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Enticed by the soft pine-needle floor, I trace the ridgeline upon a whisper of a trail where the ghosts of Indigenous peoples chip arrow and ax heads from the blue flint and drink from old hidden springs. Here, amidst the sable vested trunks of black locusts towering, beneath the mighty hemlocks stabbing skyward, bone and rock are interchangeable; earth and flesh are inseparable. Later, on the murky edge of twilight, creek mud caked on my boots, Appalachian air in my lungs, I bow to unknown ancestors beneath my heels. Lee Clark Zumpe, an entertainment editor and movie reviewer with Tampa Bay Newspapers, earned his degree in English at the University of South Florida. His poetry and short stories have appeared various publications, such as Tiferet, Zillah, Weird Tales, Modern Drunkard Magazine, and Main Street Rag. Lee lives in Florida with his wife and daughter.

Gravel crunched beneath two pairs of dirty sneakers, filling the empty afternoon. A loud ping echoed over the field as a rock ricocheted off the old railroad track they followed home from school. “Stop that,” Will muttered, eyes firmly locked on the ground. The sun beat down on them, the air above the tracks hazy. It had been months since Will’s last trip to the barber, his overgrown bangs shading his face, but his brother Silas’ fresh buzzcut left his scalp exposed, his nose rapidly reddening. “Or what?” Silas retorted, throwing another. Ping. There was no need to reply. Or what? Or nothing. Will watched his laces, dyed tan from the dirty mud moat around their house, flop with each step. Everybody knew that Will and Silas had different daddies. If their faces—one oblong and asymmetrical, the other sharp with a violent kind of handsomeness—didn’t give it away, the old lady who worked at the gas station would. According to her, Will’s momma was a good-for-nothing skank who’d open her legs for any fella’ who came knocking ‘round. At least, that’s what she told Will whenever he went to buy a Mars bar after school. Will desperately wanted to know who his father was, but his mother’s mouth was locked tight, only cracking open to take a drag from her cigarette. At least Silas knew his father, if only by name and photograph. “Peanut sittin’ on a railroad track,” Silas crooned loudly and off-key, “heart all aflutter. ‘Round the bend came the Number Ten. Choo! Choo! Peanut butter.” Each choo was punctuated by a hard shove at Will’s shoulder, pushing him further away from the tracks and into the tall grass. When they were younger, Silas would sing the song to make Will, distraught over the fate of the peanut, burst into tears. At five years old, there was nothing funnier to Silas than making his little brother cry. The screen door shuddered in its frame. Will glanced up from his fervent dish-scrubbing. It was just the wind, so he turned his eyes down again. He opened the door that morning, the thin metal screen acting as a film separating the house from the world, like the membrane inside an egg. Joanne was visiting. She said she’d arrive at noon, but traffic getting out of the city was temperamental, so there was no telling when she’d get there. He wanted her to feel welcome, so he left the door open for her to come in any time. She was the youngest and the best of them. Her daddy stuck around long enough to change their mother’s last name and then die in Korea. Will missed him—the big man with a sleepy smile and arms so hairy you couldn’t see the skin, who sang commercial jingles to their mother until she whacked him playfully with a hand towel. The memories of him were hazy and distant, now. He was a childhood fiction, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. “Why’re you so damn fussy?” Silas sneered. “Some fucking dirty dishes in the sink ain’t gonna kill her.” “Shut up,” Will hissed, scrubbing harder, like the Palmolive dish soap would dissolve his sins along with the remnants of pasta sauce. Expression smug, Silas sidled up behind him, dug his fingers into Will’s hips, and whispered directly in his ear, “Bitch.” Will tensed, gritting his teeth. “Go away.” Silas laughed, sharp and cruel, as he sauntered into the hall, the smell of cheap cigarettes trailing after him. Joanne was preceded by the smell of gasoline, her rickety, four-door sedan clattering up the dirt driveway like windchimes in a shopping cart. Quickly washing the last dish off, Will toweled it dry and returned it to its brethren in the cabinet, wiping his hands off on his jeans. The door creaked when he pushed against it, breaking the membrane and emerging out into the world. At the same time, Joanne's car door opened, and she came tumbling out like an excited puppy—all enthusiasm with no grace. He still remembered meeting her, marveling at her little hands and her happy parents. Silas peered over his shoulder, still dubious about the new baby, and eloquently remarked, "Huh," in the same way someone might say, "Well, I'll be damned." They glanced at each other, experiencing an unprecedented moment of agreement the likes of which would never be seen again—Little Jo was sacred. She might as well have been the second coming, as far as they were concerned. Smiling at his grown sister as she ran up and flung her arms around him, crying, "Will, I missed you!" he knew, at least in that, he'd made the right choice. Her long hair, bleached a summery blond, caught in the short hairs of his beard like a sock on Velcro as she squeezed the life out of him. Pulling back, she smiled, eyes sparkling. “I missed you, too. How’s it going up there in the big city, little miss journalist?” As he spoke, he shepherded her into the living room.  It remained exactly as it had been when they were children, and Will wondered if that was why Joanne didn’t visit as much anymore. Too many memories. She plopped down on the couch with a beleaguered sigh, worn pleather squeaking beneath her. “I love my work, I really do, but it’s just so frustrating! Nobody ever listens to me.” Nodding along, he fetched the pre-prepared pitcher of sweet tea and poured her a glass. He set the already sweating glass in front of her and she thanked him, still so polite. “That’s a shame. Don’t they know you’re always right?” he said teasingly. She stuck her tongue out at him. It was easy to coax her into talking about work. There was a lot to share, after all. Her life was interesting and exciting, a flurry of new people and places. All his days were spent the same way, so indistinguishable from each other that he often had trouble remembering what was today, what was tomorrow, what was yesterday. As she spoke, he noticed the twang of her accent was blunted. He heard she’d started going by Anne. Her boyfriend, a lawyer from California, called her Annie. That’s good, he thought. She’s becoming her own person. “I been meaning to ask you, Will, what’re you planning on doing with your share of the money Momma left us?” Joanne asked, abruptly changing the subject the way she did when she wanted to startle him into giving an honest answer. “Haven’t thought about it much,” he lied. “I was thinking, maybe you could use it to go back to school. It’s never too late, you know. You could come stay with me in the city and—” “Jo, we’ve talked about this.” “Yeah, but…Why not?” She’d asked him the same question over and over again after he told her about his decision at seventeen, but he supposed his explanations never held up under her scrutiny, every excuse crumbling beneath the innocent questions of a little girl tugging at his shirt with jam-sticky