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There is no end to my love for Jemjasee. I pace the ragged cliffs, searching the sea for her ship. My longing will not cease until I am entwined in her marble wash of lavender and green arms. It’s dawn. The sunlight’s red varnish stretches across the Santa Lucia Mountains. The mist from the sea floats through the Monterey Cypress. Backlit in pink stands the Piedras Blancas Lighthouse. The waves caress my vestige feet. The foam licks my revenant face. The damp never seeps into my gossamer bones. My long silk robe opens, my breasts exposed to the witless wind. It hisses, jeers, but I am invincible, adrift in my chariot of grief. The gulls perch in conference on the white rock. Beyond is the blue empty sky, the vast sea without sails, no horizon. Blue. Come, Jemjasee. Am I to roam this rugged coastline for eternity, this journey without distance? I feel doomed, my struggle invisible. You must come, Jemjasee. Save me from my weariness. I skim the jagged bluff. The elephant seals raise their massive heads when they see me then fall back to sleep. Along the winding path, I float unnoticed by gardeners and groundskeepers. I glide over the pebbled lane, past stone cottages, a gift shop, the bell and tower. Slipping through the walls of the lighthouse, I float to the stairs. Tourists gasp when I appear. “The website didn’t say anything about a magic show,” someone says. “It’s like Disneyland!” cries a child. Their zeal echoes around the cylindrical walls. I nod, playing along with the charade. It’s not always like this. Some days, people are thick with fear. They flee from my presence. When the sun shines, I’m an act. If the fog veils the coast, I’m a phantom. Most days, they don’t see me at all. “Ah, that’s my wench.” I recognize the guide’s garbled, liquored voice, his gnarled laugh. A salty ex-sailor, he sometimes comes alone, drinking, running after me, catching air. On the step, I look into his weather-beaten face. His sunken eyes leer. Damn foolish scoundrel. Turning, gliding over the wrought-iron stairs to the deck, I let my robe fall. Naked. “This isn’t for kids!” Offended, parents usher their children outside, then turn for one last glimpse at my beautiful body. I continue. Invulnerable. My feet sail over spiral wrought-iron stairs, my fingers sweep above the narrow curving rail. Everyone has gone, except for the guide, who looks up at me and says, “You elusive lass, I relish the day I grab your long red hair and make you mine.” He’ll never get the chance. Inside the lantern room, the beacon has no purpose. Still, it shines for those who live along the coast and the tourists driving by. I glide outside to the widow’s walk. From the empty skies to the ocean’s bed, nothing rises or descends. Jemjasee, if you love me, come. Not long past, her ship rose out of the sea, and beams of lights pranced above the waves. Particles rearranged themselves, silver, glittered. The mirage shimmied into form. A shape malleable to Jemjasee’s thoughts, horizontal, then vertical, a kaleidoscope of color reflecting the terrain, the craft visible only when she wanted. Jemjasee was too good for me, too advanced. Not only did I fall in love with her, but the idea of what I, too, might become. She couldn’t suffer the stench of violence that infused my planet. If exposed too long, her breath ceased. I had to go with her, or not. But how could I journey outside of my own world? Fear ransacked my mind. It stuffed my schooling, programming, upbringing into a box that, god forbid, I break out and beyond until I’m unfettered by the lies I’ve been taught—crammed it down my cranium, and just to be sure, set a lid, a square hat with a tassel on top, to keep it all in. My decision to leave Earth was as ragged and split as the cliffs of my homeland. After anguishing in my cottage, gazing on memories, touching knickknacks, holding friendships in picture frames, I pondered all I would lose. The future—too elusive, too great a change, my past—something I clung to. I can’t leave. Jemjasee held me, the feeling of sadness so great no words would comfort. My heart was shrouded in sorrow. She walked the waters as her ship ascended from the sea. The vessel hovered above the waves, a silver triangle. Sleek, like Jemjasee. It rolled on its side, morphed into a vertical tower, with a fissure, and she entered. A thousand lights, curved and colored, sparked, flashed, then disappeared. The instant she left, I knew my mistake. And so it began, the tears of regret and self-loathing. I missed the woman who was so full of love, that she knew nothing of its opposite. One day, while my mind slipped down around my ankles, I sat in my cottage, staring at a collage of empty food cartons, magazines, dust bunnies, paint chips, shattered wine glasses, a broken window from where the wind whispered, Go ahead. Do it. On that day, I chose to end my suffering. With clarity restored and a mission in sight, I tossed a rope over the living room beam and tied a hoop large enough for my head, but small enough for my neck. From the kitchen, I dragged a chair and placed it underneath the shaft. I climbed on the seat, put the noose over my neck, and kicked out the chair. I dangled. Minutes went by, and still I was alive. Then my neck broke and life ebbed. Somewhere I drifted, first as a dark cloud, then into a gauzy realm where I was still—me. Oh, my outrage to discover that I could kill my body but never my Self! A shadowy reflection of the woman Jemjasee loved, I roamed the rim of the bluff for another chance to leave, hoping she’d return. I saw her. In my rapture I wailed, Jemjasee! She walked the shore, shouting, Astrid! I’m here for the last time. Come, before your planet strikes back for the harm done to it. I ran down the cliff. My kisses lingered deep in her neck. My hands seized her stalks of short black hair. Jemjasee looked through me even as my mouth covered hers, my fingertips drunk from the touch of her. Nothing, not my cries or kisses could rouse her. Sobbing, I screamed, Can't you see me—don’t you know I’m here! Then she saw me and backed away. I saw the horror there in her golden eyes. Her shock pierced my translucent heart. Please forgive me. Her kind never sheds tears. Jemjasee had told me that on her island in the universe, there were no reasons to cry, but looking into her perfect lavender and green marble colored face, I saw a tear on the threshold of falling. I was ashamed. She left by way of the ocean as her ship rose out of the sea. Condemned, I pace the ragged cliffs, the gulls in flight, the lighthouse behind me, on an endless quest to be with my beloved, forever adrift, because I hadn’t the daring to journey past my sphere. DC Diamondopolous is an award-winning short story and flash fiction writer with hundreds of stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals, and anthologies. DC's stories have appeared in: Progenitor, 34th Parallel, So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Museum and Library, Lunch Ticket, and others. DC’s recently released collection Captured Up Close (20th Century Short-Short Stories) has two Pushcart Prize nominated stories and one nominated for Best of the Net Anthology. Her first collection of stories was Stepping Up. She lives on the California coast with her wife and animals. dcdiamondopolous.com

The road ahead slithers like a giant black serpent in restless desert night Fingers drum on the wheel to the beat of his demons, as hidden creatures howl under the shroud of stygian sky Years turned inside out driving through unshaven city streets, searching for the rainbow’s end – just to find he’s just an extra in a tragedy with 8 billion acts: no standing ovations, no curtain calls Overhead, my wings spread, I drift content on cold currents – a fresh kill clamped in my beak Terry Chess's work has appeared in The Chiron Review, The Journal of Undiscovered Poets, A Glass of Wine with Edgar, and Quill & Parchment, among others. He lives in a Chicago suburb with his wife, and their Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, "Charlie." When not writing, he collects rare books, plays chess, and is an avid soccer fan.

