Issue Three

Issue Three 

JUNE 2013 Volume 1, Issue 3

Dear Readers, 

Welcome to 

Issue Three 

It's been eight months since the conception of HelloHorror, five months since the first 

issue and three (if you count the original blog, since lost in the Tumblr archives) site 

redesigns. Our journal has already come a long way in a relatively short period, but 

we've got many new ideas in the works as well. In this, the third issue, we've placed a 

much stronger focus on our goal to be a publication focusing on the psychological 

aspects of horror. We hope this focus shines through in our selections, and we hope 

you'll read every last one and finish the issue yearning for more. We've got an 

impressive line up of writers; some exhibiting great skill despite their newness to the 

craft, and some offering masterful work that upholds their noteworthy credentials. 

We hope that you enjoy reading this issue as much as we've enjoyed creating it. Before 

you begin, I have one suggestion for you. Make sure your night light is plugged in 

before laying down tonight. You just might need it... 

Brent E. Armour 

Editor in Chief 

HelloHorror.com

JUNE 2013 

CLEAN CLOTHES Short Story by JAMIE KINN 

PREDATOR Short Story by JUDITH DORE 

THE UGLYLIGHTS Short Story by JESSICA BOWERS 

DUST Short Story by ROB BOFFARD 

CONFESSION Short Story by A.A. GARRISON 

IDYLLIC WITH TWO L's Poem by COLIN JAMES 

LAST HOUSE ON VECTOR STREET Short Story by CHRIS CASTLE 

PEEPING TOM's MASTERPIECE Poem by NATE BURLEY 

PICK UP LINE Micro by DAN LEE 

HOW DOES ONE'S GARDEN GROW? Micro by LAUREN HASTY 

INITIATION Short Story by JAMES MORRIS 

SHADES OF BLUE Poem by ANNIE NEUGEBAUER 

CASSIE MEYERS' RING Short Story by KATIE JONES 

BOY Short Story by IGNACIO CARRION

Rob Boffard 

is a full-time journalist, and writes 

feature stories for The Guardian 

newspaper, Wired Magazine and others. 

He recently started writing fiction, and 

has just had his second short story 

published. 

Jessica Bowers 

is an 18 year old high school senior 

living in Claxton, Georgia. She plans to 

start college in the fall, majoring in 

biology and minoring in creative writing. 

Her inspirations are Mary Shelley, 

Aldous Huxley, and of course, Stephen 

King. Writing has become a big part of 

her and she wishes to keep it alive in 

her adult life. 

Nate Burley 

was born in 1990 and raised in Toronto. 

He later graduated with a bachelor's 

degree from the University of King's 

College in Halifax where he studied 

English and Creative Writing. Nate 

currently resides back in Toronto, 

working at a restaurant by day and 

writing crazed manuscripts by night. 

Ignacio Carrion 

is a writer and designer living and 

working in Houston who hopes that 

Orwell is getting residuals. He is 

currently working on a novel in three 

parts inspired by Dante’s Divine 

Comedy. Ignacio’s micro, During the 

Day He’s a Good Man, appears in the 

January 2013 issue of HelloHorror and 

his shorty story, Boy, appears in the 

June 2013 issue of HelloHorror. 

VOLUME 1 ISSUE 3 

Chris Castle 

is an English teacher in Greece. He has 

been published over 300 times and has 

been featured in various end of year and 

best of anthologies. He is currently 

writing a novel. His influences include 

Stephen King and Ray Carver. He can 

be reached for feedback at 

chriscastle76@hotmail.com. Chris has 

become a regular contributor to our 

Journal. Chris’ stories; “Grid”, 

“Slumber”, and “The last House on 

Vector Street” consecutively appear in 

the January, April and June issues of 

HelloHorror. 

Judith Dore 

is a writer, runner, guitar putzer, avid 

book lover, mother & alcoholic who has 

always found horror stories comforting. 

She has a degree in Journalism & Mass 

Communications from the University of 

NC in Chapel Hill and has worked in 

business writing, which is frightening in 

its own right. Judith lives in with her 

husband and son in upstate NY where 

she often can be found running through 

town while listening to scary stories on 

her iPod. 

A.A. Garrison 

is a twenty-nine-year-old man living in 

the mountains of North Carolina, USA. 

His short fiction has appeared in dozens 

of zines and anthologies, as well as the 

Pseudopod webcast. His horror novel, 

The End of Jack Cruz, is available from 

Montag Press. He blogs at 

synchroshock.blogspot.com.

Lauren Hasty 

is a misplaced southerner of 30 years, 

currently residing too close to Baltimore, 

Maryland for her contentment. Having 

been in the business of writing as a 

hobby for over fifteen years, she's finally 

decided to look into this 'being 

published' business. So far, so good. 

Most of her inspiration comes from 

reading copious amounts of Stephen 

King and H.P. Lovecraft, and listening to 

too much music when she should, in 

fact, be sleeping. 

Colin James 

has poems forthcoming in THE 

DELINQUENT and THUNKBOOK. 

He lives in Massachusetts. 

Katie Jones 

lives in Australia and spends her 

working days caring for people with a 

disability. During her free time she 

enjoys writing and reading whenever 

possible. She is currently working on a 

novel and a piece of writing called ‘Food 

for Thought’ has been selected for 

inclusion in Slaughter House: The Serial 

Killer Edition Anthology by Sirens Call 

Publications. You can contact Katie on 

twitter: @misskatejones89 or 

facebook.com/MissKate. 

Jamie Kinn 

is a shadowy and formless being. Born 

and raised in Davenport, Iowa, it runs 

the website, Jamie Kinn’s Creepypasta 

Machine (http://jamiekinn.tumblr.com), 

where it has written and published over 

40 short horror stories over a period of 

10 months. It has also been published in 

a smattering of literary journals, 

including Sanitarium Magazine and Dark 

Highlands. Jamie currently resides in 

Austin, TX where it is working on the 

first draft of its first novel, The Nemesis, 

a story about a young girl whose 

anxieties take on a living, breathing form 

and attempt to destroy her life from the 

inside out. 

Dan Lee 

is a horror and strange fiction author in a 

small, Nashville adjacent town. His work 

has also appeared on microhorror.com, 

horrorlibrary.net and in Dead Letters 

2.1. He has an attempted web page at 

dannoofthedeadblog.wordpress.com. 

James Morris 

is a television writer in Los Angeles. He 

has written for such shows as “The 

Dead Zone”, “The 4400” and 

“Smallville.” 

Annie Neugebauer 

(@AnnieNeugebauer) is a short story 

author and award-winning poet. She has 

work appearing or forthcoming in over 

two dozen venues, including Buzzy 

Mag, The Spirit of Poe, Underneath the 

Juniper Tree, the British Fantasy 

Society journal Dark Horizons, and the 

National Federation of State Poetry 

Societies’ prize anthology Encore. She’s 

a member of the Horror Writers 

Association, vice president of the 

Denton Poets’ Assembly, and president 

of the North Branch Writers’ Critique 

Group. She also blogs for Writer 

Unboxed. You can visit her at 

http://www.annieneugebauer.com/. 

Editor in Chief BRENT E. ARMOUR 

Editor LOUISE PRESTON 

Editor ISABELLA CAROMEL 

Visual Editor IGNACIO CARRIÓN

AN CLOTHES 

by 

CLEAN CLOTHES 

JAMIE KINN by 

JAMIE KINN

Charlie ran down the street, bare feet 

pounding the sidewalk. She’d stepped 

on so many sharp rocks and fragments 

of glass that she couldn’t feel anything 

but the pain any longer. Her feet felt 

slick and she was sure she was leaving 

pairs of crimson footsteps in her wake, 

bright as runway lights. 

Every house she passed was 

deserted—no lights, boarded up and 

hollow inside. Empty carapace, the guts 

and blood having moved onto bigger 

and better things. She would find no 

help here. 

A howling in the distance. They were 

gaining on her. Panicking, she turned 

toward one of the houses. A tall threestory 

thing, very dark and very 

inviting. She sprinted toward its rotten 

porch after a quick check to make sure 

she wasn’t, in fact, trailing any 

blood. She ran her feet through the 

grass just be sure. Up the wooden 

stairs. The door was locked and 

boarded up tight. She rattled the knob 

just in case. No luck. She tried the front 

windows—also locked. 

She leapt over the side of the porch and 

ran around the perimeter, trying every 

window she came across. And then 

good fortune came in the form of a 

basement window on the back end of 

the house. It was open half an inch, like 

somebody had recently used it. Howling 

behind her, the excited jabber of voices 

off in the distance. She dug her fingers 

into the opening and shimmied through, 

headfirst, into the void. 

She landed heavily on the concrete 

floor, sprang to her feet and then shut 

and locked the window behind her. 

She squatted down in the dark, hiding 

amongst the molding boxes and spiders, 

and waited as the howling and the 

voices grew closer. She watched the 

shadows of feet pass by the window, 

heart pounding so hard that she thought 

she might cry out just to get it over 

with. ‘I’m in here!’ her mind 

screamed. ‘I’m in here! Just come in 

and kill me already!’ She closed her 

eyes and listened. 

They circled the house for close to five 

minutes before giving up and moving 

on. 

Their voices sounded frustrated, 

bloodthirsty as they faded away into the 

distance. 

A long time passed. She waited and 

listened, but all she heard was 

silence. A cricket began to chirp on the 

opposite side of the basement. 

Charlie sighed and, exhausted, settled 

into herself. She felt her head 

droop. Within minutes she’d fallen dead 

asleep. 

When she awoke, hazy yellow sunlight 

was trickling through the windows. She 

was still alive.

JAMIE KINN 

She got to her feet, her entire body stiff 

and sore. But she ignored the pain, 

limping up the basement stairs. She 

came through into a kitchen with a 

battered table and a rusting refrigerator 

in the corner. Inside was a massive 

cooler filled with water—once ice, she 

was sure—sunken soda cans and a 

dozen bottles of booze. Next, she 

checked the cabinets and found a whole 

stockpile of canned food and piles of 

junk food. Whoever had put these here 

had done so recently. The dust was 

disturbed inside the cabinet but all the 

packages were clean. She pulled out a 

can of chili. 

She found a can opener and a box of 

plastic spoons in the top drawer below 

the counter. She opened the can and 

retreated back into the basement. 

She ate the chili in silence, standing 

beside one of the windows. She 

watched for any sign of movement, 

listened for any sound from the outside 

world. Nothing. 

After she finished her food, she tossed 

the empty can on the ground and 

shimmied out through the window. 

This part of town was even sadder 

looking in the daylight than it had 

seemed the night before. Sparse, dry 

weeds filled every lawn. Every house, 

every store was boarded and sagging; 

colourless paint flaking away under the 

hot summer sun. Plants poked out 

through smashed windows and the dead 

eyes of mom-and-pop storefronts 

watched her with mistrust. 

The abandoned area stretched about 

ten blocks in either direction. After that 

the buildings began to seem healthier, if 

still a little dilapidated. She saw people 

milling around far down the street, heard 

their voices carrying on the wind. 

She turned on her heel and headed 

straight back to the house. She waited 

until the figures were out of sight before 

breaking out into a run. 

The relative safety of the basement 

greeted her like a lover. She sank to the 

floor and held a hand to her 

chest. Definitely not safe out there. 

Days passed. Charlie puttered around 

the house, eating occasionally, taking 

naps on the couch, on the one of the 

three beds upstairs, or curled up in the 

bathtub. She spent her nights in the 

basement, keeping her head up, 

listening for any sign of the dogs or their 

masters. When she had to go to the 

bathroom, she snuck into the bushes a 

few houses down and went there. 

She found a couple of packs of 

cigarettes stashed away in the one of 

the drawers in the kitchen as well as a 

lighter. She sat on the back porch and 

tapped a cigarette out of the pack, 

lighting it while it dangled between her 

lips. She hadn’t smoked in years.

She inhaled deep and then exhaled, 

watching the smoke curl from her mouth 

in coils of pearly fangs. Her lungs 

burned a little but she didn’t mind. 

She listened to the silence surrounding 

the neighbourhood and closed her 

eyes. The screech of the crickets, but 

no cars. No voices. Just her and the 

wind and the bugs. 

“Nice,” she said as the smoke poured 

from between her lips. 

When it was dark and dead quiet, 

Charlie headed out into the streets. She 

moved through the rows and rows of 

empty houses, head down, creeping 

amongst the shadows. She headed 

north, toward the skyscrapers that 

dotted the horizon, toward life and light 

and civilization. 

A small apartment building. Groundlevel 

windows. She snuck around the 

outside, peering into each apartment, 

her back to the wall. She tested each 

window in turn, finally striking gold on 

the south end of the building. She 

opened it and slithered through. Dark 

inside. A girl asleep in her bed, late 

teens, not much older than Charlie 

herself. 

Charlie crept up to the bedside. The girl 

was very pretty. Short, auburn hair, 

long lashes and gentle eyelids. Charlie 

resisted the urge to reach out and touch 

her on the cheek. She wasn’t here for 

that. 

She turned to the girl’s closet and 

stripped naked, leaving her dirty rags 

lying on the carpet. She silently picked 

through her clothes: jeans, a bit snug; 

black tee shirt and a heather grey 

hoodie. She found a pair of tennis 

shoes and slid them on. They were tight 

but she didn’t mind. She only needed 

them for their appearance. 

Like a whisper, she slipped out the 

window, into the night. 

The clean clothes felt rough against her 

skin, made her realize just how grimy 

she really was underneath. How long it 

been since she’d taken a 

shower? Maybe when all of this was 

done, she’d sneak into somebody’s 

bathroom, or maybe just use the hose in 

their backyard. 

The bright fluorescent lights overhead 

made her flesh squirm. She wanted to 

hide. She needed to hide. Too many 

eyes on her. Cameras watching her 

from hidden spots in the ceiling. She 

pulled her hood down lower on her 

face. Her hands clenched in her 

pockets, teeth gritted. 

She came to the canned food and 

dropped rows and rows of them into the 

plastic basket looped through her arm. 

Soup and beans and fruit. It didn’t 

CLEAN CLOTHES

JAMIE KINN 

really matter. Just take it and get the 

hell out of there as soon as possible. 

The plastic basket strained under the 

weight of the cans, but she hardly 

noticed. Through the rows of the 24hour 

pharmacy, past the hair dye and 

shampoo. She found a massive crate of 

bottled water and slung it under her 

arm. Turned around and came face-toface 

with an employee in a green 

polo. He stared at her, wide-eyed, 

slack-jawed, a price gun frozen in his 

hand. She looked down at herself, tiny 

thing carrying her weight in food and 

water with no apparent effort. She 

glanced away quickly and headed for 

the register. She felt his eyes on her 

back all the way down. 

She dropped everything heavily on the 

counter before the cashier. The cashier 

paused, momentarily stunned, and then 

began to ring everything up, one-byone. 

Charlie kept her head down, face 

pointed away. Her heart was thudding 

painfully in her chest, her hands 

fidgeting, her gut squirming. Why was it 

taking this girl so long to ring up her 

shit? She felt like bolting, but she stayed 

glued to the spot, knowing anything she 

did, any action out of the ordinary, could 

bring the attention of the dogs down 

upon her. 

Fly straight. Follow the rules, she told 

herself. 

It took her a moment to realize that the 

cashier had her hand out, waiting for her 

money. 

“Sorry,” Charlie mumbled and dug 

around in her pocket. She pulled out a 

couple grubby hundred dollar bills and 

handed them to her. 

The cashier stared at them for a 

moment and then handed one of the 

bills back. She rooted around in the 

register and handed Charlie her 

change. Charlie stuffed the change and 

the hundred back into her pocket and 

effortlessly hoisted the bags of cans and 

the water crate into her arms. 

She shuffled out the doors, perhaps a 

little too quickly, the curious eyes of the 

employees following her all the way 

out. They whispered to one another and 

exchanged confused shrugs. 

She slunk into the house, weary from 

her night’s excursion, and dropped the 

food and the water into the 

kitchen. People exhausted her. Their 

cities, their cars, their dumb 

faces. Sometimes it was too much. 

It was getting light outside, slowly but 

surely. The sky was progressing from 

milky black to a deep ultramarine, filling 

the room with its dim light. 

She was feeling vulnerable and though 

the softness of the moldy beds upstairs

called to her, she knew she wouldn’t 

sleep easy unless she was somewhere 

dark and hidden. 

She plodded, stiff-legged, down the 

stairs and into the basement. There she 

found the darkest corner and curled up, 

hidden from the steadily brightening 

rays of light coming in through the 

windows. The concrete felt cool and dry 

against her skin. She drifted off into 

uneasy sleep. 

Voices from upstairs pulled her out of 

oblivion. She sat up, startled and 

disoriented. It was still dark outside but 

now the feeble light was coming from 

the other side of the room. It took her a 

moment to realize that she’d slept 

through the entire day and it was now 

dusk. Why had she slept so long? 

