Category: Fiction

The Grim Reaper has an office on fourth street. He works on the 13th floor of the Edath complex in a small office with faded gray walls and filing cabinets. People schedule appointments to argue their cases over whether or not they should die from sunrise to sunset, and at night he files paperwork.

There at his broad desk sat the old man, his complexion pale and eyes sunken deep into his skull. They had once burned a fierce red color but the years had caused them to pale to an unfitting glassy pink. He still wore his iconic black robe, shadowing his gaunt face, but he had long abandoned the scythe which sat dusty from disuse in the corner, by the coffee maker. For awhile he had tried to catch up with the times by getting a lawnmower to replace it but it just didn’t work. Now all of his work was done with a pen.

His pale skin sat loosely on his bony framework like a white sheet that was near about to fall off entirely. Atop his head was a patch of long and gray frayed hair that he occasionally dyed black. Spiders would often nest behind his flaky ears as ants crawled through the sockets of his eyes and out his nose. That is, until they itched so bad that he’d rub his nose and they’d all scatter.

There was a woman standing on the other side of the desk, her eyes wide with terror. She frantically began to spin a story trying to win over his sympathy, telling him about all the good she has done in the world, and how the accident wasn’t her fault. But the Grim Reaper just flipped through a folder of musty paperwork and looked up at her with his drooping eyes.

“It says here you died in a car accident, if I’m right.” He said, his voice gravelly.

“Yes but I’m telling you, it wasn’t my fault!”

“If that was the case, but it says here you were drunk.”

“They were going too fast!”

“If you say so. Let’s see, you killed a family of three. And you hit a dog.”

“But really I’m a good person!”

“If I knew otherwise, but this says here you were a drug addict too.”

He could see her face was blushed, either from the tears that wanted to break free or the alcohol. He flipped through his papers some more and clicked his pen, drawing a circle around the woman’s name.

“If I could see the next person please?” He sighed.

The woman jumped up and down with elation, delighted that he had not crossed out her name. A black crow dove off from the coffee maker, where she had been perched, and ushered the woman out the door, signaling the next person to come in.

A blonde haired man, his face pure and unmarked, emerged from the doorway shrouded in a heavenly glow. He had wings as white as doves, and a golden halo crowning his head. The white robe, beautiful and flowing, wavered behind him, hitting the crow in the face.

“If you do that to my secretary she’ll get mad and won’t make my coffee right.” The Grim Reaper said with a sigh.

“Alright, then I shall do it ‘nevermore’!” Said the angel.

“If she was a raven that would be funny.”

“Whatever, old man.”

“I still have people out there, if it’s not sunset. What do you want Gabriel?”

“I have a different proposal for you, this one I think you’ll like. Could you at least have a look at it?”

“If I was interested I would, but I’m not retiring. I’ve got too much to do to retire. So piss off.”

The Grim Reaper waved his bony fingers at Gabriel, motioning him to leave as he took up his pen. He looked over the next set of papers and reached for his coffee mug, sipping down the black and bitter liquid.

“Don’t be sour. You could at least look it over.”

“And if not? Go blow a horn.”

“Fine. By the way your skin is falling off.”

Gabriel slammed the door behind him, causing the walls to vibrate and the ants to scatter on his desk. The Grim Reaper shook his head and called out again.

“If I could see the next person please?”

#

Morning would find the old man stooped over his desk, face buried in his papers. The hood of his robe veiled him, muffling the sound of a beak rapping at his door, little talons frantically scratching to get in. There were no windows in his office, so it was impossible to tell what time of day it was. But he knew when each morning began.

He slowly got up, knees trembling under his own weight, and shuffled slowly to the door, bare feet dragging against the wooden floor boards. The nails of his toes left scuff marks forming a trail from his desk to the door. He jiggled the loose handle and the door creaked open. In flopped the little black corvid, parcel betwixt her beak. She hobbled across the floor and hopped up onto his desk, bobbing her head up and down.

“You wouldn’t be so jittery if you drank less coffee.” He commented, taking the note from her beak.

It was folded and sealed with a golden wax seal; a trumpet. Carefully he broke the seal with his jaundiced nails, ingrown and overgrown. It was crinkly yet delicate, with a fine texture. But the words on the top, in bold red ink, forged the words ‘EVICTION’.

He crumbled the note and tossed it to the floor, moving over to his desk. After sitting for a moment, he got back up, picked up the balled paper, and straightened it on the edge of the table as one would a dollar bill. He plucked a folder from one of the cabinets and stored the note away; no point in making his floor messy.

“If that pansy wants my job, he’ll have to pry it from my already dead hands.”

#

Once again, like clockwork, a line had formed outside his door, the impatient masses waiting for their judgment. Would they won’t they, all of their bright eyes upon him, begging, pleading. He made sure to pull the hood of his robe tighter over his head, casting shadows in the crevices of his face.

The first one came in, and then the second and the third. With the click of pen and a motion of the wrist, he judged them one by one. Circles and x’s. In between each person he took another swig of coffee but inevitably he just sank deeper into his chair, the joints of his bones filled with ache.

And then finally came Gabriel, the edges of his lips curled into a smirk as the door opened, his wavering robe hitting the Grim Reaper’s assistant in the face. He strode up to the desk and leaned on one hand.

“I thought you’d have packed up your things by now.” He said, grinning.

“I’d have done so, if I were going somewhere. Now if you would I’m busy.”

“I know you’re still sour old man but it was an order from the Big Man himself. Time to go.”

“If I could see the next person please?”

“If if if, always if. Talk straight for once.”

“Talk straight? If that wasn’t coming from the man who blows horns for a living-”

“That’s it!”

Gabriel slammed his other fist down on the desk, yet the whole room shook. The spiders fell loose from the Grim Reaper’s hair, and the crow hobbled about in confusion, crashing into the coffee pot.