Mary Ann Thompson smoothed her hands over the long-sleeved maid uniform before going through the service door to the Lord Baltimore Hotel. The entrance was a rusted green door around the back near the dump. A far stretch from the gold-plated revolving doors and mosaic floors of the lobby. But Mary genuinely liked her job cleaning the rooms of the bougie hotel. It was her duty to bring smiles to the wealthy fat cats in the elegant, carpeted hallways with old aristocratic paintings. Still, what she loved most about her job was the ability to conceal bruises. “Good afternoon, Mary,” Taniyah smiled. Her words carried undertones of a Caribbean accent. Even at 46, Taniyah’s dark skin looked flawless against her crisp, white uniform. Her high cheekbones and full lips made her appear ten years younger. “And what’s so good about it?” Taniyah chuckled. “Never gets old, girl.” Taniyah had served at the hotel almost as long as Mary. Both coming from troubled marriages, the two women hit it off instantly. Mary was there to support her friend when Rodney, Taniyah’s husband, up and left one day, never to be heard from again. She didn’t understand how a woman could give twenty-plus years to a man just for him to wake up and change his mind. Mary put her purse in her locker and pulled out a small red ball, which she slipped into her pocket. A slice of white layered cake came out next. “Ohhh, is this what you’ve been talking about…The Lady Baltimore?” Taniyah asked. Mary nodded and set it down on Taniyah’s desk before turning to hook her radio to her fully notched belt. “You’re too sweet, Mary, always thinking about others. Looks so delicious.” Mary shrugged. She’d rather be called beautiful than sweet. “How’s the shift so far?” “The usual, I’m afraid. Melissa is up on floor 6 cleaning her second room, moving as slow as Christmas. Luna radioed she’s already finished 11, 12 and half of 13. The girl’s quicker than a jackrabbit in heat. And the newest girl, she’s almost completed floor 18.” “What about floors 1–5?” “What about them?” Taniyah put her clipboard down and stood up from her desk. “They’re done, finished by yours truly.” “Naw.” “Yeah.” “Well, wonders never cease.” Taniyah laughed. Her blood-red nails slapped her right thigh. “They don’t with me.” Mary stood up and sighed. She pushed a strand of white streaked hair away from her brown eyes and grabbed a checklist. “Guess I’ll go make my rounds.” She started for the service stairwell but stopped. “If Brian comes by you can send him up.” Her voice held a sharp edge. Taniyah’s face fell flat. She nodded. “Understood.” Mary’s first stop was with Melissa, who she found digging through room 605’s fridge. “Oh, I was just finishing up,” the young girl said in-between chews. Her blonde hair fell well past her shoulders and her uniform apron hung loose with food smears. It looked almost as dark as the heavy liner winged across her eyes. “You’ve got to get faster, Melissa,” Mary said. “Your two-week trial was over last week. You should be in 612 by now.” She put her own checklist down on Melissa’s cart. “And look at your uniform. You’re a mess.” “I’m sorry, Mary. I promise I’ll do better.” She tried to pin her hair back. “Your apron’s filthy,” Mary sighed again and untied her own apron. “Here, take mine.” “Thank you, and I swear this is the last time you’ll have to talk to me.” “It better be, or you’ll have no place here.” Years ago, she would have given someone like Melissa a few chances, but at 52, she had no time to bother with a little girl's laziness. There was enough of that in her life from Brian and his mistress. In the hallway, Mary took her red pen and stabbed Melissa’s name out on her clipboard. By the time she got to Luna on 14, her feet were throbbing in her white Keds. But she needed the exercise. Luna, middle-aged and a Maryland native, like herself, didn’t even notice her creeping along the corridor next to the cart. “Mary,” Luna jumped, dropping one of the dirty towels she held. “You startled me.” “Sorry. Just wanted to let you know what an amazing job you continue to do each day.” “Thank you for all the encouragement you and Taniyah have given me.” Luna smiled, highlighting the beginnings of crow’s feet. “You’re welcome and if there’s anything you ever need, you come and find me.” Mary placed her unmanicured hand on the woman’s shoulder. “I still remember starting out at this job twelve years ago and being so very timid. There was no one to turn to. Don’t want my ladies to feel that way.” “Much appreciated.” She took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind me asking, are all three of us assistant maids new to Lord Baltimore?” Mary raised her eyebrows. “Uh, yes. Yes, you are…but slightly different lead times. You’ve been here the longest.” “My, all new help, eh? Well, hope whatever ran the other three girls off doesn’t happen to us,” Luna said with a laugh. Mary’s face stayed statuesque. “I’m sure it won’t, as long as everyone follows the rules.” She gave her a nod and turned to the stairs again, radioing Taniyah for what floor Olivia was working on. It was still 18. “Are you okay?” Mary asked, finding the young redhead maid on the white cushioned bench next to the stairwell up on 18. In the middle of the afternoon, most guests departed for the day, either shopping or seeing the sights. The two ladies had the floor to themselves. “Yes, ma’am.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her southern twang coiling around her words. “I was just getting…” Snobs billowed from the woman. Her shoulders hunched over. Mary sat down and put an arm around the woman. They began rocking back and forth together. “What’s the matter, Olivia?” “Ma’am, I’m supposed to be cleaning 19 next, but I just can’t. I can’t go up there.” “Why not?” Olivia turned to face her directly. Her hazel eyes gushing water. Her mouth opened, curling at the edges like a hole caving in. She inhaled. Her voice, a whisper. “I’ve seen them moving around. They scare me.” She shook her head. “I believe one day I’m gonna be cleaning and that’s the last you’ll hear from me. They gonna take me.” “Shhh, don’t talk such nonsense. No one is up there. The floor is empty.” She patted Olivia’s back. “I can clean floor 19 for you, if you’d like.” “Really? You’d do that for me?” “Yes, but only if I can use your cart.” “Of course.” Olivia’s smile spread across her thin lips. “I’ll go get another cart right away and start on 20.” She gave Olivia a thumbs up as the tail end of her skirt disappeared through the service elevator. Mary nodded to herself. It was going to be alright. Floor 19 was her floor, always would be. “Mary, do you copy?” Taniyah’s voice spoke through the radio. She pushed the button. “Copy, what’s up?” “It’s your husband. He’s in the parking lot with a young girl in his truck. He’s coming in.” “Okay. Send him up.” She paused. Her jaw clinched. “Send him to 19.” There was silence on the other end. “Will do.” Floor 19 was like the other floors, but there were no guests, ever. Management refused to use 19 anymore, therefore it was rarely cleaned except for mandatory dusting every two weeks. Keep up standards, the most important rule of the day. She pulled out her card to unlock the stair door to floor 19. Only the maids and management could unlock it. Low lighting illuminated the black-and-white framed photos lined along the hall walls. City images of a time long forgotten. Mary’s eyes scaled the tiny yellow lines as part of the carpet’s design. They ran the full length of