She froze at the sound of laughter 

coming through the ceiling above. It 

echoed around her, peeling back her 

skin, exposing raw fear. 

There were people in the house. 

She’d figured this would happen 

eventually, but she’d always held out the 

hope that she was wrong. That 

whoever had left behind all the food, the 

soda, the cigarettes and the booze, had 

gone away and was never coming back. 

She laid stock still in the shadows and 

listened. Loud, obnoxious 

voices. Boisterous. Young. There 

were six of them. Four boys and three 

girls. A crash and then more 

laughter. Another crash. 

They were tearing the place apart. 

Chest hammering, she got to her feet 

and crept up the stairs. Cautiously, she 

planted her ear to the door. 

“Fucking hell—” 

“Where’s my drink. Who took my—” 

“Let’s go upstairs—” A giggle. 

Another crash as someone shattered a 

chair against the ground. A shriek from 

one of the girls and more laughter. 

She could hide. She could go back 

downstairs and hide and cover her ears 

to the noise and wait for them to go 

away. It was the sensible thing to 

do. But her heart kept hammering, 

beating her brain like a war drum. Her 

pupils dilated and her fingers ached. 

The first stages of bloodlust were upon 

her. 

This was her house now. Her fingers 

tensed, curling tighter. If she ignored 

them they would just come back. They 

CLEAN CLOTHES

JAMIE KINN 

would keep coming back until the place 

was destroyed. Then they would move 

on to the next house and then the next 

and the next. She liked this place— 

teeth growing white hot in the mouth— 

she liked it. It was her home. 

She’d promised herself that she 

wouldn’t kill again. She could survive on 

human food indefinitely. It left her a little 

weak but it kept her alive. Nothing was 

worth bringing the dogs and the hunters 

down on her head. Nothing—except 

this. 

This. This was worth killing for. 

She burst through the door. Six stunned 

faces, pale white in the 

candlelight. They turned to her in slow 

motion and she pounced on the one 

nearest to her. She reached out with 

her hands and caught him by the face, 

split his head in half with ease. He fell 

to the floor, arterial spray surrounding 

her like an aura. There were screams 

but it was too late. She heard her pulse 

in her ears, ecstatic, like the razor edge 

of an orgasm as she dug her fingers into 

the next throat and tore it out, lapping up 

the blood that poured out, black 

honey. They tried to run. She trapped 

two in a doorway and mashed their 

faces together, flattening both into an 

unrecognizable mess. Their skulls 

hooked one another and they fell 

together, gurgling. The next she caught 

as he bounded for the back door. She 

leapt on his back, tackling him to the 

ground. She chewed down the back of 

his neck, severing his spine with her 

needle teeth, chewed until his head lay 

limp, held only by a flap of skin and 

sinew. 

The last, the most foolish of all, ran 

upstairs, cornering himself. She took 

her time with him, savouring his 

screams and his soft insides. 

She sat on the back porch and watched 

the stars. She had ruined her new 

clothes already, bloodstained sleeves 

and chest. 

Figured. 

She plucked the cigarette from her 

mouth and exhaled. It stuck to her 

fingers, leaving a red honey fingerprint 

on its white paper. Now she felt foolish 

going out to buy all that food. She had 

enough in that house to last her a month 

as long as she stored it 

properly. Though in a pinch, a rancid 

carcass would serve her just fine. 

The crickets chirped on around her and 

she sighed contentedly. The house was 

hers now. Its ownership had rightfully 

been passed. No one could deny 

that. It was her home. 

At that thought she smiled and took 

another drag on her cigarette.

PREDATOR 

by 

JUDITH DORE PREDATOR 

by 

JUDITH DORE

JUDITH DORE 

Adam’s hand is snaking its way into my 

swimsuit when he tells me I am naïve. 

I think this is hilarious, but I neither 

laugh nor stop his hand’s journey. All of 

it feels good: the heat of the sun, his 

hand tracing the underside of my breast, 

the ridiculousness of his speech. My 

eyes are half-closed and I can feel the 

stretch of the muscles in my neck as I 

lean to my right to give Adam more 

leeway. I turn my face away from his 

increasingly heaving breath. It smells of 

cheap beer and I prefer the scent of the 

sun-baked seaweed and brine of the 

ocean. I can pretend he is someone 

else. 

“Naïve, how?” I say this with an 

innocence I don’t feel. Adam chuckles, 

the tone meant to make me feel small. I 

want to pull away from him, but I don’t. 

“Everything has a price,” he tells me. I 

slither a glance his way. His eyes are 

on my breasts, so he doesn’t see me 

watching him. I wonder how hard I’d 

have to kick him to knock him 

overboard. I imagine him flailing in the 

water, sputtering and indignant, and this 

makes me grin. 

“Of course it does, silly,” I say. 

“What I mean is, to get what you want in 

life, you have to sacrifice.” His hand 

slides lower, dips into my bellybutton 

then between my legs. He thinks he is 

being seductive. 

“Mmmm,” I say. He takes this as 

encouragement and puts a finger inside 

me. 

My eyes turn to the beach, about a 

hundred yards away from where the 

catamaran is anchored. The ocean is 

quiet at low tide. I’ve been vacationing 

in the crook of Cape Cod for most of my 

life. My family used to rent cottages 

here when I was younger, before they 

graduated to luxury condos, but I 

stopped staying at my parents’ place the 

summer I got my first job out of 

college. I prefer the freedom granted by 

my own resources. 

I love this part of the beach, where the 

tide goes out for a mile and leaves pools 

to explore. I’ve never understood the 

attraction of Provincetown, where 

people go to play with artists and 

wannabes. Too many people with too 

much pretention. In fact, I can’t figure 

out why my parents chose this part of 

the Cape playground to hang – they 

usually choose places and things that 

reflect their superiority. Maybe they like 

feeling like bigger fish.

Adam and I have been coming to this 

part of East Dennis for the past three 

years. He bought the catamaran the 

first summer we spent together. I’m not 

a fan – I’d rather ride on something with 

sails and thought the commitment was 

stupid. Adam said that I needed to grow 

up and learn to take care of something 

besides myself. 

The sand dunes hide the roadway and 

the parking lot by the access beach, but 

I can still make out the opening where 

the fencing is awkwardly windtipped. 

I’ve been watching that spot for 

the better part of two hours, seeing 

families and other loudly outfitted 

vacationers passing through the 

gateway. No one I give two shits about. 

I am sick of waiting. 

Adam is kissing my neck, trying to 

nudge me backwards. I’m holding the 

guardrail with my back to him, and I’m 

not inclined to lose my view of the 

beach. I hear Adam’s frustration, but I 

also know that my resistance turns him 

on. 

I toss my head from side to side, 

exhaling loudly. Buying time. 

‘Fucking jackass’, I think, ‘Where is he? 

He said, he promised…’ 

‘No’, I remind myself, ‘he didn’t promise’. 

The catamaran lurches, and I tilt my 

head to the side, away from Adam. He 

squeezes the tender flesh of my inner 

thigh. It hurts. I yank his hand away, 

but disguise my action as an excuse to 

kneel and steady myself. The water has 

become rocky. 

I pretend not to see Adam’s look. It’s a 

disdain that’s become all too common 

lately. I’ve probably earned it, but it 

doesn’t mean I like it. 

I point at the horizon, and he follows my 

lead. The inside of my mouth is 

bleeding a little. I have a habit of biting 

the inside of my cheek when 

nervous. The sore spot tastes metallic 

as I brush it with my tongue. 

“Shit. Storm,” Adam says, fumbling to 

his feet and making his way to the 

captain’s chair. He turns the key, and 

the engine sputters. 

I look back at the beach and see people 

collecting their towels and lounge chairs. 

A trio of children dancing 

PREDATOR

JUDITH DORE 

“ring-around-the-rosy” while they keep 

an eye on the grey clouds in the 

distance. I wonder what the father 

figure tells them as he pulls their 

grasped hands apart, pointing skyward 

then back at the person I presume is his 

wife. I imagine the kids are miserable 

and that his wife’s face is pinched. But I 

have no proof that my observations are 

true. Just remnants of my own 

memories. 

“A little help?” Adam says, that tone I 

hate at the fore. My teeth grind before I 

break a grin, turning at my waist to look 

flirtatiously his way. My dentist is going 

to shoot me next time I see him, I think, 

feeling where I’ve chipped enamel. 

“Oh, it’ll pass,” I say. 

Adam grunts and goes back to trying to 

start the boat’s engine. 

The dark clouds are moving 

away. Fleeting storms are normal this 

time of year, and I like waiting them 

out. I feel like I can breathe in the 

moments the danger slips away, like I’ve 

survived. 

The water is still choppy. I don’t know if 

it’s because of the retreating storm or 

the tide moving in or both. The turbulent 

waves are hypnotizing. 

I learned to swim in both the shallow 

waters of low tide and the chaos of 

high. I like aspects of both: the bobbling 

quiet beneath the water as fish skirt 

away from my inelegant strokes and the 

feel of sand and saltwater up my nose 

after I catch a particularly riotous wave 

inland. The only time I was frightened 

by the ocean was when I was a kid and 

a crab tweaked my toe. I was sure it 

was the sting of a jellyfish trying to 

consume me. 

“Adam?” I say. I jump to my feet with 

excitement. “Adam!” 

“What?” 

I’m pointing again. Something solid is 

slicing through the cresting waves, 

something both frightening and 

charismatic. “That,” I say. I hop up and 

down with excitement, the way I 

sometimes did as a girl when I found 

something unusual in the tide pools. 

Adam looks pissed until he sees what I 

have: a dorsal fin followed by a slightly 

smaller tailfin. He is tan, but I think the 

colour leaves his face.

“Holy fuck,” he says. He falls back into 

the captain’s chair, making me roll my 

eyes. “Fuck.” 

“You suppose it’s a Great White?” I 

ask. The shark is maybe fifty feet away, 

and I can’t help leaning over the 

guardrail to get a closer look. I look 

from side to side to see if any other fins 

are visible. Just the one. 

“Get back from there,” Adam says. I 

look over my shoulder at him, then back 

at the fin. It’s not doing anything, not 

headed our way, not headed towards 

the beach. It’s just swimming one way, 

then another. Seeking, hungry, 

traveling. 

The cat’s engine turns over a few more 

times as Adam tries to get it going. 

“Will you stop that?” I snap. I don’t 

normally lose my temper with Adam, but 

I can see that every time the engine 

sputters, the shark moves further away. 

“Fucking bitch,” Adam responds, and I 

look at him. He’s looking at the steering 

wheel, disgust and fear in his 

countenance. I feel a spurt of 

discomfort deep in my stomach. 

“What is it?” 

“Just shut the fuck up!” he shouts. I 

taste my own blood again, stare at him 

one pulse longer, and then turn back to 

where I saw the shark. It’s no longer 

there. 

A few minutes pass before I feel Adam’s 

hand on my shoulder. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you. It’s just that—” 

he pauses dramatically. My shoulder 

shrugs of its own accord as I look back 

at the empty beach and finless 

waters. “It’s just that one of the floaters 

is busted. And we’re out of gas.” 

My shoulder twitches hard enough to 

dislodge Adam, and I stalk to the rear of 

the vehicle. I am not surprised by his 

disclosure. I’m only disappointed that I 

wasted my day. 

“So we swim back,” I say reasonably. 

“We can’t leave the cat!” Adam says. Of 

course his property is his first concern. 

“I’m swimming back.” 

PREDATOR

JUDITH DORE 

I don’t even hold my breath as I plunge 

into the water, an impulse that amuses 

me even as my lungs protest. Bubbles 

tickle my face and waist, welcome and 

cleansing. 

My shoulders lose their tension as I 

reach forward, towards the shore, 

towards where Brett is supposed to 

be. I’ve never had good technique, but 

the water assists me in pulling forward, 

away from the cat, my hair like a 

medusa halo, sensual along my 

propelling body. 

When I need to surface for air, I realize 

that Adam has followed me. He 

splashes like an injured seal. I can’t 

judge how close he is, but I want 

distance between us, so I duck beneath 

the surface and kick my feet. 

The tide is definitely coming in. I feel it 

both pushing and pulling me, the 

undertow growing, giving me less 

control. It feels different than the ocean 

of my youth. 

I let my mind drift, feeling the flow of the 

water, letting it tell me how to move. I 

think about how clam diggers sought 

holes in the sand, how I never caught a 

single one, thwarted by their ability to 

scoot away just as I caught a glimpse of 

their ridged shells. How my sister and I 

would run screaming from stranded 

horseshoe crabs, and of our reverence 

for marooned starfish. 

One summer, I'd tried to make an 

aquarium of found snails and hermit 

crabs, only to have them stink of death a 

few days later. I didn't really know what 

to do with my acquisitions. My mother 

took me to the library, and I read all the 

books, but none helped me really 

understand what food they needed, or 

how I could get it. The kind of water that 

they needed to survive. I tried table salt 

and hot dogs. 

Embarrassed by my failure, too 

ashamed to show my dad how badly I’d 

cared for my pets, I left their carcasses 

out in the front yard for the birds. When 

even the birds refused to eat them, I put 

their sad little bodies in the creek behind 

our house, hoping that they would find 

life somehow, there downstream, 

outside my bad influence. I was a silly 

creature, even then. 

I ended up using the empty fish tank for 

my punk-haired Barbie to swim in. My 

mother bought me inflatable doll 

furniture, not the good kind that was 

made by Mattel but some ugly knock-off 

she found at a Kmart going out of 

business sale. I kind of hated her for it, 

but in the end I made good. Barbie had 

hermit crab shells for pets.

Sound travels strangely underwater. I 

hear Adam shrieking through Jell-O. It 

sounds like he is chewing on his own 

guts. 

I breach the water to see Adam and a 

white belly full of teeth spraying above 

the waves. It’s pink and red and 

foamy. Adam’s screams are the same 

as when he had called the boat a 

bitch. A horrible giggle burbles in my 

gut. I think of hot dogs and saltwater. 

The shore isn’t so far. I see a maroon 

Subaru peeking over one edge of the 

sand dunes. Brett. I stroke my right 

arm over my head, then my left. I ignore 

the crunching gurgle behind me. You’re 

late. 

Time moves like water as I swim 

towards the beach. Even with the flood 

in my ears, nose and mouth, it’s too 

quiet. 

My eyes have been closed. I don’t mind 

saltwater in my eyes, but I’ve not 

opened them at all. I am moving with 

purpose, so it takes me a few minutes to 

realize I’m not swimming alone. 

It’s the bulk that strikes me, the sheer 

solidity and grace. My eyes sting a bit 

when I open them. The shark is 

gorgeous. I feel like a clumsy fool 

swimming alongside him. 

I’ve read that the eyes of a shark are 

dead, but this is untrue. Everything is 

contained in that blackness, all the 

colours, all the horror, all the joy, all the 

knowledge. 

Those eyes tell me I am beautiful. 

I am still pulling water with my palms as 

I regard the shark. A bit of debris is 

caught in his jagged teeth. I wonder 

about the taste of Drakkar Noir, copper 

and denim. He is almost close enough 

to touch. 

My knees hit sand. I stand with a 

stumble. The shark is not far away. His 

belly must be brushing the sand, rough 

and uncomfortable. Yet his tail is 

unencumbered, swishing side to side. I 

am a bad judge of size, but he is maybe 

fifteen feet long. 

When the ocean scared me, I’d stomped 

the shell of that crab until its claw waved 

sadly with the ebb of the water, its life 

gone. As I see my companion wagging 

his tail at me, I wonder what it would take 

to crush him. But a flood of love 

squashes my rage until I cannot 

PREDATOR

JUDITH DORE 

comprehend where it came from to 

begin with. 

Water is dripping from my hair, and I 

suspect some tears may be mingled in 

with the rest of the saltwater. I shake it 

off; swiping defensively at my eyes, then 

turn away from the ocean. Over the 

dunes, I see that there is no Subaru. 

The sand sticks on my feet, and I watch 

the seagulls scavenge the beach and 

feed on half-eaten bologna 

sandwiches. I think about swimming in 

the ocean again, soon.

UGLYLIGHTS 

by 

THE UGLYLIGHTS 

ICA BOWERS by 

JESSICA BOWERS

JESSICA BOWERS 

It was Cassie May of 34 Orchid Street 

who saw the lights first. Her teeth were 

filmy with fresh vomit and her throat 

ached with the sting of stomach acid as 

she peered out at the strange sight atop 

the hill, at those fever yellow lights 

turning on and off, on and off. It wasn’t 

the nervous flicker of shoddy electricity, 

but a steady pattern of light and dark, as 

though someone was inside playing with 

a switch. ‘Peculiar’, Cassie thought, for 

she knew the abandoned old house had 

been boarded up at the front door and 

condemned after the neighbourhood 

complained about what an eye sore it 

was. In fact, they were tearing it down 

tomorrow morning, tearing it down and 

flattening the hill to build a playground 

for the kids or something. 