fingers. “‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ pussy, Jo,” Silas shouted from deeper in the house. “I’ve got work,” Will said, in lieu of an answer. It must’ve been confusing for her as a kid, hearing him talk about college like it was the last ticket to Heaven and then abruptly deciding not to even apply. She did what he couldn’t and left, forever stupefied by the lack of his footsteps before her. Reaching out for his hand, she murmured, “Staying here isn’t good for you.” They both knew she meant the house, not the town. Maybe she meant the town, too. Maybe she meant everything. “I'm fine, Jo.” They talked for hours, until the sun was low in the sky, just starting to brush the treetops outside. “It’s getting late,” he pointed out. “You should head home before it's dark.” Big blue eyes caught him in a snare as they said their goodbyes. “Promise you'll come visit?” “Sure.” It didn’t taste like a lie, but he’d told so many he couldn’t even remember how truth tasted. Waving, he watched her car clatter its way into the distance until it was only a speck of rust on the horizon. Turning, he took in the house. Faded white paint chipped off the wooden siding, collecting in the mud around the foundation. The water table was so high you couldn’t dig a hole without it immediately filling with water, the ground perpetually saturated. He’d given up on trying to keep the outside clean a long time ago, but he kept the inside up. Stepping back through the door’s busted membrane, he ran his hand over the wooden backs of the dining room chairs. As a child the two-bedroom house seemed so cramped with five people living in it. Then four. Then three. Then two. Then one. Now, it seemed empty, as if no one had ever lived there at all. He took two cold beers out from the fridge. The letter had already been sent and would reach her by the end of the week. Eyeing the teal phone on the wall, he thought of the call he’d gotten the previous weekend. The California lawyer wanted his blessing, stumbling nervously over his words. Will hoped he didn’t talk like that in the courtroom. His knee-jerk reaction was to say no, that she was too young, but she wasn’t. The little girl living in his mind was divorced from the reality of a capable young woman. And despite being both from California and a lawyer, the boy was alright. Will had to let Little Jo grow up. Drinks in hand, he locked up the house and walked out back, through the field and to the tracks. It took twenty minutes to get there, halfway through what had once been their forty-minute trek to school. Will frowned at the spot in the field where he bludgeoned his brother. It felt like there should still be a pool of blood, even though over a decade had passed. For some reason, it was irritating. The audacity of the soil, to swallow up the defining moment of his life. “I’ll never leave you, you know,” Silas cooed. “Never ever.” Not bothering to look at him, Will sighed. “I know.” “If you knew back then, would you have still done it?” “Yes.” A moment passed. Silas stared at him, lips slightly parted in surprise, then began to cackle. “Maybe you ain’t such a pussy after all! Coulda’ fooled me.” His mirthless, wild laughter filled the air until it was close to bursting, working in chorus with the distant, whining cicadas. Will watched the tall grass sea undulate with the wind. “Do you remember…” He paused and licked his lips. “Do you think you were ever happy?” It was a stupid, childish question. “Never ever.” Silas smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Never ever.” “Mm.” Now, he looked up. Gazing at his brother's face, forever frozen at eighteen, Will felt very old. An accident. He tripped and hit his head on the tracks. Coming from Will, the lie had been so believable. Will was a good boy, so polite. People said his momma raised him right. And with that, the whole town silently breathed a sigh of relief, not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth. But his mother had known. She never said, but he knew she knew. And he knew it was what killed her—the knowing. He wasn’t sure when he'd decided to do it—if it had been premeditated or heat-of-the-moment. Every night before he went to sleep, he thought of all the ways he could end his brother. Sometimes it was in revenge and sometimes it was in self-defense. But he’d never committed to it. Didn’t know if he even had it in him. He could imagine it, but he could imagine a lot of things. At the end of the day, all he knew was that nobody was coming to save him. His real daddy wasn’t going to appear to spirit him away and protect him from the monsters underneath his bed. No one would stop the wrong end of a cigarette from being pressed to his tongue until all he could taste was ash and burning flesh. No one would fix the broken fingers on his left hand. No one would heal his soul. Not even God. The eyes of the world turned away from him, pretending he didn’t exist. It was like everything suddenly became clear that day, staring at the back of Silas’ head as they walked home like they always did, just the two of them. Sometimes he wondered if there was only ever the two of them. It certainly felt like it every time Silas held him down by his throat, the world fading at the edges until there was nothing but Will fighting to breathe and the sound of Silas grunting. They shared a special language—pain. Will could see Silas’ suffering, so like his own, and wondered who Silas really wanted to hurt. That day, he had Silas’ bat in his hand. Silas was saying something to him. Silas was always saying something to him. But Will wasn’t listening, blood a thunderous cacophony in his ears. And then he swung. Jo’s daddy told him once, “When the dog can only remember pain, you’ve got to put it down.” “You’re thinkin’ too loud,” Silas complained in the present, crouching down by the tracks. “It’s harshin’ my vibe.” “Oh?” “Don’t ‘oh’ me, candyass.” Refusing to rise to the bait, Will silently sat on the iron rail next to him and cracked open both beers, setting one by Silas, who glared down at it. Will took a swig of his own, deciding halfway through a gulp that he would chug the whole thing. Surfacing from the alcohol with a gasp, he chucked the can down the tracks. Metal hit metal with a ping. “Whatcha’ waitin’ for?” Silas planted a hand on Will’s chest and shoved him down, his back hitting gravel and rotted plank. “Get to it.” “Yeah,” he breathed, checking his watch. Adjusting himself slightly so his head was resting on one rail, his knees slung over the other, Will settled down. Like this, staring up at the emerging stars, peace flooded over him for the first time in a very long time. Maybe the first time ever. “Never ever,” Silas said. “Never ever.” “Yeah,” Will repeated, speaking to no one. He felt the train before he saw it, vibrations extending through the metal beneath him, rhythmic and insistent. The iron beneath him rumbled, thrashing his brain inside his skull, but a little discomfort meant nothing to him. “Peanut sittin’ on a railroad track,” Will began, more mumbled than sung, “heart all aflutter." A trembling anticipation budded in his chest. “Round the bend came the Number Ten…” He could hear the train’s call, so close now. A forlorn whistle—Choo! Choo! Will closed his eyes. He didn’t need to look to see Silas’ crooked smirk as the last vestiges of his brother delighted in victory. “Peanut butter.” Rhys Lee Hamilton is an emerging writer and MFA candidate in Writing and the Savannah College of Art and Design. His previous work can be found in Aphelion Magazine, Savannah Magazine, and on his website, rhysleehamilton.com.