the corridor, disappearing around the corner. The carpet wasn’t as posh as the other floors. Almost rough looking, the outdated vibe matched the loneliness of the floor. Mary pushed the cart along. The two front squeaky wheels sliced through the heavy stillness. “One, two, three.” She counted the solid wood doors as they rolled by. “Four, five, six.” Mary must have walked the floor a thousand times, and, like clockwork, goosebumps accumulated along the tops of her arms. Her knuckles remained white around the cart’s handle. Reaching the corner, Mary looked down the next hall to the neon red exit sign at the end. A faint buzzing sound emanated from the sign, echoing against the ferocious quiet. Mary grabbed her skirt pocket and, with a sweaty hand, pulled out the ball. She stared at it for a moment, a perfect sphere of red. The slap came out of nowhere. “Ouch!” she cried, grabbing her throbbing fingers, pained by the hit. The ball went flying backwards down the first part of the hall. She turned to see Brian standing next to her. His brown hair slicked back and stuck together in a solid block. He thought Tiffany liked it better that way. Made him seem younger, but Mary thought it made him look stupider. “Why’d you do that?” “Couldn’t you hear me calling your name?” His mouth turned into a sneer. “You made me walk all the way down this damn hall because your dumb ears aren’t working. I’ve been texting you all day.” Mary shook her injured hand and turned her body to her husband. “What do you want?” “You know what I want. I want you to sign those papers. Just face it. Me and Tiff are together. I don’t want you no more.” He still wore his white shirt and dress pants, the typical manager’s uniform for any Golden Corral. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and melted into a receding hairline, despite the cool October day. “I’ll sign them when I’m good and ready. We’ve had thirty years together. Another week will not matter. Plus, my lawyer needs to read them over.” “You lawyered up?” Brian shook his head. “When did you decide to lawyer up?” He began pacing, running his hand through his matted hair the best he could. “I knew this would happen. Knew it. I will tell you what. You’re gonna sign them today.” He pointed his finger at her face. “I will not.” “Shit. We ain’t got time for this.” Brian grabbed her by one hand. “You’re gonna sign now on my phone.” He lifted the palm of his other hand, muscles flexed. Mary squeezed her eyes shut and ducked her head, ready for the strike. “Ugh! What the hell?” he yelled. Mary felt his grip let go. She opened her eyes and saw the red ball bounce sideways against the left wall. It settled near Brian’s foot. Her gaze rolled to a little girl in a cream-colored dress who stood at the far end of the hall. Brian rubbed his shoulder. “Hey, was that you?” His brow furrowed at the girl. “Stop throwing things.” He reached down and grabbed the red ball. With a smirk of satisfaction, he stuffed the red ball into his pocket. The little girl remained motionless. Two dark eyes like saucepans on fire. Her bangs framed her face perfectly. Her skin, matching the color of her dress, looked even paler against her dark hair. Brian grunted and turned back to Mary. “Like I said, you’re signing those documents today, even if I have to make you.” His hand reached for Mary’s arm again, but another, ashy skinned hand grabbed his. Its bulging veins of blue and purple made Mary repulse back. It was the little girl. “Give me my ball,” she said. Her voice reached just above a whisper but still earthy-cold. Her fingers squeezed his flesh so hard that blood droplets formed. “Ahhh!” Brian screamed, clawing at the little girl. Using his one free hand, he tore at his arm in an unsuccessful attempt to loosen her grip. Mary fell backwards, attempting the crab walk to scramble away. Drafts of cold air blew through the corridor, blowing her hair against her face. The lights flickered and two more bodies appeared beside the girl. A man and a woman, both dressed fancy in a pinstriped suit and traditional flapper gown. All three waxy faces leered at Brian. Their smiles showcased sets of sharp, white teeth as they greedily licked their lips. “Mary, help!” Brian reached out for her, but she backed away further. She stood up straight, powerful. The three strangers pounced on Brian. Teeth tore at his throat, hand, and shoulder. The snap of bones echoed down the hallway. Without a flinch, Mary turned around. Brian’s cries were high-pitched, squealing, almost pig sounding. The last thing she remembered were his wide eyes, moistened with tears. Mary’s eyes stayed as dry as hollow bones. A step forward, then another and another. The screams suddenly stopped. This was the part she always doubted. The part when she wondered if they’d still be there waiting for her when she turned around. She expected it every time. But then again, maybe Hell wouldn’t be so bad once she got there. She breathed deep and made a 180 turn. The hall was empty. Traces of Brian were nowhere to be found. Floor 19 was silent, almost peaceful. The manager told her he didn’t record there anymore for fear of what could get out. He always lacked proper control and actual balls. Something rolled against her shoe. Mary looked down and saw the ball with its perfect symmetry and blood red color. She picked it up, squeezed it once, and slid it into her pocket. “Mary, do you copy?” Taniyah’s voice came over the radio. She reached down for the button. “Copy, go ahead.” “A woman named Tiffany is here. She said she came with a Brian…is she talking about your husband? Have you seen him today?” Taniyah was always reliable. She kept their story straight. That was why their business with her own husband, Rodney, was so easy to complete five years ago. Yet the debt collector before him, a much bloodier situation. “Send her up, Taniyah. I can assist her better that way.” A jagged smile stretched across her face, much larger than normal. Traces of lines formed in jigsaw patterns around her mouth and cheekbones, giving them an unnatural formation. She reached down to fondle the ball in her pocket. “Just make sure she comes to 19, please.” Lisa Rodriguez is a new author who currently lives with her family at Ft. Meade, Maryland. She loves to write flash fiction and short stories. Her words can be found in Cafe Lit, Instant Noodles, and Bright Flash Literary Review. In her free time, she enjoys ghost hunting, Mexican wrestling (Lucha libre) and loves black coffee with two shots of espresso. She hopes to spook you out with her writing one day.

I’m a junkie, so a high tolerance is the enemy. I fight for that which makes me feel something. We walk around the battlefield, glowing in the dark. All the corpses have disappeared. Thousands of lives lost because of one man’s selfishness. Puppet masters pulling strings. What does this even mean? Veterans think the fighting is dumb. The rubber mask I wear is featureless, dirtied. Stitches outline the mouth and go around the circles where the ears were cut off. “I’m a monster,” I sob. You take one look at me, my uniform torn, bloody, and sweaty. My whole body shaking with the force of my tears. You gently grab my arm, avoiding my many wounds, and pull me into a tight embrace. “Yes, you are,” you say firmly. “But that’s not who you are.” We stay holding each other for a while, then withdraw in defeat. Will Sandberg graduated from Flagler College and lives in Florida. He loves his wife, PC gaming, and watching sports.