Cassie stood in silent contemplation, the 

ominous beacon periodically flushing 

her face in the pallid, sickly hues of 

perpetual nausea, her pupils shrinking 

and dilating in a spell of 

hypnosis. Behind her the television 

babbled of nonsense and burst out with 

occasional track laughter, bathing the 

room in kaleidoscopic flashes of blue 

and white. Her mother was sprawled 

over the couch like a beached sea cow, 

gurgling in her sleep as if she were 

drowning. Her slab of an arm dangled 

over the edge where she held the 

remote in a dimply, swollen hand; and 

when it slipped out and clattered to the 

floor, Cassie didn’t hear a thing. 

She was impelled toward the light, 

impelled without knowing why, and 

suddenly she found herself outside in 

the sticky night air, thoughtless as she 

crossed the cool, slimy asphalt with bare 

feet, as thoughtless as she’d been the 

first time she’d stuck a pencil down her 

throat to spare herself all the sordidness 

she associated with digestion. In fact, 

not ten minutes earlier she’d been deep 

in the ritual of binge-barf-bed, or rather, 

the bulimic tendency that took her in a 

strangling hold after she’d accidentally 

seen her mother stark naked in all her 

gargantuan glory: a beluga whale 

shapeless and smothered in the flabby 

saddles of obesity. Cassie could never 

ever let herself turn into that; but she 

had to quell her hunger 

somehow. When the beast fell asleep, 

Cassie sat on the kitchen floor and 

gorged herself with all the salts and 

sweets and fats that were toxic during 

the day, then promptly purged it all in a 

gush of liquid heat and went to bed 

before the feeling of fullness wore off. 

Tonight would have been no different, 

had she not seen that rhythmic flash of 

yellow when she went to turn off the 

TV. Her mouth rotten and sour and 

gasping for air, she clutched at the dry, 

shrubby grass and scrabbled up the hill, 

testing the limits of her atrophied 

muscles and brittle bones. She crested 

the hill with a final, strenuous effort and 

was distantly alarmed to see the front 

door of the house was ajar—shredded 

planks and rusty, twisted nails strewn 

across the threshold. On-off-on-off went 

the lights. Cassie stumbled over the 

rubble and went inside, thoughtless and 

languished. 

Kurt Dailey of 38 Orchid Street caught a 

glimpse of the lights through the dirty 

slats of his blinds as he worked on his 

latest project: an intricate model of a

magnifying glass with a lamp directly 

overhead. The glorious structure of 

plaster and wood was like a beloved 

child. It was white with green shutters 

that opened and closed over real glass 

windows. The lawn was made of felt 

carpet and the driveway of small brown 

pebbles he glued on one by one. He’d 

fashioned tree skeletons out of small 

wooden sticks and dressed them with 

thin metal flakes for leaves, then dotted 

them all about the house like 

sentries. It’d taken him two months to 

build what could be destroyed in two 

minutes by a careless hand. 

It was arduous work, but Kurt loved 

it. He was so engrossed in it that the 

days passed around him in meaningless 

patterns, for his blinds were always shut 

to shun the outside. His entire home 

was a workshop coated in sawdust and 

smelling of paint, equipped with heavy 

machinery and hundreds of tools that 

were tacked to the walls. He paid no 

mind to the neighbours when he 

cranked up his screaming metal blades 

in the middle of the night, for this was 

his world; this was his world alone and 

away from all them. 

In the centre of the workshop was his 

cluttered worktable, bathing in the lamp 

that to Kurt was a holy 

spotlight. Presently he was using a tiny, 

homemade hammer to nail the chains of 

a miniature white swing into the ceiling 

of the porch. His hands were deft 

machines that worked independently of 

his body, trained by years and years of 

precise, surgical movements. In a jiff he 

had the swing secure, and with his 

careful, almost femininely dainty hands 

he gave it a nudge and smiled to 

himself. 

That was when he looked up and saw 

the lights, those obscenely flashing 

lights that’d been hindering his 

concentration all night. Who was out 

there doing that, pestering him during 

his work? Kurt shuffled over to the 

window in his slippers and filthy, 

splattered apron, separating the blinds 

with his dusty white hand. He peeked 

through the narrow slit into the world he 

so abhorred and saw there, in the house 

atop the hill, the lights blinking on and 

off, on and off. ‘Damn kids probably 

pulling a prank’, he thought, and 

returned to his work. 

He tinkered for a moment with the wires 

sticking out from a slot in the back of his 

Victorian model, and then peered into 

his old bedroom at the glowing world 

he’d created there. It was a network of 

grand houses all interconnected by wire, 

and overlooking everything was a grey 

water tower that said Kurt’s Kingdom in 

bold blue letters. Nobody but Kurt lived 

in Kurt’s Kingdom, and that was just 

how he liked it. It was the place he 

began building after his beloved told him 

he was a worthless swine and moved to 

another man’s bed, leaving him to wither 

alone. The world had shut him out so 

many times that Kurt decided it was his 

turn to shut himself out. He made his 

own world, one empty of people and all 

their wretchedness. Here he was at 

peace; here he was King. 

Soon this new model would have its 

place among the winding highways, 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


stained glass lakes and plaster hills; 

soon it would be all lit up as if everyone 

in the world were home. Soon, yes, but 

for now Kurt could not help but shuffle 

back to the window and behold that 

unremitting pattern of yellow and black, 

his bloodshot eyes cast and recast in a 

glare of deepening irritation. 

That was it, gods blast it! He parted 

with his sanctum and hobbled toward 

the hill, planning to beat those stupid 

kids with his cane when he found the 

foolish lot of them. Like Cassie, he 

struggled to the top, and once there he 

was faced with the same obscurity at 

the threshold. To Kurt, it looked as 

someone had torn the wood and nails 

from the door with his bare hands, but 

he was nonetheless unfazed. Damn 

those kids, he thought again, clearing a 

path with his cane. Without hesitation, 

he too went in. 

Janie Sanders of 36 Orchid Street was 

flustered when she realized the yellow 

flash coming through the window did not 

signal the arrival of her date in his 

car. No, it was just that stupid ugly 

house atop the hill having some kind of 

electrical malfunction, and the longer 

Janie sat there waiting and filing her 

fingernails, the more she wondered 

when the hell someone was going to get 

over there and do something about it 

before the whole town started in. She 

glanced sporadically at the window just 

to make sure it wasn’t him this time, and 

then resumed her feverish filing while 

she smoked. As she filed, she sprinkled 

yellow dust over the table already 

littered with cigarette butts and smeared 

ashes. Everything had to be perfect, 

right down to the fingernail. 

Luke Harris was The One, and this 

Janie knew for certain. Literally 

everyone she’d ever dated had been 

The One; but she would deny it if 

anyone ever said so, for there had been 

quite a lot of them. The young and 

attractive Miss Janie Sanders had more 

love interests than she did IQ points; in 

fact, The One was actually The 

Many. Luke Harris was The One today; 

Anthony Benjamin would be The One 

tomorrow, and perhaps Nick Carleton 

would be The One next week. She was 

a girl with simple compulsions and 

simple goals, marking up every tree with 

her gaudy red lipstick and musky 

perfume, notching her bedpost in the 

very midst of the act. 

If asked why she had taken so many 

lovers, Janie would say it was because 

she had nothing else. She’d flunked out 

of school because her brain had the 

learning capability of a rotten banana, 

for which her affluent Catholic parents 

had cut her off in disgrace. She worked 

a mediocre job and lived in a mediocre 

house, and were it not for the endless 

slew of men whispering their sweet 

nothings, Janie Sanders would be in the 

corner with six gallons of ice cream and 

a shovel, bawling her eyes out and 

eating her feelings. 

When Janie got bored with The One, she 

had no trouble in biting his head off and 

sending him away with what she thought 

was agony and wounded manhood. She 

really thought they all loved her, that she 

kneaded them all like putty beneath her 

thumb, and that she left their hearts in 

fractions when she

what they meant to her, and especially 

not now, now that Luke Harris was The 

One. 

Mr. Harris was extremely late, and as 

the dust and butts and ashes continued 

to gather, Janie began to fret. Maybe 

he got into an accident or maybe he 

forgot or maybe he got lost! After three 

hours without a call or a show, it was 

obvious that Luke wasn’t coming, and 

as much as Janie hated him, she hated 

herself more. Her fingers grew hot 

under the friction of her frustration and 

the skin was buffed away, making her 

bleed. She surprised herself with a yell 

and threw the emery board, backlashed 

by all the pain she tried to inflict on The 

One. And those lights! Those 

maddening, mocking lights! To hell with 

it all; she’d shut them off herself! 

Janie stomped toward the hill, her heels 

clacking fiercely and the hem of her 

candy red dress rippling about her 

thighs. She slipped on the slick road 

and skinned both of her knees. She 

crawled the rest of the way up to those 

lights that mocked her and blamed them 

for everything. At last she rose at the 

top of the hill, bloody and bedaubed with 

dirt, cheap mascara running down her 

cheeks like ink. She smeared it with her 

hands like war paint, snarling and feral, 

and went inside. 

Eli Sykes of 32 Orchid Street was 

drenched in a cold sweat, recovering 

from the violent throes of a horrific 

nightmare when the lights illuminated 

the cosmic patterns of his bedroom 

curtains. In his dream he was chased 

by a polka-dotted clown with black 

beetle eyes and a serrated mouth 

dripping with liquid guts. Its laugh was 

like a wind-up toy and its big floppy red 

shoes squished as though they were full 

of water as it ran after Eli in fast forward, 

its crablike demon claws outstretched 

and clacking. Being mute since birth, Eli 

had been as unable to scream in the 

dream as he really was in real life, his 

throat squeaking like a clogged trumpet 

as the devil clown snatched him with its 

crab claws and lifted him face first into 

the jagged, acrid hole of its maw. 

Eli sat upright, trembling with the 

aftershocks of his nightmare, dark hair 

sticking to his forehead in sweaty 

commas. The bubbly squishing sound 

reverberated in his mind as the little boy 

mopped his forehead with a pillowcase 

and breathed through his mouth, 

wishing a sound would come out, 

wishing he could cry for his mother. As 

usual nothing sounded but the ragged 

whisper of his breath. How he wished 

he could say just one word, any 

word! Even if that word was toilet, even 

if Eli was allowed to say it just once for 

his whole life, he would die the happiest 

person on Earth. 

When he couldn’t answer with head or 

hand motions, Eli communicated with a 

whiteboard and marker. It was 

humiliating having to scribble out a 

response instead of speaking it, having 

to be afraid that the other person would 

get bored and leave after a few small 

exchanges, which they always did. 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


“Why can’t you talk?” kids at school 

would ask. 

“I’m mute,” Eli would write. 

“What’s that mean?” 

“It means I can’t talk.” 

“Why can’t you?” 

“I just can’t.” 

And that was always that. Eli couldn’t 

laugh with his friends—not that he had 

any—couldn’t sing along in music class, 

and couldn’t talk to the girl he thought 

was pretty without her abruptly turning 

away, whipping him with her long 

ponytail as she went. He grew to hate 

the other kids, and sometimes, he found 

himself wishing not that he could speak, 

but that all of them were mute like him. 

When he lowered the pillow he saw the 

flashing lights with their steady tempo of 

on off, on off. The pattern calmed him 

from his fit, and watching them still, he 

put his feet on the floor, straightened his 

tiger-striped pajamas and went to the 

window. He peeled back the star 

curtains and climbed up onto the 

windowsill for a better look. Surprised in 

his silent way, he knelt there with his 

hands on the glass, his mouth half- 

parted in childlike wonder as he gazed 

at the bizarre activity atop the hill. 

Eli didn’t even like to look at the house 

in the safety of full daylight, because he 

thought he could always sense some 

kind of grotesquely shaped shadow 

meandering past the grimy window, 

watching him. The house was, Eli felt 

with a certainty more acute than fact, 

the hiding place for the creatures of his 

nightmares; for the creatures of all the 

kids’ nightmares. When the kids of the 

neighbourhood had too many bad 

dreams, there wouldn’t be enough room 

for the monsters anymore, so they’d all 

come out and go into the kids’ houses 

instead. Eli’s throat tingled with the 

desire to whimper as he imagined the 

devil clown scraping its crab claws 

across his windowpane, laughing its dry, 

wind-up toy laugh and drooling shiny 

black blood. 

So what did the lights mean? Was 

somebody in there, fighting all the 

monsters, killing them with light? Eli 

didn’t think so. The ichor yellow flashes 

painted and repainted sunsets on his 

rosy cheeks, dazzling his tentative eyes 

and dying his curly dark hair a queasy 

green. The sudden enlightenment was 

brighter than the light itself! The 

monsters were beckoning to him, to all 

the kids to come and face them once 

and for all. This too Eli felt with that 

eminent certainty, the certainty more 

concrete than the fact that he had no 

voice. 

He took a deep breath and swallowed it 

down in a painful gulp. Eli had to do it,

even if none of the other kids would ever 

be brave enough to come with 

him. More than anything, more than he 

wanted to have lots of friends and be a 

baseball star, Eli wanted to prove that 

being mute did not make him inept at 

everything he did, and this could be the 

only chance he ever got. He didn’t have 

to speak to the monsters; he just had to 

look at them with his eyes and hit them 

where it hurt. And even if he failed, he 

would fail knowing he’d been brave. Not 

your typical eight-year-old sentiment, 

but then again, Eli wasn’t your typical 

eight-year-old. 

He got down from the windowsill and 

went to his closet, quickly locating his 

baseball bat and the umpire’s mask 

that’d belonged to his father: his weapon 

and armour. He slipped the mask over 

his face. It was too big for him and still 

reeked of chewing tobacco and old 

sweat, but these were the smells of his 

father and he felt safe behind the metal 

lattice. The bat itself was nearly as tall 

as he was, but he wielded it confidently 

with two hands and decided he’d better 

go before he lost his guts. 

Eli left his room and hurriedly pattered to 

the front door in bare feet, for the narrow 

darkness of the hallway was scary 

enough and he didn’t want to get 

spooked already. He paused and held 

the doorknob, making sure he could 

hear his mother sleeping, and he very 

well could. Part of him almost wished 

that she wasn’t asleep and that she 

would catch him, but he forced the 

thought down with a fresh dose of 

courage and pushed himself out the 

door. 

When he reached the top of the balding 

hill, Eli pulled the mask back halfway, 

cocking his head back to gaze at the 

house in full scope. The wood was 

warped and scarred, the white paint 

gone in patches and peeling away in 

long, moldy tendrils. The roof was 

mottled with rust and tangles of vines 

clung to it, shifting in the breeze like 

scraggly hair. These vines dominated 

the whole house like a malignant 

cancer. They held it in a net of thin, 

twisty fingers that were like black spider 

webs against the cloudy windows. A 

weathervane creaked and croaked 

somewhere high up, the severed 

caution tape billowed like yellow ribbons 

and the cattails whispered scratchily 

against the rough exterior. When Eli 

saw the door he thought the monsters 

had already escaped and were capering 

about the town, but he knew he should 

check for sure. His heart pounded like a 

crazed animal was trying to break out of 

his chest, but his face was stoic, docile, 

and silent. He went forward, one step at 

a time, his mask drawn and the bat firm 

against his chest. 

Unlike the others, Eli could not bring himself 

to walk through the crooked door so 

easily. To Eli, this was more than just an 

hold house with flashing lights. To Eli it 

was an entity as ancient as the ages, a 

vessel for all the dark charms and wicked 

phantasms that tarnished gold, corrupted 

righteousness and made people seize up 

with fear. The way its giant shadow 

loomed over him and made him shiver on 

a hot summer night was a portent beyond 

what his fledgling mind could process. He 

just knew that when they 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


released upon all the people in some 

inexplicably awful way. Now he knew 

for sure that he had to do something 

about it; he had to go in and find the 

black heart of the evil and destroy it, 

whatever it was. He knew that when he 

walked inside he would never be the 

same again, and the poignant little boy 

was right, only in a way he never would 

have imagined even in his most vivid, 

violent nightmares. He went inside. 

When Cassie May stepped inside, 

everything went pitch black. The lights 

were no longer flashing, and the only 

signs of existence coming from 

anywhere were the low hum of insects 

from outside and Cassie’s ragged, tinny 

breathing. To Cassie the whole world 

had gone dark, and she stood at the 

threshold in a daze, forgetting for almost 

a whole minute where she was. Then, 

out of the black, a light from a single 

room began to flash in the same pattern 

as the entire house had been flashing a 

moment prior. Shocked back to life by 

this, Cassie began to walk straight 

toward the light, letting the house 

swallow her whole, her skeletal feet 

barely sounding on the dusty planks of 

the floor. 