“And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.” —Friedrich Nietzsche. Beyond Good and Evil, IV, 146 A light touch on his arm awakened him. He was immediately confused, unsure where he was or who the two men standing before him were. The older of the two asked him his name. “Isaac Berger,” the man replied. “Who are you?” “I am Inspector Heinrich Müller, and this gentleman,” he said, pointing to a younger man standing behind him, “is my assistant, Constable Richter.” “May I have a glass of water? And please tell me where I am and how I got here.” The Inspector nodded to his assistant, who left the room and quickly returned with a glass of water. “Thank you.” “You are in a guest room at the Alpenrose Gasthaus in Mistendorf. You were found unconscious in the Market Square early this morning and brought here. I was called immediately, so here I am.” “Ah, it’s coming back to me now.” “Good. That’s what we want to talk about.” “Have you news of misters Reinhardt and Nielsen?” “Perhaps, of one. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? Who are they, and how do you know them, Mr. Berger?” “They are professors, I believe, teachers of philosophy. They were on holiday to hike the trails and area around Mount Nebelberg. I responded to an advertisement they placed in the Steinheim Tageszeitung. My wife showed it to me. They were looking for someone to serve as a scribe, write down what they discussed while hiking.” “Did you know anything about them before?” “No. I only met them this, or rather, I suppose now, yesterday morning. We ate breakfast together here before leaving on our hike.” “Do you know where they are?” The man shuddered. He brought his hand to his chin. “I…I fear for their lives. They jumped, you see. Together they jumped from the overlook. Twilight was coming on. I ran to the edge. But darkness had already covered the abyss below me. I turned and started running, running as fast as I could.” “They jumped, you say. Jumped together?” “Yes, that’s right. We must look for them.” The man tried, unsuccessfully, to rise from his chair. “Not to worry. We are looking into that now. A body was found this morning, lying twisted at the base of a beech tree, discovered by a shepherd boy taking his flock up the mountain to graze. The body was quite battered. The rocks are jagged on the western ascent of Nebelberg. The face is steep. We are hoping you can help identify the body this afternoon.” “Of course. What of the other?” “Well, he’s not been found yet, but we’ll find him. It’s just a matter of time. In the meantime, we would like to get you some food and ask that you give us a deposition. My assistant will do the writing. In it, please describe the two men, what they looked like, how they were dressed, and tell Constable Richter what happened after you left the inn with the two gentlemen yesterday morning.” “Certainly.” Deposition of Mr. Isaac Berger, recorded by Constable Karl Richter, August 26, 1900, in the  Alpenrose Gasthaus, Mistendorf, Baden-Wurttemberg. My name is Isaac Berger. I am thirty-three years old. Israelitisch. My wife, Hannah, and I live in the  small town of Steinheim in Baden-Wurttemberg. Steinheim is located at the northern entry to the  Swabian Alps. I have spent many happy days hiking its woods and mountains. As I mentioned to  Inspector Müller, I learned from my wife about a job opportunity, accompanying two men hiking  the Alps. I was to record their conversations. Yesterday morning, the twenty-fifth, after breakfast at the Alpenrose, Mr. Friedrich Reinhardt, Mr.  Lars Nielsen, and I took a trail leading from behind the inn to the eastern side of Mount Nebelberg.  The path on that side of the mountain is more circuitous and easier to walk. Neither man was appropriately dressed for hiking, their clothes more suitable for walking around  town. Reinhardt had dark, thick, wavy, unkempt hair. His eyes were deep-set, intense, and piercing.  He also sported an amazing mustache that curled upwards at the ends. He was dressed elegantly,  overdone for hiking, as I said. Mr. Nielsen was of slim build and had a slightly stooped posture. His hair was light brown and thin  in places with a grayish look. His dress was formal and meticulous. He was wearing a black suit  with a white cravat. He looked serious, introspective. His eyes were blue and deep-set, like Reinhardt’s. Our hike began well enough. The two men talked of the natural beauty surrounding them, the  panoramic views abundant from the mountain trail. In time, however, their talk turned serious. They  spoke of ethics, morals, the existence of God, and how one should live. It is the talk common among philosophers. From time to time, they would stop walking and face each other. They spoke  much with their hands, and their gestures were lively and abundant. And so it went until we were about two-thirds of the way to the top of Nebelberg. Suddenly, Mr.  Reinhardt stopped, looked in disbelief at Mr. Nielsen, and shouted: “He’s dead, Nielsen. We killed him. You and I. How can you not know that?” Mr. Nielsen began laughing. “You’re insane, Reinhardt; you’ve lost your mind. Maybe you think you killed him or tried to, but I had nothing to do with it. Nothing at all. Do you think with that super-ego of yours, you can kill him? I’ve news for you. You can’t do it. No one can.” At this point, Mr. Reinhardt uttered some words I prefer not to repeat. They turned and resumed walking but stopped talking. Mr. Reinhardt walked, staring at the path all the while, kicking a loose stone from time to time, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Mr. Nielsen, on the other hand, seemed to inhale the scenery, the forest, the sky, the sound of birds, and the wind, ignoring  Reinhardt. It was only a short time before we came to a fork in the trail. The two signs marking their respective destinations were oddly placed. The one pointing to the right was on the left, and the one pointing to the left was on the right; thus, the signs pointed at each other. The two men looked at the signs and  then at one another. Mr. Nielsen said, “Shall we go to Himmelreich?” naming the sign pointing to  the right. Mr. Reinhardt huffed rather noisily and said, “Suit yourself. I’m going left. Anyway, it makes no difference.” He took the direction named Vergessenheit. They parted, each going his own way. I didn’t know what to do. I stood there, not moving. Then, the most remarkable thing happened. From the sky above me descended a—I’m not sure how to describe it—a flying coach. Its external appearance resembled one of our regular horse-drawn carriages, but it had been modified with retractable wings. The wings could be concealed within the carriage’s body, seamlessly integrating with its overall appearance. It was the most amazing vehicle I’ve ever seen. The wings, when activated, gracefully extended from the sides, resembling delicate feathers unfurling. They allowed the carriage to take flight. The vehicle landed behind me. Its wings retracted, and a woman emerged. She left the driver’s door open and gestured for me to enter. Not thinking, I did so. She shut the door and began to walk away. I called to her. She looked over her shoulder, smiled, and said, “Just tell it what you