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When my father was teaching me how to ride a bike, he also taught me about sin. We lived in Vienna, just having arrived from Minnesota. My parents were missionaries, hoping to move to Budapest, but that was tricky because Hungary was still behind the Iron Curtain. This was 1980. In those first days my father was mostly gone, taking care of paperwork at the American embassy. My mother brought us to the local grocery store so she could buy ingredients to make us cookies. She misunderstood the label and bought salt instead of sugar. My sister and I ate a few mouthfuls of the cookies anyway. The bike my father purchased for me was a secondhand Gräf & Stift Austrian brand, sturdy with chipped green paint. I was still at the stage where I needed my father to run beside me with his hand on my back. My father came from a family of Swedish immigrants. His parents moved to Minnesota from Sweden in the early 20th century. He inherited a somewhat reserved emotional nature from his father, who looked for ways to turn daily tasks into teachable moments. Hence the bike purchase and the bike lessons. My father had something on his mind that day. After a few rounds of practice, he sat down on a park bench with me and said, “It’s hard to balance, isn’t it?” I nodded. “What makes it easier?” he asked. I smiled. “When you hold me up.” This time he  nodded. “It’s sort of like what God does for us,” he said. “He uses his hand to help keep us from sinning.” “What is sinning?” I asked. He paused, choosing his words carefully. “That’s when you do something that isn’t right. Like lying. Or drinking.” He let me think about it for a moment. “Do you think you could live your whole life without sinning?” I considered it. We made a few more bike runs. “Well, what do you think?” he said. “Yes, I think I probably could.” He paused. “Are you sure?” “What would happen if I sinned?”  “You would be separated from God forever.” “You mean hell?”  He nodded. We went home for supper. The small apartment my parents were renting had only a kitchen and a bedroom. Before bed my mother read to me and my younger sister from the Little House on the Prairie  series about a little girl named Laura. In the story Laura’s family had just moved from Minnesota to Kansas, so I felt like I could understand her. In the book Laura’s ma said, “The Lord helps them that help themselves.” My mother paused her reading and said to us, “That’s not correct. No one can do anything themselves. Ma is wrong.” This frightened me. My family moved to Hungary two weeks later. We traveled there by train. We sat in a train compartment with one bench facing in the direction the train was traveling and the other bench facing backward. Because my sister and I were sitting on the bench facing backward, my father later said that she and I were the first missionaries in our family to enter Hungary because our bodies entered the country first. My father rented us an apartment in one of the working-class districts of Budapest. The building was fifteen stories high, constructed from stacked sections of pre-fabricated cement, every apartment identical. It had distance heating, which was very inefficient. Hot water was piped in from massive factories on the outskirts of the city through pipes hung with torn sheets of asbestos insulation. The pipes occasionally sprung leaks, and where this happened were gathered clumped piles of asbestos that my sister and I would mold into makeshift snowballs…filling the air with poison as we played. My parents started language lessons shortly after we moved from Vienna. The apartment had a tiny, black-and-white television, and my father would switch on the news every evening at 6. My parents sat, staring at the small screen, hungry for any word they could recognize. One day they both recognized the word “no” at the same moment. They laughed and hugged each other. My own language skills began to develop after the first few months. I remember occasionally I would simply know  what the neighborhood kids had just said to me. This realization did not feel like a success, merely a dawning of recognition. One day when the two kids from the neighboring building were preparing for a bike ride with their father, I approached them confidently with my bike and asked if I could go with them. Their father did not allow it. I went home and told my father about what had happened. He seemed more interested in how I had asked them—what sentence I had used—rather than in understanding why I was sad being left at home. When I told him the sentence he pointed out the grammar mistake I made. Initially my father attempted to maintain a business start-up visa which allowed our family to stay in the country for up to a year at a time before taking a trip back to Western Europe to renew the visa. He rented a small, one-room apartment a few blocks from the British embassy, a requirement for anyone with a business visa. He called it “the office.” He spent a few hours there every week to maintain the cover that he was trying to set up business venture opportunities. Whenever he met anyone official who asked why we were in Hungary, he told them that he was in the import/export business, preparing to ship farm equipment from Minnesota to Hungary. During some of those office visits he would bring me with him and we would watch Hungarian football matches on TV while we drank Coca-Cola from small glass bottles and ate Hungarian milk chocolate (five cents a bar). I couldn’t understand the rules of football yet, but I pretended I did. Being invited to the office with him made me feel important. I attended Hungarian school from Grade 1 through 6. The school days when I felt the most like a foreigner were on Hungarian national holidays. These were vacation days, but there was always a school celebration held on the day before vacation. Our class filed into the communal gymnasium with the other grades and sat on ankle-high wooden benches. Our teacher told us to sit still, no rocking. This was hard to do.  The school principal led us in singing through a variety of Soviet-era national songs, designed to encourage Communist solidarity. We all sang together in unison, but I stood out from the crowd in one important way. All of the students wore an official uniform for the Little Drummer Society. I only wore a white shirt with blue jeans. Every Hungarian student was automatically enrolled, from the age of 6, into the Little Drummer Society. This was a Hungarian student’s first step on the road to Communist party membership. The Little Drummers would be followed by the Path Breakers, the league for the older students which began in the 7th grade. The Path Breakers eventually graduated into Communist party membership once school led into a career. The Little Drummer uniform was a white shirt with a blue kerchief. There was a whistle attached to an embroidered rope which hung from a shoulder epaulet. The whistle was stored in the pocket of the white shirt. There was also a belt with a buckle featuring a drum beneath a red communist star with the Hungarian word “ Előre !” (Forward!) written below.  I wanted a Little Drummer uniform, but my parents forbade it. One day, in an attempt to reason with my father, I explained that if I was going to someday be able to share the Gospel with these students I would need to fit into their ranks. By now I understood how much my father’s mind operated around spreading the teachings of Christ, and I felt that if I appealed to this side of his thinking that I might prevail upon him to relent and allow me the uniform.  “If I am dressed like them, they will see me as a comrade.” My reasoning seemed sound to me. “Comrades are friends, and friends are able to talk openly about their beliefs.” My father considered it, and my spirits rose when he didn’t immediately say no. He spoke with my teacher one day after school and came home with a pamphlet that explained the purpose of the Little Drummer Society. Later that afternoon he sat me down by the kitchen table. He said, “The Little Drummers follow six steps. Should you wear this uniform you must agree to these six steps.”  “What are they?” My heart was beating faster with excitement. The uniform seemed within reach. He read through the first five steps. “The Little Drummer is a faithful child of his country. The Little Drummer loves and respects his parents, teachers. The Little Drummer diligently studies and helps his partners. The Little Drummer always says the truth. The Little Drummer is clean, ordered, and punctual.” My father paused. I leaned forward. This seemed easy. How could there be any problem in agreeing to this? “I can do all those things,” I said. My father stared at me. Then he said, “The sixth step is: The Little Drummer lives in such a way as to be worthy to wear the red kerchief of the Path Breaker.” He looked up at me. “You know what Path Breakers believe, don’t you?” I nodded. Even though I didn’t know what Communism was, I knew the conversation was over. It was during 2nd grade that my grandfather died back home in Minnesota. He had been dealing with heart murmurs and my parents wanted to make a phone call back to America to check on him. Most Hungarian households did not have telephones in 1980. The government wait-list to receive a phone was 10 years long. Pay phones were plentiful, but if my parents wished to make or receive an international phone call they could only do so from a government office in downtown Budapest.  The phone center had bright yellow molded plastic chairs. My parents huddled together behind a wall of glass in the small telephone cubicle. My mother suddenly began to cry. My sister and I, desperate to calm her, asked her what was wrong. She told us he had died. We told my mother again and again, “But, we’ll surely see him again in Heaven.” My mother said, “That will be such a long time from now.” I later asked my mother why my father had not cried that night when he heard the news. She assured me that later in the evening, when we were in bed, that he had also cried. I tried to picture it, but I couldn’t. After my grandfather’s death, my father talked about him more than he had in the past. When my father was a young boy he used to see his father drink shots of moonshine behind the barn with his uncles and cousins. My father watched him throw back the liquor into his mouth and exhale a hard burst of air when the alcohol hit his throat. Whenever my grandfather caught my dad watching them he said, “Now, when you get older, you’re not going to do this.” My father nodded, knowing that was what was expected, but he snuck up afterwards and stuck his tongue into the shot glass to taste the drops at the bottom of it. It was shortly after this that my grandfather had a conversion experience and began to go to church. He also stopped drinking.  My father used this story when he taught young Hungarian men certain spiritual lessons. He ended the story by saying, “I never felt tempted to drink after my father stopped drinking.” We went back to Minnesota for my grandfather’s funeral. We stayed with my grandmother in the big empty farm house. She asked my parents how the Hungarian mission was going. My father gestured to me and said, “He can speak Hungarian now.” We lived in Hungary until I was sixteen. When we returned to Minnesota, we moved into the same small town where my parents grew up, and I graduated from the same high school they did. As time passed, the memories of Hungary misted together and the favorable ones stood out most.  After we were married, my wife and I moved to Hungary ourselves to teach. Our two sons attended Hungarian pre-school. One of my proudest memories was seeing my sons begin to speak the language. I taught both boys how to ride bikes and used the same hand-on-the-back method that my father used. I wish I could tell you I chose to raise my sons in a completely different way, but if I said that I’d be lying. And lying is a sin. Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella ( Words on the Page ) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection ( To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction ) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many, many, many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete

I live in the house my grandfather built when he was young and strong, and filled with love and dreams. Where I lay me down to sleep was once my mother’s room. She tells me how her father would sit on the edge of her bed and kiss her goodnight on her forehead when she was small like me. Every night, I listen to my grandfather walking the floors beyond my room, dragging his leg with a cane in a  thump-step-scratch  rhythm against  the aged wood boards that creak under his weight. No one else hears him in those late hours pacing the hall and around his room with a  thump-step-scratch  and asking for his deceased wife. My mother doesn’t believe my complaints despite the bruises painted under my tired eyes. She tells me that a man who’s been dead and buried for years higher in number than my age can’t possibly be keeping me from sleeping with a thump-step-scratch pulse . I may never have met my grandfather, but I have become familiar with the  thump-step-scratch  tune of his specter. Tinamarie Cox   lives in an Arizona town with her husband, two children, and rescue felines. Her written and visual work has appeared in many online and print publications under various genres. She has two poetry chapbooks with Bottlecap Press: Self-Destruction in Small Doses  (2023), and A Collection of Morning Hours  (2024). Her full-length debut, Through a Sea Laced with Midnight Hues, releases in February 2025 with Nymeria Publishing. You can explore more of her work at tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com and follow her on Instagram @tinamariethinkstoomuch.

We come to it After a walk Through a field Late afternoon Shadows closing in Sunlight already golden. Old tree, Its beard scraggly Flowing with time The memory of souls Drifting over the land Having left life and bodies Graced with hair, all colors, Caressed, remembered, loved But unwilling to leave Entirely for the other place So strands grab the old limbs To hold on, to stay behind In the blood red sun Shadows crisscrossing Fields, days, other shadows, Even our thoughts as we pass Beneath the tree and on And on. Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas,  was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away , is published by Kelsay Books. Gallery: https://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/f861509283

there is more than one way to look at it.  outside the wood gift shop there is the desert, the gray hill  but the scrub shivers like hatching. there is more than just one life. you get off work and your pockets ring your magnet rocks, your change and the girls all wave so nice to you and the blue sky spills out big. but when you walk out in the sagebrush the camel crickets still crowd around you like the sea.  brown thumbs of their bodies long grass of their legs  there is more than one way to look.  the desert shows you things sometimes. yourself in other things. you crouch down til you see it in their black magnet eyes.  their leader beckons you with his sweet finger his back leg and in his change ringing voice he makes his speeches about hatching.  the others know it by then. they split open their brown shells.  their new legs crawl them forward. their new mouthparts take hold. it’s not a bad thing, says their leader. but he says that every time. he splits your shell with his long back leg and there is more than one side: there is the sweet dark of your first life and there is blue milk  gray breast  sun.  i’m not ready, you say.  the laughter rings. it changes  they grip the open skin of you. their leader shakes his head.  he says, there is no ready.  and all at once they jump. Maya is a writer and educator from Michigan. Her work lately focuses on growing up — how the worlds we live in as young people are full of strange delusions and equally strange truths.