Walking through the city so unmindful of my legs— The Hoverer stays motionless no matter where I go, borderless GodSky also deLighting [this] brainbow. How long has it hovered unstuck to egoity, immune to post & pre, everybody’s personal egoless deity… why try to look & see? ‘Tween the temples it’s aware unseen/beholdingly, never caught in neural net like some blood juicy fly… exodusted from the grip of pharaoh-ego I. Which is ‘more’ The Hoverer…now or eternity? The Hoverer embraces both uninterruptedly, mated like a mirror shows shit & reflects stainlessly, never clinging to a thought of ‘understand thought-free.’ Dawn-fresh…horizon-free! I’d reply but secret mantra in-hears silently. Ken Goodman blends ecstatic meditation & poetry creation in Cleveland, Ohio. kenpgoodman@yahoo.com

Once, my father Frederick went into the woods. It was a cold night in Leipzig when I, Sieglinde, was born. I was the twelfth child of a woodcarver and washerwoman. We lived in a shanty by the opera house, and I grew up hearing the sound of music. Great arias poured out into the gutter that I collected in my memory like spilled coins. “One by God, two by the Devil, three by Death,” papa always said. In the alehouse late at night, papa spoke of how he walked miles and miles, begging for mercy for a good godparent for me. I was born an ill omen, on All Soul’s Eve, in a caul. It snowed the day I was a newborn suckling infant on mama’s teat, and my elder sisters Johanna and Ilke and the rest of my brothers crowded around my swaddled, nursing form. There was not enough food or money to last the winter. To win fortune’s favor and full larders, father meant to bargain with God. But God plays favorites, papa said. So, he turned Him away. God could not be my godfather. Next came old Samiel, the Black Huntsman. He is wicked, and made a terrible offer, papa thought, so into the barrel of papa’s rifle Samiel’s soul went. Papa was always good at trapping things. Once, papa fit the moon into a thimble and blotted out the night for a whole week. The crops in Leipzig didn’t grow, and Mme. Friegler’s voice went to shards the whole time. When a cow was born with two black heads, papa put the moon back to ward off God’s wrath. So thereupon sauntered my bold father Frederick, drunk off cheap ale, and into the darkest part of the forest he went, where sunlight never touches, and winter always freezes. He found a graveyard of souls. Death was there, tending frozen roses. And Samiel was still trapped in papa’s gun. “Will you be my dear Sieglinde’s godmother, Frau Todd? I have a handsome demon in exchange,” papa boasted. Death smiled. Frau Todd is just, after all, and always takes pity on souls. “You know, Frederick, Heaven and Hell talk often about your penchant for stealing things with sweetened words. Just last year, you bribed a sparrow to give you two weeks off the back of summer so that you had more time to complete the legs of a chair.” “Though silver-tongued, Frau Todd, I am also an honest man. Is there any punishment for bargaining?” Frau Todd laughed. “No, dear Frederick, all is right in my eyes. I see you have a good heart, and that Sieglinde will grow to be a great woman. So yes, you shall free my husband the Black Huntsman and set Samiel back upon his Wild Hunt as Erl King, and I shall be dear Sieglinde’s godmother. She cannot fail with me by her side. I will make Linde rich, but moreover, kind.” And so, my godmother was the talk of Leipzig. At Peterskirche, a flock of black crows attended my baptism, complete with their Lady in black lace. I grew up under Frau Todd’s wing, and inherited father’s tricksome tongue. I was sixteen. Frau Todd had a cabin in the forest, where she taught me women’s crafts: weaving souls. Dousing with spring-green twigs. How to bake the best bread for my future husband. Frau Todd herself was married to Samiel the Black Huntsman. But she lived alone, and only visited him when the moon was full, or to deliver a month’s worth of dinner in an enchanted silver pail. Samiel ate souls that were too weak to pass on into Heaven or Hell. As for what Frau Todd ate – anything hearty, bloody, and half-alive. “Mama Todd, what would you trade for the jewel on your throat?” I asked Frau Todd the day autumn came. Frau Todd smiled. “Only a fresh beating heart, Linde.” So, I baked a blackbird’s heart into a veal pie. The bird’s heart was alive by my magic, bloody and thrumming, when Frau Todd bit in. “I see you are becoming quite the thief of life, just like your father Frederick,” Frau Todd smiled, her blonde hair and winsome blue eyes beaming. She wiped the blood on a pearly napkin, then devoured the rest of the pie. Into my hands Frau Todd placed the jewel. It was a large ruby that glimmered with black stars. “What are the virtues of this stone, Mama Todd?” I inquired, fascinated. Frau Todd was skinny as a spindle, dainty and precise, and always wore white, with a red ribbon in her hair. Almost skeletal, but not unpleasant, with long honey-colored hair and eyes that burned like the sky. I felt she was always watching me. “That is the Jewel of Nocht. It can set to sleep anyone who you direct it at.” I had much fun, setting my schoolmarms to sleep. Frau Todd had made us rich, and I and Johanna and Ilke all attended a girl’s Catholic finishing school. Ilke was even learning opera from Mme. Friegler. I was a stickler for poetry. But the nuns did not like me slipping away to kiss cute choir boys and woo schoolgirls with their curling, sweet-smelling hair. So, I enchanted the nuns into snoring. “Linde, it is dangerous what you do!” Johanna giggled, embroidering a rose and thistle. She loved sewing. Mama was now a fine lady, but her hands would always be cracked from her time with lye and river rocks as a washerwoman. Mama did not want her daughters to know pain. And her sons had all made papa’s woodcarving business a booming industry. They each carved different parts of tables and shipped them out of Rostock to international waters. “You’re too much like papa, Linde,” my sister continued. “One day, it will do you in.” “Say Johanna?” I mused, clacking my nails on my chalk tablet. “How much is the smell of a thistle worth?” “Do thistles smell?” “To birds.” “Then I’d say… they’re worth laughter. Laughter can’t be sold, and often, laughter is a lie,” Johanna chuckled, used to my joking. “Shall I trade this thistle and rose?” “Only their smell, dear Johanna.” I tickled her. She burst out laughing in tears as I hit her sweet spot. Thistles smelled like rain, I learned. That night, at Frau Todd’s house, I used the smell of roses and thistles, perfected in Johanna’s virginal mind, to sweeten Frau Todd’s stew. Frau Todd’s face was electric. “This stew has life in it!” she beamed. “Linde, you are so clever with your magic.” Frau Todd gulped it down, but it never seemed to cling to her thin, thin shape. Death is always hungry, it seems. “I have the best teacher, Mama Todd,” I demurred. We finished the soup in companionable silence as the fire crackled. “Sieglinde, it is time,” Frau Todd said, her hair from her blond chignon falling a bit to her shoulders. “You are sixteen now. I will teach you my secrets.” It was the moment I had been angling for, caressing Frau Todd’s tongue with delicious concoctions. Though I loved her like a godmother, I wanted more power. “Are you sure, Frau Todd?” I said innocently. “Do not act the sheep when you are a wolf, Linde. You are as wily as me.” Frau Todd smiled. “You are a clever girl, my Linde. Come see my final secret.” She took me deep into the heart of the forest. A patch of heart-shaped purple leafed herbs bloomed with fiery orange flowers. “These are my precious deathsflower, goddaughter” Frau Todd sighed sweetly, inhaling their overripe scent. “Crush and make a powder medicine of this for any patient you have. If I appear by the head of their bed, they will survive, and you may cure them. But if I appear at the dying man or woman’s feet, my Linde, I mean to drag them to either God or my husband Samiel. There is no stopping me then.” “Thank you, Frau Todd,” I said, tears in my eyes, and hugged her, hard, feeling I had just lost my last bit of innocence. I set up shop in Berlin in the Old City by the orangerie. The deathsflower grew wherever I went, in secret gardens and groves, appearing only for me. I made my way as a physician, in a time when Europe was being electrified and Prussia was bending to welcome women into the arts and sciences. Some thought me a quack, but I cured when I could cure, and put to sleep with my Jewel of Nocht those bound for brighter shores, Frau Todd a vigil keeper at their toes. The families always felt overwhelming peace under my care, and godmother often took tea with me in my little flat by the opera. I still fancied the arias and had just seen Così fan tutte for the first time. It could not beat The Magic Flute, but it had its charms. “Where do you take them, Mama Todd, truly?” I asked her over tea one day. I was so dark in comparison to her, a night girl, black hair, almond-brown eyes, tan skin, freckles and moles. I was beautiful in a way Death was not, thrumming with life and humor, and she was glorious in a way I could never be. Where Frau Todd was youthful, I would always be mortal, and where my magick worked in little tricksy ways like papa had taught me, hers was vast. Little slices of time and place I could carve up, bottle, and trap were mine. But all the stars were my godmother’s. Great gaseous balls. With angel’s hearts. Beating, bloody, winged hearts that only Death could eat. Frau Todd smiled dreamily. “And what if God has as much appetite as I, or Samiel?” she teased. Only, I could not tell