want it to do.” I did, and the carriage responded accordingly. I rose above the treetops and then some more. Beneath me, I saw the two men walking. I noted that their different trails did not lead to separate destinations. They skirted an oblong section of forest and rejoined at its far end, at the edge of the mountain at a rocky outcrop that provided a magnificent view of the surrounding mountains, valleys, and countryside. I flew the carriage to the overlook, landed, got out, and found a comfortable, well-positioned bench to wait for Reinhardt and Nielsen. I didn’t have to wait long. In about twenty minutes, Mr. Nielsen entered on my right. He was  surprised to see me. I explained the nature of the trails, did not mention the carriage, which seemed to have disappeared, and told him I thought Mr. Reinhardt would soon join us. And, sure enough, Reinhardt came around the turn on my left, huffing and puffing a bit, mopping his brow with a white handkerchief. He looked disappointed to find us there. He asked me to move over so he could sit down. I was now sitting in the middle. No words passed between the two men. The surrounding valleys darkened earlier than the peaks as the sun began to set behind the  mountains. The fading light colored the mountaintops with hues of orange and pink. Shadows lengthened in the valleys, hiding their beauty. The mountains held onto the remaining light, adorning their slopes with a warm, unearthly glow. The sky transformed from vibrant colors to gentle purples and blues. Eventually, darkness enveloped the landscape, leaving the mountains as dark silhouettes against the dimly lit sky while the valleys sat in shadow. Unexpectedly, Reinhardt leaned forward, looking across me to Nielsen. “Shall we,” he asked. Nielsen smiled and replied, “I don’t see why not.” The two rose together, walked to the rocky overhang, positioned themselves like someone about to dive into the sea, and leaped off the mountain. At first, I didn’t fully understand what had happened. When I did, I ran to the edge of the overlook and peered into the valley’s darkness. I saw nothing; I heard nothing. I turned in a panic and began running as fast as I could, headlong down the mountain. You know the rest. Signed: Isaac Berger, August 26, 1900. Concluding Unscientific Postscript: Isaac Berger conclusively identified the body discovered by the shepherd boy as Friedrich Reinhardt, while Lars Nielsen’s remains remained elusive. As time passed, two narratives emerged attempting to explain the absence of Nielsen’s body. The first theory proposes that wolves devoured his remains, leaving no trace. The second, more ethereal account  suggests that when Nielsen leaped from the mountain, he ascended into the embrace of God, akin to the Biblical figure Enoch, and now walks alongside Him. The choice between these versions is said to hinge upon what one perceives when gazing deeply into the abyss. Gershon Ben-Avraham is an author of introspective short stories, poetry, and non-fiction pieces delving into religious and  spiritual struggles. He holds a Philosophy (Aesthetics) Masters from Temple University. He was awarded the Fiction "Special Mention" in Pushcart Prize XLIV. Chapbook God's Memory published by Kelsay Books.

He dreamed the red dream of blood falling in rivers from a cliff. He stood beneath, drinking it, knowing he would never be hungry again. In the dream, there was no hint of yellow, no glimpse of sunlight. There was no dawn and never would be – just dark red and black, limned with the silver light of an invisible moon. The smell of coming night was nowhere near his sleep, though he stirred, pushed against the wooden walls of his chamber, not ready yet to wake, not hungry yet to hunt, rich in his dream of blood. It was not yet dusk. She was in his dream, the last one and perhaps the most beautiful he had ever taken. How she had tried to fight as he wove himself inside her eyes, into her thoughts and dreams, until she was no more able to resist him than a fruit he could pick off a tree. When they are young, they’re like a delicious buffet. He drank from their bodies, of course. But the young ones felt more deeply, had more fear. Fear had a bouquet that drew him like a bee to a red rose. His mouth watered from his dream of lapping her terror. In the end, he placed her in a dream and took her, in her bed and in her sleep. She was filled with horror at her own response to his consuming her body. She screamed for her mother, for her father, because she was still young. But she was lost in his dream and her parents could not hear the screaming. She could not withdraw and could not understand why she screamed to pull away from him yet didn’t want him to stop. He shaped her into a fruit that longed to be eaten. She was delicious. He had maintained her as long as he could, draining her slowly. Only when there was nothing left after many nights did he cast her away, the husk of a fruit consumed. She was sweet in his dreams. She was hanging from a tree. It was the First Tree; he knew that in his dream. It was in the First Garden and even he, insulated as he was by the darkness flowing in his veins, felt the awe of this place. Naked, she dangled from a tree with red leaves and red bark. She, the fruit, glowed with a more luminescent red than the leaves around her. She was a shiny object he reached for, like a child in his hunger. She was irresistible and he longed to pluck her from the tree and eat as she glowed ever brighter, red mixing with orange mixing with gold and even yellow. His hunger made him realize, even in his sleep, that it must be time to rise; it must be nightfall. It was in his power to walk between the dream of sleep and the dream of night, so he reached for the glowing yellow girl-fruit, plucked her, and shoved her against the lid of his chamber to step into the night. But the glowing girl-fruit in his hand grew, covered his hand, surrounded him and flooded the world with its deadly yellow poison. It was day, bright day he had risen into. He saw the young girl’s father step away from the coffin, the crowbar he’d used to pry open the lid now raised to strike. But it was the last thing he saw as the sunlight burned out his eyes, burned out his face, turned him to flame and then dust that choked the agony of his last scream. J. David Liss writes genre fiction that asks questions found in upmarket literature. How does a feeling heart overcome the tragedy of loss? How do we know whom to trust, and can trust ever be won back once lost? He poses questions that matter in gripping stories. Liss received an MFA from Brooklyn College. Trained in writing and inclined to politics, he became a speechwriter. Liss has worked in government, corporate, academic, and healthcare centers. He spent 10 years as faculty in the Department of Biomedical Informatics at Columbia University where he still lectures on healthcare policy and politics. Liss has published 23 short stories, including in Caustic Frolic, The MacGuffin, Lake Effect, Blood and Thunder, Inscape, and others. His first novel, The Body Electric, is currently long-listed at Alternating Current Press. His poetry has appeared in Fifth Wednesday Journal, Euphony, Poetry Quarterly, and others.