Perhaps they too were lonely, Not among themselves so much As among their own kind. Loneliness was a hand reaching Through the darkness to touch, Be touched, Made certain once again. Their sky was populated Vastly, poignantly, Distant as all of space. They believed each star a house, A place to come to. Star clusters were villages, So much like their own. Whoever lived there, across heaven, Were much the same, Building houses close together From need, from want. They too must have known How time propels, arranges, Why all houses fill and empty, How all of them must eventually fall, Draping themselves in darkness as they go.* * Nayarit was (and is) home to several groups of indigenous peoples in Western Mexico. Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas,  was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away , is published by Kelsay Books. Gallery: https://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/f861509283

Have you ever taught a lesson over symbolism to a room full of thirty-three teenagers while holding cupped handfuls of your own glistening red bones? I have, more than once. It’s one of the worst recurring nightmares I have: the one where all of my teeth fall out. Sickening suction squelches as the bones detach from their roots and cascade out of my mouth in stacks like blank, bloody dominos. It happens while I’m talking, while I’m teaching, while I’m eating. I’m embarrassed each time—how dare I be so openly vulnerable to onlookers?—so I keep forcing myself to do The Thing I Am Doing, trying to ignore that I am literally falling apart in front of my parents, friends, students, and strangers.  But it is not just  that my teeth fall out—sometimes they break apart in shards too, and I must be careful not to swallow them. Or, there is an after-birth of sorts where thin yet sharp layers of roots and rot slip out of the sockets like glass, making it even harder to keep forcing myself to do The Thing I Am Doing, yet somehow I prevail. Somehow, I always carry on. Sometimes the people around me do not notice. Sometimes they notice and offer only pitying looks. They never try to help, and I never ask for their help. Maybe that’s my fatal flaw.  I have done plenty of research on dream interpretations, flipping through glossaries and indexes for symbols to break down until I get to D: Dental  or T: Teeth . Most interpreters say that losing teeth in dreams is indicative of either impending death, or feeling a loss of control in life decisions.  Death. Loss. I’m all too familiar with both. Sometimes, I do not know which is worse: dying, or having no choice in the matter. Sometimes, I do not know which is worse: falling apart, or knowing people see me falling apart, yet they do nothing to help. Sometimes, I do not know which is worse: that they do not acknowledge my downfall, or that I do  acknowledge it, yet choose to give myself no pause; keep eating…keep teaching…keep disregarding. Keep bleeding and breaking all the same. Mahailey Oliver holds an MA in English and Advanced Pedagogy from Stephen F. Austin State University. Her work has recently appeared in Hearth & Coffin, ForgetMeNot Press , and Spark to Flame . Her soul is made happy with an autumn breeze and camping under starlight. To read more of her work, check out her website here:   sites.google.com/view/mahaileyoliver

such delightful isolation surrounding  as my mind opens up  like a gentle stab velvet car crash chewing on knives  and I’m speechless with red love me  sedate me  drain me  watch me drown leaving nothing behind except an empty chair the deep shadow  of a subterranean death wish and the subtle persistence of fog Marcel Feldmar   grew up in Canada, and then left.  He spent some time in an institution called The Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics, but ended up living in Los Angeles, where his words get caught in traffic. He has been working on some spoken word / music collaborations, which can be found under the name Blue Discordant Way on Bandcamp. Feldmar has contributed poetry to the Curious Nothing and Rabbit’s Foot Magazine , and his full-length novel, Awkward on the Rocks , is coming soon from Dead Sky Publishing.

Where was he going All that time, Plunging deeper Toward dark water Minutes from the light? He must have known his chances, Hazards of searching down An inward spiral, looking First for a faith in himself, Then the religion of luster. Known he might not return, Struck with spasms, How he might fade away, Roll eternally over shells, Reefs, sea valleys, moon passions. Dead but still dreaming Of the finest shape, weight, A glow that only begins Near the ghost coral towns On the other side. Christopher Woods is a writer and photographer who lives in Texas. His monologue show, Twelve from Texas, was performed recently in NYC by Equity Library Theatre. His poetry collection, Maybe Birds Would Carry It Away , is published by Kelsay Books. Gallery: https://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/f861509283

The highest activity a human being      can attain is learning for understanding,           because to understand is to be free.    ―  Baruch Spinoza What he believed; he knew. What he knew, was true. This for him was pristine, a church bell in a light snow layering metaphysics. Once replete, the contagious pact with reality reworked, the truth poser rang, pealed the sanctity of doubt. God is substance,  the laws of the universe, and certainly not an individual  entity or creator.  The universe could not have  been produced by any other means  or in any other order. It is not by free will that an infant seeks the breast. God is not looking out and  determining, it is the indifference. With an immoral aroma  of almost rain,  a sickness unto death — with age-defying resolve, sat him down to one riddle at a time. Craig Kirchner is retired, and thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves the aesthetics of the paper and pen, has had two poems nominated for the Pushcart, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels . After a hiatus he was recently published in Decadent Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Wise Owl, Chiron Review, 7th-Circle Pyrite, Dark Winter, Spillwords, Fairfield Scribe, Unlikely Stories, The Main Street Rag and several dozen others.

Historian’s Note :   The following excerpts are from the journal of the nun Floriana de Olmedo as found within the library of St. Joséph’s Convent in Ávila, Spain. De Olmedo’s journal is the only surviving account of the 1568 massacre in the town of Deia by the Spanish Inquisition.  14 July, Year of our Lord 1568,  Today was the Sabbath,   and the spirit of God was with us so strongly during Mass, that I find myself growing weak at the memory of it. When my mother entered the church, she was consumed by holy fire as soon as she crossed the threshold and she fell to the ground in convulsions. I personally do not know the exquisite agony of St. Anthony’s fire, but I understand the way it traces through the body as it burns away the original sin. My father went to go aid her, but his hands are so swollen that it hurt for him to prop her up. He called Alonso and I over, and we held mamá as she spasmed and screamed. Around us, the other parishioners lingered, smiles on their lips as they watched her be rewarded for her piety; for mamá to feel God’s touch as soon as she walked into the church was a blessing upon our family. My papá  waved to them, the blackness of his flaking fingers stark in the light from all the candles that Father Benito had lit in preparation for today’s services. Our flickering shadows danced along the walls like hosts of angels, wings stretching up to the rafters in worship. My head began to pound as God fully entered the Church—it is hard for me to behold Him in all His glory. Father Benito was like a prophet today. His voice kept trailing off during his sermon, his eyes becoming distant and unfocused as he quoted the gospels to us. When he was so overcome by Grace that the words stopped coming, we continued the chants and the calls without him. Old Maria was so eager in her devotion that she vomited several times, and lay curled on the ground of the church, her eyes rolling back in her head as she communed with the Holy Spirit. Just when I felt I might faint, it was time for communion, which always strengthens me.   As we stood shaking and filed up to the altar to receive Christ’s blood and flesh, I saw His spirit in the form of small black dots that danced before my eyes. As the other worshippers took the rye communion into their palms and placed it between their teeth, letting the holy spirit melt upon their tongues. I was so overcome that I fell prostrate to the ground, prayers pouring forth between my lips like water from a well. Father Benito knelt beside me and pressed the bread lovingly between my lips. It turned to flesh, filling my mouth up with blood. Behind me, my younger brother Alonso wept.  We stayed there, on holy ground, until the candles guttered out and the tide of ecstasy had retreated. I am back in my own bed now, next to a snoring Alonso. I can hear mamá weeping in her bed, the thrashing of papá’s limbs as he violently prays, trying to find solace in the temporary absence of God. 16 July, Year of our Lord 1568 Old Maria has gone to be with God. Mamá has not yet recovered from the Sabbath, and one of Father’s hands has burst open, gangrenous sin seeping out of it in the form of pus. His eyes are fevered. The farm work is beginning to go undone. Every night, we stagger to the church to kneel and pray before the altar. 