As she drew nearer the light flashed 

faster, the harsh palpitations bashing 

her eyes like solid objects. The musty 

air scraped across her weak lungs like 

sandpaper as she advanced more 

swiftly toward the psychotic light, 

advancing because she was possessed 

by the unknown force that’d brought her 

here, that same force that made her 

throw out her internal organs night after 

night. When she was inches away from 

the open door, the light was flickering so 

intensely that she could no longer tell 

the difference between light and 

dark. Hardly wondering what would 

happen when she did it, Cassie May of 

34 Orchid Street stepped inside; 

stepped under the fever yellow glare of 

the Uglylights. 

When Kurt Dailey hobbled inside a few 

minutes later, the house greeted him in 

an identical fashion. The lights went out 

all at once, marinating him in thick, 

almost solid darkness for a whole 

minute. Damn kids trying to scare him 

now. It seemed as if no light at all 

penetrated from the outside, like the 

house was surrounded by an invisible 

barrier. This struck Kurt as odd, but he 

dismissed it as soon as he saw new 

light coming from the room to his left. 

He bolted toward it in his graceless, 

crippled gait, knowing he had the 

culprits now. The floorboards creaked 

in protest under his weight and his cane 

pounded them back in a series of dull, 

irregular thuds. The frantic lights cut 

right through his bitter old skull and 

exploded in his head like hot stars and 

comets, so he shielded his face with his 

arm and ambled blindly on, hitting the 

walls with his cane, disturbing ancient 

cobwebs and scolding imaginary 

delinquents. 

The door locked behind him. He turned 

clumsily and twisted the knob a dozen 

times to no avail. 

“Hey now, you kids just knock it off, ya 

hear?” he shouted in the dark.

Nobody heard him, not even Cassie 

who stood twenty feet away, trying to 

stifle a scream. 

Janie Sanders charged into the house 

like a burglar, and then decided she 

wasn’t so tough when the lights went out 

once again and stayed that way for too 

long. Well, that solves that, she 

thought. She would have walked out 

had she not seen from the tail of her eye 

the light begin to flash on her right 

side. She considered her options for a 

moment. If she went home right now, 

no doubt she would spend hours and 

hours crying herself to sleep. If she 

stayed here to investigate, she could 

distract herself for a while at least; she 

could take all her anger at being stood 

up out on whoever was screwing with 

these lights. Janie Sanders may have 

had a rotten fruit for a brain, but she still 

made the right choices for herself. Or at 

least, so she thought. 

Janie took off toward the light with her 

heels thundering in the dank space, her 

eyes fluttering against the helter-skelter 

on-off, her hair dishevelled and her 

makeup smeared all over a face that 

quivered on the brink of lunacy. Nobody 

stood up Janie Sanders. Nobody. 

When at last Eli Sykes passed over the 

threshold, the door swung shut behind 

him in a rush of cool dusty air, triggering 

the steady darkness yet once 

more. Frozen in place, Eli clutched the 

baseball bat in a sweaty grip, hopelessly 

clinging to the courage that’d fled him at 

the very last instant and finding there 

was nothing left of it, not even the tiniest 

dreg. The darkness seemed infinite, 

and the silence was so dense that he 

felt it squeezing all around him, making 

his ears thrum like swollen veins. The 

air was peppered with dust particles that 

felt gritty in his open, wheezing mouth 

and tasted like stale crumbs. It was so 

utterly still that he felt the whole rigid 

structure around him was not a house at 

all, but a living creature holding its 

breath. He loathed himself for not 

bringing a flashlight. His pajamas were 

already saturated with the sweat of 

sheer terror and his eyes were bulging 

from the sockets, desperate for just a 

pinprick of light. 

Like divine revelation, his prayers were 

answered. He could see a beam of light 

splashing and fading over the wall in 

front of him, the source of which he 

projected to be in the far right corner of 

the house. Eli spun the bat slowly in his 

hands, watching through his mask the 

diseased light as it danced and flirted 

with him upon the wall, scores of 

unspeakably large black bugs scuttling 

away in its glaring wake. The heart, 

whatever it may be, was there in that 

light, waiting for him. There was no 

turning back now. Armed with nothing 

but a wooden bat, Eli Sykes of 32 

Orchid Street stumbled momentarily 

over the foot of a staircase, regained his 

balance and marched onward into the 

Uglylights. 

The lights went out when Cassie May 

entered, to prevent her from seeing the 

room, and when they came back on she 

was presented with a carnival funhouse. 

The room was full of concave 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


shapes. Here she was wider than a 

semi-truck; there she was but a sliver of 

white skin, thinner than a sheet of 

paper. Cassie spun round and round in 

a daze, for all the mirrors reflected upon 

each other into infinity, and in every 

direction she looked there was the 

disgusting dichotomy of fat Cassie and 

skinny Cassie, repeating and repeating 

forever. The whole paranoid obsession 

over her self-image was wrapped 

around her, and just when she thought it 

would pierce right through her, the lights 

went out again with a sound like a 

bowling ball hitting a concrete floor. 

They came on with a whine of energy so 

high that Cassie could hardly hear it, 

and the lights were so unnaturally bright 

that she was temporarily 

blinded. Agony lanced through every 

square inch of her body as if she’d been 

ripped right out of her skin, and when 

the blue splotches faded from her eyes 

she saw that she really had been. The 

Uglylights had snatched her skin right 

off as if she could be unzipped, and 

what Cassie saw portrayed in the single 

mirror was the revelation of what’d been 

hiding underneath. 

She was no longer Cassie May of 34 

Orchid Street, but the free and exposed 

essence of that human being, the 

essence liberated by the 

Uglylights. She hadn’t been this aware 

of anything since she’d put her head in 

the toilet earlier that evening, and when 

the world snapped back to her in 

stunning clarity she was overwhelmed 

with the need to scream, stopping short 

only because she realized she was 

looking at herself. 

Her hands were level with her abdomen 

but they were hidden, thrust inside the 

red, viscous tangle of entrails that’d 

been gouged out of her body but were 

still connected to the inside. They were 

boiling hot in her hands and she could 

feel them still thrumming with life, could 

feel something like tiny rodents 

squirming inside the slimy tubes of her 

intestines. She was slathered up to the 

shoulders in her own warm blood and 

there were speckles of it on her chest 

and cheeks. Her skin was but wrinkly 

parchment stretched over a wire frame, 

her face was puckered like an aged 

corpse and a dark, acrid fluid leaked 

from her rheumy eyes. Her hair fell out 

in brittle pieces like dried leaves. 

What was almost worse was that she 

could see the empty sack of her old skin 

hanging on a hook like a coat, a 

ghoulish and hairless thing that gaped 

with black holes where her eyes and 

mouth and nose had been. A moment 

later the elastic suit crumbled into black 

dust as if it were a thousand years old. 

This was the real Cassie May: a 

skeleton offering up her innards to 

anything that would relieve her of them 

and all their sordidness; a blighted 

victim of the Ultimate purge. 

The room lit up with a sound like thunder, 

and the cantankerous old Kurt Dailey was 

flailing his cane like mad, so livid that he 

really thought the hard objects he was 

smiting were the misbehaved knees and 

skulls of Those

pleas for mercy but breaking glass, he 

froze with the cane over his head as if it 

were as powerful as Thor’s hammer, 

wheezing as fat beads of sweat 

glimmered in his bushy white brows. He 

lowered the cane in the midst of his 

stupefaction and saw that he was 

standing in a pile of broken ivory hands 

and legs and faces, namely, the 

shattered remains of a million little 

porcelain dolls. 

The dolls littered the floor in an ocean, 

rising up to the ceiling in an eerily 

identical wall of frilly pink dresses, white 

bonnets and marble eyes. These were 

his disciples; they were the perfect 

hollow, lifeless shells to inhabit his 

perfect hollow, lifeless world. The 

motionless eyes stared at him from 

every direction, never asking to be loved 

and never betraying him in wickedness; 

all of them just staring, staring. 

As Kurt watched, backing up against the 

locked door in his small recess of clear 

space, the dolls amassed together as if 

they were but one living thing, forming a 

sheer wall before him of tinkling 

porcelain, a wall of people that couldn’t 

feel and couldn’t love, a wall of people 

that were only good for sitting there and 

staring at their owners while they 

slept. The wall broke and the dolls 

toppled over their King, drowning him in 

a sea of icy hands, flaxen hair and hard, 

ruby red lips. Surely he would die here 

encompassed by this army of dolls alive 

in their enormity, and as he wallowed 

beneath the unyielding pressure of their 

cold hard weight, their eyes still staring, 

staring, he wished he’d never been a 

King at all. 

The lights went out and his lungs were 

relieved; he could feel nothing pressed 

against him now but the darkness. He 

scrambled over the floor and came 

clumsily to his feet, ready to fight the 

next wave of the supernatural, certain 

he would win this time. He was 

prepared for anything, anything but what 

he was about to see in the mirror. 

The Uglylights invaded him with an 

explosion of white-hot agony, tearing the 

layers between truth and lie as if they 

were as feeble as paper. Kurt Dailey 

crumpled to the floor, dazzled and 

blinded, and when at last he rose, he 

rose redefined; he rose as a piece of 

matter warped by an immutable 

action. He too was powerfully impelled 

to scream, but when he opened his 

plaster mouth his dry throat could do 

nothing but choke on its own dust. 

He was cocaine white from head to foot, 

his face blanched and lineless like a 

solid ghost. He was cloaked in moth- 

eaten green and gold robes that fit him 

like window curtains, and when he tore 

them open he saw that his pale body 

had no shape at all; it was a smooth, 

chalky mannequin with arms and legs 

attached at sharp, unnatural seams that 

cracked open and spilled plaster chunks 

and powder when he moved. Kurt was 

completely hollow on the inside; he 

could hear in his empty head the air 

whistling through his body. He tried 

again to scream but there were no lungs 

and no vocal cords, just an artificial 

mold full of black, empty space, a mold 

that was crumbling to nothing all the 

time. On his hairless head was a 

tarnished silver crown encrusted with 

plastic jewels, and in his hand his cane 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


had become a scepter shaped like a 

half-burnt matchstick. 

Statuesque he stood: the Hollow Man, 

the Leper, anything but Kurt 

Dailey. When he saw his molted skin 

dangling above him like a plastic bag, 

he reached up for it as if he could 

somehow slip back inside, only for his 

arm to snap off at the fissured shoulder 

and land in fractions. But the Hollow 

Man did not bleed; he did not feel a 

thing. The Hollow Man simply stood 

there, crooked and asymmetrical, empty 

of all the human things he hated so 

much. 

Statuesque he stood: the King of 

Nothing. 

When the lights went out on Janie 

Sanders, she huffed impatiently and 

kicked the locked door with her vinyl 

heel, regretting it immediately. She 

nursed her big toe with her thumb, her 

tongue lashing out indecencies made 

even more vulgar by her raspy cigarette 

voice. Her rotten banana brain had not 

at all grasped that something strange 

was happening to her; Janie just knew 

that she was all fired up and someone 

was going to pay. 

And she would. 

Suddenly Janie was presented with a 

row of young men dressed to the nines, 

their palms outstretched and beckoning 

for a dance. It would be wrong to 

assume that any of them were 

handsome, for they had no faces at all, 

just canvases of blank skin from 

forehead to chin. Already dressed for 

the occasion, Janie found it impossible 

to deny these strapping, anonymous 

suitors, so she picked the fellow in the 

middle and let him take the lead. 

Janie waltzed with The One, turning and 

dipping and swooning round and round 

the austere room as the others watched, 

clapping daintily at the grace they blindly 

witnessed. Janie’s chest swelled with 

egomania and she caressed her 

partner’s featureless face, indifferent 

that there was nothing actually there 

because The One never really had a 

face; The One was insignificant. The 

world was full of faceless, insignificant 

things that yielded before the grandiose 

Janie Sanders, better known as the 

centre of gravity and centripetal force 

and tides and seasons and all the other 

things that made the universe go on 

existing in perfect harmony. Nothing 

had a real face when it was compared to 

Janie Sanders, better known as God. 

God giveth and God taketh away, and 

without warning Janie found herself 

alone in the dark once more, no longer 

twirling in the masquerade. The 

Uglylights smote her down with a hand 

of thunder and lightning, severing 

hideous lie from an even more hideous 

truth and replacing false divinity with 

genuine depravity. The flouncing God 

had been swatted from her self-inflated 

throne, never to return.

When Janie came to her senses, she 

was no longer seeing the world through 

a sane, undivided angle. Her vision was 

scrambled two dozen different ways, like 

she was looking through the geometrical 

facets of a diamond. She blinked 

fervently to right herself, and what 

closed over her brand new eyes were 

not human eyelids but a translucent 

yellow film viscous with slime. She saw 

through two kaleidoscopes, tripping over 

her cheap heels and flailing her arms for 

balance, the world swimming around her 

in phantasmagorical patterns. 

Her exoskeleton smashed into the wall 

with a grotesque crunch that was like 

stepping on a bag of aluminum cans, 

and without her control a bright red 

chemical spilled from two small holes in 

her face; a signal to let her brethren 

know she was in distress. The gas 

diffused throughout the room, dying the 

air in a rosy pink haze that looked like 

the colour of asphyxia. As she reeled 

back and reached up to inspect the 

damage, Janie knew, without any prior 

knowledge of how insects 

communicated, that she was seeing 

smells on top of everything else. Her 

manicured hands fluttered on the 

surface of her head in a spasm of panic, 

and when a bent, injured antenna 

brushed over the back of her hand, the 

truth was obvious to even an idiot of her 

caliber. 

She whirled on her legs, faint and 

delirious, and as she turned she brought 

herself to face the mirror by 

chance. Thrown off equilibrium by her 

damaged feeler, Janie crawled toward it 

on her hands and bloody knees, and 

reflected in her eyes, two dozen Janies 

crawled back at her, Janies only human 

from the neck down, Janies reborn with 

the green, alien head of a praying 

mantis. 

Like the others before her, like anyone 

in the whole wide world would do, Janie 

Sanders opened her flytrap mouth and 

screamed. Out of the dry, cavernous 

hole came the rattling hiss of locusts 

and the noxious malodour of black 

licorice mixed with cigarettes. Brooding, 

Janie let her feelers flit across the 

mirror, feeling with her whole body the 

cool, perfect smoothness of the 

glass. She blinked over and over, 

hoping it was all just a mirage, coating 

her alien black eyes with a fresh layer of 

slime that could have been tears. 

Even though she’d never been better 

than anybody, Janie had all her life 

thought her every minute action an 

expression of fine art. When things 

turned against her, she decided it was 

only because she was too good for 

them. She was too good for school and 

too good for her parents, but above all 

Janie was too good for The One. Now 

she could truly show The One mercy; 

now she could truly bite his head off and 

spare him the mortal anguish of living 

without her, for Janie Sanders was too 

good to live without. 

But nothing, not even Janie Sanders, 

was too good for the Uglylights. Nothing 

was good at all. 

Eli Sykes stood in the dark room with 

the bat drawn and his teeth bared, 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


terrified beyond comprehension of how 

long he actually stood there in wait. He 

measured the seconds with his 

heartbeats, comforted only by the 

simple knowledge that they meant he 

was still alive. He was waiting for the 

lights, and when they came on he would 

find the black heart, the black heart with 

a rotten apple core, the black heart 

thrumming with the arrhythmia of 

disease. He would find it and he would 

kill it. He would squeeze it in his hands 

until it burst like confetti; he would tear 

through the sinewy pericardium with his 

teeth and gnaw through atria and 

ventricles and bicuspids until he held but 

a wasted sac. He would do it and he 

would fight every monster that tried to 

protect the heart, for the life force of the 

heart was the life force of all the 

monsters, of all the nightmares and of 

all the evil. Eli would destroy them all. 

He waited until his own querulous heart 

felt like the only thing in the world that 

could make a sound, until it felt like the 

only thing that existed at all. His ears 

crackled as the pressure mounted in his 

head, the veins tightening under his skin 

like rigid tree branches and his lungs 

fluttering in his chest like spastic 

wings. The darkness was alive and it 

was watching him suffer, watching and 

waiting just like him, waiting for him to 

explode. Eli felt he really would; he felt 

as if he was being crushed and so he 

wilted to the floor and threw off the 

mask, clutching his damp dark curls with 

both hands, wishing he could split his 

skull right down the middle and let the 

terror burst from his brain, his sweet 

baby face contorted at the pinnacle of a 

silent scream. 

When Eli opened his eyes again the 

lights were on, and he could see for 

himself that the black hearts and 

monsters that’d tortured his mind were 

all just childish delusions. He was 

surrounded by four walls that were dark 

and grimy as if scorched by 

flame. There was nothing in the room 

but a wooden pedestal. On top of it sat 

an old telephone with a curly cord and a 

turning dial with finger holes. The 

instant Eli laid eyes on it, the phone 

began to ring so violently it did a tap 

dance on its hook, braying so urgently 

that Eli knew it wouldn’t quit until he 

picked it up. 

