had become comfortable enough with his anatomy to refer to them in such a way), was a mouth. “Plus, you are right-handed, clearly I am the more valuable side,” the right breast said. “What you are doing, will do, is not only logical, but fair. All of the others play this same game; shame on you that you did not commit to it sooner.” “Such garbage. Can it even come from the same body?” Left responded. “What you are doing will taint you for longer than you know. Surely you know this, Tetsudou?” Tetsudou stared down at his breasts, both floating on the surface of the water, both smooth and shiny. He glanced up at the temperature gauge, worried he was experiencing some heat-induced psychosis. But no, the water was not especially hot. “How are you...?” “You have an opportunity to redeem yourself. But the cost will be great. Either abandon the match tomorrow or throw it yourself,” Left said. “Awful, awful advice,” Right said. “First, we must fight honourably, now we should meekly give it all up when the spoils are within reach? Just think of the consequences. If you do that, we’ll never get near the top again. It’s basically over. And don’t you think someone will want some recompense, their pound of flesh?” Tetsudou could not form a sentence and could not yet talk to his body parts with ease. “Just think about it,” Right continued, “this is our chance at glory, maybe even the last. You are not a young man anymore. Do you want to be forgotten? To go down as another sap who couldn’t cut it at the top? The rest of them do the same damn thing, and you know it. We’ve fought for years, amicably, and what has it got us? You saw, just last year, when Noriba fell from the stage?” “You have no right to bring him into this,” Left responded. “His death was a tragedy.” “A tragedy of the poxy rules we have to compete under. Why wasn’t there any damn paramedics? Where is the damn honour in that?” “That’s completely different, and you know it.” “It still stands. There is no honour in this sport, only glory.” Tetsudou was certain his left breast tutted as the conversation paused. The falling water grew loud and cacophonous. When he tried to grip the wood around the tub, his fingers slipped and he could not hold on. He felt down for the base of the tub with one foot but could not find it. A terror took hold of his heart. “You know what you have to do,” Left said. “The only sensible thing, of course,” Right responded. The door opened and the coach poked his head through the doorway. “Come, Tetsudou, it is time for supper. You should not stay in here too long, lest you tire yourself out. Tomorrow will be busy.” The trainer winked, grinning, and closed the door. Tetsudou floundered, wrenching himself out of the bath and onto the cold, wet floor. When he stood, heaving his considerable frame, and looked down at his chest, the mouths had both disappeared. He moved to the shower and allowed the water to run over his head. Scrub as hard as he could, he could not remove the slimy feel from his skin. Stuart is a British writer and poet based in Tokyo, where he writes, eats too much, and pretends to speak Japanese. You can find his work at ergot., Calliope, and Black Hare Press.

boxed & delighted we sit knowing now is not the time to speak whether in doting monologues or mythic verse but sit we sit holding our own with ancestral night George Bandy's publications include War, Literature & the Arts (USAF), New Millennium Writings, Baltimore Review, Blue Unicorn, The Saturday Evening Post, Broadkill Review, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Neologism Poetry Journal, Broad River Review and The Southern Poetry Anthology: Vol. IX, Virginia. His poem "Return from War" won the Hart Crane Memorial Poetry Award.

It was more than a shack but not quite a house. Uncle Festus had lived there for sixty years and saw no reason to move into something more comfortable. “This is my home. I love the smell of it, the feel of it, the house, the land, everything. And you think I should leave my place? No! Bagby’s big enough and High Prairie is too big for my liking. Why should I move?” “Maybe because High Prairie has supermarkets, pharmacies and a hospital?” Gail said. “It’s just common sense.” “Like hell common sense. High Prairie also has a nursing home, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he said bitterly. “No, I’m staying right here.” Gail, Festus’ niece, drained her mug of coffee and picked up one of the cookies she’d brought with her. “Not a nursing home but how about moving to a nice apartment or small house?” “Absolutely not.” That was in 2007, the last time they had seen each other in person. By then he had grown thin and appeared frail to her but surprised everyone by living another decade and a half. They were not close but she phoned him once a month. He had been a shy old man and now that he was dead Gail missed him. With his death it had fallen upon her, as his executor, to look through his junk, sell the hut and the large parcel of woods surrounding it. Although Festus lived with a woman for a time when he was young, he’d never married and his only sibling, Clarence, had predeceased him. The proceeds from the sale were to be divided among his nieces and nephews. Festus’ house was on the edge of the village of Bagby so it was hooked up to the electric grid and the water system. Cell reception was patchy but the house had a landline, now disconnected. The small isolated community was surrounded by lush forests of jack pines, maples and willows. Nearby a half dozen lakes teemed with pike, trout and perch. It was her second and last day in the place. She’d boxed all the things that might be useful and donated them to a church in Grouard, a small town southeast of Bagby. Everything else, not that there was much, she’d driven to the dump. All that was left was a wobbly kitchen chair and small table. There was also a mounted grizzly bear head and a photo album bound in alligator leather, filled with ancient black and white pictures. Festus was in some of them along with his late brother, Clarence, but who were all these other faces? She was tired. At forty-one she found the hard work was more than she had expected. A small woman, she regretted not having asked her