18 July, Year of our Lord 1568 I have been considering traveling to a convent and taking my Holy Orders in service to the Lord. There is a nun I have heard mention of; Teresa of Ávila, who is apparently subject to the same ecstasies as we are. She has founded the Convento de San José. How wonderful it would be to meet her! However, I am afraid to leave this town where every scrap of land and every household has been transitioned to holy ground. Here, people wander down the street in sacred hazes, their eyes fixed unseeing on the face of God as they converse with Him. Even now, I can feel Him writhing underneath my skin, tracing His fingers behind my eyes. I can’t help but shiver endlessly at the feel of His touch, my stomach churning with warmth and excitement. We are God’s chosen people — how could anywhere else ever compare to this? 19 July, Year of our Lord 1568 Today the holy spasms finally blessed me. Father Benito was with me when I came back into myself. He asked me what I had seen. I told him I didn’t remember. He seemed disappointed, but he then invited me to the church. He asked that I aid in the creation of holy communion and make the wafers that would become the body of Christ during the ritual of transubstantiation. I have assisted Father Benito in many ways before — it was he who first noticed my aptitude with the written word — but not like this.  To say it was an honour was an understatement. I ground the rye by hand. I ran my fingers through the grains, removing any remaining chaff. Many of the grains were black and withered, and I picked out as many as I could. Many still remained, and I reminded myself that only God can truly sift and have it be complete. Once I had sufficiently ground the grain until it became flour, I was dismissed. I wish that I could have stayed for the entire process, but to be allowed to touch the holiest of holies, to aid in the creation of communion, is a gift enough. 24 July, Year of Our Lord 1568 A man came to town today. An inquisitor, from the Tribunal of The Holy Office of the Inquisition. Despite the rumors that have spread through Spain about the power they hold and the quickness of their accusations, I am not worried. Father Benito met with the inquisitor and the train of traveling companions he came with, shutting themselves up in the church. I did not have time to attend tonight’s prayers, and inquire further about the inquisitor. Both mamá and papá have weakened considerably. Alonso and I are tending entirely to the farm and it keeps us busy from dawn until dusk.   I have noticed that Alonso’s hands are beginning to tremble. 28 July, Year of Our Lord 1568 The inquisitor attended Mass today. He and his brethren stood in the back of the church, watching us closely with narrowed eyes. Papá’s hands have both burst open now, the over-stretched skin rupturing. I saw several of the inquisitor’s men recoil, and I had to hold in a derisive snort. Mamá walked unaided for now, but her skin was pale, sweat beading on her upper lip, her eyes bright with divinity.  We found our seats, and Father Benito called us to pray. The congregation swayed, several of them collapsing to the ground in holy visions, their limbs flailing as spasms shook them. I lifted my voice in song as dark spots grew in the corners of my eyes.  Father Benito’s sermon was quickly interrupted by a thundering voice, spewing hateful words about demons, devilry, and possession. The inquisitor was enraged, calling us cursed apostates engaged in devilry and blasphemy. There were many raised voices at this, from both the townspeople and the inquisitor's cohort of men. I fell to the ground, my head pounding with the sudden noise. It was as if all the choirs of the angels of heaven and the legions of devil in hell were fighting one another, beating against the inside of my skull. I remember my mother crouching beside me, shoving communion in between my lips. It tasted mustier than usual, but I was glad for it as it strengthened my spirit enough that I was able to rise. Alonso and mamá grabbed me by the arms, and we moved towards the exit. There was a stampede to get out of the church as the inquisitor’s men began to wade into the chaos, their weapons raised. Papá lingered behind us as we were caught up in the current of fleeing people. The last I saw of him, he was screaming at the men, reaching his mangled hands towards them. I saw one of the black robed men raise a club, and I heard the cracking of my papá’s skull before I fell into unconsciousness. I awoke alone in my home, curled in a ball on the hearth before a sputtering fire.  29 July, Year of Our Lord 1568 Papá is dead, his body burned with the others who were caught up in the incident at the church. Men in black cloaks are patrolling the streets, keeping us all inside. I do not know what to do, besides pray. 30 July, Year of Our Lord 1568 Under armed guard, Father Benito has been escorted to the doors of the village and allowed brief entry to each household. When he came, we all held each other for a long moment as Father Benito prayed with us. He spoke with mamá in hushed tones, and I could see her nodding her head emphatically. Afterwards, Father Benito took me aside. He asked if I still wanted to travel and take my Holy Orders. I told him that I had decided to stay and dedicate my life to God within the confines of my own community. He told me that our church was in peril, and that the inquisitor had told him that we were all to be put on trial tomorrow, our church to be burned down regardless of the outcome. We were required to repent of our blasphemy if we wished to live. Benito told us that all of the townsfolk thus far had refused, including mamá; they meant to burn with the church and become martyrs.  Father Benito told me that the previous night he had had a dream in which I was given a holy mission by God Himself. I was to leave tonight, and take the word of God with me to St. Joséph’s, keeping the spirit of our community alive and preserving it for future generations. I begged to stay and burn with them. He said that I could not deny God’s will. He pulled something from deep within his robe and shoved it into my arms, blessed me, and left. I cannot stop weeping. 31 July, Year of Our Lord 1568 It is morning, and they are all dead. I tried to take Alonso with me. He is only eleven, but he refused; he felt called to burn. I waited until the very early hours of the morning, kissed my mamá and brother goodbye, and then slipped out through a hole in our roof, jumping down into the dust below and hurrying away. The town was crawling with the inquisitors' men, and it was only through the grace of God that I wasn’t spotted. I made my way to the woods that edge our borders, and there I sat and waited. If I could not be a martyr, I could at least be a witness. Shortly before dawn, our people trickled out slowly, the villagers assembling in front of the church. Father Benito was at the head of them as they stood awaiting their judgment. The inquisitor ordered them to repent and return to Christendom, instead of the perversion they now served. He would spare the lives of all those who turned back to God and were re-baptized.  The townsfolk shuffled their feet and looked at one another. Alonso looked up at mamá, who lay a blackening hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. As one, the townsfolk turned and shuffled into the church, the strong aiding the weak. They had seen the face of God and had known the ecstasy of His holy fire, and they would not be turned from the truth. Father Benito was the last one in, and he stood in the open door and looked out at the inquisitor and his men. Behind him our people sang a variety of hymns, swaying to their own beats. It was a harmony without harmony, and from my hidden spot I could feel tears begin to flood down my face at the sanctity of it all. How I wish I had been in there with them! There was a long pause, and the inquisitor signaled to his men, and eight of them came forward bearing large barrels of pitch. They surrounded the church and began to paint and pour it on, darkening the building I held so dear. When they were finished, another eight men came forward with torches. There was a stern word from the inquisitor, and the men with the torches touched their flaming ends to the black-covered walls. It ignited almost immediately. It did not take long before the church became a funeral pyre. Screams rang out through the crackle of the flames. Black smoke billowed, and there was a great noise as the roof collapsed down into the blazing inferno. The screaming quickly stopped. I could see the inquisitor and his companions watch as my entire life burned. Their eyes sparked, embers smoldering in their depths. In those eyes I glimpsed hell itself — a parade of demons that leapt from person to person as they danced in victory. I looked away. The church is still smoldering as I sit here, writing, my hands clutching the cross of Father Benito that now hangs around my neck. The sky is finally lightening, the sun painting the sky as red as blood. In my bags are our most holy relics, and several bags worth of communion that are glowing gold and speckled with black. I will take them to Teresa, and give them to her. I will take the words and wishes of our Lord to the convent, and reveal to them the truth that God has given us through the consumption of His Most Holy flesh. This I swear.  Historian’s Note : Based on the physical and psychological symptoms present in the population , it is generally believed in historical circles that the townsfolk of Deia were suffering from severe levels of ergot poisoning. Ergot, a fungus found primarily on rye and transmitted via airborne spore, is known to cause schizophrenic-like delusions, hallucinations, sepsis and body degradation, Furthermore, its effects have been known to cause religious mania when ingested. Some academics have hypothesized that many of those killed during the inquisition and later witch trials were suffering from some form of ergot poisoning. Hannah Birss is a writer and aspiring magpie based out of Ontario, Canada. She lives with her partner, children, and multiple animals. She can usually be found in a nest constructed of books, writing journals, and shiny trinkets. You can follow her on instagram @hannahbirsswrites for news on upcoming and current publications.