if she was serious or not. “So, a Heaven’s Gate is the same as a Hellmouth? God eats His chosen souls?” I shivered. Night set over my heart. Death’s lips thinned. “Everything is hungry, goddaughter. From the worms to God Himself. A grave is a grave, my Linde. We all rot, in the end.” I winced, hard. Frau Todd smiled in afterthought: “Yes, everyone perishes. Except for me, of course.” The King of Prussia was marked for death. Some say he had crossed a witch on his campaign in France. Most thought it was the Hapsburg curse. All I knew was, there was land and a title and limitless purse for any lass or man that could cure him. I hauled my belongings to court, my cart and best oxen and phials of medicine, and my precious deathsflower, and I went deep into his palace. Finally, it was my turn. The Jewel of Nocht gleamed like a rose on my chest. Frau Todd was at his head and nodded serenely. Smiling, I cured the king. There was a ball held in my honor. I was named Lady Sieglinde, First of Her Name. The royal coffers were mine. So was a palace back in dear old Leipzig – the King had done his research. I charmed the corsets off many lasses for a tussle in silken sheets, then sang the britches off several noblemen. With Frau Todd’s help, I distributed birth control made especially by my cultivated strains of sacred herbs throughout the palace, and I grew even more popular. But most on my mind was Princess Hilda. She was beautiful – curvy, shining brown ringlets, always dressed in green like Lady Greensleeves. I set to courting Hilda in secret, sang her the eponymous song meant originally for Anne Boleyn, even wrote her some of my poems. As we lay in my palace’s bed – Hilda was there to “study mathematics with the King’s savior” – Hilda asked: “My dearly beloved Linde, what is that jewel?” “What is the truth worth to you, my Hilda?” She had eyes like a doe. I realized then, all like a crashing train, that I was deeply in love. “A rose.” Hilda beamed. “And a thistle?” I said, shaking. Hilda giggled, staring at the silver astrolabe over my room and study. “Whatever you say, snake charmer.” I went home, and bought the rose and thistle embroidery from Johanna, and I gave it to Hilda…wrapped with a promise ring with a chip from the Jewel of Nocht. We met back in Berlin. “Let’s run away to America, Sieglinde, together,” Hilda beamed, ravishing me with kisses. Heat grew in my legs. She made love to me to claim me. “I cannot do that Princess Hilda. My medical license, my land and holdings, my livelihood, are all here.” Hilda soured. “Am I worth anything to you but my title?” “Hilda, you are the blackbird heart in my pie.” The comely princess forgave me, kissing me through our tears. “You say the funniest things, strange Sieglinde.” The next day, Hilda accepted a marriage offer from the Duke of England. Her promise ring came to me by post. I was bereft. I wanted to bargain, but for once I had nothing to give. Death is always hungry. And never hungrier than when it comes to Maidens. Death and the Maiden, entwined. Hilda fell sick with her father’s illness in a week. The King of Prussia said: “Anyone who can cure Hilda gets to become King. The engagement to the Duke of England is annulled. I will hand over my crown to whosoever saves my daughter.” I disguised myself as a man and cast a glamour of forgetting over myself, to blend in. Court had forgotten Sieglinde the King’s Savior, secure as I was in my bastion in Leipzig, but I had not forgotten the riches of the palace. The riches all paled in comparison to my beloved. I cursed myself every day for not sailing away to America with Hilda and starting over. I sheared my hair, donned men’s britches, and rode in through a storm on my palomino gelding, death like a decaying rose in my shadow. There Frau Todd stood, at Hilda’s feet. Hilda was comatose. “Mama Todd, you cannot take her, I love her!” I pleaded, on my knees. It was only us alone in the room. Frau Todd grew steely. “My Linde, this time, I win.” I grabbed the Jewel of Nocht, and with its ruby beam, I put Death to sleep. My godmother collapsed in a pile. I moved Hilda’s bed so that her face was by Frau Todd’s breast and her feet were by the wall. I leaned in to administer deathsflower tincture. The purple and orange swirls brought life back to Hilda’s lips. “Sieglinde, my beloved, is that you?” Hilda asked, sleepy-eyed, reeling. But Death dragged me away, away from Hilda’s embrace. “Why, Mama Todd? Give me this one thing!” “A heart is worth a heart, my Sieglinde.” Frau Todd was oddly happy. “I get to show you my favorite part of the forest. My beautiful Cave of Souls.” I awoke, scared shitless, in a cavern. Candles, candles everywhere on dank lime scale walls, blinding me. Tall tallows for children, half-burnt for the married, stubs for the old and ill. “Where is mine, godmother?” I asked. “Putting me to sleep was a neat trick. Just like Samiel did to rape me. When I was simply a girl. The first woman born in God’s shadow. That is why I had to marry him, you see. It was the beginning of time, when a woman’s first blood meant something, my little linden tree. I was born from that tree, just like your namesake, Sieglinde. In fact, I was once called Eve,” Frau Todd mused. She held a sharp knife. “Where is it! My soul?” “What is a soul worth, my Linde?” Death’s blue eyes shone like stars. “A mother’s love,” I pleaded. “Spare me, Mama Todd.” “I never loved you, Sieglinde. Death cannot love. Fond of you, yes. But the only thing I love is hearts.” She showed me a pool of wax, candle flicker. “This is you. You will feed me.” “No– Uglugh!” Eve reached deep into my chest and carved out my heart with her paring knife. Swallowed, now I see all. Death is just. Death is not merciful. Death is not kind. And now I live in the first woman’s chest, a caged blackbird, trilling my mournful tune. She feeds me with tears over her unfaithful, ruinous husband. She cries over dead newborns. Comforts war-grizzled veterans who take their lives. She heals the souls of them all. We walk together through the ages, my cage Frau Todd and I. Now, we are never alone. Allister Nelson is a queer, neurodivergent Pushcart Prize-nominated poet and author whose work has appeared in Apex Magazine, The Showbear Family Circus, Eternal Haunted Summer, Bibliotheca Alexandrina, SENTIDOS: Revistas Amazonicas (for which she headlined COVID's first Amazonian poetry festival), Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, The Kaidankai Ghost Podcast, The Greyhound Journal, Bewildering Stories, Wicked Shadow Press's Halloweenthology, FunDead Publications' Gothic Anthology, POWER Magazine, Renewable Energy World, the National Science Foundation, and many other venues. She is a member of the Horror Writer's Association.

This morning the red ant and larger white-winged fly chase the frightened large striped spider across the cold floor. Why, what thirst for retribution or what helpless fear, what protection? It’s daylight, time to ask the Chinese book 3,000 years old a river, the Tao, runs through. Close your eyes, think without thinking, shake, throw three pennies six times. They form parallels, an old ladder’s rising rungs, broken or solid, yin or yang, often changing lines, sixes, nines. Those say where your life is reaching, that tree growing from earth, developing itself the instant’s second hexagram. For each cast fate is a chosen oracle, from 64 shining with sun or darkness, twilight at daybreak, at evening. They tell the same story, do right in this world, as the stream runs on to the next and back again, the current flowing always through you and all things. Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and editor. His fiction received the James D. Phelan award from the San Francisco Foundation, and his poetry the Prospero Prize from Sharkpack Review.

When the last lithe leopard in the emperor's crowded preserve leapt down from his arboreal perch pink-mouthed and mottled, where was the degenerated emperor, taped and bandaged, with all his skill for naught and disowned by his own people, slowly, grandly, greedily dying? Nowhere else but still as stone in the hospital, such as it was, his golden skin wan in the crepuscular hospital light. Was it his own disease, newly invented, or whose disease was it? Lengthy discourse rattling out of the discountenanced doctor, made clear the cancer or so he called it, was the last stop on the line. Brutish cells, voyaging in giant argosies of destruction turn yellow to sallow and, dappled with deceit, dangerous sympathetic friends and courtiers dimly seen, daily on view became more distinct, more sovereign, as death clumped closer and the flesh, forever awake, became a burden. Death as a unicorn in nurse's uniform bides his time, patient as Griselda among bottles and needles. Toward the last morning, fading with the stars the Yellow Emperor saw clear as alpine forests, close as lovers the luminous jade-green eyes of a dragon, watchful and quiet, watched it fade to its beautiful oblivion of myth and the emperor arose, a live wire of life and strength, leaving cap and clothes, leaping through the dawn he went, bright as the Paschal lamb he went, bright as the morning he went, dancing to the harmony and peace of nothing at all, to eternal heavenly equivalence; kingpin of the indeterminate, internal joyful void where all power and life begin. Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Typishly Literary Magazine, The Antioch Review, The Piedmont Poetry Journal and elsewhere. The author has been a Pushcart nominee and over the years has been published in a few anthologies. The author has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired.