husband, Bill, or one of her three daughters to help her with this unwelcome task. She was at the table looking at pictures when her cell phone rang. It was Bill. “Yes, dear I’ll be back tonight,” she said. “It’s a long drive to Edmonton. Maybe you should stay the night at some motel?” “I might just do that. Anyway, I’ll leave soon. The sun will be up till ten. It’s only four now, so I should be home by nine or so.” The old photo album fascinated her. She took a close look at a picture of two teenage boys and their parents attending what looked like a rodeo. There was a long rivalry between Festus and Clarence. They both fought in Korea in different battalions, both dated girls from High Prairie. But Clarence moved with his wife to Edmonton where he became a refrigeration mechanic and prospered while Festus stayed near home and scraped by. “Clarence was lucky,” he once told Gail over a pot of tea, “horseshoe up his ass. Nice wife, good job, fine kids and me, nothing much. Lady luck never looked in my direction except I survived Korea. I guess that’s something, something no one remembers.” “Clarence has been dead for years and you’re alive. That’s not nothing.” Both brothers were now dead and soon their memories would fade into the ether. The thought saddened her. She closed the warped front door to the decrepit house and fiddled with the lock till it finally worked. The new owners planned to knock the structure down and build a fishing lodge. They said they would be happy to have the mounted bear head. It was the only thing of any value left in the deserted shack. The sun was still high in the sky and it would be some time before the mosquitoes and no-see-ums were out. Gail climbed into her Silverado pickup and placed the photo album on the passenger seat. A chill ran down her back. It seemed to her something or someone was staring at her from among the trees. Nonsense, she reassured herself. She started the engine, gave one last look at the hut and was surprised to see the door had swung wide open. “Oh, no.” She got out of the pickup truck, hurried back to the wooden door, closed and locked it. She gave the handle a good shake to make sure it was secure. Just past Kinuso she turned south onto Regional Highway 33, Grizzly Trail, a paved two lane thoroughfare. For the next hour she knew the road would be hedged in by woods, clear cut sections and fields with no buildings in sight, no houses, gas stations, or coffee shops, nothing. She didn’t like the thought of traversing this empty stretch of asphalt but it was still daylight and there would likely be other vehicles using the road. She settled back for the drive, searched for a local radio station just in case there was any traffic news she should know about. After a couple of minutes she found a country and western broadcast out of High Prairie and turned up the volume. She was tired but kept her eyes fixed on the highway. Suddenly the road ahead had her full attention. A large brown bear walked out from among the trees. It approached the asphalt without bothering to see if there was any traffic and began to cross. Gail slammed on the brakes a good distance from the formidable grizzly. Her stomach was in a knot. The road was too narrow to easily make a U-turn and escape. She rolled up the windows and waited as the half-ton animal took its time crossing the thoroughfare then disappeared into the woods. After a moment’s hesitation, Gail floored the accelerator and roared straight south away from the unpredictable beast. Ten minutes later she slowed down when she saw a man at the side of the road walking north. He wore baggy pants held up by suspenders. Who wears suspenders nowadays? And where could he be coming from and where could he be going? She was well past him by the time a feeling of uneasiness crept up on her. When she glanced in her side mirrors he was nowhere to be seen. She turned up the radio. Ryan Robinette was singing to her and she could feel her shoulders relax. The serenity didn’t last long. A tire blew and sent her fishtailing down the road before she could bring it to a halt. Jesus, Jesus, when will this day be over? Thank God I wasn’t speeding or the damn thing might have spun out or even flipped. She stayed in the cab for a couple of minutes waiting to see if a bear would show up, then got out and examined the vehicle. It was a rear tire and she wasn’t about to haul out the spare from under the truck bed. From her purse she pulled out her cell which thankfully worked and called AMA. “Yes, we have someone in Slave Lake. I’ll contact him and he’ll call you back.” And he did. She climbed back into the cabin to wait for the tow truck. Feeling a little absurd she combed the ash blond hair that framed her attractive face and carefully applied lipstick. A taciturn, overweight man with wavy brown hair showed up in a new tow truck. Thirty minutes later, spare tire installed, Gail was back on her way. It had been a long day and she was exhausted. Holding her cell with one hand and the steering wheel with the other she spoke with her husband. “Bill, I'm stopping in Swan Hills for the night at a motel. I’m beat and don’t like driving around without a spare tire. I’ll get it fixed or replaced at one of the local garages then drive home tomorrow, okay?” “Yeah, that makes sense. Phone me after you’re settled in.” Google rated all five motels in Swan Hills as good. This abundance of lodgings in a town of only twelve hundred souls was unexpected.  