“If you’re not out of here by tomorrow, I will personally throw you out myself!”

The Grim Reaper calmly stood up from his chair and picked up his mug. It was empty. Both his assistant and Gabriel watched slowly as the old man shuffled strangely over to the coffee machine, wondering if he’d gone senile or deaf or both.

He picked up the pot and poured himself another cup, swirling the black liquid around and around. He raised the mug up slowly and placed it to his dry lips, and didn’t remove it until the cup was drained.

“Gabriel, if my memory was as good as it used to be, I’d know how long you’d been working here. So how long has it been?”

“A few thousand years.” He asserted, slightly confused.

“Alright.”

The old man placed the mug on the cabinet and reached up to his cheek. He dug his nails deep into the skin, tearing it away like paper-cloth. He tore at his face until only the bare bone remained, shadowed by his black robe. Then he peeled away the flakey flesh from his fingers, and turned to face the door.

The little crow that had been perched on the desk suddenly took flight, swooping over the Grim Reaper’s dusty scythe and clutching it in its talons. It cawed loudly, spitting up blood as she delivered the scythe to him, and he turned around, grabbing it and posturing. As he faced Gabriel, the Grim Reaper’s eyes flared red, and Gabriel sank, face contorted with fear.

The deathly figured loomed towards the angel, the walls around them turning black as pitch. The crow fluttered about angrily, spitting up blood onto Gabriel’s white robe, cawing loudly about his trembling figure. The ghoul then slammed the end of his staff against the floor, jutting a bony finger into the angel’s terrified face.

“I’ve been working here since the dawn of fucking time. And if you had any brain in that girly head of yours, you’d get the fuck out of my office.”

The door swung open as he spoke, his voice suddenly deep; a bellowing lion’s roar. Gabriel stumbled to his feet and quickly fled out of the office screaming, the door slamming shut behind him. As he did the black walls faded again to grey, and the crow returned peacefully to the desk. He went over to his cabinets, filled with folders upon folders of paperwork, hoisted it up over his head in one swift motion. He kicked open the door and threw the cabinet into the hall, tumbling about with a clatter.

All of the people that had lined up, waiting for their judgment, suddenly balked and shrank in their places. The Grim Reaper slammed his scythe against the ground, and called out.

“If I could see the next person please?”

by Elizabeth Ferrante

Biography

I’m a writer. That is all.

“Shit. Fuck. Fuck me sideways!” she said. “Fucking Murphy’s Law, I fucking hate it!” Grete screamed. This was just her luck. A car accident two miles away from the college she was finally graduating from. It had taken her long enough!

Grete was told as a child that she was graceful and eloquent. She had never felt that way. Grete might have been graceful on a dance floor, but not anywhere else. She always believed that Edward A. Murphy was a long lost relative from the Air Force. The first date she went on was disastrous, sprinkled with a broken heel, a flat tire, and a man that loved the sound of his own voice first and foremost. After twenty three years of life, Grete had just come to expect it. If the worst could happen, it would happen to her.

#

When Grete was nine, her grace was seemingly replaced with social awkwardness. She, like most girls, wanted very desperately to fit in. The playground was approximately two miles from her house. The things that her mom was proudest of were normally the things Grete got ridiculed for. The curly, auburn hair, the beauty mark under her chin, the deep, green eyes were all ammunition for the bullies at that same playground. The “cool” girls would scoff at her and roll their eyes when she passed them in the halls. The boys were always really mean, coming up with very creative ways to belittle and demean her.

On the walk to the playground, Grete was hopeful. She was hopeful that those same kids would be nice to her, accept her. All of the popular kids were hanging next to the monkey bars, pushing a younger boy into the sandbox. Grete thought, just step right up to those monkey bars and very calmly get across. If anything, maybe the boys’ll stop pickin’ on me.

Grete did as she thought. She strutted up to the monkey bars, took a deep breath, and placed her hand around the first bar. The first two bars proved to be no problem. On the third bar, right as all of her body weight was coming forward, her hand slipped. The fall off the bar was abrupt and painful. Upon further examination, Grete found a bone sticking out of her elbow. The cool kids laughed immediately upon her impact, and scattered just as quickly when they noticed her now broken arm. The entire walk home she allowed one tear to fall.

#

The morning had started off really well. The blue jays were dancing around the elm tree in her front yard like two meringue dancers making beautiful art on a dirt road. The early beauty mesmerized Grete every morning and usually left her little time to eat or prepare for anything pertinent. The bread that Grete typically burnt on the way out the door was perfectly toasted. She ate her toast, then dragged herself out the door to the truck without brushing her hair.

Today was going to be a big day for Grete. She was graduating college from the University of Oregon with a bachelor’s degree in the Liberal Arts. A bachelor’s degree in that field was akin to college athletes that can’t decide what they’ll do if they don’t become professional athletes. As Grete had always said, “A liberal arts degree just means you couldn’t ever decide what you wanted to do with your life. It’s like getting a degree in indecision”.

Grete began to wonder what kind of job she could get with a degree in indecision. Maybe there was a company out east that sat on other people’s hands for a fee. She had always done that: zoned out about inane things that would make a stoner drink his own bong water. She had an especially bad habit of doing that while guys hit on her. As a matter of fact, Grete had always done that. For all intents and purposes, she really was an introvert.

#

By the time Grete had reached high school, puberty had kicked ass. The same boys that picked on her at the playground expressed their creativity differently now. They made comments about her lips, her hips, well, most of her anatomy. The damage had been done though. Grete admittedly enjoyed denying the boys that had been so abrasive to her during her childhood.

The popular girls spread a variety or rumors about her, ranging from a fascination with moose to her sleeping with a freshman. That was part of the reason why she didn’t have a ton of friends. Girls could be much meaner than the boys could. At least the boys wanted to fuck her.