She was born on New Year’s Eve, in a maternity ward overlooking the city. I stood with my face pressed against the cool glass, holding onto the windowsill and swaying back and forth until she emerged into grunts and screams and a night sky splintered by bursts of light. Her head emerged on one side of the countdown. Her feet were on the other. A baby born into two times. People wished each other a happy new year, and hugged, while I bled out onto the floor and held her against me and stared down at the flashes of light reflecting on her damp skin. Someone grabbed her a moment before I collapsed, and the light on her skin was the last thing that I saw as the floor rushed up towards me. I lost my daughter again the night she turned one. The sky was all bursts of colour, her eyes wide watching them. The colours reflected in her eyes, and she reached up to the fireworks, waving chubby little fists in the cold air. He threw her up into the sky, up to catch the fireworks. And the world split, shattering into a kaleidoscope of moments, a fracture in the world, and I saw it. In my world, he caught her, laughed, threw her up. In another, he missed, and in the dark she slipped between his hands, a darker shape on the ground and their bodies illuminated only by flashes. A parallel world broken apart from us. The fireworks matched. The sky was the same. But the people weren’t. I stood frozen and I watched as another me, a shadow of me, broke away and collapsed to the ground, collapsed down into deeper shadows, and I couldn’t see her, only hear her and her screams. Then she disappeared, her and her daughter, my daughter. But no. My daughter was fine, laughing in her fathers’ arms. I panicked. I made him stop. I killed off the game. Later, I killed off the relationship, too. I could never fully explain to him or to the shrink he made me go see. But I couldn’t trust him. Not with her. She was two years old and running around in the square in front of the shops, the way toddlers do, a straight-kneed speed waddle. I took my eyes off her, looked around at the others in the square, just a little paved area where people would hang out, have a coffee, bitch about the weather or the local council. I just saw her as she tripped, the toe of one of her little sandals caught in a grate, and she fell forward. The daylight exploded into colours, fractured like the night sky on New Year’s Eve, exploded into lines of red and gold. I saw her, and I saw myself, in a million pieces, a broken mirror image. This wasn’t my world. It couldn’t be. In my world, I rushed over to her. So did the other me. We were in time, in synch. But then, quickly, we weren’t. In my world, she was crying, a toddler who had fallen and busted her lip, and I was pulling her into my lap, and mopping up her face, and an old lady was offering me a bag of frozen chips for her face. In this world, my world, there was chaos and blood and tears. In another world, the wrong world, the broken world, there was silence and stillness on the ground and then screaming. A screaming that tore at my heart, a scream I still hear in my head, and have heard so many times since. In that world she lay still on the ground, until it slowly faded from view. I saw her die over there, as I held my daughter right here. People told me that I bubble wrapped my daughter. And maybe I did. But it wasn’t about her. It was about me. It’s not something you can say to your daughter, though. It’s not you, it’s me. But I couldn’t shake the memories, I couldn’t bear losing her over and over. It nearly destroyed me when she fell from the climbing frame when she was three. She plopped right onto her bum in our world. And onto her head in the other. Time broke apart, and as I gave her a hug and some reassurance, I saw myself holler for help in a near-empty playpark in winter, scream as her child, my child, lay at wrong angles on the ground. I vomited into a rubbish bin when the world was all one piece again, and a woman came over and handed me a tissue and asked if I was pregnant. Never. Never ever, not ever again, I wanted to yell. I’ve already lost three babies. I saw her through the window of the patio door when she was five, climb up onto the counter in the kitchen to get to my good knives, so she could pretend to be a chef like her mama. I couldn’t get into the house fast enough. In my world, we patched up her finger with a plaster, and I yelled at her for being careless, told her to stay away from knives, and from heights. In the other, she bled out before the ambulance arrived. I sobbed through the night. How many times can you mourn? How many times, when it’s the same person, lost over and over? If I wasn’t hovering over her, I was scolding her for being foolish, or telling her she couldn’t do something because it was dangerous. I kept her home. I kept her away from people. I thought I could protect her. And then, I stopped hovering, and I stopped waiting. Because it kept happening, and I couldn’t stop it, and she’d go no matter what. In some other time, some other place, some other universe where time would continue, and the inevitable would happen, and all I would see was the worst, and then me, the other me, would scream, or wail, or collapse unconscious and it would fade away. A near miss crossing the road. The slip in the bath. Playing minigolf. Each time, the scene played out in shattered mirrors and windows and the pain of loss in another universe. A place that could have been me, losing her. A place where I did. People told me I drank too much. People told me I took too many pills, spent too much time on message boards, too much time reading tabloids. People told me I was detached. Disconnected. I picked up extra shifts cooking in restaurants and at private events so I wouldn’t be home. I signed her up for after school clubs and I hired babysitters, so I couldn’t see what she did in the afternoons. I banned playparks. I hid all the knives. I turned the bath into a shower, and I laid down a non-slip mat. It didn’t matter. I lost her in lake, swinging from a hanging rope into the water, not deep enough to catch her. A rocky bottom, not enough rainfall. I lost her in the night, as she took a mis-step on the way to the bathroom, tripped and bashed a knee. Tripped and tumbled down the stairs. I lost her on the drive to a school trip, an overnight trip, her first away. I was excited. Not for her, for myself. I thought, she’ll be gone and I won’t have to worry about losing her for a week. We were blindsided by a van running a red light. It could have been a major accident, but it wasn’t. She didn’t even have a scratch. Except that the world split and the whole side of the car was an accordion around her, a pre-teen so proud to be old enough to sit in the front seat. I held it together until we got to the school, and I saw her get on the bus, and then I broke down in gratitude that she was gone, and I was free. Free for a week. Free of panic. Free from losing her again. And again. And again. It was New Year’s Eve. It was her birthday, my birth day. That was the first time I lost her, torn from my body in blood and screams and my mind losing contact with the world. She was back from university. Three blessed years where I barely saw her, where I put off every visit home, every trip together, every possible reunion. I told her I was busy. I told her I was travelling. I told her I was at work, cooking for famous people in far off places, that I was busy at every holiday. She got the hint, stayed with friends, stayed with her father. I told her I was sorry, but I wasn’t. I missed my daughter. But I didn’t miss the other places, the places where I lost her over and over. She had a job, she told me on the phone. She got a job doing the fireworks for events. I knew what the results of that would be, could imagine it without seeing. I felt sick, tried not to vomit as she explained her work. She told me she was helping out at the ones at home this year. I should come, see her work, spend her birthday with her. It was New Year’s Eve. We could celebrate. I went. I was already insane. I knew that. I was a reader of crazy theories, a poster on lunatic message boards. I had nothing to lose anymore, because how many times can you see space-time fracture around you and stay sane? Besides, I missed my daughter so, so much. The show was magnificent. The sky exploded, and I was blinded by colours, deafened by booms. I never once looked to see what might or might not be happening in that other world, parallel timelines that split off from mine at critical moments, or that’s what someone had told me online, anyway. I never looked at her, so it never happened. Not for me, at least. I hugged her, after. Handed her a box with freshly baked cookies, and under them, a tupperware of her favourite pasta sauce. I wished her a happy birthday. I told her I had to leave. On the drive home, I heard that there had been a solar eclipse on the other side of the world exactly at midnight in our time. The last time that had happened on New Year’s Eve had been 23 years ago. And before that, 500 years ago. The commentator seemed to think this was lucky. I decided it would be. I decided to force the dragon to bite its tail. Put an end to this. I could hear them above me, chattering, trading anecdotes, telling her that I had been a good woman even if I hadn’t been a great mother. They didn’t sound convinced. I felt sick as clumps of earth hit the lid of my coffin. I felt sick that I could still feel sick. I wasn’t supposed to be here anymore, I had escaped. I had tried to. But I had been wrong. But I could still see her, my child born into two times, lost in dozens. As she approached my coffin to drop some soil, on a cold, wet morning in winter, she slipped. And I watched, still saw as the timelines split and she fell. Here people gasped but she was fine, just a bruise. There she snapped a leg and there was blood, too much blood. I got it wrong. There is no end to this. Except. There she is. A ghost of the woman standing above me, dusting off her knees. She looks at me and she smiles, and she calls me Mum and holds out her arms. And we hug, and then there are others. All the others, who are always there and never there, and some of them say they’ve been waiting, and some of them say they missed me, and some of them can’t talk yet. There is me, another me wearing a hospital gown, a me who looks younger, and carries the smallest, and I remember being lost that first night. She comes over to me and takes my hand. They cuddle in, and it feels like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Emma Burnett is an award winning researcher and writer. She has had stories in Radon, Utopia Magazine, MetaStellar, Milk Candy Review, Elegant Literature, The Stygian Lepus, Roi Fainéant, The Sunlight Press, Rejection Letters, and more. You can find her @slashnburnett, @slashnburnett.bsky.social, or emmaburnett.uk.

