Anniversary Massacre.
by Lexxa
Roses are bloody
Violets are gutty
Stabbing at your flesh
Slicing off your parts
Happy Anniversary
You little slut.
SCF Venice — A Literary and Arts Magazine
by Lexxa
Roses are bloody
Violets are gutty
Stabbing at your flesh
Slicing off your parts
Happy Anniversary
You little slut.
By Brandon Henry
On an ordinary day, Bickford would have been already deep into the bowels of the Clearwell mine. He has now worked in that bloody mine for over fifteen years. Like most families in England, times were tough. Bick only makes five quids a day, barely making ends meet. The Great War has been ravaging Europe for years now. Workers of all types were required to work longer hours in support of the war efforts. Before the war had broken out, Bick had met his wife whom was studying at Oxford University. A beautiful, fair skinned woman, who had fancied Bick since they met at a local tavern while she was on holiday. They wed six months later, and started a family together claiming home to the suburbs of Gloucester.
Bickford would work until the wee hours of the night, eat dinner with Dorothy and his two beautiful children Alice and Peter. He was a picture perfect father, always there to tuck the children into bed with a good story. All of that had changed. The war had forced Bick to practically live in the mines. Some workers have gone on unofficial strikes, claiming they could not afford to feed their families. Which was another reason Bick was forced to pick up more work hours. This inconvenience had placed a lot of strain on Dorothy and Bickford’s marriage. He was only home long enough to shower and sleep never seeing his children awake. He was also never drafted, the doctors told Bick he had early stages of “The Black Lung.” He wasn’t opposed to joining, he actually liked the idea of throwing a spanner in the works on those Jerry’s.
Several hours after Dorothy had readied the children for bed, Bick stumbled in the door after a grueling thirteen hour shift, black as the night sky; he headed straight to the washroom to have a shower. Quietly Dorothy says “Bick, I can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what Dorothy?” Bick said.
“We never see you, your children, they don’t ever get to see you. They need their father, and I need my husband. You need to leave that mine, it will kill you too, just like your father!”
Bick replied, “How do you plan to live? I cannot just stop work, I have to make money! How would we bloody live then?”
As the tensions rose, Bick stormed upstairs, wondering how she could be such a selfish twat. He thought what can I do? After all he has grown rather zonked of the mine. He finished washing up, and proceeded downstairs to confront Dorothy. As he walked down the staircase, he could here Dorothy whimpering over the creaks and groans of his footsteps on the old wooden floor boards.
Dorothy continued to argue with Bick, telling him to find another job. She stressed that her and the children needed Bick. She gave him an ultimatum, change jobs to be with the family, or they – her and the children – must leave for her parents in London.
“That stonking mine Bick, it has nicked you from us!” Dorothy said.
“Have you gone barmy? If I leave the mine, where will I make money? I Love you Dorothy, but I can’t just sit on me arse!” Bick said.
“What if we leave? We can pack up and go across the pond, at least until the war is over.”
“Yeah Dorothy, that would be cheap as chips! Sod off! You’re mad!
The arguing continued until the early hours of the morning. Bick had finally fallen asleep on the couch, while Dorothy had claimed their bedroom.
Bick had been woken up by the sounds of planes flying overhead accompanied by thunderous booms in the distance, one after another. It sent shockwaves that shook the entire house, it resembled the shocks while in the mine. The sunlight had pierced through the raggedy curtains, shinning onto Bick’s face. He realized he was late for work. The sound of the planes and booming was all too familiar. He sprung up off the couch and ran to gather his things for work. As he rushed out the door onto the front porch, he could see plumes of black smoke, the blackest of black he has ever seen. Blacker than the soot that caked his entire body after a hard day’s work. Overhead were Nazi bombers. Not knowing if there would be more attacks, Bick drove to the mine. As he reached them, he could see police officers and Tommy’s blocking off all roads leading to the area.
“Blimey!” Bick said, He had finally realized that they had bombed the mine. The Germans have occasionally bombed areas which aided the war with coal and iron. Bick decided to stay, and see if there was anything he could do. Perhaps now, Bick won’t have to argue the toss about the ultimatum Dorothy laid down.