As she headed into the community it reminded her of a large industrial park. The place was built on oil and gas extraction and looked it, austere and uninviting. Three forest fires nearly burned the town to the ground; now trees were a rarity within its limits, less kindling to set the place ablaze. She chose the Dawson Vista Motel on Grizzly Trail. The young woman half asleep at the reception desk gave her a questioning look. Gail told her she’d be staying only the night. “I had to change a flat and want to get the tire fixed or replaced. Any place you recommend?” The woman spat out the gum she had been chewing and took on a contemplative look. “There’s a couple of good garages, Chuck’s Auto Repair or Innes’ Tire and Fender. They’re across from each other just a five minute drive from here.” She made a circular motion with her right arm. “They’d be closed now.” Gail had supper at the local Chinese restaurant. It was a Formica and vinyl establishment straight out of the 1980s, clean and utilitarian. The only other customers were two men, both wearing stained baseball caps, khaki pants and construction boots, drinking beer and talking too loudly, cursing the provincial government’s oil policies. “Yes,” the waiter said to her shaking his head, “the Swan Hills Grizzly, they’re famous for their size. You don’t want to tangle with any grizzly. A couple of months ago one of them walked straight down the street in front of my house, scared the neighbourhood. The thing was bigger than my car. By the time police showed up, it was gone.” She didn’t linger in the eatery. When she got back to the motor inn she unpacked the small suitcase she’d brought with and phoned her husband and eldest daughter then settled in to watch TV. Propped up by pillows on the king-size bed she suffered through a boring movie centred on the life of a woman aviator and her three marriages. Even the romantic scenes were sleep-inducing. After a while she gave up and pulled out a book she’d brought with her, an historic fiction set in 5th century Byzantium. The movie had been a bore and so was the book. She closed her eyes as the volume slid off her lap. Something strange was happening. She found herself in Byzantium being chased by a grizzly. Soldiers in armour and civilians in togas looked on passively as she ran for her life down cobblestone streets, past columned public buildings and street hawkers. The clanging of metal against metal reached her ears. She and the bear slowed down to look at a woeful sight, a dozen emaciated blond-haired men in chains being led to the auction block. Then a growl came from behind her. The beast had resumed his chase. As Gail picked up speed to escape him she was surprised to hear the roar of an engine and see her Silverado truck pass by her going in the opposite direction. Two men in chequered shirts and suspenders were in the cabin. Her Uncle Festus was driving and her Grandfather Clarence was screaming at him, “Stop, stop we have to help her.” But the pickup did not stop. The brown bear closed in on her, huge mouth open, long claws at the ready to rip her to pieces. From a million miles away in another universe she could hear herself moan as she turned her head back and forth on her pillow. The grizzly’s eyes were filled with rage. Her grandfather jumped from the pickup carrying a slingshot and ran toward her. He pulled back on the thick rubber band but was unable to fling the rock toward the attacking beast because Uncle Festus grabbed his arm. The two men began to struggle with each other. “Help,” she said out loud and woke up, heart racing, covered in sweat. After a few minutes she got up, put on her pajamas, brushed her teeth and went to bed. On the nightstand she placed her cell phone and plugged it in to charge. The book, she decided, was trash and dropped it in the wastepaper basket.  A few minutes later she was asleep. In the morning she woke refreshed and drove to Chuck’s Auto Repair. A large man in his fifties appeared. He wore grease-stained overalls and a green and yellow John Deere cap. With a big smile he invited her into his office. The room was a cluttered mess. An old metal desk was covered in papers and unopened envelopes, an overflowing ashtray sat in one corner on a beat-up laptop. A push-button telephone hung on a wall next to a photo calendar featuring a half-naked woman. The room had two chairs but they were occupied by a headlight, a carburetor and parts of a gearbox. “No problem, I can fix your tire. Come back in thirty minutes.” “Maybe I’ll go for a stroll. Where’s downtown?” “There really isn’t a downtown. Sorry.” “I’m going for a walk around here then.” It was a fine summer’s day, cloudless and warm. She retrieved her shoulder bag from her truck and rambled away. Not the prettiest location for a walk. Chuck’s garage was located in an industrial area, a harsher version of the whole town. The buildings were far apart with woods occupying the spaces in between. The structures were mostly prefabricated steel, unadorned and practical. There was very little traffic on the road and since no sidewalks existed, Gail walked on the asphalt. For no particular reason she headed north. Her mind wandered. What would she prepare for supper when she got home in three or four hours? Should she stop at a supermarket first? A large mass of brown hair, muscle, and teeth came looming out from among the trees. Gail froze. Her gut told her this was real, not a dream. The grizzly stopped, sniffed the air then came lumbering toward her, picking up speed as he moved. She knew she couldn’t outrun it, brown bears being at short distances capable of moving as fast as race horses and the distance was becoming shorter by the moment. She started to wave her hands trying to make herself look big, hoping the animal might believe she was a dangerous adversary and not its breakfast. From behind her she heard a rumbling sound. It got closer but she couldn’t turn around to see what it was. Nor did she care. Death was looking her straight in the face. The bear was now in the middle of the street, within fifty feet of her when an ancient GMC heavy duty pickup truck driven by two men in plaid shirts flew by her toward the grizzly. The vehicle flung the bear back so that it rolled several yards. The beast got up dazed but seemed unable to decide what to do next. The pickup truck had now turned around and was again bound for the brown bear. Having had enough, the grizzly hurried into the forest before the GMC reached its target. The vehicle slowed down as it passed Gail. Festus and Clarence waved at her before they and their truck melted into the ether. Abe Margel worked in rehabilitation and mental health for thirty years. He is the father of two adult children and lives in Thornhill, Ontario with his wife. His fiction has appeared in Half Hour to Kill, UPPAGUS, Ariel Chart, Fiction on the Web, Scarlet Leaf Review, Academy of the Heart and Mind, 2020 and 2021 BOULD Awards Anthology and the Spadina Literary Review.