“What is your name?” I finally asked on that cold and hopeless morning, as we stood naked on the hilltop, knowing we were irredeemable. “Hyperion,” he said “And I am Phoebus.” We cast off those vibrant lies, I baptised him Cain, he branded me Cassius, and we went our separate ways. I suckled on the fat of life thenceforth, and looked not once, back with regret. There was no shame or peculiarity in death, yet I told the Undertaker to carve “Scorn us or envy us, It matters not, we who bathed In milk, but gave up The sun” Finnbar Howell is a writer, poet and engineer from Wicklow, Ireland. He writes both literary and speculative fiction and poetry, and has a smattering of publications over the last decade. After climate change and the rise of modern fascism, the thing that bothers him most is the homogenisation of culture globally.

Both are watered together, Faux-foliage and living plants, A mixture blessed by my spouse. Dampened in the early morning sun, Facets from ten-thousand water drops Glisten, bringing the faerie garden to life. Placed with whimsy and abandonment, Hidden fantasy characters are animated, Under ferns, behind rocks, atop branches. Disney originals are her preference with: Peter Pan, Captain Hook, Wendy, and Tik-Tok, Sleeping Beauty, Prince Phillip, and Maleficent, Miniature farms worked by elves and nymphs, Groves of catnip sheltering somnolent cats, dragons Out of time, and seven pink flamingos to test visitors. Of course there is a place set aside for reverence: Buddhist prayer flags flutter above a diminutive zen Garden with the Son, Mary, Joseph, and seven dwarves. Alice’s wonderland is her special resort where she journeys: White Rabbit, Mad Hatter, Queen of Hearts, and blue Absolem, A hookah-smoking caterpillar, among ceramic magic mushrooms. Playing Tool on her tablet, poly-rhythms vibrating the garden, Shadows dancing in shifting breezes animating new adventures, Changing moods, oases of nostalgia, and increasing introspection. Rick Hartwell is a retired middle school teacher (remember the hormonally-challenged?) living in California with his wife of forty-nine years, Sally Ann (upon whom he is emotionally, physically, and spiritually dependent), two grown children, two granddaughters, and fifteen cats! Like Blake, Thoreau and Merton, he believes that the instant contains eternity.

Twelve of us dropped our pale feet against the ground on your orders thinking between the lines of a silk edged rope that perhaps despite your stories of heroism and rebirth that even the gods cannot change the fate pill bottle prescribed to them so why had we hoped to medicate ours into submission exchanging flattery and lips for beggars’ bone and blood to be taken as the kind of payment men accept split down the middle so that words and actions all beget their double meanings and detrimental side effects are valued in themselves as value and its prices imprint themselves on our eyelids with the same cursed coin you wrested from us leaving our white throats blue with bruises ransom to a riverboat over hate you plan carefully your tariffs and exchange rates twelve lives for honors hardly a price to pay— after all, the poets say we struggled for a little, not very long.* *From Homer's Odyssey 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.

I first heard about the disease while nursing my broken ribs over the evening news. Some prion thing, a misfolded protein, a bunch of science that I didn’t understand. They said it was like mad cow but instead of making us all drool and fall over, it ate the part of the brain that recognized faces. Family, friends, people you knew for years became instant strangers. It was sweeping across the country. The TV buzzed, the news anchors with their polished faces told sob stories, daughters afraid of fathers, fathers not knowing wives. I switched it off and limped to the fridge to get another cold one. The can hissed open. I took a swig, let the medicine snake its way down. Funny thing is, none of it sounds that bad. I drank until the room spun then fell asleep on the couch. Next day, I woke up with my head hanging over the edge of the cushion, a puddle of vomit stinking below me. The pain was back. I limped to the diner across the street, wincing at the daylight. Everything in there looked the same yet strangely unfamiliar.  The waitress looked at me like I was a five-letter word she couldn’t solve. “You okay, Andrew?” she asked, filling my mug. Her name tag read “Kate.” She had a gentle face and her eyes whispered that she cared. I hadn’t seen her there before. Maybe this is what fame feels like, I thought. I nodded and chuckled, “Better than ever, Kate.” I took a sip of my coffee, leaned back, my eyes scanning the room. Families laughing, old men grumbling about sports, and three black leather jackets occupying a booth in the corner. I hadn’t seen those faces before, but I remember those shaved heads. Those guys jumped me yesterday. Left me bleeding and groaning outside the bar. I can still feel those gold rings. They were scanning the room too, probably looking for me, for Jefe’s money. The disease had made its claim. I laughed, and for the second time the world was doing me a favor. The first being my daughter, she's got the spirit of a dancer. Ever since she could walk, it was all she ever wanted. She had her eyes on a fancy school miles away and light years out of our budget. So, she ended up at Fantasies off 24, twirling around poles to earn her keep. It hurt me, but dreams don't pay for themselves. I found a loan shark, a guy who moved like a wisp in the dark corners of the city. Got enough to send her packing, off to a place where she could pirouette instead of grab bills with her teeth. She hugged me goodbye, a tight squeeze, just like when she was a little girl who had been waiting all day for daddy to come home. For a while, I kept up with the payments. Then, not so much. Sold my old truck, a rusty red bucket of bolts, but the money wasn’t enough to cover my debts. I paid for my tab and left the diner. Faces turned, voices murmured, but it didn't matter. I was free, unanchored. As I walked out, the sun hung high, painting everything in a warm glow. Life looked as sharp as a knife—one that I could use instead of one pressing into my throat. And so I walked on, into a world where every face was a stranger, but every stranger felt like home. Andrew doesn't have a long literary resume, but he has been jotting down thoughts in journals for years (a really long Word document would be more accurate) and only recently ventured into writing fiction.