He stood up cautiously, his face 

blotched with heat and running with 

sweat, his hair sticking out at odds and 

ends like wild antennae. Slowly he 

approached, the shrill, piercing wail 

making his wide eyes rattle in their 

sockets. As his trembling hand hovered 

over the phone, he saw it wasn’t 

plugged in anywhere; the mysterious 

call was being transmitted through bare 

space. He laid his hand on the cool 

plastic, endured one more of those earsplitting 

shrieks, and whipped the phone 

up to his ear before he decided to 

chicken out. 

Nothing but the sandy crackle of static 

greeted his ear and so he waited, his 

heavy breath condensing into hot fog on 

the receiver. Hello? Hello? HELLO? His 

throat fought for the word but it was like 

trying to catch air. 

“Eli? Ain’t ya gonna say hello?”

It was a choked, guttural voice, like one 

of a drain clogged with mold, and it was 

chased through Eli’s ear canal, all 

around his body and into the innermost 

crevice of his soul by the dry wind-up 

toy laugh of the devil clown. Eli crippled 

up with a feeling like frostbite and threw 

the phone as hard as he could, watching 

the cradle slingshot forward and explode 

with a final jingle upon the wall. Then 

the lights went out. 

In the brevity of a blink the Uglylights 

were upon him and glaring brighter than 

a supernova. The little clairvoyant felt 

them in ways the others could not, felt 

the Uglylights penetrate the soft shell of 

his soul and fill it not with the darkness 

that was the mere absence of light, but 

the tacky, putrid darkness that was tar 

and sludge. He felt his spirit drowning in 

the mire like a little bird, but what could 

he do except let it? The brightness was 

a nuclear fever that radiated in waves, 

illuminating every corner of his mind 

with the keenest dread. The Uglylights 

lingered inside with their omnipotent 

intensity until Eli just wanted to lie there 

and quit, until he just wanted to lie there 

and let them take everything they 

wanted. He did exactly that. Eli let the 

Uglylights soak up the pretense and 

leave him withered. Eli wasn’t a hero; 

he was a meek little mute boy stuck in 

the rusted armour of dead 

chivalry. Heroes didn’t exist, they told 

him. Nothing was good. Nothing at all. 

The pain ebbed away in slow layers and 

Eli sat up. His eyes spun like pinwheels 

behind their lids, fizzling with blue stars, 

and his head pounded with an agony 

that harpooned to the very core of his 

thoughts. The world around him felt 

muddled, its edges blurred and tinted 

like Eli was looking through lenses 

made of dirty water. Nothing was clean 

anymore, not even the air; everything 

hung suspended and heavy in the sticky 

perfume of a virulent haze. Everything 

was ugly. 

Eli stood up, his muscles aching with 

permanent fever, his arms tattooed and 

scarred with the dark hieroglyphics of an 

ancient curse. He regarded these in 

silent awe, his bare, callused feet 

subconsciously stepping toward the 

mirror. Unlike the others, the thought of 

screaming did not so much as flit across 

his mind because he knew with the 

collected poignancy of all the frustration 

he’d ever felt that he would have been 

unable. 

He was dressed in the silken white tunic 

of an ancient Greek. It was held together 

by a golden ring that hung on his right 

shoulder, a golden ring that Eli saw as 

worthless, tarnished metal. This wasn’t 

the first thing he noticed. The devil himself 

sat on Eli’s shoulders, a hairy, matted 

beast with two crescent-shaped, fleshy 

wings that twitched almost lifelessly in its 

filthy fur. It perched on him using two thin, 

misshapen legs that ended in scaly talons 

that danced for new ground whenever the 

boy moved. Its other two legs were 

stubby, hoofed limbs that dangled uselessly 

on the creature’s left side. In a small 

hairy arm that budded from its body without 

rhyme or reason, the beast held a 

curved metal horn that was mottled by 

age. Its mouth was a 

THE UGLYLIGHTS


that his brain felt trapped in a razor 

snare. The thing was faceless, but 

scattered in the tangled mess of its fur 

were dozens of beady black eyes that 

blinked in disarray. 

The thing sat on his shoulders 

weightless and poised, settling into a 

position that was almost completely 

painless; as if it wanted to make sure its 

host was as comfortable as 

possible. As far as Eli could tell, it was 

benign; and despite its appearance, it 

seemed to cling to him not as a parasite 

but as an eternal companion. 

It was Eli’s creature; it was Eli’s 

friend. He felt it could hear him despite 

his silence; he felt they were both 

entities beyond the sphere of spoken 

language. Eli did not need to speak to 

know that he and his creature were the 

same, that they were unorthodox and 

misunderstood, that they needed the 

solace they’d found in one another. He 

reached up and patted its mangled 

mane, its wormy muscles coiling up 

against his touch, then slowly 

unravelling and beginning to relax. 

Eli gently stroked the thing that’d once 

haunted the dark skies of some 

netherworld. 

His mouth came open as if to laugh with 

excitement, and as it did, a harsh, 

warbling note came braying from the 

creature’s rusty horn. Eli’s jaw locked 

tightly in surprise; but in a glorious 

moment, he understood in jubilant, 

undeniable clarity. He opened his 

mouth, his lungs crushing up in all his 

effort. The horn blared acrimony, 

bleating like a wounded 

sheep. Sounds! He was making 

sounds! 

“Hello,” he mouthed, to which the 

creature issued a brassy 

dissonance. To Eli it sounded like a 

golden hymn. “HELLO! HELLO! 

HELLO!” 

Eli’s face was plum purple, his tongue 

flapping with the energy behind his open 

mouth, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy 

and his branded arms flung out and 

clenched at the fists. In them he held 

the fervor of quintessential passion; in 

them he held his utmost gratefulness for 

the Uglylights. He thanked them for 

delivering him from the opaque veil that 

keeps us all so blissfully unaware. He 

thanked them because the Uglylights 

had made him beautiful. 

The living siren sang its sour song and 

reached a fever-pitch; the woolly 

creature’s hellish wings all aflutter with 

the maelstrom of sheer sound. Fissures 

shot up the walls like lightning bolts but 

Eli did not relent; he yelled and yelled 

until his lungs were shriveled butterflies 

inside his chest. Yielding to his power, 

the door to the room burst open; all of 

the doors burst open and they were 

free. 

Eli emerged into the misty night air and 

realized that he’d never been alone at 

all as he looked at the three next door

more companions to join him in his new 

diversion. He accepted them not 

because they were transformed like him 

but because they were the truth: the 

raw, exposed truth. 

Lost and finally found, they all just 

wanted to go home now. Home to 

where, they weren’t sure, but Eli Sykes 

of 32 Orchid Street bravely led the way, 

marching and bleating his noble creed 

to worlds beyond worlds. 

The demolition crew arrived the next 

day and found that there was nothing 

left of the house, not even the tiniest 

dreg. 

THE UGLYLIGHTS

DUST 

by 

OB BOFFARD DUST 

by 

ROB BOFFARD

Jackie squatted in the prison yard, 

drawing symbols in the dust. 

He was gripping a stick between his 

thumb and forefinger, gently laying 

down circles and ciphers and codes. 

They'd become an endless spiral, 

swirling out from his feet. Sometimes 

he'd dig the stick deep into the dirt, 

gouging up little spits of earth. More 

often, he'd tap and tuck and tease until 

the fine details emerged. 

He'd been drawing for nearly an hour, 

squatting on his haunches, the pain in 

his hips long forgotten. His tongue was 

sticking ever so slightly out of the left 

corner of his mouth, a little pink 

exclamation point on his dark skin. His 

chin jutted out, and he peered down at 

the symbols from under his glasses. 

Every so often, he'd slowly raise a dirtcaked 

finger and push them further up 

his nose, never taking his eyes from his 

work. 

This was good news for the man 

walking towards him. 

The other guys in the cell had named 

the man Ratbucket; he still didn't know 

why. He didn't question what the other 

guys in the cell said. When they told 

him that if he wanted to stay alive, he 

had to prove himself, he just nodded. 

And when they said that to prove 

himself, he had to kill another prisoner, 

he'd nodded again. As far as Ratbucket 

was concerned, if you nodded at 

everything they said to you in prison, 

you got along just fine. 

The problem, of course, was that he'd 

never actually killed anyone. He'd told 

the others he was in on a murder 

charge, even before he could stop 

himself, and they'd laughed and said 

that in that case, he'd have no trouble 

with the job. But as he approached the 

hunched figure doodling in the dust, he 

felt cold prickles on his spine that had 

nothing to do with the wind sweeping 

down from the Adirondack Mountains. 

The toothbrush was in his hand. The 

head of the gang – a big sucker with 

one frozen eye named Marlin – had 

given it to him. It had been melted and 

filed and melted and filed again until it 

was a thin spike. Ratbucket held it 

cupped in his palm, with the spike lying 

along the inside of his wrist, his hand 

turned to keep it hidden from the 

screws. Sweat ran down his fingers, 

pooling in his palm. 

He could feel Marlin's eyes on him from 

the other side of the yard. He could feel 

all their eyes on him. Nobody would 

miss Jackie, he told himself. He'd only 

been in here a day. Ratbucket had 

seen him come in yesterday, and the

ROB BOFFARD 

son of a bitch had been whistling. He 

was walking down the damn aisle in 

front of the cells in those ridiculous 

glasses, holding his linen, whistling. 

‘Sure, sure, I can kill him’, Ratbucket 

thought. He deserves it. ‘Little punk. 

Lookit him.’ 

Jackie had begun humming. Something 

tuneless, whistling around his tongue 

and out the side of his mouth like steam. 

He was drawing the last symbol of the 

outermost circle, a delicate curlicue, 

tracing the shape in the ground, bending 

it around a rock. Almost there. 

He didn't hear Ratbucket come up 

behind him. He didn't hear him rotate 

the spike so it jutted from his hand like a 

misshapen finger. He didn't even hear 

Ratbucket's breathing, which had 

become harsh and quick and shallow. 

But he smelt Ratbucket's sweat. He felt 

the air behind him shift. He saw the 

light change ever so slightly. He kept 

working, putting the final touch on the 

symbol, a small dot above it in the dirt. 

He did this just as Ratbucket swung the 

spike down towards his shoulder blades, 

at which point he blinked out of 

existence. 

With no flesh to plunge into, Ratbucket's 

strike went a lot further than he'd 

anticipated. He tumbled to the dirt, 

obliterating Jackie's work, a cloud of 

dust exploding around his body. His 

mouth was a shocked O. 

Jackie reappeared in front of him; right 

on the spot where he'd swung the spike 

down. Ratbucket stared. His mouth 

wanted to form words, but his brain 

simply wouldn't let it. 

Jackie reached down and plucked the 

spike from Ratbucket's hand. He held it 

up to the light, as if studying it for 

imperfections. Then, in one movement, 

he reached down and slid it into 

Ratbucket's throat. 

By now, the gang at the other end of the 

yard was screaming. They were 

running towards him, their faces shot 

through with anger and fear. Jackie 

stood up, pulling the spike with him, and 

blinked to a spot alongside one of them, 

a squat man with a greasy ponytail. 

Jackie caught him in the side, plunging 

the spike in and out like an assegai. He 

had started humming again. 

The others froze, mid-stride, staring in 

horror. They tried to run, but Jackie 

simply moved with them, popping in and 

out of existence. Blood stained the dust 

black.

A guard in the tower had taken aim. He 

knew what he was seeing wasn't 

possible, but he knew his job, and he 

had a gun. He managed to line Jackie 

up in his sights – he'd paused after 

taking down the last gang member – 

and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet appeared in mid-air above 

Jackie, pointing down towards him, 

spinning gently. He'd frozen it with a 

look. He cocked his head to one side, 

and the bullet turned with it. A flick of 

his eyes, and it shot off, burying itself in 

the wall of the yard. 

More guards appeared, boiling out of 

the doors to the cells, screaming for 

backup. They began firing. Jackie 

stopped their bullets, turning the air 

before him into a tableau of metal. He 

stared around him and, as one of the 

guards would tell the governor later that 

day, he seemed to be counting the 

number of dead. 

Jackie stretched, raising his arms to the 

sky, his hands linked. The frozen 

bullets fell, clinking against each other. 

He tossed the spike onto the bullets, 

and then wandered towards the guards. 

They stood, frozen, watching him 

approach. At the last moment, three of 

them broke, running for the cells and 

slamming the door behind them. But 

the youngest – a new recruit, his first 

month on the job – kept his gun steady, 

aiming it at Jackie's chest. 

Jackie looked at him, pulling the guard's 

eyes to his own. He blinked the last few 

steps, and the guard fell backwards on 

his ass, a tight gasp escaping his lips. 

Jackie crouched down until he and the 

guard were face to face. A little slick of 

blood dotted the chest of his prison shirt, 

forming a pattern of its own. Casually, 

he reached forward and tugged the gun 

from the guard's grip. The guard's 

name was Mason and his eyes had 

grown wide as saucers. He licked his 

dry lips as Jackie turned the gun this 

way and that. 

“Can you stop shooting at me, please?” 

said Jackie. It came out as a mumble. 

Without even realising it, Mason was 

nodding. Jackie gave him the most 

dazzling smile – it came out of nowhere 

and was, Mason would later tell his wife, 

like the smile of a child. He held out the 

gun, still grinning, gesturing at Mason to 

take it. Then he blinked back to the 

centre of the empty yard. 

As Mason watched, Jackie cast around 

for his stick, inhaling a delighted breath 

when he spotted it. He crouched down 

again, and began to draw, sketching 

more symbols into the dust. 

DUST

CONFESSION 

by 

.A. GARRISON 

CONFESSION 

by 

A.A. GARRISON

Jackie squatted in the prison yard, 

drawing symbols in the dust. 

He was gripping a stick between his 

thumb and forefinger, gently laying 

down circles and ciphers and codes. 

They'd become an endless spiral, 

swirling out from his feet. Sometimes 

he'd dig the stick deep into the dirt, 

gouging up little spits of earth. More 

often, he'd tap and tuck and tease until 

the fine details emerged. 

He'd been drawing for nearly an hour, 

squatting on his haunches, the pain in 

his hips long forgotten. His tongue was 

sticking ever so slightly out of the left 

corner of his mouth, a little pink 

exclamation point on his dark skin. His 

chin jutted out, and he peered down at 

the symbols from under his glasses. 

Every so often, he'd slowly raise a dirtcaked 

finger and push them further up 

his nose, never taking his eyes from his 

work. 

This was good news for the man 

walking towards him. 

The other guys in the cell had named 

the man Ratbucket; he still didn't know 

why. He didn't question what the other 

guys in the cell said. When they told 

him that if he wanted to stay alive, he 

had to prove himself, he just nodded. 

And when they said that to prove 

himself, he had to kill another prisoner, 

he'd nodded again. As far as Ratbucket 

was concerned, if you nodded at 

everything they said to you in prison, 

you got along just fine. 

The problem, of course, was that he'd 

never actually killed anyone. He'd told 

the others he was in on a murder 

charge, even before he could stop 

himself, and they'd laughed and said 

that in that case, he'd have no trouble 

with the job. But as he approached the 

hunched figure doodling in the dust, he 

felt cold prickles on his spine that had 

nothing to do with the wind sweeping 

down from the Adirondack Mountains. 

The toothbrush was in his hand. The 

head of the gang – a big sucker with 

one frozen eye named Marlin – had 

given it to him. It had been melted and 

filed and melted and filed again until it 

was a thin spike. Ratbucket held it 

cupped in his palm, with the spike lying 

along the inside of his wrist, his hand 

turned to keep it hidden from the 

screws. Sweat ran down his fingers, 

pooling in his palm. 

He could feel Marlin's eyes on him from 

the other side of the yard. He could feel 

all their eyes on him. Nobody would 

miss Jackie, he told himself. He'd only 

been in here a day. Ratbucket had 

seen him come in yesterday, and the

A.A. GARRISON 

son of a bitch had been whistling. He 

was walking down the damn aisle in 

front of the cells in those ridiculous 

glasses, holding his linen, whistling. 

‘Sure, sure, I can kill him’, Ratbucket 

thought. He deserves it. ‘Little punk. 

Lookit him.’ 

Jackie had begun humming. Something 

tuneless, whistling around his tongue 

and out the side of his mouth like steam. 

He was drawing the last symbol of the 

outermost circle, a delicate curlicue, 

tracing the shape in the ground, bending 

it around a rock. Almost there. 

He didn't hear Ratbucket come up 

behind him. He didn't hear him rotate 

the spike so it jutted from his hand like a 

misshapen finger. He didn't even hear 

Ratbucket's breathing, which had 

become harsh and quick and shallow. 