Sailing the chill waters of the Atlantic Ocean, the cargo ship MS Harper was the only speck of brightness in the vast moonless night. Floodlights illuminated the shipping containers stacked on top of one another. Some scuffed, some dented, all of them with their rectangular space occupied by a brand-new Korean car. Fluorescent lights shone through the bridge windows, while inside the bridge, the night watch was convinced that they were the only ship for miles. Harper’s radar told them so. It detected nothing. But that’s understandable, as radio waves have never once bounced off the supernatural. The two exist in completely different realms. A shipwreck ploughed through the trail of water churned from MS Harper’s propeller. Its pitted hull and keel peeked above the waves, rusty rudder as menacing as a shark fin. Below the waves, a school of tuna scattered to avoid being swallowed whole by the broken windows of the shipwreck’s upside-down bridge. No hesitation, no mercy, the shipwreck attacked its prey, rammed the tip of its bow into Harper’s starboard side. The collision knocked the night watch off their feet, flung the rest of the crew out of their bunk beds. Metal bit into metal, a shower of sparks brighter than the stars up above. A metallic screech, the only voice for a dying ship. The shipwreck’s objective is reached, Harper’s hull has been breached. Now the hunter can move on, seeking new prey. Harper’s bow dipped below the ocean. Her stern rose into the air. Sea water swept through her corridors and cabins, converted the living quarters into a submerged coffin. She disappeared under the waves; her bow pointed directly at the seabed somewhere below. The soggy corpses of the crew floated through Harper’s interior like astronauts in zero gravity. The shipping containers tumbled through the watery void, each one with a tail of air-bubbles, more effervescent than the gaseous tail of a comet. Down, down the containers went, faster than fallen angels plummeting into Hell, taking with them Harper’s cargo, capital gain, delivery goals—all of the ship’s ties to humanity were forever lost at sea. Water seethed as Harper rolled her great bulk, neither sinking nor surfacing, neither here nor there. How a cargo ship could slip between the cracks of physics, only the supernatural knew but would never tell. Inside the bridge, the corpse of the captain floated towards an instrument panel, her swaying hair slithered around her scalp. The pale light from a screen glowed upon her bloodless lips and broken veins scribbled across her bloated face. Not even a stray prawn, swimming into the pilot’s gaping mouth, could prevent the corpse taking the helm. The shipwreck started to rise until her bottom hull and keel resurfaced. Like the gills of a fish, ocean water flowed in and out of the jagged gash in her hull. Shipwrecked Harper, and her undead crew, sailed the Atlantic Ocean. All that water, stretching to the horizon in every direction, is now her hunting ground. Glenn works as a support worker in community aged care. Fantasy and sci-fi are his favourite genres that he enjoys reading and wants to write about. Glenn could spend hours reading about mythology, and would like to see ancient Persia become as common as medieval Europe in fantasy novels. Glenn wishes that the process of writing a short story was the same as eating a bowl of ice cream—every spoonful is a pleasant experience, and it’s all over in about five minutes. His fantasy short story, set in ancient Japan, has been published in the Valor anthology from Dragon Soul Press.

The beloved science teacher does this every year: takes a large glass container to the front of the room, shows it to the class empty, of all but air before filling it with rocks. Would you say this is full, he asks, when no more rocks – size of fists, potatoes, pig hearts – will fit without falling out. Yes, the students say. Then he takes out a bag of gravel & pours it in, the chips settling in the holes. He grins as he asks. “Would you say this is full now?” Everyone says yes, now it’s full. So he pours in sand, & then water, & when the meniscus strains at the glassy surface, reflecting back all the earnest faces in the crowd, he says, “Yes, yes, now it is full.” But in this dream I am here in the crowd. I chuckle as I raise my hand and walk to the front of the classroom, pulse attempting to escape the mob murmuring, moisture gathering, here & there where I hope it won’t darken the fabric that hides my creases, my bendable joints, the dead inside limbs that still shuffle. I open myself with a grunt, pour in a portion of my anxiety, let it sink in. Things start to wobble. Dread eats away at everything, the rocks, the sand, the water, the container. The experiment shines like a pickle hooked up to a battery. And I mean, I know, I know nothing can be created or destroyed, no matter, no energy, I flinch as I watch – waiting for something to blow. Shana Ross is a new transplant to Edmonton, Alberta and Treaty Six Territory. Qui transtulit sustinet. A Pushcart and Rhysling nominated author, her work has recently appeared in Gigantic Sequins, Laurel Review, Phantom Kangaroo, Radon Journal and more. She is the winner of the 2022 Anne C. Barnhill prize and the 2021 Bacopa Literary Review Poetry competition, as well as a 2019 Parent-Writer Fellowship to Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. She serves as an editor for Luna Station Quarterly and a critic for Pencilhouse.org