I’ve had dreams of demons Visiting me under the velvet blanket of night— When most would wake With shivers of fear, These are the least troubling of my dreams, by far. Perhaps I’ve become accustomed to these somewhat romantic, Almost promising visions; I seem to remember experiencing them since childhood, When Hades’ minions would lift me from my bed by the ankles And swing me around until I awoke and landed with a thud, As if it wasn’t a chore for me to shut my eyes in the first place. Nowadays, the dreams are less playful and more grown-up— Perhaps demons enjoy entertaining children like we do. In any case, most of these swirling, fluttering images That I find in my moments of blissful ignorance of the rising sun Are softer than a lover’s cheek or a swan’s down. On nights when I am lucky, The drowse overcomes me as the train clatters by, And soon, the chill from howling winds beyond my view Are replaced by a luxurious sheath, As if I’ve fallen into a lover’s arms Or a family’s snug hold, And for those momentary dreams, as I know them to be, I am suddenly where I belong. Surely, on most nights, I am plagued by the horrors of reality With unrelenting grip and cold cruelty, Otherwise I am stiff and worn in the mess of my covers With marks under my eyes like no veteran has ever seen. Yet, when the demons come to collect me, With their darkness that is soft to the touch And eyes that lack any semblance of judgement, I dare say their presence is welcomed. In such a case, How could anyone propose that my experience be denounced? It must be unthinkable for me to have an idea of such idiosyncrasy— If I should be exiled upon the notion that my blessings are curses, And oh, I will, Allow me the vice of entertaining my whimsy at the cost of my salvation. Ash Muzzillo (she/her) is a 20-year-old writer residing in MA, USA. She is currently a sophomore in university where she studies Creative Writing of varying disciplines. Ash is a non-theistic, agnostic Satanist. She identifies with the gothic subculture, its music and physical/visual representation. Ash focuses her writing on feminine rage, religious trauma, life with chronic pain, mental health, demons, vampires, and all things dark and brooding. Her work ranges from poetry to prose, stream-of-consciousness to surrealism, speculative fiction to high fantasy adventure romance. Upon graduating from university, Ash hopes to pursue an MA/PHD in writing and literature, as well as publish her longer works and expand her writing expertise.

When the deity visited our city, the Cleanliness Corps swept the streets clean of wretched has-beens like me lest the sojourning god be offended by our unsavory presence. No one knew exactly what became of most of us, but there were rumors of tent enclaves erected in the frigid mountains. The Cleanliness Corps was both efficient and secretive. All of us rounded up underwent brief questioning, and when I volunteered that I was a retired circus juggler, down on my luck for the last decade or two, I learned I had a chance to redeem myself. In three days’ time, I was pulled from a holding pen that contained a specimen of every human misfortune, made to don a clown’s suit, and given three apples to juggle before his eminence, who, in silken robes, regarded me as a spider might his next meal. The rules were simple. I had to juggle my three apples for three minutes, or until the luminary became bored, and for each drop, one of my fingers would be amputated. Though I hadn’t juggled in months, I began well enough, and did both simple cascade and crisscross tricks without mishap, the patterns being stored in my arms and hands from long use. But I quickly grew tired and irritable, and at the end of three minutes had made eleven drops, becoming a regular fumble-fingers. I was fortunate, his highness pointed out, in that he was merciful. I would lose all ten of my fingers as agreed, yes, but the eleventh, which might ordinarily be my head, he would spare. Gratitude gushed from me like a stream, leaving me breathless and tearful, and after the Executioner laid my digits upon a butcher’s block and hacked them all away, then wrapped my bloodied hands in two rags soaked in acid, I was released back onto the street, not without my three bruised apples and a chunk of stale bread stuffed in the pockets of my clown suit. I gathered that I was one of the more successful acts that day, since many others perished. On the now spotless street, where I had been living like a mangy dog prior to being kenneled for the majestic one’s pleasure, I at once made my way to the Health and Restoration shop. Old Bremer, a prosperous physician and apothecary for many years, was in, and told me as he unwrapped my hands that the acid in the bloody rags had likely saved me from contagion, but that he needed to act quickly to reverse such digital devastation. As it was, he could only restore one finger on each hand, and unless I was partial to wearing rings or flipping people off, he recommended the thumb or index. I went with the index, on vaguely utilitarian grounds. As Bremer tsk-tsked and bathed my truncated mitts in a special herbal broth, we discussed price. “I’m afraid I can pay you only in gratitude,” I said morosely, my thankfulness already depleted by the amount I gave the potentate for sparing my life. A man’s gratitude cannot be infinite, after all. I waited for Bremer to throw me out with the cure incomplete. “Ah,” said Bremer, undismayed. “With gratitude comes obligation.” He massaged the edges of my palms, where, not without pain, I already felt the buds of two strange new digits beginning to sprout. Bremer then described an old theft that had occurred against his family. “Do you know jade?” he inquired of me, manipulating my longish, just-developed knuckles. “It is an enchanted stone, in whose lucid depths those who live fortunate lives may discern the past and future. Two years ago a small jade elephant of the most splendid opalescent green was stolen from my brother’s house by the man who owns Tor’s Jewelry store on the waterfront, Arnad Tor. Perhaps you are acquainted with this scoundrel?” I looked bewildered to show I did not, and Bremer continued. “No matter. I can show you the ownership papers for the jade piece, if you doubt my veracity. This thief Tor is even now trying to unload the article, but few can afford his exorbitant price. Naturally, when my family members or even the police call on him, the elephant is nowhere to be found. With your practiced palms and supple new appendages, which I will make extra quick and long, almost twice as long as ordinary digits, you will be able to procure the jade