Meanwhile, Dorothy had risen and started her day while listening to the BBC on her wireless. There were lots of dishes to be done and other choirs around the house. She also figured she needed to pack later to be off to London by dinner time. She thought it was obvious what Bick had decided to do. “How could he choose that mine over his family,” she thought? On the broadcast, Tord Lidell was talking about some bombings that had happened in Britain today. “…And in Gloucester, the Clearwell mine, which is a major supplier of our naval ships, had been destroyed just after 7:00 am this morning. Casualties are unknown at this time, it doesn’t seem likely any inside have survived.” The plate Dorothy had been washing crashed to the floor, shattering at the same time her heart did. “Bick…” she thought, “Bick was to be at work,” she did not see his truck outside. Panic had set in, knowing her husband is buried alive. Her stomach began to knot, she felt weak and nauseous knowing the last thing said to one another was not “I love you,” but was her threatening to leave him.
After the police had shooed Bick away as if he was a curious child in a restricted area, he headed for home. The thought of him missing work brought all kinds of emotions to him. He felt overwhelmed with a flood of guilt, sadness, and even joy. He kept thinking of his friends, crushed below the surface. He thought of how Dorothy last night yelled and pushed him to leave the mine. He reached the front entry and frantically shoved the door in, almost removing it from the rusted hinges that supported it. There, he saw Dorothy and the children weeping huddled together on the couch, as if striving to stay alive out in the blistering cold of winter. As if seeing a ghost, they hesitated. For a brief second, time seemed to be at a standstill. Dorothy lunged off the couch and embraced Bick, the children followed frantically. “I thought you were dead!” Dorothy cried, “I’m sorry Bick, I Love you!”
“I love you too Dorothy, I am sorry I haven’t been here for you and the children.” Bick replied with a broken voice. Overwhelmed with emotions they all began to cry, and for a moment, forgot about the tragedy at the mine. Without any other words spoken, they knew they were a family again.
Bickford had been so furious with Dorothy this morning over last night’s event. He now knew that if that argument never had happened, he would have been in the mine. It would have become his final resting place, a tomb. One in which would not suitable for any man. His marriage had been endangered, but without that threat, he would never even had a chance to decide about the stipulation which was thrown at him.
The following day, Bickford had given it a lot of thought, perhaps going to America was the best choice. They packed their things and sold the house, and left for America. Since that dreadful day, their affection for one another had flourished, it grew greater than when they first fell in love. Bickford started working for General Motors, assembling tanks. As for Alice and Peter, they couldn’t be happier to have their father back. No longer would Bick live in a world of utter darkness such as that mine. Even with the war continuing, he at least had his family and they were safe in America. A job can always be replaced, but a family cannot be.
By Megan Finsel
“It won’t come out,” she said, and I could hear panic in her voice.
“Just scrub harder.”
From the sound of the splashing liquid hitting the tile, I could imagine she was slapping it against the side of the tub.
“What do I do if it’s permanent?”
I rolled my eyes. “You wear it just like everyone else does.”
“But what will they think of me?”
Humans, you’re so insecure; you always let the opinions of others define you. “No one will notice unless they truly know you,” I said, “and then they won’t care.”
She was crying; I could hear her sobs from under the bathroom door. I sighed. “It can’t be that bad.”
“Not that bad?” The door swung open and she stood there, bearing before her the shimmering piece of herself. I could recognize her soul even though it had a very red, very obvious, stain in the middle.
“It’s still there!” Her voice quivered. “I ran out of good deeds to wash it with.” Behind her, I saw the bathroom was a mess; iridescent bubbles floated on the floor. “What do I do?”
I shook my head. “This is a part of life. We make mistakes, and souls stain. Sometimes we can wash them out, sometimes we can’t. Go iron it, it’ll be fine.”
by Wesley Strall
I have these thoughts.
Magnificent words.
A symphony in my head.
Endorphins release.
Pleasure takes root.
Then they are gone.
I can’t remember them.
As hard as I try.
They stay hidden in my mind.
Only to return when I unlock another.
Shortly after, they leave me again.
An eternal game of cat and mouse.
I grow so very tired of chasing.
There is but only one way to end this pitiful game.
By forcing these thoughts out with a piece of lead.
Bio: My name is Wesley Strall, I was born in Sarasota, Florida and I am 19 years old. Cheers.
by Brandon Henry
Gargantuan gassy globe,
Like a Cyclopes,
Ever staring into the
Deep vast expanse of the universe.
With a large red eye,
Containing
Violent anticyclonic storms,
Churning the atmosphere
Like butter for at least 400 years.
I get a glimpse of you and your
Four largest children,
Lo, Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto,
Appearing as an olive on a tooth pick,
Bathing in a martini.
While gazing through his larger
Eye,
Galileo discovered you,
From your light,
But Simon named you.
Shining brighter than the nearest star,
365 million miles away,
Makes you seem not so far.
Come next year,
Juno
Will be paying you a visit.
Once she is gone,
You will remain alone.