At the Senior Prom, Grete took a nice guy. There was nothing wrong with it. She had a wonderful time: but no sex. It’s not that he didn’t try. She had worn a bra that snapped in the front. The kid had spent the first ten minutes practically pinching the top center of her back. When Grete instructed the hapless wonder to the front, he tried to unsnap the bra with one hand. In one instant, great prom turned into a Monday disaster. The bra snap had broken off and in turn, hit her directly in the eye. The trip to the emergency room was priceless too.

#

Graduation Day was finally upon her. She had worked very hard to finish school. Grete was a dreamer, always had her head in the clouds. The four year party was ending, and she was going to have to find a career. So long as nothing bad happened along the way. It was a little strange, graduating college and moving on. Grete felt like that famous quote that went something like, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” She had known and seen too many people that had graduated college only to end up sitting on their parents’ couch gainfully unemployed.

The sudden emergence of storm clouds was an ordinary one for anyone that lived in Oregon. Grete partially rolled down her windows and turned on her windshield defroster. As she merged onto the interstate, “Empire State of Mind” was playing on the radio. Grete didn’t normally listen to the radio, but her CD player was of course, broken, and holding captive her favorite Jewel album. She didn’t want to go get her stereo fixed admittedly because she did not like the idea of mechanics scoffing at her choice of whiny, chic music.

The merge onto the interstate was interrupted by a loud honk. Grete looked into her rear view mirror and there was an angry looking man flashing his high beams behind her. The assholes always come out at the hint of bad weather. It’s like they wait for the weather to change to all get in their cars and be douche bags. The driver had gotten so close to her bumper, Grete could no longer see his high beams. She glanced over to the left lane, only to realize she was blocked in. Why is this guy being such an asshole? I can’t go any fucking where!

After three miles of this, Grete’s patience was thinner than a sheet of tissue paper. So, she weighed her options, and decided to break check the driver behind her. Unfortunately, this only seemed to piss off the driver even more. The left lane had opened up, but this driver seemed unusually fascinated with her rear bumper. So, Grete got into the left lane to try to alleviate the situation. She was becoming increasingly worried that if this continued, one of them would end up hurt or dead. She thought back to her father, who had on many occasions addressed aggressive driving. Her father used to say, “If a driver makes you uncomfortable, just pull over, and get out of their way.” Those words become particularly poignant at this interval. Grete gave those words a second’s thought, and then she flashed on her hazards.

Grete passed over the ridges on the side of the interstate and coasted into the grass by the side of the road. Much to her surprise, the same angry driver was also pulling over. Oh fuck, I hope this guy doesn’t have a gun. Boy would that suck. Girl killed on interstate on her way to graduation. Grete wasn’t much for conflict, but it looked like there would be one.

Grete looked in her rear view mirror, and the man was still in his car. He seemed to be fumbling with something in the backseat. She got out of her car pensively, praying silently to herself that this could be resolved peacefully.

If this guy’s gonna kill me, I wish he would just hurry the fuck up and do it. Grete leaned on the back of her pick up truck, waiting for the man to get out of the car. She had bit every one of her nails all the way down to the cuticle. Finally, the driver got out of his car.

The driver got out of the car and something didn’t look right. It looked like one leg was longer than the other. Then, she noticed it. One of his legs had one of those Bob Marley One Love stickers on it. She thought it was strange that a grown man would shave his legs and then put a sticker on it.

The man was in his twenties, maybe early thirties. He did not, however, look angry, which was a relief. The man asked, “Everything alright?”

“Not really. You’ve been attached to my bumper for like the last five miles. You must not be in much of a hurry if you wanted to talk to little ol’ me. I was trying to get out of your way”.

“I know. I’m sorry,” the driver said.

“So you’re not gonna shoot me?” Grete could only manage a sheepish little smile. She had never been good at flirting her way out of disaster. This was as good as it got.

“What? No, I’m not gonna shoot you! Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Um, I don’t know, the high beams, the tailgating, you pulling over behind me. What the hell would you think?”

The young man took a step closer to her, and he began to stumble. It looked like his sneaker had gotten stuck in the ridging that slowed down cars getting onto the shoulder. Then, his leg popped off and the driver fell flat on his face.

“Oh my fucking God! Are you alright?” Grete ran to the man to help him up. As she was helping him up, his prosthetic leg got hit by an eighteen wheeler transporting automobiles.

“Fuck. Fuck. I’m a fucking dead man.” The driver put his head in his hands and angrily stomped up and down on his now, one good leg.

Grete looked over to his prosthetic limb being run over and over again, car after car. She began to notice the small, zip lock bags shooting out of his One Love limb every time a car or truck ran it over. What the hell have I gotten myself into?

The driver finished his temper tantrum and hopped over to Grete. She no longer felt threatened by him. He was trying to wipe the tears out of his face. He asked, “Are you cool?” Another bag went flying out of the leg.

She didn’t know what he meant. This was so far removed from reality, she doubted her grandkids would ever believe her if she recanted this story. What does that even mean, ‘are you cool?’ “Um, yeah, I guess. Is there anything I can do to help?”

The driver said, “Yeah, when there’s a break in traffic, can you go grab my leg, and whatever else is left in there?”

“Is it drugs?”

The driver looked at her with a coy smile. “No, it’s my medicine for restless leg syndrome. Yes, it’s fucking coke, and now it’s getting all fuckin’ wet.”

There was a pause. There was no break in traffic, and they both leaned on her pickup truck waiting. The driver said, “I’m John, by the way.”

“I’m Grete. It’s been very strange meeting you, John.”

There was a break in traffic. Grete ran, grabbed the flattened leg, and tersely picked up as many little baggies as she could find. The window to run back across had closed, so she stood in the median, holding a flattened, prosthetic limb and about ten grams of cocaine. John was waving his hands back and forth from the other side of the road. She squinted to read his lips. He was saying something about her being the best. A couple of minutes later, Grete handed the baggies and the limb to John.