elephant and return it to me.” “Of course,” I said, not about to argue with my benefactor. I held before my eyes my now restored hands, eight wounds smoothly healed and two new index fingers lengthy and flexible beyond compare, and was well pleased. After a brief stopover at an old friend’s on the same side of town, where I exchanged my clown suit for more respectable attire, I made my way to the seafront. There I was greeted by the ceaseless cawing of terns and gulls as I walked along narrow streets wet with mist, one damp pedestrian among many. From the entryway to Tor’s I could count the boats in the harbor, or could if I had nothing else to do. A bell tinkled as I entered the shop, and I found I was not the only customer within. A young couple was haggling with a man, undoubtedly the owner by his air of superiority, over the price of a ring. “It’s only a ring, so why shop around?” he demanded of the couple. “Wherever you go, it’s only going to be rings you find. There’s nothing uncanny about them.” The young man then turned to his fiance, as she must have been, and told her, “This fellow is hard-hearted and pushy. Let’s go someplace where romance is appreciated.” Arm-in-arm, the two strolled defiantly out the door. Tor, with a disgusted look on his froglike face, then turned to me. “Foolish lovers,” he sneered. “They expect me to dote on them as if life is a fairytale and I’m a genie who grants their wishes. I don’t have time for that nonsense. What can I do for you?” “Jade, if you have the time,” I replied in a neutral tone. “I’m a collector of small jade animals, the more precious, the better.” “Are you now,” he replied, looking me up and down. He noticed my maimed hands, which I made no attempt to conceal. “Where do you work? I don’t recall seeing you before.” “If you don’t mind,” I said, and nothing more. I glared at him to convey my impatience. With a grunt, Tor disappeared for a moment into the dark rear of his shop, returning with three jade figurines that he laid on the counter between us: a dolphin, a horse, and an elephant. “These are your finest?” I said, knowing nothing of jade. I encircled the elephant with my elongated forefinger and lifted it to my eyes, noting that for some reason–perhaps to disguise it–the carving had been painted white a while ago. “There are no finer pieces to be had,” he said, adding, “They are quite expensive.” “This elephant,” I said, “is it truly jade, and not ivory? It’s quite white.” “It is jade, the finest quality, and came to me in that condition. I haven’t had the time to remove the disfiguring coat of paint yet.” “Perhaps I should return when that is accomplished. I’d like to see all its pristine qualities.” As I studied the elephant up close, I noticed a small chip in the paint. Before Tor could object, I pressed the animal into my palm and widened the tiny window with my sharp fingernail. Next I held the figure up to the ceiling lamp to illuminate its interior, while at the same time I asked the price. As Tor barked out an astronomical figure, I saw enacted in the green depths of the stone a stirring scene: this very shopkeeper pilfering the elephant from another man’s house as the homeowner slept. The homeowner bore a striking resemblance to old Bremer the apothecary, and was certainly his brother. I tossed the jade to the shopkeeper, who caught it on the fly in surprise. I turned to go but hung in the doorway, the tinkle of the bell fading and the owner watching me with eyes wide. “I’ll return in a day or two for a closer look,” I said. “Have it ready.” Just then a seagull flew through the open door, snatched up in its beak the jade elephant from Tor’s fingers, and flew with it out the door before the speechless man could find his voice. I ambled after the gull and vanished into the damp throng of people outside, chuckling to myself. After that incident I refused to revert to the vermin-like life I’d lived when I stood before the man-god as a performer. Regenerated in body and soul by my digital transformation, I taught myself to juggle anew, employing small hoop-like wooden rings instead of balls and clubs. I could insert my two long fingers into the rings with ease, catching and tossing them, and perfected a routine where I ended up with four hoops stacked on each index finger. I also spun plates and basketballs atop my fingertips and perfected a profitable shell game. At the end of a few weeks I joined a small carnival, a commune of dispossessed talents really, that performed in towns close to my country’s border with our westernmost neighbor, Primo Garden Lots, a sovereign democracy. My renewed vigor, together with a sense that freedom lay within reach, all but eradicated my old age and natural fatigue. I soon encountered Taggert, the haggard but enterprising conductor of our flea circus attraction, a dismal affair of shrunken bugs that, under a glass, resembled a miniature uniformed army blasted into submission. Taggert informed me that a trustworthy farmhand, who lived on the outskirts of the town where the carnival was encamped, would lead a group of twelve adults, no children, through a nearby forest into Primo Garden Lots, for a fee. Along with a parcel of gratitude, I paid my portion, which represented all my savings to date, and learned that the clandestine trek was to take place in a week. Why does everyone say, “Gratitude begets indebtedness,” or similarly depressing slogans, and never the more hopeful, “Gratitude breeds opportunity?” I, whose gratitude one might suppose to be exhausted, can tell you. Before I allowed myself to cross the border to freedom, I had a further debt to repay. This was to old Magello, the dying magician and constant friend of mine back on the bay, whose trained seagull had purloined the jade elephant that I needed to repay Bremer the apothecary for healing my hands. That splendid bird, almost as lousy as decrepit Magello himself, had dropped the elephant straight into the magician’s hands, whence it came into my altered ones to pass along to Bremer. I therefore undertook the two days’ journey back to the waterfront where, in a dank cellar below a tavern, Magello coughed out his last hours, to give up to him my spot in the freedom parade, if I may call it that. I did this out of the most profound gratitude, so that Magello might spend the remaining minutes of his life breathing democratic air, in case an arduous trip to the border appealed to him, or he survived the expedition if it did. If I sound sarcastic here, it is not to disparage Magello, for whom I devoutly wished to put on hold or even sacrifice my own freedom, so that he might enjoy his well-deserved