Forever soaking in the black void
You will stay there,
But I will continue
To watch you from here!
by Annette Kinship
My moments of fear
Are fragile like a lake
Carefully I tread
Into the dark of the sight
Remembering the pain
On the other side
Tremulous woes
‘board my ship
They move about
Tipping and longing
To suck me in.
Moments of fear
As a thief
Into the depth
Of the dark.
No candle, no star
No flicker of lightning bug
As I tiptoe
Fear
Under my feet,
My heart knowing
I could freeze
If a crackle
Beneath defeat.
I tenderly
As if walking on air
Steel my thoughts
Searching for
The memory of light.
A feather if dropped
With the cold night air
Could shift the thin
Frozen sheet of water,
I must stay my mind
Or the chill air
Will become my fate.
I walk with all grace
I lift my weight to God
I tend to my soul
With the strength
Of Love.
My ship does not tip
My feet do not sink
The thief cannot steal
Darkness loosed.
By Megan Finsel
She was screaming again. I could hear her even though the door muffled the sound. I tried not to listen as she shrieked and hollered about muddy work boots and nonsense. I didn’t envy her husband; the poor old man took the worst of it.
A slice of light fell in a golden sheen between the curtains, making a wedge on the floor. I watched as the dust drifted lazily, not a care in the world. I wish I were dust, I thought. Pounding footsteps came up the stairs. When the bedroom door blew open, I jumped from my seat. She swept in with the strength of a tempest, carrying a whirlwind of noise. Nothing about this woman was silent.
“…and that cat!” she screamed. “You’re always letting it inside the house! Told you, I’m allergic!” She blew past me without even looking.
“Would you shut up?” I asked. She was rushing about, yanking papers off the desk, pushing books onto the floor. A can hit the floorboards, scattering pencils at my feet. I looked at them, longing to pick one up again, to hold it in my hands and write with it. I miss creating things.
“If you can leave the house a mess, then so can I!” she declared, yanking the quilt off the mattress.
I wish they had never moved in, I thought, the other tenants had been so nice and quiet.
“Please, shut up.” I said, but she didn’t even look at me. I missed the days when people could hear me. Not that they listened, but it was better than being invisible. Now, nothing I could do would get anyone’s attention.
“And your underwear!” She held up a pair of red boxers and shook them at the doorway. “You’re always leaving them about. Would it kill you to pick them up once in a while?” She went to the closet and began pulling out clothes. “You’re always telling me to tidy up, how ridiculous!”
“Shut up!” I shouted. She spun around and looked at me, past me, through me. Her eyes couldn’t focus on where my face was; they stared out the window and into the woods. See me! I thought. I’m right here. I’ve always been right here. Why don’t you ever see me? She whirled away and proceeded to yank boxes from the top of the closet.
“Shut up!” I screamed, louder than she had ever been. The walls shook, the floor shook; the entire house quivered with the force of my voice. She stopped and stared at me as if she could actually see me this time. Her eyes met mine and steadily grew larger and larger.
“Can you see me?” I asked. I was both scared of, and desperate for, the answer.
“G…” she whispered, and as she stared at me, she progressively grew paler. “Gh…!”
“Can you hear me?”
Her response was a scream, the shrillest scream I had ever heard from her. She flung herself at the doorway, tripping over the quilt that snared her feet. I ran towards her, but she crawled into the hallway. I was stopped at the door, unable to go any farther; unable to follow her downstairs, outside, or anywhere. I looked about my prison and moaned. If I weren’t already dead…
Downstairs I could hear her yelling at her husband again, telling him about me, the ghost in the bedroom. The stories were all true, this house was really haunted, and they had to move. I sat myself down at the window again and wondered who would move in next, as the dust continued swirling in motes.
By Brandie Hyde
Hearing the shrill shriek caused her muscles to freeze mid-stride with only forward momentum providing the little extra nudge thus forcing the otherwise stop-motion foot to at last drop from its state of momentary suspended animation.
Her eyes slam closed as if to keep the recalled detail specifics from escaping the swirling centrifuge at work in her skull. Had the person who uttered the sound been a woman? A man?
A manly girl? Or a girly man? Not that sex, gender, or identity mattered per se, but it is a factor in terms of deducing a superior approach. Had it originated from a forward or a back alley? From the left or from the right? Was there any other clue to be gleaned from that split second? An informed decision is key.
Her eyes reopen following the near instantaneous blink which felt so much longer while the snap analyzation was conducted. Alone she ran against the sea of others who, in choosing to ignore the potential danger, had quickly spun on their heels 180 degrees opting to mind their own business.