John hopped back to his car with his limb and his little baggies of cocaine.

“Did I get it all?” Grete asked.

“You got most of it. I wasn’t gonna quit this soon, so thank you.”

“Well, John, good luck with your um, enterprise.”

“Waddya mean, my enterprise? What, do you think I’m a thug drug dealer that sells coke to high school students?”

“Well, do you?” Grete put her hand on her hip.

“Not everybody can have mommy and daddy pay for their education.” John pulled out his University of Oregon student ID card, and showed it to her.

“That’s not what I meant, I…”

John shook his head and smiled at the same time. He said, “It’s cool. I just love makin’ you privileged kids squirm. You should be goin’ soon, don’t you have a graduation you have to go to?”

“How’d you know that?” Grete was a little alarmed.

John just smiled and pointed to her window sticker. It read, University of Oregon Class of ’10. Grete smiled, put her head down, then said, “Ahhh, don’t I feel like a moron.”

John approached her one hop at a time. He gave her a big hug, and she thought he had grabbed her butt. He got back into his car, and just as quickly as she had seen him, he was gone.

Grete nodded her head and smiled. My grandkids will never believe this ever really happened. As she got back into her pickup truck, she yelled, “FUCK! My graduation.” The screech of tires could be heard all the way to Eugene.

Grete graduated without a hitch. It wasn’t until her parents hugged her that she noticed the note in her back pocket. John hadn’t grabbed her ass at all, he had just left his number back there.

She thought about it for a while. A drug dealer using his prosthetic to hide his stash is someone I might like to know better.

#

Grete did get to tell her grandkids about it. John married her three years later, when he got his degree in physics. They just didn’t end up telling the grandkids until they were in high school.

by Daniel O’Shea
Biography

I was born in New Jersey, and I attended high school there. I attended Monmouth University while up there, and moved down to Florida in 2003. I have been enrolled in SCF for the last two or so years.

The ground beneath my feet sank; mud was caking to my boots. I stumbled away from the scene in utter disbelief of what I had just witnessed.

My legs collapsed on me as my body went into shock. Breathing was a challenge for me now; my breaths were shallow and unnatural. I noticed that my linen shirt was torn, probably snagged on a branch as I passed through the woods. It’s funny what insignificant things you can notice when your life is in danger. I think anything trifling would catch my eye so that I wouldn’t be forced to face the facts.

I am a failure and not even worthy to hold his sword. Death should grant me mercy and steal me from this world. There are certain commitments that I must fulfill and one of them was to protect my knight from harm, but he is dead.

Just recently I aged to fourteen years old and upgraded from a page to a squire. I preach on how I would forfeit my life for my Lord the King, and yet I just ran as Sir Daniels was mauled by a creature of these woods. Just the thought of that demon makes my chest tighten and my throat swells to the point it is hard to swallow my own saliva.

As a squire, when my mentor and I traveled I was in charge of holding his two-handed sword, battle axe, mace, daggers, and his shield. When the evil force preyed upon my knight, I should have been brave and struck the belly of the beast with his sword.

It was just so gigantic and intimidating. It was a metallic purple color but I’m sure the night was playing tricks upon my eyes. The moonlight caused the creature’s scales to glisten. His wings were taller than any oak in the woods. I knew my life would be pointless if I didn’t go back and retrieve my knight’s body because he is my responsibility as his squire.

My body was quaking as I stood to my feet. I gripped onto a nearby tree to stabilize myself. My right hand began to spasm as my memory brought back the vision of the bloodbath I had just witnessed.

The dragon lifted Sir Daniels into the sky snugly fit in between his teeth. The creature chomped down because Sir. Daniels was his chew toy. Blood painted the grass a vivid red color but again the moon deceived my eyes so it appeared as a bright pink haze.

Sir Daniels’ screams echoed in my head. Revenge upon the beast would silence his cries. I had to muster up enough courage to work my legs for they weren’t obeying my orders to walk. It seemed like an eternity until I reached the scene and set my sights upon the beast.

It was very peculiar that there was no trace of Sir Daniels upon the dragon or the grass, not even a speck of blood. The crafty bastard must have lapped up the blood, what a foul demon.

This would be my first battle so I had no idea on which weapon to use. This monster was enormous so feeble daggers wouldn’t have much of an effect upon it.

Sir Daniels told me once in confidence that his battle axe made him feel like such a badass. It was his favorite so it would be used to avenge his honor. This weapon was a thing of beauty to any warrior. The steel would slice through bone without hesitation. Blades were apparent on both sides carved into a circular design to afflict more damage.

I pulled the weapon from my sack in pure rage. I lost my mentor to this heinous monster so in return it owed me his life. The creature didn’t even stir as I swung the blade with all my will slicing off one of its back feet. It screamed in agony almost sounding human.

One of its wings flew at me striking me down. Blood from the beast bathed me as I made my way up. The creature lowered its head to examine his missing leg.

Okay, I thought, now is the moment to decapitate his head and avenge my knight.

I raised the axe high in the air to gain all the momentum gravity would aid me with. Then with one mighty thrust the axe sliced right through its thick neck.

Curious, I lifted up the head which didn’t weigh all that much. An eerie feeling passed through my body. The eyes of the beast looked frightened as the last bit of life escaped from it.

Drenched in blood and wrapped around the dragon’s body was an old sack full of treasure. Dragons always guarded a treasure that was the rule. I tugged until the sack freed itself from the dragon. I would bring it to my King to show him my love and also I would bring the decomposing head in the sack for proof that such a monster does exist. I took a moment on my knees praying for my friend who was slain in battle and wishing him the best afterlife possible.

I ventured on my trek back to the kingdom for it would be a long journey. My body was exhausted at this point.