own, for however short a time, in all his present misery. It was only that, seen in a certain light, my obligation to him had cropped up as a barrier between me and Primo Garden Lots. Moreover, Magello sensed that I was reluctant to make this offer, because he at once chided me, “Of course I accept! You owe me that! It’s the right thing to do! You’re not so healthy yourself, you know! I’m surprised you made it this far!” Here he coughed explosively into a filthy rag, and I might have joined him in a cough if another rag had been on offer. Though I felt as fragile as dust, I believed a few chest-cracking convulsions might bolster me. “But this is my native country, and I will not forsake her,” the magician declared feebly, his lungs drained of phlegm and air for a moment. He glared at me with shining, wet eyes. “Hear me? So enjoy your freedom, traitor.” Afterward Magello and I shared a few laughs over the grog he served us in tarnished tin cups–I never knew for certain when he was joking, about patriotism or anything else, but he guffawed endlessly over my description of the jeweler’s expression when the gull carried off his elephant, though I’d told him the story before–and then I departed. I went away alone, but absolved of debt, leaving Magello to finish emptying out his lungs in private. I wish I could say I felt like a new man, but I didn’t get far before I started shaking like a prisoner in a freezing cell. I thought I was juggling again, but it was the world swirling around me. I realized I was as ill as Magello, perhaps with the same malady. I would never make it back to the border, not even to reclaim my crossing deposit. Rejoining the circus as a juggler was out of the question now too, even if I made it that far, since on the trip to see Magello my new index fingers had begun to wither and turn an alarming shade of grayish purple. They had become like the flaccid fingers of an empty glove, with only a sliver of brittle gristle inside them, and I knew they would soon fall off like chameleons’ tails. I would then have my two palms to clap with, if I wished to applaud anything. Fortunately for me, our resplendent leader had departed some while ago, and I was no longer in danger of being swept up so as not to offend him. I was free to line the street like litter once more, and that is what I did: begging to survive, also breeding carp in a fetid pond by a canal, and making wine from weeds in an old bathtub, as I had in the past. At one time I had typed correspondence too, on an antique Olivetti machine that still lay in a pawn shop, but clearly my days as a typist were over. Oh, I might have gone back to the apothecary, I guess, and asked for a few new fingers, but Bremer would only want another favor, saying “one good turn deserves another,” or some such burdensome claptrap. In fact I heard Bremer had passed on, and I had no idea what the new man would demand of me. I didn’t care to find out, either. But what could I do but keep on going, until all my puny strengths wore out? I was so charged with gratitude for this life, even run-down and fingerless, that my hand was forced. A fortunate life, beyond doubt. Michael Fowler writes humor and horror in Ohio.

Abandoned for years, the red farmhouse became a landmark in my childhood, glimpsed from the school bus. It sits well back from the road under slim trees that blossomed white in spring and turned gold in autumn. The town calls it haunted. How else to explain the bad luck that collects under its eaves, the flickers of movement where no birds sing? But despite the rumors, Max and I fell in love with it when we decided to move to the countryside. It was easy to see the future. Elaborate meals for dinner parties, our kids playing in the swings, a long-legged setter watching out for them like Nana from Peter Pan. I come home to it now, greeted by the gradually receding smells of new paint and wood varnish, the dry coolness of its interior world. As soon as the front door shuts, the quiet encloses me and strips away all sense of time. Like a snail curled up for sleep, surrendering to the night. It’s taken months to restore the farmhouse, choosing the brass fixtures, navigating the rot in the beams. But the living room is nearly finished, Max’s turquoise couch and bronze flamingo lamps already set in front of the big bay windows. A moving box still holds the most fragile things encased in bubble-wrap. I reach for a bowl of takeout ramen and start on the noodles, leaning against the accent wall. We chose it as much for the name, robin’s egg, as for the color—the palest blue just tilting green. On the other side of the glass, gusting wind set the trees to dancing in threads of dusk, shedding their white blossoms all over the grass like careless stars. Most of the farmhouse noises are not yet familiar, but I identify the creak of the shutters and the drip of the kitchen sink. When my bowl is empty, I carry it into the kitchen, leaving the lights off. The copper pans hang on the wall but mostly it’s still a disaster, cluttered with unopened boxes. The hulking shadow of the fridge is empty, none of Max’s handmade orecchiette pasta, no jars of cheese-flecked pesto or glossy lemon curd. Rachel, a voice whispers like a breath against my neck. Every evening at the precise instance of nightfall I feel it—the proximity of two separate planes nearly touching in the dark. The voice sounds like Max’s, but I know that isn’t possible. Max is gone and I’m here alone in a house meant for a family. Faith Allington is a writer, gardener and lover of mystery parties who resides in Seattle. Her work is forthcoming or has previously appeared in various literary journals, including Honeyguide Literary Magazine, Hearth & Coffin, Crow & Cross Keys, The Fantastic Other and FERAL.

His sword shone brightly, as I drew my own. May God forgive me. I had never fought one, so bold, and so knightly who held the throne. His sword shone brightly I looked upon him contritely. Greed, jealousy, lust for power twisted through me, ingrown. May God forgive me. Our duel had been decided, and when the sun had begun to set, he fell to the floor, and left me alone. His sword shone brightly The years have made me frail, as now I am sixty. But my deeds, I will forever bemoan. May God forgive me Now I hardly have honor, forfeit, as it is rightly. How I miss my dear brother, the only friend I have known. His sword shone brightly. May God forgive me. Jared T. Wilkerson is a freshman at UVU, completing his associate's with an interest in English. He is a prose editor by day, writer by night. Despite his busy schedule, he likes to study physics and read fiction.