I wake up to the fine grit of sand against my cheek. The scent of human scum and beach funk permeates the space. There’s a stainless-steel toilet on one end of the suspiciously damp public restroom. All smooth edges, nothing for someone to grip onto and rip off. Festooned with toilet paper and piss. The urge to vomit tickles my throat. I gotta get out. I’m in Hermosa Beach. I recognize it. But I can’t fathom how I got here. Above head, the sad darkness of the night, more a static than a sky. I hear the murmur of the promenade from around the corner. I’ve been here a hundred times before. Been coming here all my life. Why am I here? What time is it? My shirt’s soaked against my skin, like the slick fetid slime of seaweed wrapped around your feet. I need to change my clothes, but I wouldn’t know for the life of me where to find any. It’s really early in the morning. The sun is just a melancholy wish, awaiting its grand entrance above the horizon. Or is it really late at night? No point in mulling it over. I head toward the promenade from one of the outlying public restrooms. There’s a somber tranquility permeating the evening. I could see the old arcade, a neon sign winking in the distance. I see the kitschy tourist store, dumb slogan tees draping the façade like bad teenage fringe. My friend Donnie is sitting on one of the benches lining the wide walkway. Looks like he’s eating frozen yogurt by himself. Is he expecting me? “Yo, Palomino!” He glances up, startled. “Oh, hey,” he says, his big horse teeth shining. “W-what. What are you doing here?” It’s all I could muster. “What do you think, idiot. I’m waiting on you and the other two jackasses.” That’d be John and Bobby. Late as usual. Apparently. Donnie should be back in Houston with his family. I don’t remember making any plans to meet up at Hermosa Beach. The circumstances don’t seem to make any sense. My brain’s frozen though. I’m too shaken by this sudden scenario. Should I ask him a question and risk him thinking I’ve lost my marbles? It’s a gamble. I make up an excuse about needing to change – which I do – and retrace my steps back to the bathrooms. It buys me some time alone. Across the ocean, I still see just a rouge scrim of hopeful sun, swallowed by static black. I need to figure this shit out. I discover the splayed remains of my old high school backpack. There’s a bundled-up hoodie inside that I use to replace my filthy shirt. Not much else has been left in the pilfered bag. There’s an aerodynamic frisbee, a fuchsia ring of rubber. With my tattered backpack slung over my shoulder, I head back toward the promenade. Something tells me I shouldn’t ask Donnie any questions. I shouldn’t confront something I’m not ready for. Instead, I figure it might be funny if I fling the frisbee in Palomino’s general direction. He loves shit like that. It sails about a foot over his head, slicing through the sad buzzing warmth of the night. Damn kid nearly drops his froyo. Speaking of which, I’m beginning to crave. For a few minutes Donnie and I post up on the bench, coolly surveying the first few solemn ebbs of life awakening in Hermosa Beach. When I glance over, I still can’t bring myself to ask the questions surrounding these circumstances. He’s got a wife and three kids half the country away. How did this happen? Or why? We hear John hollering from one end of the promenade. Donnie gets up, and retrieves the frisbee. He throws it as hard as possible back toward the beach, way over my head. I hear him chuckling behind me as I chase the damn thing toward one of the berms of sand rising up to prevent flooding into the promenade. A creaky wooden pier bisects the two behemoth mounds, totally empty save a pair of elderly fishermen near the very end. The frisbee flies up and over one of the berms, forcing me to ascend and then tumble down the backside of the hill toward the water itself. I can hear John and Donnie greeting each other in the distance. They’re both teasing me, just the playful hassle between friends. As I approach the fallen toy, I notice the horizon brightening. What was once a sad glow grows cheerier, the sun very nearly bursting through the seam that separates land and sea. “Whaddup EZ,” John says at the foot of the promenade once I’ve returned. We bump fists. “Wanna get some Street Fighter in?” All three of us head to the arcade. Why would we be here so early? Why would the arcade be open at this ungodly hour? Wait. We’re on the West Coast. The sun doesn’t rise over the Pacific. It sets. Or rather, it’s supposed to set. Why did the sky just get brighter when I was retrieving the frisbee that Palomino soared over my head? Is time moving backwards? John has shaved. It’s weird, I haven’t seen him without his characteristic chinstrap beard since we were teenagers, maybe young adults. Did Tiana convince him to do this? He looks objectively younger without the facial hair, I’ll give him that. But it’s a jarring look given how the last decade I’ve seen him with that bushy beard of his. Now that I think about it, Donnie looks kind of different too. A little pudge to him? I can’t quite put my finger on it. But they both definitely look younger. The arcade beckons. The digital explosions, the laser beam simulacra, the buttons mashing. It forms a cacophonous symphony that invokes something deeply nostalgic within me. With the sun coming back up from its plunge below the western horizon, I can’t help but feel like a kid again, soaking