A disgusting laugh made my stomach turn in knots. It sounds so vile and was pure evil. I kept on walking until I was approached by an old hag. Her nose was three times too big for her face. Her eyebrows were bushy and a dirt-colored black. A filthy wart rested upon the tip of her colossal nose. Wrinkles hijacked her face. Her hair was a perverted grey color, and her nails were extremely long and loathsome looking.

The old hag started chanting some kind of incantation towards me. I jumped back hoping that action would protect me from her black magic. She probably sensed that I was pure in spirit and pure in my heart. I bet she wanted to defile my soul.

I reached into my bag of tricks exhibiting Sir. Daniels mace. This weapon was also pure steel made by the Gods. Sharp spikes protruded all around the top.

I didn’t want this bitch to curse me, so I just began to violently bash the old hag before she could escape. It felt wonderful to vanquish this evil creature. I began to swing harder and faster. Brain matter began to asteroid out from her skull. I thought I heard her screaming, but I assume it was her ear piercing laugh. When I was through with her she resembled a play-doh model smashed with pins and decorated with random strains of grey hair.

Using my two-handed sword, I cut through her neck misting myself with her putrid blood. Her head would serve as a nice gesture for my King and Queen.

This witch had a sack also. It was black and covered with skulls and bones which I found a little irony in. I assume this was her potion bag so I shoved her head in the bag like it was laundry. My voyage continued…

Eventually I arrived to my castle but the King was not home. A trail of blood had followed me; I assumed the heads excreted it. A box with moving pictures was activated. Maybe it was witchcraft? The Queen exposed herself as I bowed.

“Hello your majesty. I come baring marvelous gifts.” I said.

“Oh, hey honey, what did you go out as? An evil squire I guess?” She reached over and touched the dried blood upon my flesh and then tasted her fingers.”What did you use baby? It’s not corn syrup and it looks so real.”

“Sir Daniels didn’t make it, my Queen, but I did avenge his death and bring the treasure.”

She laughed and told me how cute I was.

“Did you get lots of candy tonight? Do you want me to help you check it? There are a lot of psychos out there on Halloween you know.”

Immediately after she talked the picture box spoke of a breaking news story.

“This just in. Two children were viciously murdered tonight while trick-or-treating. Police have no leads on a suspect or the identification of the victims. The boy was about age sixteen and dressed as a purple dragon. The girl was about age nine and we think she may have been a witch. The killer took their heads as souvenirs. We urge all to bring their kids in early tonight and don’t answer the door for anyone.”

Her mouth was ajar as she disapprovingly shook her head.

“Sick world we live in!” she exclaimed.

“Want to look at my treasure?” I asked excitedly.

“Sure babe, but you got the fake blood in your bags.”

A smile spread across my face as I opened both bags showing the head of the boy and young girl along with all the candy.

The Queen’s eyes widened as tears began to escape and roll down her cheeks. She backed away from me breathing rapidly. I started to laugh at how silly she was being as I bit into a tootsie roll.

A scream leapt from her mouth.

“What have you done?” She yelled or maybe asked. I am not quite sure.

I giggled and searched a bloody bag for a snickers. I wiped away some brain matter coating the wrapper and plopped the candy into my mouth savoring the taste.

“Yum!” I exclaimed.

I am bound to become a knight soon enough I thought as I admired my trophies.

by Naomi Christy
Biography

I am 20 years old. I love to write and read fiction. I am attending school to be a psychiatrist.

Colin had been helping Sarah undress for some time now. After the first few days, she hadn’t been strong enough to do it herself. Her limbs and muscles felt locked, frozen in place. As he lovingly sponged her clean, he thought back to the beginning. He could remember when she had been full of life. It seemed so long ago, now. He could remember when her eyes had been a brilliant blue, rather than the dull, glassy, gray they had become. He remembered her laughing, a strong, sweet sound. Nothing like the gurgled, strangled noises escaping from her throat these days. He thought back to when he thought he had lost her forever.

She laid in the hospital for almost a week before he found her. She was unidentified, cast off with the others like her who had not yet been claimed. After the accident, she had no identification. He supposed he should be grateful they hadn’t just thrown her out, without proper documentation of insurance. The doctor told him that was indeed the protocol in some hospitals. He hadn’t expected her to be so cold. It was hard on him, seeing her lying there like that. Her face peaceful and calm, her eyes closed. He thought he had lost her forever.

It wasn’t until a few days later, after he had taken her home from the hospital, that her eyes finally fluttered open. He wished he could have called her parents and told them. She told him not to. “It would be too hard on them,” she said. “We don’t even know how long I’m going to last.” She told him her tongue felt like it was filling her mouth. “It never felt this big before.”

He thought it must be a side effect of all the medication they had injected into her in the hospital. The doctors had told him it was necessary to preserve her. He thought that was a poor choice of words. Preservation, to him, implied that she was already gone, and he resented them for talking about her like that.

Soon after she woke up, she wasn’t able to move anymore. One day, it seemed, just like that, her body was frozen, and he had to help her. He was nervous, at first. He had seen her naked countless times before. They had been making love for years before her accident. Now, her helplessness made it seem as though it was their first time again. He never knew it could be like this. The level of intimacy he felt from giving her that first sponge bath transcended any experience he had with her during sex. The way her very existence was in his hands made him feel so powerful. Anything she did was a direct result of his steering her, moving her, guiding her. Her utter dependence upon him, for every aspect of her living, made him feel needed. She hadn’t needed him before.

A few weeks after she couldn’t move anymore, during a sponge bath, he noticed her abdomen, between her belly and her pubis, had turned a dull shade of green. He was scared. “Is this supposed to happen?” he asked her, in a harsh voice. “Should I call someone?”

“Don’t worry, baby,” she said. “From everything I’ve heard, this is normal.”