But he smelt Ratbucket's sweat. He felt 

the air behind him shift. He saw the 

light change ever so slightly. He kept 

working, putting the final touch on the 

symbol, a small dot above it in the dirt. 

He did this just as Ratbucket swung the 

spike down towards his shoulder blades, 

at which point he blinked out of 

existence. 

With no flesh to plunge into, Ratbucket's 

strike went a lot further than he'd 

anticipated. He tumbled to the dirt, 

obliterating Jackie's work, a cloud of 

dust exploding around his body. His 

mouth was a shocked O. 

Jackie reappeared in front of him; right 

on the spot where he'd swung the spike 

down. Ratbucket stared. His mouth 

wanted to form words, but his brain 

simply wouldn't let it. 

Jackie reached down and plucked the 

spike from Ratbucket's hand. He held it 

up to the light, as if studying it for 

imperfections. Then, in one movement, 

he reached down and slid it into 

Ratbucket's throat. 

By now, the gang at the other end of the 

yard was screaming. They were 

running towards him, their faces shot 

through with anger and fear. Jackie 

stood up, pulling the spike with him, and 

blinked to a spot alongside one of them, 

a squat man with a greasy ponytail. 

Jackie caught him in the side, plunging 

the spike in and out like an assegai. He 

had started humming again. 

The others froze, mid-stride, staring in 

horror. They tried to run, but Jackie 

simply moved with them, popping in and 

out of existence. Blood stained the dust 

black.

The Laugher was in the front of the 

fuselage, dominating the fracas. The 

Screamer came from further back, 

playing counterpoint. There was a 

beating sound, too, like a boxer at a 

punching bag. Adrian, seated in the 

middle of it all, couldn't hear himself 

talking. 

"I stole a candy bar once, Snickers, 

king-size," he confessed. His voice was 

uncannily even, given the 

circumstances. "I thought about my 

pretty cousin a couple times. Maybe a 

few." 

The woman Adrian was speaking to, a 

mousy blonde in a pants suit, stared at 

him wordlessly, her eyes stupid with 

fear. She looked like someone who 

hadn't studied for a test, Adrian 

thought. He didn't know if she 

comprehended what he was saying, and 

she sure as hell wasn't a priest, but 

she'd have to do. 

"I lied to get out of school, a few times," 

Adrian went on, shakily. "I looked up 

some dresses. Wore one once." 

Before Adrian could say more, The 

Groper interrupted, storming the row of 

seats Adrian shared with the blonde. 

The pervert wasted no time with the 

woman's chest, wearing a dazed smile 

that fell short of sinister. She jumped at 

first, but ultimately just let the freak do 

his thing, lank in her seat like a crash- 

test dummy. Adrian swung out, but The 

Groper was already down the aisle, his 

flabby body moving in a weird, complex 

gait, like a skier in wedeln. 

The Laugher continued his bizarre 

chant: "Ha-ha-hee ... ha-HEE ... HA! 

Ha, ha ... HA!" More terrified screams 

came in answer, but not from The 

Screamer; it seemed another was vying 

for the title. 

Adrian stuttered, "I ... um ...", but he'd 

lost his rhythm. Damn. 

After more mumbling, he at last 

confessed a love triangle involving his 

best friend's girl, which had culminated 

with the loss of his virginity, as it 

were. He had to abbreviate the story for 

reasons obvious, but it was off his chest, 

even if his audience was a makeshift 

priestess -- in coach, no less. 

The woman showed no response but for 

a trembling bottom lip. A single, 

bulbous tear spilled down her left 

cheek. It clung to her jaw, and then 

dropped tacitly to the floor. 

"A-may-zi-ing grace, how suh-weet thuh 

sound ...!" 

The verse, sung in a high G and 

surprisingly in-key, cut through the din, 

relegating The Laugher and the 

Screamers to a byplay. Adrian couldn't 

CONFESSION

A.A. GARRISON 

tell where the hymn originated, or the 

sex of its source. 

He periscoped his head from the seats, 

taking a cautious sweep of the cabin. It 

was total bedlam: baggage everywhere; 

people strewn about like their carryon; a 

forest of oxygen masks hanging like 

lynched men. The in-seat video screens 

played on, showing a laughing young 

girl. A balding man in an oxford shirt 

was attacking the next seat up, his face 

streaming crazy tears -- the beating 

noise Adrian had been hearing. Up the 

aisle, a heavy black woman in a 

sundress stood aloofly, arms hung at 

her sides, her candy-coloured lips in a 

crumpled figure-eight. She wailed in 

controlled bursts, somehow betraying 

the grotesque configuration of her 

mouth. She was one of the Screamers; 

challenger or incumbent, Adrian knew 

not which. 

It was profound, how fast the place had 

been trashed. The announcement had 

come, what, thirty seconds ago? 

"Good God," Adrian huffed, and then 

dropped back down. 

He had thought up more sins to confess, 

when he was once more interrupted, 

this time by an insistent vibration tearing 

through the length of the plane. It 

silenced everyone for one heartbeat 

moment, much like a concert crowd 

hearing the first played note. Then it 

passed and all hell resumed breaking 

loose. 

The Laugher, with Screamers One and 

Two, promptly returned to work, now 

joined by a Screamer Three, who 

sounded to be female and in first 

class. The Singer was a little slow on 

the uptake, but they eventually came 

around, jumping back in at ‘saved a 

wretch like me’. 

Adrian ducked deep in his seat, feeling 

to be in a pinball machine. He 

somehow found it to keep 

talking. "There was this boy I knew, 

when I was a kid," he said almost 

casually, to the blonde woman. "Johnny 

Strassup, his name was. Nicest kid, just 

--" 

Adrian hunched defensively as The 

Groper made another sudden pass, 

announced by the fwip of his 

jeans. With a morbidly cheeky 

expression, the man felt up women with 

remarkable dignity, as though he had 

every right to do so. He ignored the 

blonde, however, and Adrian picked up 

where he'd left off: 

"So, Johnny Strassup, nicest kid, just 

kind of a loser, I guess." He waved away 

sweat. "But, some kids were making fun 

of him once, and --" 

Adrian cut out again, now responding to 

a shock of activity in the aisle. Without 

prelude, the bald man who'd been 

beating the seat bolted up and tackled 

The Groper in one purposeful, electrified 

movement bespeaking 

rehearsal. Perhaps he'd become bored 

with the poor piece of furniture, perhaps

he wanted to dispense some vigilante 

justice as his last fleshly 

act. Regardless, he wrestled the man to 

the floor and struck out, knocking The 

Groper a good one in the jaw. The 

Groper appeared utterly surprised, 

going from insouciant to outraged, as if 

he hadn't been squeezing every breast 

in sight. Watching the melee, Adrian 

thought it some absurd action movie. 

But this wasn't a movie. Dear God, it 

wasn't. 

Now desperate to get it all out in time, 

Adrian twirled back to the shell-shocked 

woman and resumed his tale of hapless 

Johnny Strassup, now in fast-forward: 

"So, Johnny was a loser, and they were 

making fun of him and I saw it, and 

instead of doing anything, I joined them 

and made fun of him too and I've-felthorrible-about-it-ever-since-pleaseforgive-me-God 

-- !" 

The fuselage canted forward, 

forebodingly, and Adrian's bowels 

churned, which he compared to the first 

incline of a roller coaster. Baggage 

avalanched through the aisles. Frantic 

noises erupted in chorus. The oxygen 

masks listed lazily, like dangled 

tentacles. The blonde moaned from her 

chest, that of an unhappy cat. Grasping 

for comfort, Adrian took her hand and 

kneaded it brutally in his own, probably 

more painful than soothing. The woman 

only closed her eyes, squeezing out 

tears. 

As Adrian sat worrying the woman's 

hand, he caught a confused, flailing 

movement in his peripheral vision, what 

might've been a seizure in progress. He 

turned guardedly to his left, and there 

sat a Beast With Two Backs, its 

constituents a grimacing brunette 

stewardess and a heavyset blonde man 

with grapefruit-pink skin. The two 

coupled candidly from across the aisle, 

in some delinquent form of intercourse, 

both almost fully clothed, neither making 

the slightest attempt at 

pleasantries. The stewardess's trolley 

was overturned nearby, bleeding shrinkwrapped 

meals and tiny bottles of 

booze. 

‘Won't be any phone call after that tryst’, 

Adrian had time to think, and he found 

himself biting back a laugh. It passed 

quickly. 

The Laugher, however, made up for 

Adrian's abstinence, as if on cue: "HEE- 

HEE-HAW! HA-ho-ho-HA-ha-ha ... HA- 

HA-HA ...!" 

Weeping. Interesting screams. A groan 

of commotion that could be 

anything. The Singer had at some point 

gone quiet, perhaps yielding to the other 

hysterical passengers, while the 

Screamers had now recruited the gist of 

the cabin. 

Adrian was doing his best to tune out 

the calamity, when the sinking feeling 

returned, grew. Time was short, he 

knew, in the way you know a red light is 

about to change, or that she isn't just 

CONFESSION

A.A. GARRISON 

late. Sensing this, he wrapped up his 

confession, now unloading The Big One: 

"I told my ex I hated her, last year," he 

said, crying softly, shamelessly, like it 

was the most natural thing in the 

world. "Threw my ring down the toilet, 

tore up her pictures, said I never wanted 

to see her again." He looked due 

forward as he spoke, not really talking to 

the blonde, but not not talking to her, 

just talking to anyone. To the cabin at 

large. To the headrest in front of 

him. To the laughing girl on the in-flight 

movie. "I'm sorry, Beth. So, so sorry ..." 

He continued playing with the mousy 

woman's hand, squeezing, squeezing, 

squeezing, and he ignored The 

Laugher, the Screamers, the sparring 

men on the floor, the screwing couple at 

his flank and everything else. For now, 

it was only him and the hand. 

He started to say more, then realized 

there was no more, he'd confessed it all 

and that felt good. He consigned 

himself to the seat and closed his eyes; 

keeping at the woman's dead hand, 

squeezing and ratcheting and teasing 

like they were lovers, and that was 

good, that was okay. The demented 

noises continued from everywhere, but 

that was okay, too, even beautiful -- all 

okay, let 'em scream, amazing grace, 

how sweet the sound. 

Then the plane hit and the people went 

silent forever.

ITH TWO L’s 

by 

COLIN JAMES

IDYLLIC WITH TWO L’s 

by 

COLIN JAMES 

One millionth of me is spread unevenly 

beneath this cruddy felt robe. 

The rest can be negotiated. 

Why doesn't this wash? 

Could be my balcony 

has relocated itself internally. 

Implosion is not a death 

we weary contentedly contemplate. 

Fallacy should liven things up. 

Keep an eye on the rooftops! 

Let the week old egg rolls sustain us 

with simply the saltiest of brown blood.

TOR STREET 

by 

LAST HOUSE ON VECTOR STREET 

HRIS CASTLE by 

CHRIS CASTLE

CHRIS CASTLE 

Richard Keane waited in the empty 

house and thought about his life. For a 

moment he remembered his young wife, 

both aged eighteen, running up a 

seaside boardwalk, hand-in-hand. Old 

people looked on, disapproving, and 

Richard felt invincible as he gripped her 

hand tighter in his. That was the 

moment, when the time came, that he 

would hold onto, above all others. 

The knock on the door was gentle and 

that surprised him. It was the apologetic 

tap of a neighbour, not a killer. ‘Yet’, 

Richard reflected as he pulled himself 

out of the chair, ‘what was the man on 

the other side of the door, if not both?’ 

“Hello, Mr. Keane,” The man said, 

waiting to be invited in. Richard nodded 

and stood back, waving him in. No 

scent came off him, which should have 

been peculiar but Richard felt was in 

perfect keeping with the man and his 

idea of him as a ghost. The two of them 

walked into the sparse room and again, 

the man waited to be offered the 

seat. Again, Richard waved his hand, 

almost finding humour in the ridiculous 

situation, before re-claiming his own 

seat. 

“So, it’s time,” Richard said and felt his 

voice crack. He hated himself for the 

weakness, though was unsurprised at 

it. The man nodded solemnly and 

again, Richard was interested to see the 

compassion in his eyes. Richard had 

known what a killer looked like- all he 

had to do was look in a mirror- and yet, 

there was a kindness in this man, a 

softness that just did not fit with his 

actions. 

“It’s time,” the man said, looking around 

the room. The bottles were all emptied, 

the women now removed. Richard 

gazed after him, reflecting how dull vice 

could be after a time. For a moment he 

understood the concept of the idle rich. 

“Will it be filmed, like the others?” 

Richard asked, feeling a sudden, bizarre 

need to tidy up the room, to make the 

place look presentable. He wondered if 

the man’s gentile ways were somehow 

infectious, like some sort of benign 

virus. Maybe, before his heart stopped, 

he might indulge in a little light dusting. 

“Streamed only to The Owner and 

nothing else,” the man said, bringing his 

gaze back to Richard. “You have my 

word. The contract is binding, no 

exceptions.” 

“How would I know anyway, right?” 

Richard shrugged, for a second feeling 

helpless and weak. 

“I’d know,” the man said and the sudden 

flash of indignation in his eyes revealed 

the killer in him. Richard flinched but felt 

oddly reassured at the same time. His 

death would be a vile thing but only 

seen by a paying few and not the 

masses. He took solace in that, he 

realised. The sort of comfort only a man 

with a death sentence could take.

“I have your word?” Richard went on, 

needing that final seal of assurance that 

he knew only the man could provide. 

“You have my word,” the man said 

simply and nodded. 

“So how do we do this?” Richard said, 

fidgeting in his chair. After six months of 

every available vice, he had become 

accustomed to the frenzied buzz of 

activity that sin brought. Now it had 

been drawn to a close, the silence and 

stillness haunted him. It felt as if he was 

present at his own wake, a time before 

his execution. 

“The Owner has requested a gunshot 

but there are three over options 

available to you that he is prepared to 

accept.” The man paused and looked 

over to Richard, waiting to see if he 

wanted to hear the other choices. 

“I’ll take the bullet,” Richard said as 

gruffly as he could manage. Inwardly, 

his stomach was beginning to 

dissolve. A sudden bolt of fear ran 

through him: he didn’t want to soil 

himself in front of anyone, even if it was 

only the man and The Owner. 

“I want to be clean,” he blurted out and 

the man’s eyes again shifted into warm, 

kind orbs. 

“I will provide the necessary tools to 

provide you leave with dignity intact, 

Mr. Keane,” he said quietly. Richard 

nodded his thanks, wondering for a 

moment how he knew he meant his 

bodily functions and not some loftier, 

religious ideal. He laughed in spite of 

himself; no doubt The Owner had been 

watching his behaviour over the last six 

months and realised he was not a 

religious man. 

“So how long do I have?” Richard 

asked, shuffling in his seat once 

more. It reminded him of the first time 

he’d sat inside an airplane, ignorant of 

how to even lock the seatbelt straps 

together. Eventually a man, a 

businessman, had done it for him, 

saving him the embarrassment of 

having to ask one of the pretty 

stewardesses. He had been twenty two 

and his life was still a bright, open 

thing. Two years until the mistakes and 

the consequences. 

“The Owner would like it be conducted 

within the next hour, Mr. Keane. The 

broadcast dictates it so.” A little of the 

gentleness fell away from his eyes and 

Richard again swallowed hard. Dying 

time, a voice inside his head whispered. 

“How does it feel for you?” Richard said 

and was surprised how it came 

out. He’d almost spat the words out at 

the man. 

“I can’t talk about my own situation, 

Mr. Keane, as you well know,” he said, 

not unkindly. Richard realised he was 

trying not to antagonise him and to his 

surprise, it worked. 

LAST HOUSE ON VECTOR STREET

CHRIS CASTLE 

“I just…” Richard thought for a moment 

what it was that was tapping away 

inside him, inside the blind fear and rage 

and panic. In a moment it struck him: it 

was absurdity. 

“I just never imagined I’d be talking to 

the guy who was going to kill me,” he 

said, realising that this was the last itch 

that needed to be scratched in his 

brain. 

“The world has changed since you and I 

were forming our ideals, Mr. Keane,” the 

man said and Richard nodded along, 

again only realising now that the two of 

them were roughly the same age. “Are 

you ready to be prepared?” 

“Yes,” Richard said quietly, desperately 

trying to think of a way to prolong this, 

his last conversation on earth, but failing 

miserably. Instead, he allowed himself 

to be taken by the crook of his elbow 

and into the bedroom at the end of the 

corridor. 

Richard Keane returned back to what he 

now thought of as his favourite chair and 

sat down. A final tumbler of whiskey 

was in his hand, his clothes changed 

and fitted with what was 

necessary. The man framed the small 

camera a few feet away and within a 

few seconds the red light appeared at 

the top left hand corner. Showtime, 

Richard thought miserably. The man 

looked up and Richard nodded. 