up the sights and sounds of Hermosa Beach once more. Street Fighter is one of the first machines within the buzzing game room, just a few feet off the promenade. I let my two buddies head on in first. I’m still struggling to orient myself. The must of beach piss still tickles my nostrils. And the utter lack of memory getting here leaves me just on the right side of sheer panic. Donnie and John have nabbed the machine, and are feeding the little orange faces below the game cabinet with quarters. Everyone else in the arcade is obscured, either their backs turned toward me or their faces mired in a blurry splotch that erases the definitive quality of real life. One of them has chosen Blanka. The other Ryu. The second the fight starts, John starts mashing the punch button, electrifying the screen. Donnie jumps straight into it like a fool, laughing all the same. Bobby’s still nowhere to be found. But that’s the least of my worries, right now. I can’t stifle my disorientation anymore. “How’s Tiana,” I ask, over John’s shoulder. I desperately want him to even acknowledge her existence. He’s been married to her for five years. And Donnie’s had three kids since that point. Are they living in the same time as I am? “Wha-?” they both ask. No recollection. Tiana’s just a word scattered in the early evening breeze. These are the young punks I knew when we were in our early twenties. None of us were involved with anyone back then. It’s the small window where we were really at our closest. When I swivel back out toward the promenade for fresh air, I notice that the sun has resurrected even further up from its decline, and the horizon is now a deeply resonant orange. John’s doing that long swooping double punch Blanka is capable of, keeping Donnie at bay. Each punch that connects, the sun rises further out of the sky, diminishing the coming tragedy of sundown. They’re just a couple of kids, mashing buttons. Everything is beginning to make sense. I’ve woken up in the putrid stench of a beach bathroom, and I’ve gone back in time. Years ago. Now it’s just me and my friends chasing the dreams of early adulthood. They don’t have any memory of everything I’ve lived through in the years since. They don’t know what’s to come. John wins the first round, and the sun crests the horizon. I’m greeted by the ethereal glow of a rising sun. I try my hardest to forget the circumstances of how I got here, or the logistics of my time travel in general. Donnie attempts his comeback. He throws his first hadoken, the blue fireball rolling across the screen. From there on out, he spams the one power move he knows. John’s initial fury is masked by the dopey smile on his face. Over my shoulder, the setting sun defies us further. It’s halfway out from the horizon. “Howdy, maggots,” Bobby says, having materialized by the air hockey table. “Sup,” Palomino says, mashing down-forward-punch, down-forward-punch. A flurry of his fireballs brings us closer to home. The sunset is just fading despair, this day defiantly wanting to make its mark on me. I know I have to live in this moment. I have to relish it, because I know these circumstances are sure to collapse soon. The gig will be up. “Hey, man” I say, and shake Bobby’s hand. I shake it the same way I always have, to this very day. Whichever one I may be existing in. “Whaddup,” John says, skillfully hopping over an incoming hadoken. While they’re all crowding Street Fighter, I head outside. It’s golden hour. The frozen yogurt shop’s a few steps away. Self serve. I swirl a base of vanilla, glancing back out through the window. The sky is going more brilliant by the second. I see the ghostly strangers on the promenade pausing, engulfed in its beauty. I swirl strawberry, to balance the sweetness of vanilla. It’s working. My joy is saving the day. Our joy. We’re all experiencing the innocence of youth. Whether they know what’s to come or not, for this moment, we can enjoy the virtue of our friendship. With the resurrected sun, maybe I get to live it for a little while longer. Lychees and Fruity Pebbles to top the froyo. I walk out, and bathe in the sun. At the foot of the promenade, curbside, gleans Bobby’s Camaro. We’ve gotta go for a ride. It’s what we always do. I remember every weekend, each revery rushing up to me, driving up the coast, through the snaking roads. The sun seems to be following our joy. John reigns supreme at Street Fighter, the electroshock of rapid button mashing stymying both Donnie and Bobby. We meet at the curb, and get in the car. Bobby’s always happy to drive. None of us ultimately care where we’re sitting in the car, but someone’s gotta yell shotgun anyways. “Shotgun,” I holler. I know this moment is going to end. The scenario will inevitably collapse in on itself. The illusion of youth will fade away, and the sun will sink back beneath the horizon as time reorients and trudges forward once more. But for now, with every joke hollered, every inch of gravel gnashed, and every moment savored, I can at least forget the notion of real life and be with my friends. In Bobby’s Camaro, we carve through the hills above the coastline, and bathe in the resurrected sunshine. Eric Farrell is a beer vendor by day, and speculative fiction author by night. His writing credits stem from a career in journalism, where he reported for a host of college, local, and metro newspapers in the Los Angeles area. He has recent fiction with Aphotic Realm, HyphenPunk, and Haven Spec.