He wondered what she had heard about her condition. He didn’t know who she had been talking to. When he went to work, he did his best to make sure she was comfortable. He fluffed her pillows and set the DVR to play the television shows from the night before in succession, so she wouldn’t have to press any buttons. He put a tray with water in a glass with a straw positioned between her lips so she could drink if she was thirsty. He worried that she never drank, but she assured him that, too, was normal for her case. He realized he needed her, too. She gave him strength, when he felt like having her with him might be a mistake, when he felt like he wasn’t qualified to care for her.

Soon after her skin discolored, he began to notice when he bathed her that her body hair came off in the sponge. This made him a little uncomfortable, but she assured him it was just part of the process. A few weeks after her belly was green, it turned to a rust-colored brown. He thought it looked better than the green. He thought she was getting better. The one thing he couldn’t get used to was her face. The day after he noticed her stomach, her face began to swell. Her lips and cheeks were three times larger than they normally were and her eyes became glassy, and gray. When she talked to him, her face contorted, as though it was painful for her.

“I promise,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt.”

He tried to convince her that she didn’t need to speak to him, that he could understand her just from the look in her eyes. He just didn’t want to see her in pain.

“Sarah,” he said. “You don’t have to do this. If you’re tired, or in pain, we can figure something out.”

“I don’t want to hold you back from life,” she said.

He tried to be compassionate. He thought often about her quality of life. She couldn’t get out of bed – she couldn’t even move. He had to do everything for her. She couldn’t enjoy the simple things in life. She didn’t really like making love anymore – at least, that was his impression.

When her body hair began to fall out, it happened everywhere. Seeing her like that, down there, made him feel like he was with someone new. The first time he made love to her after the accident, he tried to be gentle. He guided himself into her, as he had done hundreds of times before, but it felt totally different. She was so dry. Her body just didn’t respond to him the way it used to. After a few thrusts, he realized he might be hurting her.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asked her, hesitating, as though he could break her.

“Yes,” she replied, her eyes gazing somewhere else, far off. “It feels so good,” she said. Her voice was unconvincing. He didn’t really believe her.

“Maybe I should get some lube,” he offered. “Do you think that will help?”

“Sure,” she said lifelessly.

It worked better after that. The first few weeks after the accident, they made love every day. After a while, they didn’t do it nearly as regularly. She just didn’t seem into it, into him. He thought it was something he had done. Maybe she knows how powerful I feel when I’m with her, he thought. Maybe she resents me for being the one providing for her now. Maybe she resents my independence and her dependence.

He wrestled with what was in her best interest. She had lost so much weight, he could see her bones through her tissue paper skin. She wasn’t eating or drinking anything. He worried that she was losing her mind. Eventually, she stopped talking. After a week of the silent treatment, he broke down.

“Please, Sarah, baby, say something, anything,” he begged. He was scared she was really gone this time. He was having a hard time adjusting to life outside of his house. It seemed like everyone he knew was slowly deteriorating, not just Sarah. He knew he was just projecting his stress at home onto his co-workers, but it bothered him that it seemed like everyone around him was becoming lifeless. He thought maybe he should take some time off work.

The day he was offered the promotion, he came home to her. He told her about the offer and that the new job was based in Seattle. He explained to her that they would have to move, and he needed her help to figure out how they would do that. It was a considerable raise in salary, so they would have so much more opportunity. When she didn’t respond, he became desperate.

“Isn’t this what you want?” he questioned, as he stroked her dull, black hair. A piece of her scalp pulled off her skull as he caressed her.

“I want what’s best for us,” she whispered, her voice gravelly, as it caught in her throat. Her bloated tongue just didn’t let the sounds through any more. “I don’t think I’m getting any better,” she said, softly.

He thought that she would have cried, if she could have.

“Colin, I love you,” she said, “but I think maybe it would be better if you found someplace permanent for me to stay.”

“I can’t bear the thought of leaving you behind,” he said. “I just want to keep you with me.”

“We should think about what’s best long term,” she said. He thought she sounded sad, but it was hard to tell. Her eyes were completely glazed over and her pupils had swallowed her irises completely. Her brown lips barely moved when she spoke. As she struggled to form words, a tooth fell out of her mouth. Its click against the tile in their bedroom seemed to echo to Colin, as punctuation for her statement.

He began to think about what would be best long term. He decided to go for a drive to clear his head. He pulled into a gas station along the road, to fill up and grab something to drink. He went into the convenience store, grabbed an energy drink, and made his way to the counter to pay for it. Colin noticed the clerk was sluggish, and had Sarah’s gray tinge. When the man spoke, it was as though his tongue filled his mouth.

“That’ll be three seventy-four,” he mumbled.

“You feeling okay?” Colin asked, handing the man his cash.

“I’ve felt better,” he replied, his face contorting as he pushed out the words. “I think I caught the bug going around. I’m sure I’ll be better in a few days,” he said, handing Colin his change. His hand was gray and missing his ring fingernail.

“Well, hope you feel better,” Colin said.

“Thanks, you too buddy,” the man replied.

Colin walked back to the gas pump, swiped his credit card, and began pumping gas. A couple pulled up in a navy sedan, and he watched as the woman driving slowly got out of her car. She moved awkwardly, rigidly, and her face was bloated, like Sarah’s. She caught his eyes with hers, and he noticed they were like Sarah’s, too, completely black, with no color in the irises. He smiled at her and nervously nodded his head with respect. Her response was a blank stare.

He got back in his car and drove. He used up half a tank of gas driving in circles and thinking about how to move Sarah, or if he should move her at all. I can’t just leave her there in the house when I go, he thought. Who will look after her? He finally decided what to do, what would be best for them both.

He parked his car in his driveway and walked into his house. As he entered the bedroom, he lost his breath. The bed was empty. The sheets were tangled with bits of her flesh. He looked around wildly. Where could she be? When he left her, she hadn’t been able to move. Now she was gone. His mind tried to shuffle through possible scenarios. Someone could’ve come into the house while he was out, taken her. He shouldn’t have left her like that. He was standing, frozen, in the middle of the room, not sure what to do next when he felt her. Her cold, gray arms encircled his waist, and held him, like she used to.