I have a buried romanticized secret — a notion in which I came from a long line of radiant, regal witches who loved to cook. I have a buried romanticized secret — a notion in which these witches expel that stagnant water that stained my soul. But what of my ancestors? Were they simple farmers who drank copiously and scraped for a living, heavy minds, anchored by chores? And what they did say around pots with mint tea, behind needlepoint, to keep their souls alive? Were they guardians of a way? Were they terribly oppressed? I have this hopeful, wild feeling that — their gatherings were contrary and subversive, in disobedient glory, by hot fires. Helen has a fine arts degree from St. Michael's College, Vermont and after the birth of her children, left a successful career in marketing to write and paint. She has been published in literary magazines and is currently working on a book of poetry about healing from a ski accident. When she is not busy developing her craft, she teaches yoga and ayurvedic cooking classes.

This planet looks candied. Machines crawling its granulated surface. Three-legged metal walkers. They're lasering the planet, cutting the crystals above the roots, leaving enough to grow back. Come again in a few million years. It takes about the same amount of time for a crystal to form as it does a star to die. Will Sandberg graduated from Flagler College and lives in Florida. He loves his wife, PC gaming, and watching sports.

Twenty seventeen was the year the starling got trapped in the wall. It was seeking warmth from the cold in order to survive. It clawed and fluttered behind the wall and inside my mind. After two days, I took a hammer to the plaster. I must have forgotten birds have wings. I was prepared to reach down and grab the tiny creature, but as soon as I put my hand through the hole, it stuck its head out. Its wings brushed my skin as it flew past me into the kitchen. I opened the window and it flew back into the cold. It flew back in order to survive. Starlings are mocking birds. They can be taught to speak. They sound ungodly. Like a demon mimicking the voice of a child. I think it’s beautiful. After that, it got worse. I know what you’re thinking. What got worse? But if I could name it, I’d be able to control it—like a golem. It is something like air. I know when a house is haunted because it feels empty even when it is not. Whatever you try to do to make it feel like home, it doesn’t work. If you put a vase of flowers on the hutch, for example, the bouquet no longer looks beautiful like it did in the store. It just becomes another thing for the echos to bounce off of. But this is not a haunting, no. It is more like the feeling you get when you drive by a shop that sells headstones. All you can imagine is what person, on earth, will have one of these for their markers? It makes you think of illness, accidents, and violence. But it is not death either. It is like the feeling when you are alone in the ER, and nobody knows you are there, fearing there could be something very wrong with your body. Hours bleed into an eternity, and you wonder if all you’ve ever experienced is sitting in that emergency waiting room. Everything that went before is just a thought, a dream, a fancy. And there will never be an after. When they tell you there is nothing wrong, you think, what about the pain in my chest? You realize it is heartache. This is not quite heartache, though. When I say it got worse, what I am talking about is the thing that lives on the other side of hope. As it gets stronger, the hope gets stronger until the hope is overpowered and shrivels like a flower in a drought. But it is not hopelessness I am talking about either. It is more like if you are a statue wanting to be human—so much that you believe you are made of flesh. You dream about it. And you live in the dream. And the more you feel your hardness, the more vibrant and fluent the dreams become. Until one day there is a mutiny you cannot run from, and someone has lopped off your head. There is no more denying that you are made of stone. And now you understand that humans are the enemy, so you do not want to be one anymore anyway. The dreams stop. That’s what this is. That’s precisely it—the stopping of dreams. Or maybe it is not exactly the stopping of dreams, but what enters in their place. Lately I have been looking at my hands, checking to make sure my fingers are still there. I first noticed the gray color on the foot of the stairs. I did not think anything of it because the stairs are a whitish sort of concrete anyway. It must be paint, I think. Or weathered. Or maybe it was always here, and I haven’t noticed it before. Then, the ceiling—which had always sagged—grew a crack overnight. My husband purchased renter’s insurance because of it. I stare at it often. On occasion, I imagine the roof caving in. A giant hole reveals the sky. In my imagination, years and years of dead critters, bird shit, bugs, leaves and rot come down behind the plaster. It falls on top of me like a message: “After all you’ve accomplished in life—this.” Every week, my husband measures the crack to make sure it isn’t growing. I am not sure why it matters. It will not change our fate. It—the thing that worsens—peeks over my shoulder while washing dishes and slithers away out the corner of my sight, like an elusive animal. After a while, it started to grow in my throat. At times I cannot breathe. Sometimes, I want to vomit it out. Instead, I care for it. It became my darling. I covet it and protect it like a mama bear. If you were to ask me why I am like ice, I would answer, “My darling makes me very, very cold.” I will not tell my husband about it. He would not understand. I won’t tell anyone. It isn’t like a secret, but more like an ancient manuscript written in a language that only I can read. Then, the gray appeared again in the form of footprints. It looked as though someone with large, bare feet had stepped in paint and into the bathtub. But it was less like paint, and more like gray light. Like an old black-and-white film that had been colorized except for in those two spots. I could not figure out how there were not more footprints. There was no path. It was as though someone had teleported from the outside steps directly to the tub. “Do you see that?” I asked my husband. “See what?” he said. I wished he had just said no. “Nothing,” I said. Because that’s all it was. Nothing. I went to bed that night and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then I pulled them over my face as though I was a child trying to hide. There was someone in the bed next to me. It wasn’t my husband. It was a stranger. And it is still there, night after night. Every night, I stay awake with fear and sleep very little. If I laugh it isn’t because I’m happy. I think people only laugh when they need to. Like when they’ve had enough of not laughing. Or some people are always laughing and making jokes because deep down inside they are too serious. And they don’t want anyone to know that they think of death often. For me, laughing is a fortress and within it I am free to go mad. My smile tricks people. It makes them think I’m lovely when I am the opposite. Now it is winter. The cold seeps in through the cracks in the beadboard like tiny hands stretching toward me and pinching my skin. We don’t turn up the heat. It is a waste. I used to hate the cold. I am accustomed to it now. I touch my face to make sure I’m not dreaming. It feels rough. I turn around. I do not see it. I only feel it expanding out. It is not nothing. It is like air. It is like a haunting. It is like death. It is like heartache. It is like hopelessness. It is like the thing that replaces dreams when they stop—but it is none of these things. It is much, much worse. I am choking. “My darling. My darling,” I say. I cannot breathe. My husband asks me what is wrong. I caw the word in a low eerie whisper with a bit of a whistle, “Nothing.” He leaves the room. I begin to doubt my memory of the starling flying out of the window. It had flown into my throat. It is mocking my thoughts. There are mice living in the oven. All three cats are lined up in front of it, waiting for one to emerge. The mice do not come out. I have only ever seen their tails escaping into the vent. I sometimes think it is not tails I see, but giant spider legs. I am concerned there