Nobody batted an eye while the man with the carrion-crow mask handed the little girl flowers of violet. Not even the young farmhand, who stood by the dank estuary with a slender torch and makeshift antler horns of wood. Turning away from the tall, strange man in the woods, the farmhand slipped back into the firelight of the village festival of Samhain; the final day of October was setting upon this village, with the moon in a deep shroud behind grey clouds and rousing smog. A shrewd chill caressed the fair skin of many village folk, but the blazing flames and veiled costumes warded off the frigid omen.  In tandem, sultry oranges and fiery reds danced off the slender and depressing beak of the stranger, as he remained on a single knee in front of the little girl. Prominent cracks and shavings of deteriorating birch were beginning to show on the faded white of the bill, and those two eye-holes were merely part of a sunken lake at dusk. Still, the little girl grinned and giggled at the ridiculous mask, bearing her own pair of tiny, wooden antlers.  She asked the silent and dignified man: “Why doesn’t your mask look like the others? It looks dangerous and pointy.” The stranger’s head lowered slightly towards his chest, brushing against the mantle of dead leaves; these crisp and colourful pigments of nature lined the entirety of his neck, acting as a warm pelt one would wear during the winter solstice. Slowly, he reached the backside of his leather-gloved hand to brush down the little girl’s cheek. “Ye are fair, but ye danced around the flame of cattle thrice sunwise.” He spoke softly, as though this voice did not belong to him.  Perhaps it was stolen—his voice. And maybe yet, the little girl knew this, for she now wrapped her arms taut around the nearest fir tree; her village had been blessed with their rich verdants, warding off bitter spirits from entering their tiny village in Meath—a spacious and Holy land of Celtic worship and Pagan practices unto nature, surrounded by a vast woodland and towering spirits of festivity.  “Where would ye like to go, little one?” The carrion-man’s voice was silky, but the hollow of the wooden beak recused its butter-slick tune—muffling the inquiry with a freakish reverberation.  The little girl paused for a moment. “Where do others dance? I think I would like to go there.” The gifted flower stung sharply in her hand, but she held it tightly as she mumbled into the old tree.  And so, the tall man with the carrion-crow mask took her tiny hand in his, sauntering slowly towards the quiet marsh ahead. Craning his head back to the raging flames of the Samhain festival, the carrion-man watched as many humans danced their sweltering flesh around the heaps of offered livestock—many hopping and tripping into loved ones as they hesitantly threw away their spot in the dance. Of course, it was obvious as to why this was; the souls of the living were never ready to face their awaited fates on the night of Samhain.  When the little girl turned her face to stare up at the carrion-man, her golden locks formed their own mantle at the base of her neck. “What is the flower’s name?” “Wolfsbane,” he answered, without so much as a breath to ponder.  The little girl giggled with a childish croak. “Does it nip?”  A curt nod was the only response that left the carrion-man’s rangy stature. Slowly, he took to his knee, dipping two fingers into the murky bog that rested, now, at their feet. There, he mumbled a chant of sorts—one which stole away the little girl’s curiosity as she stood in timid nature behind the man; for before her eyes, a gargantuan monster of shimmering verdant and fallen leaves emerged from the deep water. Upon meeting its beady eyes with the little one, it bowed its head in a plodding manner, paying no mind to the carrion-man.  “Oilliphéist, I require assistance. Imprudent passage across the marsh would prove unbefitting for this young one.”  The water-serpent, known as Oilliphéist, reared its long and slender neck as it glared down upon the carrion-man. “Is the dusk of Samhain arrived yet?” it spoke in its baritone bite. The carrion-man nodded his head as he reached a careful arm around the little girl’s shoulders. “It has, Oilliphéist.” The disquieting crow mask tilted upwards slightly, causing a few leaves to fall from his cloak to the ground below.  Once more, the serpentine creature looked down towards the little one. Then, it sighed.  The carrion-man did not join with Oilliphéist in staring at her. Instead, he continued: “I have met with the one who danced thrice sunwise. Thus, I am to be granted passage across the marsh, for this flower will never bloom in such a dank locus.”  Oilliphéist scowled with a burning grin. “An appraisal of mankind may yet be in order.” Then, it brought its snarling snout and piercing fangs down to the little girl’s height, brushing tenderly against her clothed chest of ebony and white.  The carrion-man cupped his hands together as he gestured for the girl to use his palms as a stepping stone. Giggling, she practically leapt off the makeshift stool, wrapping her arms around Oilliphéist’s viscid neck with a content sigh. “Your turn, mister!” she exclaimed with a rosy tint in her cheeks.  The carrion-man did not appreciate his calling of that honorific, but Oilliphéist seemed to quite enjoy this shroud of discomfort that now clouded its backside. Quickly, the masked man launched himself up onto the thick tail of the creature, holding on with shaky arms as his beak now pointed down towards Oilliphéist’s slippery flesh. The girl laughed at this.  Here, a guttural purring emanated throughout its serpentine stature, nearly knocking the carrion-man off its jagged tail.  “I think it likes us,” the girl chippered. ‘It reminds me of our field kitty. But I’m not sure if Oilliphéist enjoys chasing crickets, or not.’  The carrion-man clicked his tongue, while Oilliphéist craned its neck to bare its fangs and smirk through its slimy snout. “My body is not privy to versatility, but I do enjoy watching little rodents cower and squirm,” it remarked, staring down at the man who was holding on for dear life.  He’d had enough. “Let me up, Oilliphéist, or the wolfsbane will wilt!”  “And let it!” Oilliphéist bellowed.  Not startled by the water-creature’s sudden encroachment, the little one suddenly stretched out her smooth arm, reaching for the carrion-man as she grunted a huff of discomfort. “Take my hand, mister! Oilliphéist’s backside is certainly tricky to stay seated on!”  The serpentine monstrosity laughed with thunderous applause. “Only when a poison lurks near my scales, little one.”  “Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man bit back.  Immediately, Oilliphéist’s scales rattled and peaked, and its flesh grew quickly frigid in the bog. The carrion-man’s cruel slick of his tongue had finally penetrated the creature’s tough scales; here, it hoisted its tail out of the water to allow slippery passage to its backside.  “We will travel across the marsh, to the bed of wolfsbane. There, we will dance until dawn.”  And then, Oilliphéist set off through the murky water, gliding silently downstream as the three passed many sunken trees and odd creatures that cackled and hummed as they all met eyes. But Oilliphéist’s strokes through the bog soon slowed, as a ribcage of rotting trees and fir ancestry depressed inwards. Here, a cascade of violet flowers began to twirl down from their decaying branches; many kissed at the little girl’s cheeks, while they fell furthest from the carrion-man.  