“I love you,” she croaked. “I will always love you.”

His eyes widened as he saw their reflection in the mirror above their dresser. He took in his appearance. His face was contorted and bloated. His eyes had no color left in them. Chunks of his flesh were falling off the bones in his face. His hair was patchy and thin. He stared, stunned at what he saw. He looked down at his arms. They were hairless and the skin sagged off of his bones like cloth.

“I love you, too,” he whispered, turning to face her. “I will always love you.”

by Kat Douse

Biography

Kat Douse is a current student at SCF, Venice Campus. She enjoys her exciting career as a barista, and her challenging course load. She grew up in Brentwood, TN, and relocated to Venice, FL in 2002. She loves writing, especially poetry, and hopes to continue it for as long as she can.

Sixteen foot armored weasel rhinoceros, nuclear platypus generator, Dolly Parton’s bra strap, No, i am none of these things, but i am like an electric meat Popsicle. Six foot tall and 200 pounds of electric meat Popsicle to be exact, introduced to a chilly freezer we call earth.Truthfully that is just about all were made up of water, carbon based meat, with a calcium support stick sending electrical currents making our jolly electrode carrying meat parts move around. In the end serving my purpose and being consumed by the universal being called the average humanlife, that is unless somehow my tastes change to that which is undesirable by the average humanlife.

The universe can be a cold place but earth can be even colder with its harsh temperature changes and its general aptitude towards being one tough mother. Being like an electric meat Popsicle in this environment could result in disaster especially if the heat were to get to me and i ended up worthless, shriveled up, like a dried prune on a stick. Luckily and quite to the contrary though i live in a great society, a society which if i start out with a nice enough wrapping will keep me very stable and not show me the too many hard ships except maybe some cellular damage from freezer burn, nothing that cant be brushed off so i look good when i finally go. Even luckier still i am one of many more like me but that have many different tastes and sizes in this frozen world of ice and frozen life; it’s cool though for far more important meals that may take my place but at least i wont have to worry about leaving my temperature controlled home ’til later in my end days.

I am here to serve the all powerful freon system ’til my final days when my purpose is needed and remain complacent praying only that the power won’t go out ’til then. Serving my purpose wholeheartedly it shouldn’t go off though and maybe if i serve long enough i can buy some gold wrapper or a nice suit to go somewhere else for a while or maybe even a transfer ticket to a different better freezer. But being like a electric meat Popsicle, i think a lot about what some of the other not as important meat snacks think, what happens if i wanna be a burger patty or even a steak dinner you know move up the corporate snack ladder reprocessed into a better standing food. Furthermore i sometimes even dare delve into the controversial thinking of being like one of the outcasts. The ones that took the plunge out of the great freons game and went out into the heat not only to melt away what they once were but become something more still, more than even the luckiest born and best seasoned fillet minion, to the realm of the toughest of the tough and most experienced in all tastes to the wild untameable jerky. This proclivity to life which buys them that certain undesirability to the average humanlife sometimes makes me smile; but then i remember where I’m at and that I’ve got a lot of work to do tomorrow aging and what not to do and it would take me along time and far too much hard times for me to be like jerky, that’s why for now i know I’m more like a meat Popsicle than anything else.

by Bob Marvin

Today had been just like any other day for Claire with coffee on main street, another successful art class, and now she planned to go home work on her paintings and sip red wine. Claire felt she was happy, but she often sensed something was missing. Still decently young, she fell into a routine that was becoming mundane. When will it all change? she thought.

Dinner was always simple, protein and vegetables. She would switch between pork and chicken, never beef. Claire had a tendency to be indecisive but she would only buy what she would eat that night. Her mother always told her never to waste any food. As Claire sampled Publix‘s take on her favorite dish, she was interrupted by a woman calling her name.

“Claire, is that you?” the lady said.

“Yes?” she said back, trying to recognize the little lady who stood before her, dressed from head to toe in baby pink.

“It’s so good to see you honey, how are you holding up these days?” the little pink lady said.

“I’m doing just fine– thank you for asking.” Claire said with a puzzled look on her face.

The lady continued, “ Oh, well that is good, I’ll let you get back to shopping. When you talk to Aaron please send him my love and gratitude,” and she scooted off.

Claire was beyond confused. At first she assumed it was a case of mistaken identity. Who’s Aaron she thought. The name sounded vaguely familiar. She finished collecting ingredients for her dinner and headed home.

Claire parked her car and slowly made her way to her front door when she noticed it. It was a small white cardboard box, unmarked.

“What is this?” she quietly said, arguing with the thought whether this package would blow her into pieces or not. The box looked as if it traveled half way around the globe. She guessed that no one would have a reason to send her a bomb and brought it inside. Still skeptical of its contents, she decided to make her dinner before opening it. Aromas of garlic and herb chicken and the sweet smell of sautéed vegetables overflowed her tiny one bedroom home. As she reached for her empty wine glass, the plain package caught her eye.

“I just don’t know why anyone would send me a blank box?“ she said, only possibly talking to her cat.

As she sat down to eat her dinner, she decided to open the mystery package. Shrouded in bubble wrap was a picture in a frame. Claire didn’t recognize the picture. It portrayed a small park covered with the warm colors of red, orange, and brown. A silhouette of a family shared a hug in its background. Claire appreciated art but this picture was particularly moving. She decided it must have come from a student and hung it up above her nightstand. After her dinner she sat down to finish her newest painting. The rest of her week went on as it always did. Teaching, painting, sipping red wine.

When the weekend came Claire spent it at her parents’. It was their thing. Claire and her mother would always go look around local garage sales and flea markets and then come home for a grilled dinner, her father‘s specialty. Claire was sitting down to eat when she noticed something.

It was the same picture she was mysteriously sent, only it was painted from another angle.