“Why do my minions have to be such damned idiots?” Though chapped beyond all patience (admittedly, a low threshold in his case), he grins at the witticism. Somebody has to glimmer in this darkness. Having quickly returned to glowering, he sends visible tremors through the ranks of his retainers. Heads, arms, and legs will roll before long. “Most dread Majesty...” begins his chief toady. “Itching for a dip in the lake, are we?” Effective beetle-browed menace. “One would think the Loosifer episode enough of a warning, wouldn’t one?” That was five centuries ago, practically yesterday in the grand scheme of things and his elephant memory for slights. A laborer who’d only had experience carving gargoyles in life chiseled that creative spelling on a plaque. As if his master’s unparalleled iniquity came down to a question of looseness: lax morals, the gyrations of a floozy. Plus, it contained the barely veiled implication that the Creation’s arch-rebel was no more than a cosmic loser. When bored, he sometimes visits that hapless peasant forced to incise the correct spelling in his soul’s flesh without end. It’s pleasant to be supreme punisher. He points a wickedly long fingernail at three random victims, now slated to be baked, broiled, and fricasseed. “All hail the boundless might of Emperor Satan!” Normally he would deign to accept such a tribute, but just now it only serves to remind him of another insult, a single-letter flub. Let’s see, how did that go: Shake, O Earth, from pole to pole; Thy liege lord, Satin, takes his stroll. Aside from that ridiculous image of him on a leisurely constitutional, he apparently struck fear into the world as a paragon of textile smoothness. When one of his ministers tried to spin the boneheaded gaffe into praise of his silky seductive powers, he had the fellow rolled up in a bolt of molten lead. Satin indeed. He could practically hear his underlings smirk as he strolled past. And now this: death by contraction. The edict was fiendishly stringent. Performance reviews for tormentors would no longer be based on testimonials from the tormented. That practice led to quid pro quo deals: laxer inflicting for stellar assessments. Instead, objective data from newly installed shriek meters would be used. These things are sophisticated enough to distinguish the real article from fake no-stop-you’re-hurting-me cries. But at the bottom of the directive, where the name of absolute authority should have ended all discussion, lay the chummy sign-off Stan. Stan rakes leaves in a cardigan sweater. Stan drives his son’s Cub pack to a jamboree in his minivan. Stan has a power-washing business that specializes in removing tough stains from vinyl siding. Stan does not exult over introducing sin and death into paradise. Stan cannot take credit for stoking numberless souls with despair one customized dejection at a time. Stan will never know the hellish satisfaction of infinitely spiteful pride. So he sits on his throne literally steaming with resentment and malice. Emperor. Are they comparing him to a penguin? James Fowler has authored a poetry collection, The Pain Trader (Golden Antelope Press, 2020), and a volume of short stories, Field Trip (Cornerpost Press, 2022).

For you, I’d stand sacrificial on the plinth, neck first. Perhaps the gravest worship Is an oncoming death. My willingness to Spill. I will be– Blood, running, head Rolling Asymmetric Limbs swollen splinter thin Lit in sacrificial fire lying, imaginary on your lap, No longer virginal. My last pleasure would consume me. See, non-corporeal lover of horror and me, You blissful sorrow-eater, It is right to love between your teeth, Natural to consume. Jordan Davidson is a student of Humanities and Physics at Yale University with aspirations of genetically engineering large, centipede-like rabbits to be used for world domination. Just kidding. Or is she? Her work has previously been published by Zombies Need Brains, Gingerbread House, and CORTEX Collective, among others, and is upcoming in Ionosphere and Corvid Queen.

Sometimes one of us rises to the surface, taking flight from the bottom of Dark Sea, where, exiled, we have stayed for so long. Defeated in old battles forgotten by time, sentenced in absentia by a merciless court, clearing debts of incautious ancestors. Our vision accustomed to the shadows, our body surviving with minimal breath. When the one who adventures the climb arrives on the shore and breathes full life, he is abruptly sunk again by diligent guards, those armed cherubim at Paradise Gate. Has our penalty not yet lapsed? Has not yet been paid the reparation of the beaten? Could we endure light by the day of release? Perhaps, then, with a pledge of the dark days of yore, we may, sharing beloved Earth with the Almighty, make a new light; friendly to human nature, openhearted, unabrasive and compassionate. Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 80 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement from a bank. Since then, he counts 190 poems published, in 300 different publications. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and his first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – was launched in London in 2018. His second, Joie de Vivre, has been launched in April 2022. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

I’ve been in a dark place since the accident. I know I need to let her go, to accept that I’m never going to see her again, but I can’t. I can’t rest. I can’t lie still. I can’t move on. All I can do is think about her. My wife. My love. My Lisa. What’s done is done; what’s dead is dead. I know that—of course, I do. I know she’s in a better place. I know she’s up there somewhere, looking down on me like a guardian angel. And I know I should take comfort in that…but I don’t. The thought makes me livid. There’s nothing for me here, nothing but suffocating loneliness. It’s like I’m drowning in crude oil, trapped in tar, sinking slowly into an infinite void. There’s no warmth, no light, no hope, just an impenetrable gloom that presses in on me from all sides, threatening to crush me with the grim finality of my situation: I’m alone. Forever and ever, alone. But…what if I didn’t have to be? What if I could be with her again, even if only for a moment? She’s so close, I can practically touch her. The only thing between us is a few feet of freshly-turned earth. All I have to do is dig. I know there’s something wrong with me. I know I’m not well. A normal person doesn’t have these kinds of thoughts. But I don’t care. I have to try to reach her, to see her one more time. I need to tell her I love her. I miss her. And I’m sorry. The accident was my fault. We wouldn’t even have been on the road in the first place if I hadn’t insisted on leaving her sister’s place instead of spending the night there to wait out the storm. The forecast was