She took notice of this immediately, sliding down the hump of Oilliphéist to reach him. There, she fell down against his chest, bracing herself as her arms wrapped around the crisp cloak of the carrion-man.  “Why aren’t the wolfsbane nipping at you, mister?” She looked up at the daunting serenity of his beak.  Quickly, he pulled her close—holding her to his silent chest, as he grabbed a gentle pallet of golden hair. With a whisper, he spoke: “Because they know only life.” Oilliphéist came to a steady halt as the wolfsbane began to fall from the trees in a mere maddening waltz, obscuring the girl’s vision as the carrion-man pulled away from their still embrace. Then, he slid off the creature’s scaly tail, before extending a gloved hand to her. “I think my feet hurt, mister.”  But the carrion-man reached his arms out to take the little girl in his own, being careful as not to drop her into the abyssal stream of the marsh below. Oilliphéist reared its head to look down at the both of them, with a dismaying amount of ashen smoke circulating its gaping nostrils.  “Oilliphéist,” the carrion-man spoke with a slow nod. “I thank thee, as usual. Until the next dance, may we meet.”  Oilliphéist dropped its head to conjoin with the carrion-man’s height, before whispering in its thunderous tone: “Go n-ullamhuighe an diabhal teinne dhuit.” And the serpentine water-creature set off into the dank and dreary marsh, its verdant shine disappearing quickly into the thick mist.  The little girl watched with her hands balled together against her flat chest, nodding farewell to the creature with an uncertain grin.  At this, a reclusive chuckle left the carrion-man’s throat. “Tell me, now,” he whispered gently, “how supple are those soles ye bear?”  And she grinned like a toddler as she pinched the silky hems of her dress and kicked up her feet from the frail mulch.  “I use them to dance,” she exclaimed.  He took her right hand, smoothing over the faint beginnings of youthful veins with his large, leather thumb. “Naturally so, little one. Then, would ye fancy a dance around my glorious pyre?”  “Yes! Oh, yes, mister, I would love that!”  With his hand still in hers, the carrion-man nodded down at the little girl, leading her by the hand as their shadowless figures disappeared into the forest. No birds were present to chortle hopeless birdsong for a dawn that would never come; still, the wolfsbane fell silently in tandem with a ghostly wind, taking on the figures of saintly songbirds in the little girl’s eyes.  Upon sifting through pointed sprigs and mounds of dead leaves, the pair reached the grand, sultry heat of a pyre. Immediately, the little one ran off towards the encroaching heat, which, to her surprise, did not sway the blonde hairs on her arms; because there, prancing around the convivial rocks and logs, were tens of cattle with thick tufts of fur and limbs, all intact. No fire was to be found, but the bleating of cattle filled the air in a much friendlier manner than flame, crackling in the little girl’s ears as she eagerly fell into line behind a stout cattle—while one of gangly stature pranced at her rear.  They didn’t speak. Only hundreds of beady eyes fell upon her, horizontal pupils stretched thinner than a raisin, as they stared into the front and back of her golden locks. Still, they danced in their large circle, now hobbling to their hind legs. The little girl quickly wound her arms around the two cattle beside her, flicking her ankles upwards as she pranced along the soft mulch.  “Those antlers complement those golds just beautifully! O, it is only in my nature to fall envious!” the stout cattle spoke.  The little girl’s eyes widened as she watched the animal’s pale muzzle align perfectly with the chipper, feminine speech.  “Really?” the gangly cattle added. “I thought they were the fangs of some rapacious hog!”  The little one swiftly shook her head, laughing as she caught her breath from the intricate dance. “It is an honour to speak with you both! I’ve always dreamt of talking with such strange creatures.”  Immediately, the gangly cattle reared its head back, bleating loudly with a snort. “What a preposterous accusation, young lady!”  “Strange?” the stout cattle blurted out.  The third voice that followed was from that of a male cattle. “You, too, dance thrice sunwise around the pyre. Do you not?”  “You’re right,” she replied. “You are not strange. Across the marsh, none of you are afraid to dance around the fire. Back home, nobody dances thrice sunwise.” Standing, arms dangling stiffly at his sides, stood the carrion-man with his splintering beak and soulless gaze; for a man with no eyes to look into, nurtured no soul. His cloak rustled against the ground, as countless leaves were whisked away from its virulent drag. Quickly, he fell in line with the cattle dancing opposite of the set sun, to which the little girl’s hand disappeared within the dark leather of his gloves.  “Across the marsh, they aren’t afraid to dance!” she shouted over the bleating.  He looked down at her brittle antlers. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” She nodded along. “Oh, yes, mister. I think I quite enjoy it across the marsh.” Carefully, he slipped more wolfsbane behind her ears. “Thank ye for passage, little Niamh,” he whispered.  Then, without a moment to puppeteer her smile any further, she collapsed into his arms.  The first peak of the new dawn began to shine through the twisted and cruel branches of the woodland, causing the cattle to fall out of line and bleat amongst one another. A light grey now seduced Niamh’s fair skin, twisting her youth into rot and decay; but the wolfsbane remained untouched, tucked far behind her ears. The very sight of such a pretty thing nipped bitterly at the carrion-man, and he leaned back in solitude as Niamh’s face grew sunken and dry.  Slowly, he cradled her in his arms, stalking towards the abandoned pyre. Here, he placed her down against the dark mulch, allowing the Earth to taste her fair skin for the first time. The dirt parted for a moment, inching back from the girl in its distaste, before the small wolfsbane fell from her ears to the ground; it was quickly swallowed up by the leaves, to which the ground then took Niamh into its motherly embrace.  The carrion-man, of course, never learned of the little girl's true name; Niamh had been prodding at his throat from the moment he had first handed her the wolfsbane. He suspected that the gold of her hair and the divinity of her youth had placed that name upon his bill; and perhaps learning of her life across the marsh would have sullied the grace of her being. But that was the dutiful call of the wolfsbane, and the carrion-man swiftly shed his deathly mantle, scurrying into the final, remaining shadows of the new dawn.  There, beside the amalgamated twist of branches and leaves, remained the abandoned pyre, wrapped around a bed of youthful wolfsbane; and in the middle of it all, were the slender sprigs of two, makeshift antlers poking out from the mulch.  They complemented the pyre beautifully.  Dani Arieli is a published poet and lover of weird, dark, and archaic literature. She has multiple works published in B222 journal, and two forthcoming publications in Beyond Words and The Familiars magazine. She is currently working towards her Honours Bachelor of Creative Writing and Publishing degree at Sheridan College. During most writing sessions, her black cat sits atop her lap while she fervently taps away at her keyboard; she very much enjoys having a writing partner who can meow. You can visit her website, daniarieli.com for further authorial information.