Others flee as she passes in favor of pursuing the origin point most likely, and she readies herself to take on whatever scene she may encounter and simultaneously observant enough to testify to details in court.
The oddity of her otherwise gun loving nation, she didn’t see the necessity for them and thus didn’t have one nor cared to.
A problem with guns? They’re too easy, too disconnected, and she feared they may take her to a place she doesn’t care to go. There’s no such thing as unarmed as people have been killing one another from the beginning, so she didn’t need a manufactured tool developed specifically for that singular purpose.
A person who needs to be packing heat to defend themselves and are incapable of doing so by any other means were wussies… guns are for pus—-.
Rounding the corner and witnessing the act in progress she closes in… 3… 2… 1… showtime.
Bio: My name is Brandie and as a resident of the North Port / East Venice area, I’m what they call a “displaced homemaker” who in light of her situation decided it was time to crank out a few degrees at long last in hopes of landing a position making a Living wage. I’ve learned well enough by now that making any sort of “plans” is an utterly pointless and futile exercise, at least so far as I’m concerned anyway. That’s not to say it’s for lack of trying mind you… things just rarely go ‘as planned’. To counter this, I typically have a contingency, or two for that matter, at the ready. I was never a Girl Scout, but as a general rule I prefer to be prepared as opposed to the alternative.
By Lexxa
Blood is pouring from my fingers again and I have no clue as to why. Maybe it has something to do with my cell phone being cracked. Glass pieces are everywhere and I am lucky enough to crush every piece in between my fingers somehow. At least that’s what I think, even though I cannot find any glass on my actual hands. As I am washing off the blood I peak out of my kitchen window. Crazy old lady Jane’s garage is open inside I can see a total of 13 axes hanging from the tool box. Why would such an old lady need that many axes? It’s not like she’s planning to chop down any trees anytime soon. Her husband was murdered three years ago. I was the one to find him laying in a pile of blood and guts. I thought for sure I would be scarred for life, but I wasn’t. They never did find the murderer, even after six more killings. Still, I was not scared. I went to grab a towel to dry my hands and a thought came rushing through my head. Axes. Each victim was killed with an ax. Maybe old lady jane is hiding something. Something big. What if she is the murderer afterall. I must figure this out. I spent the whole day planning how I would get inside of crazy Jane’s home and how I would find clues and fast and get out. It’s now 9:02 pm and I patiently waited for the clock to strike 9:04 pm which is the exact time the lights in her house go off and she goes to bed. 9:03.. I left the house dressed in black, I hope she does not see me or attack because I don’t have any weapons to defend myself. I am now at her house outside of her window I peek in and stare for 15 minutes so I knew she was asleep. She was laying there so lifeless in her pink nightgown. I went to window number two and stared for another 15 minutes. I sprinted to the next window and to my surprise it was unlocked. I quietly rolled it up and snuck inside. The house is so old ladyish. Floral wallpaper, floral furniture, floral everywhere and it smells like old people. Figures. I go to the garage and notice that there are only 12 axes now when earlier that day there was 13. Was she planning on another murder? I search high and low and find no other clues but where oh where did that other ax go to? What is crazy Jane hiding? I go into her room and see her lying there so hopeless, so innocent. “AHHHHHH!” pitiful jane screams with all her might, I run out of her house drenched in blood and sweat. I look at my right hand and there is an ax in it, a bloody murder weapon. I must have taken it from the garage for self defense when she attacked me and forgot all about it. I fall asleep and when I wake up I there are cops everywhere and the garage is wide open. I look closely and count. Twelve axes hanging on the tool box. A smile rises on my face.
By Megan Finsel
I spend three weeks in the dining room staring at it on the shelf before I find the courage to touch it. When my hand doesn’t pass through, when my fingertips connect with the cold, rough metal, I could cry.
Touch is a funny thing, when you think about it. How when you are alive, you use it to interact with the world. A touch on a shoulder equals familiarity, while a hug offers comfort. Textures tell you what is pleasant, and what is not, while temperatures warn you of danger. Then, when you are dead, touch is what you feel starved of the most.
When I lift it, it’s heavier than I remember from my past life. I stroke the metal; run my fingertips over the rust and peeling paint. I touch it to my lips to feel the chill. I sit and hold it for hours at a time. I try to carry it with me, but the doors quickly thwart my efforts. I cannot open them, and it cannot pass through. So I stay here in the dining room because when I hold it I feel alive again. It reminds me of my humanity.
Sometimes, I imagine I can still see traces of blood on it. Isn’t it funny that the weapon used to kill me is now the only object I can interact with? Yeah, it’s hilarious.