calling for 12 to 18 inches of snow in the span of a few hours. An inch-deep carpet of downy white had already blanketed every surface outside. “You seriously want to drive in this?” Lisa asked. “Why don’t we just stay here for the night?” “We’ll be fine,” I insisted. The thought of spending even one more minute with Lisa’s vapid sister and her idiot husband turned my stomach. At my urging, we said some hasty goodbyes, made vague promises about visiting again soon, then slip-skated down the driveway to my car. I regretted the decision almost immediately. The snowfall was so heavy that I could barely see the road in front of me. It was a near-total whiteout, as if a shroud of white gauze had been draped over the windshield. I drove as carefully as I could down the winding mountain road. But I wasn’t careful enough. We were on a steep downhill stretch when I lost control of the car. A tree had fallen across the road on the far side of a blind curve, completely blocking our lane. Its branches materialized out of the snow-smudged darkness like giant black claws reaching from the nether. My breath caught in my throat as I slammed my foot on the brake and wrenched the wheel. The tires didn’t screech—they whispered, sliding silently on the blanket of snow covering the asphalt. The car fishtailed, spun, then plowed trunk-first through the guardrail and over the side of the cliff. There was a brief, eerie silence as the car plummeted through open air, then the world exploded in a cacophony of shattering glass and rending metal. Lisa and I were both thrown violently within the confines of our seat belts as the car rolled down the slope and crashed into the trees below. Once the car came to a stop, everything became a blur. I remember looking over at Lisa as she slumped against the passenger side door, her head hanging loose on her neck. A fine dusting of snow blew in through the gaping hole where the windshield used to be, accumulating on her blood-matted hair like the delicate lace of a bridal veil. The next thing I knew, I was laying on my back, looking up at the night sky. One of the car’s headlights was still illuminated, sending a beam of white light slicing through the frigid air like a distress beacon. The snow had stopped. There was no moon, just a low cover of clouds that pulsed with red and blue light from the emergency vehicles assembled somewhere on the road above. Muffled voices warbled like the underwater vocalizations of a diver shouting into a snorkel. Then I was floating in the air, rising toward a giant metal bird that beat the air with a whup-whup-whup sound, conjuring a dervish of stinging snow and freezing wind that blasted against my skin. After a long period of oblivion, I awoke on a table as a doctor wearing a rubber apron and blue nitrile gloves moved above me, silhouetted against the bright light overhead. I tried to call out for Lisa, but I was unable to form any words. It felt like my mouth was stuffed with cotton, like my lips were stitched shut. I remember how cold I was, as if they had opened every window to let in the frigid winter chill. I tried to raise my hand to signal to the doctor to close the windows, but I couldn’t move. My limbs were stiff and numb. They felt almost foreign to me, the arms and legs of a mannequin instead of a human. Never mind the cold, I thought to myself. Where’s Lisa? I resolved that, as soon as I could speak again, I would ask the doctor to wheel me in to see her. Little did I know that it was already too late. The funeral was horrible. Lisa’s face was deathly pale in contrast to her all-black dress,the rouge on her cheeks garish and overdone in an obvious attempt to bring some color to her ghostly pallor. I remember a parade of forlorn faces streaming past me, awkwardly mumbling their condolences. There were tears. Hugs. Prayers. A eulogy. Grief filled the room like a noxious ether. Lisa’s parents were there. They didn’t speak to me though—they just stared vacantly at me from their seats in the front row. My suit felt uncomfortable and ill-fitting; the tie was way too tight. At first, I wondered why I had tied it so tightly, before realizing that I had no recollection of tying it at all. Normally it would have been Lisa who tightened it, ensuring that the knot was straight and even, but obviously it hadn’t been her. So who had tied it then? I couldn’t say. Whoever it was, they hadn’t given much thought to my comfort. I couldn’t turn my head. I couldn’t breathe. It felt like I was wearing a noose. After the funeral, the darkness settled in. Or rather, I settled into it. I let it envelop me, succumbing to its cold embrace. I didn’t know if there was still a sun in the sky, but even if there was, it didn’t matter—its light couldn’t reach me. I was too far gone. All I could do was think about Lisa, about how we were doomed to spend eternity apart. There was no more us. There was just me and her. Me, here. Her, there. Forever. I’m not sure how long I allowed myself to suffer in silence before I decided to do something about it. I spent what felt like days in a dissociative fugue, floating outside my body, looking down on myself from above. What I saw made me sick. I didn’t even recognize who I was anymore. I was a shell of my former self, wasting away, disintegrating into nothing. I had given up, allowing myself to succumb to my fate as if it was inevitable, as if there was nothing I could do about it. But there was. I just had to summon the will to do the impossible. The unspeakable. The insane. I know things between Lisa and I can never fully be restored. There’s no going back to how we were before the accident. Like I said earlier, done is done and dead is dead. I know that. But if there’s even the slightest chance that we can be together again, I have to try. As I reach up and begin clawing at the silk fabric lining the inside of my coffin, I feel a surge of hope for the first time since the accident. I don’t know how long it will take to dig my way out of here, but it doesn’t matter—I only have forever. I’ll dig my way through silk and wood, past dirt and worms, through grass and mud, emerging from the darkness and back into the light. I’m coming for you, Lisa. I love you. I’ll see you soon. Warren Benedetto writes dark fiction about horrible people, horrible places, and horrible things. He is an award-winning author who has published over 100 stories, appearing in publications such as Dark Matter Magazine, Fantasy Magazine, and The Dread Machine; on podcasts such as The NoSleep Podcast, Tales to Terrify, and Chilling Tales For Dark Nights; and in anthologies from Apex Magazine, Tenebrous Press, Scare Street, and many more. He also works in the video game industry, where he holds 35+ patents for various types of gaming technology. For more information, visit warrenbenedetto.com and follow @warrenbenedetto on Twitter and Instagram.