is a very large spider living inside of the oven. I become hungry for it. “What should we have for dinner?” My husband asks me. I do not speak because of my darling. I’m afraid of what I will say. Of what it will say. I write down on an old receipt: Pasta. My husband looks at me and looks at the paper. He walks away, his face gnarled with scorn. I have done something wrong. I look at the paper. It does not say Pasta. It says: Worms. I decide to go into the living room and read my book. It is about a ten-year-old girl trapped in a cave. She is trying to make a fire by hitting rocks together because she saw it in a movie. She creates an imaginary helper named BoBo. I put the book down and look out the window and think, BoBo is not real. It is not BoBo who helps her, but she who helps herself. I become sad because I know that she will not succeed in making a fire. Bobo fails her. My husband interrupts my thoughts. “The crack has grown a centimeter,” he says. I do not care. I look in the mirror. The gray has attacked my hair. For the first time since twenty seventeen, I panic. I dye it with box dye. It works. “Your hair is gray. What happened?” My husband says. I look at my reflection in a butter knife. My hair is black. “No. It isn’t.” I slam my fist on the table, tired of the lies. For the first time, I think I might want to kill him. The violence does not bother me. I glare at him and look down at my plate of worms. They squirm around each other like they are one entity. I try to grab my fork, but when I look down at my hands, I see that my fingers are gone. I slurp the meal directly into my mouth. My husband is disgusted. He grabs my plate and throws it across the room. The worms scatter. “I am not cleaning that up.” I say. I go to the bathroom and the entire bathtub is gray now. Because he can see my hair despite the dye, I say to my husband, “The bathtub is gray,” hoping he sees it. He corrects me, “The bathtub is white.” I am confused and alone. He spits in the sink without rinsing it. It is a message. He is angry with me. My darling is growing bigger now, and it is becoming more and more difficult to breathe. My coughing is more violent, but my darling does not come out. I think about reaching down there and grabbing it, but my hand is too large and my fingers are gone. I am followed by the thing that is becoming increasingly worse. It expands like an uncomfortable silence as my darling grows. Its density increases like the yearning of a house after many years abandoned. I stare at the ceiling again. The growth of the crack is more powerful than a clock. I am relieved to know that time is passing. My husband does not speak to me unless to inform me of whether or not the crack has grown. I have started to care about the length of the crack. When it does not grow, I am afraid. Today, the entire bathroom is gray. I have not left the house in three days. I am uncertain if the patch on the outside steps has become bigger. I feel that it has. My husband arrives home from work. I do not tell him about the bathroom. He approaches me as I stare at the crack in the ceiling again. He asks, “What do you want for dinner tonight?” I do not mean to open my mouth. It just happens. In a high-pitched, sibilant voice, I ask, “What do you want for dinner tonight?” I gasp. “Darling, hush!” My husband steps closer to me, looks into my eyes, and says, “What the fuck is wrong with you lately?” He leaves the room, heavy-footed. I hear him throw or break something at the other end of the apartment. I walk into the bedroom. The mirror is shattered. I look at my reflection. It is not so much that I am broken, as it is that there seems to be more of me than is necessary. Too many eyes. I tell myself this was an accident. I pull a black, shiny feather from my mouth. This morning, as usual, the stranger is there, but this time it fills the room. It follows me as I walk into the kitchen. I do not think it is everywhere. Rather, it is as though I am inside of my own atmosphere. It no longer peeks over my shoulder, or scurries away from me, because I exist inside of it. My darling scratches at my throat. I cough up blood and more feathers. I have an even harder time breathing. I think I might die if my darling does not leave me soon. I am sitting in front of the stove with the cats waiting for the spider to emerge. I am ready for battle. The crack grows, little by little. By March, something exciting happens. My husband says, “I think the ceiling is sagging considerably more now.” My eyes alight, I spend an entire day fixated on the damage. The robins start to nest in the hole on the side of the house that will never get fixed. The landlord does not fix things. The hole is right below the window frame. The white cat tries to stick his paw into the crevice in the wood from the inside. I feel the fear of the birds, and I begin to dread all three cats. They look at me now with hungry eyes. They wait for my darling. The rest of the time, they sleep as though they are innocent. The crack has grown significantly. It is shaped like a giant, half-closed eye or a bad gash—wide in the middle. It is only a matter of time. I go outside for the first time in four days. There is no fresh air, and I do not feel free in the space around me. It is filled with the thing that will soon become the worst. A neighbor says hello and starts a conversation. I smile, swallow and pray for her to go away. “How have you been?” she asks. Great. I answer. Except I do not say it. I smile a little larger and nod. Finally, she leaves. I let out a sigh of relief while my darling releases a soft squeal. The gray is conquering more things. The sycamore tree—doused with a bucket of colorlessness. A streak across the neighbor’s front lawn looks a bit like field marking. The mailbox has been tainted by it. I have no reason to be out here, so I turn around to go back inside. The entire building is gray. I do not understand how this is happening. I do not care to know why. My darling is hungry. It pecks at my uvula, mistaking it for a worm. The pain is terrible. I walk into our building hoping it is only the outside of the house that has lost its color, but I know the opposite is true. I ascend the gray stairs, open the gray door and enter the gray room. The white cat scurries by with a baby bird in its mouth. The calico bats around a terrified mouse. The surrounding pressure prevents me from weeping. I stare at the ceiling. The crack has become a hole. A sliver of blue peers through it. In a world of gray, it is the most beautiful sight. My husband comes home from work. The dishes are not done. The floor has not been vacuumed. The bed is not made, and supper is not prepared. He emerges from the bedroom, livid—stepped in spilt water with a freshly socked foot. I am preoccupied with the ceiling. He stands in front of me, as he is wont to do. He does not speak. He is a very large cat. I no longer fear being eaten. He swats at me with the strength of a lion. I try to shield my face with my fingerless hands, but my arms do not move. I am paralyzed—a carved replica of myself. He swats again, rendering me headless. The ceiling collapses. A storm of rot descends toward me, then—black. I am no longer distinguishable from the debris. My darling pokes its tiny noggin from the stone hollow of my throat. To my delight, I now see with its eyes. I hop upon the edge of a neck which is no longer mine. I wonder how to escape into the blue through the unclimbable air. Then I remember: Birds have wings. Inside my fortress, I go mad. Or maybe this is happiness. Elizabeth Jacobs is an artist and writer hailing from Boston, Massachusetts. She has a BFA in painting from Massachusetts College of Art, and an MA in Mental Health Counseling from Boston Graduate School of Psychoanalysis. Her artwork has appeared in local exhibitions, and has been published in the French magazine 3e’Millénaire, Emerson College’s Thread, and most recently in Broken Antler Magazine. On her fortieth birthday, she decided to be a writer. She loves channeling unreliable characters struggling with the conditions of reality. In her spare time, she operates Mystic Blue Studio, where she practices energy healing, reads tarot, paints and makes jewelry out of antique buttons. She currently lives in Providence, Rhode Island with three cats, an unreasonable amount of plants, and one husband.