“Mom, did you and dad send me a package with a painting in it?” Claire questioned.

“No, honey, it wasn’t us.” her mother said, looking off into space. Her father coughed nervously, muttering about dry chicken to himself.

“ Oh, ok,” she replied unconvinced. Claire dropped the subject, but she knew her parents were worried about it. This occurred often over the past year. Usually when she inquired about her past.

The next day, a cool breeze spilled into the park as Claire watched the rusted, brownish-red leaves descend daintily onto the ground. Beautiful, she thought, as she took a mental picture of the mesmerizing autumn vista for later inspiration. She loved painting fall landscapes. As she finished her coffee, something clicked. She was staring at what looked like the picture someone had sent her. It had the same benches, children’s playground, and captivating fountain. She slowly set her cup down and stared aimlessly into the scenery. Claire wanted to understand the connection but couldn’t remember much of her past. She recently turned thirty and figured her memory loss was due to growing older. This scene still triggered something in her brain. The pink lady in the store echoed inside her head “How have you been holding up these days?”. Something had happened. “Who is Aaron?” she asked aloud, lost in thought.

Claire strolled home stumped. Upon arrival, she immediately went to the picture and took it out of the frame. On the back it read, March 8, 2004, Claire, Aaron, and Emma. Claire froze and spoke softly.

“Now, who the hell is Emma? Did I paint this?” Her cat meowed back quizzically.

As she went to place the painting down, she noticed something else. It was a newspaper article hidden in the back of the canvas. She slowly opened the aged folded paper slowly. Deadly car crash, killing child, mother seriously injured, the title read. Emma, 2, was killed in a car crash last night by a drunk driver. Her mother Claire, 29, is in a coma at St. Marks Hospital.

Her heart skipped a beat as tears welled up in her eyes. How is this even possible? she thought to herself. Is this really me they are talking about? Claire couldn’t fathom forgetting a child, let alone losing one. So many thoughts raced though her head at once. Claire couldn’t contain herself anymore and fell to the floor sobbing. She didn’t want to believe, but she could feel the raised skin beneath her long locks. A massive scare circled the back of her head. That night a glass of wine wasn‘t enough. She had the bottle.

Claire woke up the next morning with a massive head ache. She remembered having a terrible dream. As she walked into her kitchen, she noticed the newspaper lying on the floor next to an empty bottle of Merlot. She frantically got ready and stormed out the door and off to her parents’. No more secrets, she thought. Claire wanted to know the truth, she had to know. Maybe they would know who Emma and Aaron were. Or even why she couldn’t remember the year passed.

Claire bolted to the door, and hammered until her mother answered. Tears rolled down her face, streaking mascara across her cheeks.

“Claire, what‘s going on?” her mom said.

“NO MORE PLAYING DUMB! DID SOMETHING HAPPEN TO ME?” she was crying uncontrollably.

“Honey, I”, her mother stammered, “I’m so sorry”

“How could you keep something like this from me? Why can’t I remember anything?” Claire went from crying to seething with anger.

“I wanted to tell you I did, but the doctors told me to wait,” her mother explained.

“It was too hard to say anything when you didn’t remember.” Claire stared a hole through her mother.

“But how did this happened?”

Her mother reminded her about the car accident over a year ago now. She explained that the doctors told Claire that Emma didn’t make it and she fell into a coma for about a month. When she awoke, Claire had no memory of the accident, who Aaron was, or Emma. The doctors were stern about mentioning it right away. They feared she may go into shock and comatose again. With the memory lost, her mother swept it under the rug. She refused to see her daughter hurt.

Claire felt hollow. Everything she had done was irrelevant. It wasn’t her real life. Before she left, her mother gave her the address of her daughter’s grave. Claire was headed there hoping to say her goodbyes. On her way, Claire remembered she didn’t inquire about Aaron. That could wait.

As Claire pulled up to the cemetery her heart attempted to escape her chest. Although she felt as if she was going to pass out, she had to see her daughters grave. All she wanted was closure. She spent half an hour sulking through the cemetery, looking for her grave stone. Then she saw him. There in military blues, a handsome man was kneeling down holding his face in his hand. In the other, a bouquet of flowers and a letter. As Claire approached, she realized he was at a grave that read, Emma Grace, a beautiful girl, and a wonderful daughter. Taken from this world to early. She walked towards him slowly wondering why he would be at her daughter’s grave. He turned to look at her, face glistening with wiped tears.

“Claire honey, you came” he said in a sweet voice. His gorgeous green eyes immediately comforted her when she looked into them.

“Honey? Wait, you know my name?” she said back.

“Oh yes, I know a lot about you,” he said as he smiled.

Claire didn’t move. She stared at his stunning face for what seemed to be an eternity. He gave her a folded note. She took it and opened it. He reached for her shoulders and held them as she read the note, like he was waiting for her to faint.

Claire,

I know this is very hard to understand right now, your mother told me what happened. I wanted to write so bad, but I didn’t want you to be hurting. I promise I will explain everything to you soon. There is an address on the back of this note, meet me there on October 19th I cant wait to see you, I miss you so much honey, I know its not easy now but I promise as soon as I can make it home I will be there and we can heal together I love you and I’ll see you soon.

                 Love Aaron.

P.S. your mother told me not to send the picture to you, but I couldn’t help it, I just hope that it might help bring back some memories, and a smile to your beautiful face. Just know that I love you and everything matters when I’m with you and you’re my everything.

As she read, a tear rolled down Claire’s face. She looked up at Aaron smiling with the same smile he fell in love with. He had been waiting for this for a long time now. He knew that after reading those words, she would remember.

“I love you and I have missed you so much, can we go home now?” Claire finally said.

As he laid the flowers on their daughter’s grave, Claire kissed her hand and placed it on the cold granite. Aaron took her hand and they began to walk home.

by Chelsea Beasley