“Are you, Richard Keane, ready to be 

inducted?” The man asked, his voice 

slightly more formal and unreal 

sounding. 

“I am,” Richard said and swallowed the 

last of the whiskey. 

“Richard Keane, the last member of the 

houses on Vector Street, has given his 

permission to be inducted into the files: 

Case 132, private channel AB/23.” 

Richard watched as the man spoke, his 

face free of the camera in order to be 

heard. Richard had been present to 

witness the other seven executions in 

the other seven houses: it had been part 

of the torture to know what was to 

become of each of them in the end. 

The man stood to one side and carefully 

removed the revolver from his inside 

jacket pocket. As he aimed it, Richard 

looked away from the gun and to the red 

light that was glowing in the darkness of 

the room. He did not close his eyes and 

he did not beg. His eyes remained open 

and yet he still saw the image of a 

young woman, a promenade and 

outstretched fingers, before a faraway 

sound bellowed and brought his role in 

the broadcast to a close.

PEEPING TOM’S 

TOM’s 

N

ASTERPIECE 

ASTERPICE 

by by 

ATE NATE BURLEY BURLY

PEEPING TOM’s MASTERPIECE 

by 

NATE BURLEY 

The world is wide and the wind is wild 

and I’ll live forever. 

So be wary, dear 

because I’ll be watching you. 

Long after you flip this page for 

others more agreeable and have 

long forgotten my name and these words 

I’ll be very much watching 

like a painting with peephole eyes 

I am peering off the page 

while you’re so alone, convinced 

nothing but inanimate ink 

though I am seeping in your eyes lids 

and coursing through you like a laughing gas. 

Do be deceived in private, 

believe I’ve been so simply closed and yet 

I’m here crouched in your mind 

and cloaked swimmingly in your soul – 

perusing your most intimate memories 

and disturbing fantasies –

my great cleverness pervades 

all of your petty borders, dissolves 

all of your paper barriers. 

So look away all you will 

play nice music to ease your mind 

or chat mundanely with a confidant 

still I’ll be with you like a fly on your inside wall 

but yet a looker at your window 

watching, seeing you feel me there: 

while you stare into your mirror vanity 

while you collect a fresh towel from the linen closet 

while you’re perched solemnly on your porch 

during a distant lightning storm to ponder love; 

while you do whatever you do, my love 

I’ll be Mona-Lisa smiling all the while. 

You will die 

with no mysteries resolved 

and I will live on. 

I will live on 

and I’ll be watching.

PICK UP LINE 

by 

DAN LEE 

PICK UP LINE 

by 

DAN LEE

DAN LEE 

Smoke snaked lazily from his nostrils 

and up into the spinning chaos of the 

fan above him. The gentle grey stream 

began to corkscrew until it had become 

a violent tornado that crashed into the 

ceiling and spread out across the 

yellowed tiles. Strobing lights from the 

dance floor provided lighting for the 

growing storm as billiards cracked and 

thundered over his shoulder. It was a 

good night for a storm, he thought as 

the cherry of the cigarette blazed from 

his lips. 

Across the dance floor’s teaming sea of 

sweating flesh was the bar and at the 

bar sat a girl. She was slender, barely 

of age with long red hair, freckled skin 

and perfect curves. Her lips were soft 

pink and pouting below a thin nose and 

mesmerizing green eyes. She was 

wrapped in a low cut dress that had 

come almost all the way up her thighs 

when she sat down. She was on her 

third drink of the evening and starting to 

feel tipsy. He knew. He was 

counting. Best of all she had come in 

alone. 

He sipped down the last of the piss 

water that passed for beer and casually 

made his way across the dance 

floor. He swam through the ocean of 

hot, sweating bodies grinding against 

each other in the hope that their erratic 

gyrating would lead to another type of 

dance. It was a game he found 

amusing to watch but tedious to play. In 

fluid, calculated manoeuvers he lowered 

himself into the seat beside the redhead 

and ordered another beer. She didn't 

seem to notice. 

"Buy you a drink?" he asked. 

She looked him up and down, shook her 

head and looked out at the dance floor. 

"Sorry," she said dismissively. "I don't 

go for creeps that hit on me in strange 

bars." 

"You're breaking my heart, darling," he 

laughed. "Haven't even heard what I'm 

after. It could change your life." He put 

his hand on her thigh. 

"Get stuffed." 

This one had some fire. He fought the 

grin tugging the corners of his mouth 

and looked back at the bar. 

"Suits me," he said nonchalantly. "Don't 

normally give it up for scrawny little 

gingers, anyway."

After a few minutes of listening to the 

repetitive thumping bass that passed for 

music she turned and looked at 

him. Her hand, fingernails painted a 

deep maroon slid between his legs. Her 

fingers rolled up along the teeth of his 

zipper and further to his belt 

buckle. She leaned up close, the scent 

of cheap booze and bargain perfume 

wafting to his nostrils as her breath blew 

on his neck and ear. 

"Sorry," she whispered. Her tongue 

flicked his ear lobe. "Maybe we could 

try this again? Somewhere a little 

more... private?" 

"I know just the place." 

He slipped his arm around her narrow 

waist and led her into the parking 

lot. They walked down the alley around 

the back of the bar. It was dark and 

secluded, far removed from the prying 

eyes of the other inebriates half naked 

and writhing inside. His free hand slid 

down to the switch blade in his pocket. 

"Is it much farther?" she asked. 

"Nah, baby, it’s right here." 

He grabbed her by the throat and 

slammed her hard into the wall. The 

knife sprang out in a flash of silver and 

stopped just short of her verdant 

eyes. He made a shushing noise as he 

traced the tip of the knife softly down her 

neck and shoulders. He continued his 

tour along the curve of her breasts, her 

flat stomach and milky thighs. Slowly he 

brought the blade up under her skirt to 

cut her panties away from her only to 

find bare skin. He smiled, teeth bared 

as a hungry lion about to devour his 

prey. 

The girl began to laugh. He 

repositioned the knife in his hand and 

thrust a single finger inside of her. Her 

laughter had grown from a light chuckle 

into a raucous chuckle. 

"You think this is funny, bitch?" 

"Sorry," she said, choked by the 

laughter. "I just can't help it. I love 

playing with my food." 

Confused, the man looked up at the 

porcelain face of the girl he'd found in 

the bar. Her skin had shattered where 

her head had struck the wall. Her green 

eyes had become black mirrors 

reflecting his face in the inky abyss. Her 

smiling mouth was filled with rows of 

shark teeth whirring circles inside her 

PICK UP LINE

DAN LEE 

head. He tried to pull away but his hand 

was caught in a vice grip between her 

thighs. 

"What are you?" Tears were streaming 

down his cheeks. 

"Hungry." she answered.

DEN GROW? 

by 

HOW DOES ONE’s GARDEN GROW? 

UREN HASTY by 

LAUREN HASTY

LAUREN HASTY 

Every time he moved, she could hear 

the grass dying, the beetles scurrying, 

the universe falling apart. This was what 

entropy looked like - like a vast beast, 

languid in its repose. Tigers look the 

same way. 

"Where do you come from?" she asked, 

the thin, aristocratic line of her mouth 

sensual in its strictness - perhaps 

sensual because of that strictness. 

One of his ears flicked. Overhead, a 

leaf separated from its branch, starting 

to fall to the ground. "You ask 'where', 

as if there were a particular place that I 

am from. If that is your mentality, we 

should stop this now. You will never 

learn." 

Eyes as blue as deep holes in oceans 

ticked towards the leaf, then back to 

him. "You had to have come from 

somewhere," she observed, the pad of 

her thumb rubbing against the soft 

underside of her fingers. "Beings - even 

beings like you - don't just spring up out 

of nowhere." 

Before her, he chuckled quietly; it was a 

rolling sound, avalanches and landslides 

giving way. Smoke poured from his 

mouth, little licks of fire teasing exposed 

teeth. 

"Why not, girlchild? Why can beasts 

such as I not merely spring into 

existence? As a child, did you have a 

toy, an imaginary friend; something that 

you believed with all your being was 

real? As you grew older, did you not 

sweep childish things away from you?" 

Her brows drew a moment, for what he 

suggested...well, yes. She had had a 

doll, but - "Are you saying someone 

thought you up?" 

His sides heaved a moment, clawed 

fingers flexing in the rot-soft dirt. Hadn't 

they been hooves a moment ago? "Yes 

and no," he answered, infuriatingly 

enigmatic. "That is...someones thought 

me up." 

For a second, his head tipped upwards; 

hundreds, thousands of razor sharp 

tines lifted towards the sky. To her 

eyes, it seemed as if he could cut it 

open with those antlers. 

"Have you ever seen a shooting star?" 

he asked. "Have you ever briefly 

wondered what they are? Where they 

come from?" His body shifted, vast 

mass crawling upwards in unnatural 

fashion, like a beast with no legs, vipers 

to offer apples to the innocent. It was 

mesmerizing. She did not entirely 

realize that not only had he stood, but 

was crawling her way, belly low as the 

dog asking for trust; belying true nature. 

"That is where I am from," he purred, the 

snakes and worms pouring out of the 

volcanic pit of his mouth. "I am from 

where the stars die, child."

As that vast maw yawned there before 

her eyes, lit with the hell fires in his 

belly, she heard the last words she'd 

ever hear. "I am from where the worlds 

end." 

HOW DOES ONE”s GARDEN GROW?

INITIATION 

by 

MES MORRIS INITIATION 

by 

JAMES MORRIS

Night had barely fallen when two hikers 

spotted a teenage boy running naked 

through the woods. He thrashed wildly, 

tumbling down the trails of Griffith Park, 

all limbs and urgency. Moments later, 

the angry spotlight of a police chopper 

circled the area until the teen fell in its 

cross hairs. He wasn’t more than twelve 

or thirteen, the hair around his sex a 

mere shadow of what it would 

become. The teen cut right, then left, 

trying to evade the light, but it was no 

use. Instead, he lost his footing and 

plunged down the hill, falling headfirst 

and rolling like the agony of defeat until 

he landed near a rotting 

stump. Scraped and dazed, the boy 

stood up only to find himself bathed in 

light from two squad cars. 

He shivered like a frightened animal as 

flashlights blinded him from two 

silhouetted figures. They asked him 

questions he had trouble 

understanding. The boy refused to give 

his name, age or location of his 

parents. Not because he was 

streetwise and trying to stay out of 

trouble – just the opposite. The boy 

simply didn’t know his own name. Or, 

more exactly, couldn’t remember. But 

the boy’s obstinacy frustrated the 

officers and they ribbed him about his 

acne, lanky frame and exposed 

manhood, such as it was. 

At the Wilcox police station, they shoved 

a small tube in his mouth and told him to 

blow on it. The Breathalyser came up 

negative. One Officer figured the kid 

had mental problems. Kids today were 

like monsters, running amok, their 

scheduled play dates and coddling, 

coming home to roost once they 

crossed into double-digits. Spending 

the night in the pen might scare him 

straight. 

The Officer took the boy’s finger and 

rubbed it in ink, but his finger left no 

imprint. He repeated the procedure with 

the same result. On closer inspection, 

the Officer saw that the boy’s fingers 

were as smooth as a baby’s 

bottom. Milky white and empty. 

The Officer approached the bars of the 

cell. “You on any medication, son?” 

The boy looked up, now clothed in a 

jumpsuit too large for his size. The pant 

bottoms touched the floor. His eyes like 

saucers. The words people spoke 

started to make sense. “No, sir.” 

At least the kid had some manners. The 

Officer continued, “What were you 

running from out there?” 

“Some kinda animals. They were 

chasing me. Like they were trying to 

trap me.” 

“What kind of animals?” 

“It was dark. They were growling. I 

didn’t get a good look.” The boy 

seemed genuinely scared. Maybe the 

Officer had pegged him wrong.

JAMES MORRIS 

“If they were chasing you, why didn’t 

you stop for the police?” 

“I wasn’t thinking that far ahead. I just 

wanted to get away.” 

“Why were you running in your birthday 

suit?” The Officer snickered. “Or did 

they eat your clothes?” 

“Wish I knew.” He felt extremely 

embarrassed. Puberty was a minefield 

of confusion, drop-of-a-hat erections, 

and strange mating rituals to 

comprehend, but to share his privates in 

front of God and everyone? It was 

almost criminal. 

“Any reason why you don’t have any 

fingerprints?” 

“I don’t?” 

“And if I remember my eighth-grade 

biology, that ain’t right.” 

“What’s gonna to happen to me?” 

The Officer softened. “Honestly, kid. I 

don’t know.” 

An hour later, the Officer came back 

with an older man who had come 

looking for the boy. From the head up, 

he was distinguished; long hair with a 

stripe of grey down the middle. But from 

the head down, he looked the part of a 

rushed shopper at the Salvation Army 

with clothes out-dated by a couple of 

decades. The Officer opened the 

cell. “Eh, kid. You’re free to go.” 

“Thank you for your gratitude,” the older 

man said as he tipped his hat. 

“Kids these days, huh?” And the Officer 

left them alone. 

The older man knelt by the boy, meeting 

his eyes. “I’m sorry, Kevin. This wasn’t 

how the night was supposed to be. I 

promise to make it up to you.” 

“Kevin? My name is Kevin?” 

“There’s a lot to explain. I meant to 

prepare you better for your initiation. I 

should have given you this 

before. Here.” 

And the man slipped Kevin a piece of 

paper. Kevin looked it over, 

confused. “It’s just an address.” 

“It’s a safe house where we meet. Keep 

it from now on. You’ll need it.” And the

man began to escort Kevin down the 

hall. 

“How do you know my name?” 

The older man laughed. “Because I 

gave it to you. I’m your father.” 

But Kevin felt he had never seen the 

man before in his life. And who knew if 

“Kevin” was his real name, 

anyway? Then again, the police 

wouldn’t have released him into the 

custody of this stranger unless there 

was some proof, right? But if he had a 

home, why would they need to go to a 

safe house? Real families had real 

homes. Kevin’s mind was filled with 

questions and everything boiled down to 

whether he trusted this man or 

not. Given his spare choices, he opted 

for trust. For now. 

They exited the station, illuminated by 

the full moon, and walked towards a 

parked car. As they did, the older man 

affectionately placed his arm around 

Kevin. The sensation sent him reeling: 

who was this man and what did he 

want? Maybe the whole “father” thing 

was a ruse to get Kevin into the car 

where the older man could take 

advantage of him. 

They were near the car now. The older 

man leaned in to open the door. “Don’t 

worry. This is a special time in your 

life. It’ll all make sense in a little while.” 

Kevin hesitated. 

“Kevin, what’s wrong?” 

Kevin looked at the older gentlemen and 

the empty car seat. His instinct sent up 

alarm bells. This wasn’t right. This is 

how people got themselves killed. 

“Kevin, there’s things you don’t yet 

understand. But I’m still your 

father. You need to do as I say.” And 

the older man tried to guide Kevin into 

the car. 

“You’re not my father!” And Kevin tried 

to make a break for it, but the older man 

hung onto him, his grip surprisingly 

strong. 

Kevin resisted, as they tangled on the 

street. “Help! Somebody help me!” 

“Kevin, you don’t understand!” And the 

older man dragged Kevin towards the 

car. 

“Get off me!” And with a burst of energy, 

Kevin broke free and pushed the older 

man away from him and into the street – 

A screeching of tires and a sickening 

thud. 

INITIATION

JAMES MORRIS 

A van stopped in the middle of the 

road. A musician channelling the 80’s 

got out of the car in a panic. He made 

his way towards the front of the van and 

stopped, dumbfounded. He turned to 

Kevin, scratching his head. “Man, I am 

too stoned for this.” 

In front of the van, lying on the street 

next to some mismatched clothes was a 

dead wolf, the striking patch of grey 

turning red with blood. 

None of this is real. It can’t be. 

A car stopped in front of him. A teenage 

girl called out from the driver’s 

seat. “Get in.” Cops were starting to 

spill out of the station. The boy took one 

look at the girl, and void of any other 

escape, jumped in, slamming the 

door. She hit the gas and sped off, just 

another car on Sunset Blvd. 

“Why are you helping me?” he asked. 

“Let’s just say I’ve been where you 

are.” Her voice was soothing, but had a 

raspy, purring quality. 

“I doubt it.” She was a bad driver but he 

didn’t care. He paid the road no 

attention, instead lost in her, the way her 

mouth moved, her tongue occasionally 

licking her lips, the way her breath made 

her chest swell. She turned to 

him. “Did you hear a thing I said?” 

He quickly looked away. “Yeah. Of 

course.” 

She shook her head, not buying his 

lie. “I said there’s a party I know of.” 

He scoffed. “A party.” 

“Well, where do you want to go?” 

His mind drew a blank. He realized he 

had nowhere to go. “Forget it, let’s hit 

that party.” 