Some have begun to wear parachutes when they sleep, for fear they’ll join the falling people. Others carry benzodiazepine spray to shoot up their nostrils. Whether that would even work as they reach terminal velocity is at best uncertain. Most just hope they stay hardbound to the earth. There are, of course, those who don’t believe it’s happening at all, that the "world government" is trying to deceive them. There have always been people like that. I know for certain it’s real because my wife was among the fallen. Sometimes, people say they wish a hole would open up in the ground and swallow them. And in a way, that’s precisely what happens except that it reopens somewhere different, a mile or two above the ground. My wife Sandra and I were walking down the North Circular Road, keeping enough distance so our hands would never brush. “What time’ll you be home this evening?” she asked. “I’m not sure,” I replied. “It wasn’t a difficult question.” “You know this is a busy time for me.” “Like always, Matthew. Just like always.” “I’ll get a bite in the office if that’s what you’re asking; don’t worry about making me dinner.” I knew she suspected I had another woman. I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I was on the verge of losing my copywriting job and it was hard to be around her. I had myself braced, ready for the next bitter word. But six or seven paces later and there was only the sound of traffic. I looked to the place where she should have been, fearful she was crying. She was nowhere. It was just around the spot where we parted each weekday morning, often amidst an argument, right at the junction with the Rathdown Road. I began to turn in a slow circle. Perplexed. “Sandra?” I said. Where had she gotten to? A line of cars stutter-stepped by on the North Circular Road as I cast about for a glimpse of her light green rain-jacket and red hair. There was a double-decker bus a hundred yards ahead of me and I wondered if she jumped aboard without me seeing. When I looked closer though, I could see that its rear sign read "out of service." I stepped out into the centre of the Rathdown Road peering down through the canyon of linden trees, a robin ever-so-soft-chittering on a branch above me. A Prius taxi prowled around the corner behind me, its horn startling. “What the fook are you at, you clown?” the cab driver roared through the open window, his cigarette dropping ash to the patchwork road surface. “I’m sorry,” I said, though he was gone too quick to hear me. It never occurred to me that Sandra was, at that moment, tumbling at a velocity of perhaps two hundred and forty kilometres per hour towards a canal-side street in the Castlefield area of Manchester. Just as she thumped the ground, a car veered to avoid her, and crashed into a black cast-iron bollard. The driver was a woman called Amanda Gilchrist. Her nose was streaming blood after she was hit by the airbag of her Volkswagen Golf. She stepped out from the vehicle and saw what remained of Sandra before leaning over and vomiting, so that it ran like liquid in the grooves between the crooked cobblestones. One thousand, four hundred, and seventy-seven people have fallen so far on every continent except Antarctica. The smart people of the world have been unable to find a pattern. The less smart claim they have right up until the point that they are proven wrong. A man vanishes in Canberra and falls in Sacramento. An eight-year-old child disappears from a street outside Gare Montparnasse and comes down three Métro stops away in Denfert-Rochereau. Sandra? She was reconfigured in the sky, 166 miles, more or less, as a herring gull might fly eastward from Dublin. Manchester was a city she never visited. Was that of some significance to her down falling? The questions we ask expecting answers. Several times on the day we parted, I keyed out messages on my iPhone only to delete them without sending. I’d no reason to suspect anything had happened to her; there were fewer than a hundred fallen people at that time. It was only when I got home from work that I began to think something might be amiss. I wondered if I should call her sister Barbara or her mam Anne, but I didn’t want to scare them. And if it was that Sandra had finally left me, she’d hardly want to speak with me. I was drinking a long glass of Baileys, brim-full with ice, the only liquor Sandra allowed in the house, when the doorbell rang. Was I surprised to see two uniformed police officers? Frightened, yes. Surprised, I’m not so sure. “Are you Mr. O’Sullivan?” the female garda asked. “Mr. Matthew O’Sullivan.” “Yes.” “Would it be OK if we came in for a minute?” I’m not sure if they could have handled the situation any better and I wondered if some officers were chosen for this duty because of their manner and sensitivity. I couldn’t think of anything to ask because I knew they had no solutions. They told me a close family member would have to travel to Manchester to identify that which was left. I was never one for airplanes but nothing two milligrams of Valium would not solve. The idea right then though, of ascending into the sky, crossing the water suspended high above the clouds, this profound fear I might fall, or worse again, see someone falling, I nearly shook. “You’re going to take the boat?” the policewoman asked when I explained my plans. “I have a fear of flying.” The two officers looked at one another. As I shut my front door, I could not shake the feeling that handcuffs might yet be produced, that I would be bowing my head as I was ushered into the back seat of their unmarked car, hoping the neighbours were not watching. When a woman dies in odd circumstances, who is usually to blame? When that couple’s relationship is frayed like an old dried-out elastic band; case closed, one might say. But how could you ever close a case that was beyond comprehension? Early the next morning, I boarded the ferry that would take me to the port of Holyhead before the long train journey to Victoria Station. I tried a few times to read but could not concentrate. Mostly, I looked at the sea, thinking of how many times I wished Sandra was gone, but never like this. It’s strange how years can pass, and relationships get so difficult to disentangle. A joint mortgage, an arthritic red setter, three expensive paintings, and a much-loved Chesterfield couch. I remember sitting in the waiting room of the hospital mortuary. It had been tastefully decorated with comfortable sofas and ersatz impressionist pictures, but the clinical undertones could not be painted over. A victim support officer sat at the other end of the couch, sneaking occasional glances at me, renewing that nagging feeling like I was under observation. A medical orderly came through swing doors, approached the officer and whispered to her. “Are you ready, Mr. O’Sullivan?” she said, softening even further her gentle Mancunian voice. “I think so.” “It’s a formality,” she said. “And they have done their best to make things easier.” On the mortuary slab, Sandra lay, everything but her face enclosed in the body bag. It made me think of the Wicklow Mountains, and a night spent camping up there when we used to love each other. Curled up in our sleeping bags, I found it next-to-impossible to sleep, could feel every bump in the ground beneath me. We never did it again; turns out I was a four-star hotel-kind of person. “Mr. O’Sullivan; can you confirm that this is your wife, Sandra Murray?” the coroner said. “Yes,” I said. I don’t know why I expected some interrogation, or why the idea of sudden arrest kept leaping into my mind. “Thank you, Mr. O’Sullivan,” said the coroner. “Would you like to spend some time alone with Sandra?” “Yes,” I said. But I knew I had nothing to say. I moved my lips as if in prayer, but all I did was count to one hundred and one. That felt like it was enough time before I could leave the dead room. There was nobody waiting for me outside and I was grateful for that. Sandra’s father had passed, and her mum Anne had suffered a stroke the previous year—my sister-in-law Barbara stayed home to mind her. Walking back out of the hospital, it was impossible to shake the oddness of being stuck in a place you did not want to be and with nothing to do. I had booked the ferry for the following morning, thinking my gloomy business would take all day. The very idea of going for food, or something to drink, seemed a dishonour to Sandra’s memory. I thought a moment of going back to my hotel to sleep but I knew I’d be examining the ceiling. There was a bus passing headed towards the city centre, so I jumped aboard and tossed a two-pound coin into the fare machine. I got off near Piccadilly Station and walked along the canal. It was a warm Friday afternoon, and the streets of the Gay Village were already abuzz beneath the rainbow bunting. I so envied the crowd’s ease, the frivolity of beer, cocktails, cigarette smoke, perfume and aftershave, a thousand laughs, and the evening’s infinite potential. I kept walking along the towpath, past the old Hacienda and up by Deansgate. The place where Sandra died was nearby—somewhere in between the industrial braid of rusting viaducts and decaying brick bridges—and I could have easily found it if I’d wanted. But I had this dread like I might come across a lost fragment of bone or a tooth that had been missed by the street cleaners. I just kept going and came at last to the Lowry, where I sat worn out on the quay as a single scull rowboat glided by a coupling of swans in the still water. Sandra came home in the hold of an Aer Lingus plane as my ferry sailed past the twin tower chimneys of Poolbeg. There was a removal. A funeral mass. A burial. Sandwiches, tea, beer, cider, and whiskey in the Castleknock Hotel. So many people shook my hand and too many mourners put their arms around me. I dutifully did what I was supposed to, anxiously awaiting the day when people would just leave me alone. For the first time, it gladdened me that we didn’t have children, couldn’t have had children. In the weeks after, panic took a grip on me and metastasised until there was scarcely a bodily or mental function that was untouched. Acid rose in my throat from a gurgling stomach beneath tension headaches that made my skull feel as if it was cinched in a corset. It was impossible to sleep at night and hard to stay awake by day. Each time I stood up from the couch, my head whirled so that I’d have to lean against the wall to regain my equilibrium. I became so sensitised to noise that when a door slammed, or a hammer sounded, I would fully expect to see a broken body nearby. Worse still was any sudden movement, a bird swooping into my eyeline or a helicopter overhead, so that I was certain another person was falling to earth. I found my eyes drawn towards the clouds. I wasn’t the only one and so many others began to look to the sky instead of the screens of their mobile devices. All this talk of multiverses, a tear in space-time, quantum entanglement, string theory, and relativity. I understood none of it, and I don’t want to understand. The only thing we know is it’s happening more often. Is the growth exponential? If it happens ten times a day now, will it be a hundred next week, a thousand by next month? Then came a day that rattled me out of my inertia, when dashcam footage of Sandra’s disappearance was leaked to a newspaper and uploaded to the web. The police had already asked me if I wanted to see it, but I couldn’t bear to. Watching it loop on Twitter, how innocuous it was, like an amateur filmmaker had been experimenting with jump cuts. I let it play back and forth, to scrutinise the moment she passed from sight. But there was only the before and then the after, no dissolution or disintegration, just a cheap sleight of hand. Now you see her, now you don’t. And I began to think maybe it was not such a bad way to glide out from this life, especially if you knew that it was happening. There would be that moment of realisation, the terror, the free fall, and an unquestionably quick death. Was it any worse than lying in a hospice bed with a morphine drip attached to your collapsing veins? My life began to decomplicate. The mortgage of our semi-detached house just off Blackhorse Avenue was cleared. Sandra had far more savings than I’d known, runaway money perhaps, and who could blame her? The boss who weeks before seemed about to fire me was now overly sympathetic, saying I should take a couple of months of bereavement leave. “You don’t need to come back until you are right and ready,” he said in his grating public school English accent. I pretended to be mulling over what he said. “Maybe coming to work’d keep my mind occupied,” I said. “Well, I would like you to take at least a fortnight. And then you see how you feel. No pressure.” Walking out the door of the voguish office on the Burlington Road, knowing I would never walk back in, I felt liberated. I packed a suitcase and, steeled by Diazepam, took a flight to Istanbul, travelling by train back across Europe to London. It took me two months. I had in mind to write that unpublishable novel I’d long thought about but got no further than the third page. All around the world, people kept on falling but I paid little heed to TV, radio, newspapers, or social media. When I arrived in England, I took a short-term let on an apartment in Kennington—unsure if I would ever return to Dublin. “And that I suppose is how I find myself here,” I said as I looked around a small parish hall in South London. “Matthew, thank you so much for your honesty,” said Rebecca, the chair of that evening’s session of the support group for the family, friends, witnesses, and victims of the Falling People. “I can’t lie to myself anymore,” I said. “This is a good step to take.” The heads of the other participants nodded like the hands of a lucky cat in a Chinese restaurant. “I’m sorry for talking for so long.” “Not at all,” Rebecca said. “We can only let go when we open ourselves.” I closed my eyes a moment. And when I opened them, Rebecca’s seat was empty. Ken Foxe is a writer and transparency activist in Ireland. He is the author of two non-fiction books based on his journalism and likes to write short stories of horror, fantasy, SF, and speculative fiction. Previous Stories: www.kenfoxe.com/short-stories/ Twitter: www.twitter.com/kenfoxe Instagram: www.instagram.com/kenfoxe