Kevin wanted to ask any number of 

questions, but considering his 

experience with the opposite sex was 

just under nil, he figured it better to 

simply shut up. 

He didn’t count the minutes it took to get 

to their destination. Time lost its 

meaning, as if he spent the ride in limbo; 

but even with its discomfort, he didn’t 

want it to end. He found it hard to relax 

in the presence of this girl, mentally 

starting and stopping conversations, but 

everything he contemplated sounded 

stupid. He wanted to tell her about 

tonight. As if she’d even believe it or 

worse – what if she did? What kind of 

freak will she think I am? 

Instead, he blurted, “What’s your 

name?”

“Caitlyn. What about yours?” 

“Kevin. I think.” Idiot! He felt like 

banging his head against the 

windshield. 

“You don’t know?” And she smiled. 

“It’s a long story. How old are you, 

anyway?” 

“Old enough to know how to drive, but 

young enough that it’s not legal.” 

“What? Then whose car is this?” 

She gently placed a finger on his lips, 

shushing him. “Curiosity killed the 

cat. Here we are.” 

They pulled up to a warehouse in the 

Fashion District. Not many cars parked 

out front and there wasn’t any music 

coming from inside. Metal bars covered 

the windows like steel spider 

webs. Didn’t look like any party house 

he’d ever heard of. He was startled 

when Caitlyn grabbed his hand and 

escorted him up the walkway. 

As he got closer to the door, the 

numbers of the address seemed 

familiar. He pulled out the piece of 

paper the older man had given him. 

It was the same address. 

He turned to Caitlyn. “Oh my God, 

you’re in on it.” He started 

hyperventilating. He wanted to run, but 

he was in the middle of nowhere, near 

an abandoned warehouse with the most 

beautiful creature in the world– 

“Kevin, you need to relax.” 

He felt his heart beating faster, the 

breaths growing shallower. He watched 

as Caitlyn moved towards him, her face 

appearing closer and closer, her lips 

zeroing in on his until they touched, her 

tongue like sandpaper. Her eyes – 

where had he seen them before? They 

were the last things he saw before 

passing out. 

He awoke on a bed to the sounds of 

eating. Banners stencilled with “Happy 

Birthday, Kevin!” were strewn across the 

room, along with colourful balloons and 

lit candles. About twenty people sat 

down eating and drinking family-style 

around a long, wooden picnic 

bench. They were mostly middle-aged 

with the exception of one or two elders, 

gumming their food. It certainly wasn’t a 

festive mood. Instead, a pallor of 

moroseness hung in the air. 

Kevin moved, surprised that he wasn’t 

shackled or tied, which caused the bed 

INITIATION

JAMES MORRIS 

to squeak underneath him. When it did, 

everyone looked his way – a mix of 

sadness and accusation. Then they 

turned back to eating. 

He tried to piece together how he got 

inside; he thought briefly that he’d been 

poisoned or dosed, but realized, 

stupidly, he had been felled by a simple 

kiss. Sad, indeed. 

Caitlyn sat among them and waved him 

over. “Come over, you must be 

starving.” Not wanting to irritate his 

kidnappers and secretly admitting that 

he was hungry, he stumbled over to the 

picnic table. The group made room for 

him and Kevin sat between two hairy 

men who slurped meat off the bone. 

A bowl of he-knew-not-what sat in the 

middle of the bench. It looked like slop, 

a kind of giant proportioned steak 

tartar. He spooned a glob onto his 

paper plate. It stood unwavering, a 

mound of meat, festooned with sprinkles 

of pepper. 

He took one bite and found it too 

gelatinous and fatty for his taste. But 

his tablemates seemed to suck it up like 

manna. A man with two different 

colours for eyes sat across from him, 

staring. “Don’t waste it,” he 

growled. “We honour the animal we 

eat.” Under such scrutiny, Kevin 

obeyed, shovelling the food into his 

mouth and swallowing quickly so as to 

reduce its taste. It was vile, filling his 

nose with a pungent iron scent. Where 

had he smelled this before? As he 

chewed, he nearly cracked a tooth as he 

bit down on something hard. 

Reaching into his mouth, he pulled out a 

finger: a human finger, its dirty fingernail 

still intact. He spit it out and looked 

across the table. Everyone stopped and 

gaped at his ill manners. He scanned 

everyone’s food. He hadn’t noticed 

them before – hell, who would have? 

Pieces of ear, tooth and toe littered his 

tablemate’s plates. He stood up and 

retched. When he looked at his 

tablemates, they were laughing – 

banging fists on the table, kneeling over 

with tears laughing. One of them picked 

up the finger he had spit out, put it in his 

mouth and sucked the marrow 

deliciously clean. 

“…what’s wrong with you?” Kevin 

stammered. 

Caitlyn rose, “Kevin, don’t be 

frightened. We’re not here to hurt you.” 

“What is this? What kind of people are 

you?” He moved backwards, only to find 

his escape blocked by a wall. 

“It’s just that. We’re not people.” She 

spoke calmly and without 

malice. “We’re werewolves. And so are 

you.” 

Kevin was clearly no werewolf. And 

neither were these humans. Killers, 

maybe. Insane, certainly. But --

“Werewolves?” Just hearing the word 

roll off his tongue sounded ridiculous. 

“I can understand why you don’t believe 

us. No one does during his or her first 

change. When you change into a 

human, you forget what it’s like to be 

normal.” 

Kevin looked to escape. The windows 

were barred. The door was 

locked. There were too many of them. 

“Kevin, you can’t leave. It’s too 

dangerous out there.” 

“Do I look like a werewolf to you?!” 

Caitlyn ran in front of him, trying to 

comfort him. “Kevin, look at me. You 

know who I am. Maybe not in this form, 

but you know me. I’m part of your 

pack. We all are.” 

Is that where he had recognized her 

eyes? 

The man with the two distinct eyes 

spoke again, “I’m your cousin. I taught 

you how to kill a calf.” The elder who 

gummed his food, wiped his mouth. “I’m 

your great-grandfather. I watched you 

when you was a youngling.” All around 

the table, they each had quips on how 

they were related and their importance 

in his life. A woman, “You suckled at my 

breast” to a young man, “We chased 

cats and sang under the moon.” 

“No…I’m human…” was all Kevin could 

reply. 

Caitlyn explained, “Only for the night.” 

“But the stories…” 

She continued: “The stories are all 

wrong. People don’t turn into 

werewolves during a full 

moon. Werewolves turn into people 

during a full moon. Just for one 

night. That’s why we have a safe 

house. Over the years, we’ve even 

acquired IDs, false birth records, things 

we need to survive in the outside world 

for the night.” 

“And me?” 

“It’s why you don’t remember anything 

before tonight. You’re thirteen. An adult 

now. This was your first time making 

the change.” 

Kevin looked at the birthday 

banners. “This was a…birthday party?” 

Caitlyn nodded. “It was supposed to 

be.” 

INITIATION

JAMES MORRIS 

“And the man who said he was my 

father?” 

Caitlyn looked to the other members at 

the table. They couldn’t meet Kevin’s 

eyes. 

Kevin prodded, “Was he..?” 

She nodded. That explained why the 

party wasn’t festive; they were grieving. 

Caitlyn spoke again, breaking his 

attention. “Come back, Kevin and blow 

out your candles.” She motioned toward 

the table where thirteen candles 

encircled a bloody organ he was glad he 

couldn’t identify: a werewolf birthday 

cake. “It’s your favourite.” 

He believed not a word. This was the 

work of a cult or conspiracy, his role still 

a mystery. He had no intention of 

staying to figure it out. Whatever the 

risks, he couldn’t just escape; he had to 

destroy them lest they kidnap or kill 

others like him. And if these things 

really considered themselves something 

other than human, then he would kill 

them like the dogs they were. He saw 

the alcohol, burning candles and 

flammable streamers crisscrossing the 

ceiling and knew what he had to do. 

His escape had been easier than 

expected. They didn’t try to hurt him; 

they focused only on putting out the 

fire. And in the chaos that followed, he 

slipped out the front door. For good 

measure, he took a metal pipe and 

bashed the doorknob, sealing them 

inside. 

And then he ran. 

He looked back at the burning 

warehouse -- the fire engulfing the roof, 

the flames seeming to lick the sky, the 

sounds of howling and shrill animal cries 

piercing the night – 

It’s just your imagination. 

As the sun rose from the east, he felt 

the strangest sensation, as if his whole 

body were undergoing a primal 

vibration. The vibration intensified. His 

senses seemed alive; smells from near 

and far flooded his nostrils; his eyesight 

seemed more acute, colours and figures 

became sharper; and he had a sense of 

limberness and quickness on his 

feet. He lifted up his shirt, only to see 

thick swaths of hair emerging from 

under his pale skin. 

He saw a large puddle on the ground, 

but thought better of seeing his 

reflection, too scared of what he might 

find.

SHA 

ANNIE ANNIEN

DES ES OF OF BLUE 

by by 

NEUGEBAUER 

EUGEBAUER

SHADES OF BLUE 

by 

ANNIE NEUGEBAUER 

You’ve always thought of forests as green, 

but all around you tonight 

seems blue. 

The darkened trunks of trees 

loom navy; the opalescent moon 

gleams bright through the sapphire leaves, 

makes your skin glow 

cerulean. 

The weight of your pack on your back 

is eager for its destination. 

You push aside cold, bony branches 

and shuffle through wet, whispering leaves 

fallen in clumps on the earth. 

Finally, the clearing appears before you, 

almost unnaturally round, 

wide and empty but for the ancient, 

magnificent tree. 

Inhaling magic, you step into the circle, 

feel tall teal grass brush your calves. 

Hearing ropes groan – 

ropes only creak

if they’re weighted – 

you look up 

so high into the cobalt braches 

that your neck strains, 

and you spot them. 

Hundreds of skeletons 

dangling by the neck, 

swaying beneath gnarled branches 

like demented wind chimes. 

Some glow pure, brilliant white, 

gleaming with inappropriate smiles 

in this sea of azures, 

but the old ones are browner, swing less... 

bones get lighter with time. 

The hairs on your neck dance 

in recognition of your fate. 

You pull out your rope 

and begin to climb.

EYER’s RING 

by 

CASSIE MEYER’s RING 

KATIE JONES by 

KATIE JONES

KATIE JONES 

In 1989 two lovers were said to have 

been buried together, after they both 

suffered from a drug overdose. It was 

either a tragic accident or a 

synchronized suicide. It happened on a 

hot summer night, when the teenage 

lovers decided to shoot a potent mixture 

of heroin into the veins of their arms. No 

one really understood why they would 

have used drugs to begin with, she was 

a Catholic girl, and her mother and 

father would always ensure she was 

going to be brought up in the way of the 

Lord. He was the son of a lawyer, 

intelligent and though he had no 

religious upbringing, he was said to be 

straight edge. He never drank or 

smoked and it was said they were both 

still virgins when they died. 

But when they were found, lying 

intertwined on the girl’s bed; they had 

single injection sites on their skin, and 

one syringe that was the culprit in this 

case. For years people fantasised 

about how they would have ended it, 

would he inject her, or would she have 

injected him? Did he use his lips to 

clean away the bead of blood growing at 

the site where the needle perforated 

skin? No one would ever know. Some 

thought it romantic, like those famous 

lovers Romeo and Juliet; others saw it 

as simply a stupid mistake, and a total 

waste of life. Whatever they thought, 

the parents of the deceased combined 

the funerals, so that the two could rest 

together, and they were placed in the 

same plot. Rumour had it that they 

were placed in the same coffin, but no 

one really knew because the funeral 

service was private, only friends and 

close family friends were allowed to 

attend and say goodbye. 

It was for this reason alone that a 

young man found himself pulling up to 

the old, abandoned cemetery, the 

headlights of his beaten up Commodore 

blasted rays of artificial light onto the 

mass of trees surrounding the path that 

led to where the rows of tombstones sat 

in silence. He opened the door and 

closed it with a slight thud, moving 

through the warm night slowly and 

quietly. The soles of his boots hit the 

gravel road and sent crunching noises 

into the still night. He wore jeans and a 

black t-shirt. There was no need to rug 

up. This warm night greeted him and he 

enjoyed the breeze that trickled through 

the fabric of his shirt. In his hand he 

clutched a single, compact spade that 

folded neatly away into the crook of his 

arm. 

The path led him deeper into the rolling 

hills peppered with stones, some tombs 

held up ancient looking angels and their 

lifeless eyes glistened in the moonlight, 

sad expressions slowly eroding away 

after years of rain and summer 

heat. The silence of the night was 

unnerving and the man found himself 

glancing around his shoulder every once 

in a while, scanning the night. He 

moved off the gravel and onto the soil, 

he found himself sinking into soft, dry 

earth with every step he took, as though 

the ground beneath was attempting to 

suck him into its very core. He found 

himself bumping into old vases, sending 

the brittle glass shattering to the ground 

and slicing the silence with its sound. 

Finally he came to a specific grave, a 

simple headstone marked the spot and 

the words engraved into the stone were 

faded and hard to decipher, he reached

out and rubbed the dirt and dry mud off 

the smooth surface, revealing the 

names underneath. James Tonkin and 

Cassie Meyers lay here, resting beneath 

the six feet of dirt and soil. Wearily he 

unfolded the spade, and began to set to 

work, thrusting it into the loose, dry soil 

before placing his weight onto the blade, 

driving down and scooping up chunks of 

dirt before throwing them into a pile onto 

the side. Perspiration gathered on his 

forehead and the biceps of his arms 

bulged as he worked, determined to get 

this done before the light came over the 

horizon. He soon found himself knee 

deep in earth, sinking deeper into the 

core of the ground below him. Jumping 

out, he landed onto the top soil, before 

pulling his sweat soaked shirt over his 

head and throwing it to the ground. It 

stuck to his skin, wet and slick, but once 

he was free, he glanced back at the hole 

and prepared himself for another crack 

at this digging, fixing his hair back into a 

tight bun before doing so. 

A scuttling noise caught his attention 

and he whipped around, eyes wide and 

searching the stones around him, 

squinting into shadows, catching a 

glimpse of an oversized, wet looking 

cockroach as it squeezed it’s glistening 

body between the cracks of a 

tomb. The man shuddered, taking a 

deep breath and then leaping into the 

hole he’d dug, working continuously 

now, unable to stop himself. It felt like 

forever, and the sun began to creep 

over the horizon, the bright orb slowly 

rising up and shattering the darkness 

with vivid rays of orange, pink and 

red. The warbling of magpies resonated 

through the air, and the screeching of 

birds filled the trees. He had to work 

faster. 

It wasn’t long before he heard the 

thump of the shovel hitting wood, and he 

threw the spade over the edge of the 

hole, it hit the mound of dirt with a dull 

plunk. On his hands and knees, he 

worked furiously to remove soil with his 

fingers, dirt spilled out of his cupped 

hands and slid through the cracks of his 

digits. Eventually the lid of a coffin was 

exposed, and the man frowned, this 

confirmed they were buried 

together. Gradually he pried the wood 

off the top, the brittle timber cracking 

and splintering in his hands, shards of 

needle fine embers slicing into his skin 

and burying deep into the flesh of his 

palms. The sun was higher now, 

exposing the contents within the coffin. 

There they were, two skeletons with 

transparent, tissue paper skin clinging to 

the faces and limbs in some places, 

ivory coloured bones poked out beneath 

the decayed flesh. Embalming had 

preserved these two lovers relatively 

well. Their spines were curled slightly, 

as though they had been buried 

embracing each other, and the bones of 

their limbs were intertwined, you could 

not move one without causing the other 

skeleton to fall into a mass of 

bones. Their grinning skulls faced each 

other, the hollows of their orbital holes 

locked onto each other’s gaze. The 

smaller skeleton had a single gold band 

around its index finger, and a thin chain 

sat snugly inside of the ribcage of the 

larger skeleton, intertwined around the 

vertebras of its neck. 

The man sat there, simply admiring the 

scene before him for a moment. Before 

reaching into the depths of his back 

pocket and sliding out his smart 

CASSIE MEYER’s RING

KATIE JONES 

phone. He knelt over the bodies, before 

snapping multiple photos, close ups of 

their skulls, and full length photographs 

of their bodies lying side by side. Then 

he slid his hands into the coffin and 

delicately removed the single band 

around the finger of one body, with 

shaky hands he managed to slide it off 

without interfering too much. Next he 

reached for the chain. His hands slid 

under the rib cage and he slowly 

gripped the ring before threading it 

through the spaces of the ribs, catching 

it in his free hand and undoing the latch 

around the skeletons neck. Flakes of 

dried skin began to fall off the chin of the 

skull as his hands brushed past. 

The man pocketed these items, and 

then leaped and clawed his way out of 

the deep hole, the fabric of his jeans 

were filthy, and dirt poured out from the 

leg holes of his pants. He stood up, 

photographing the open grave and the 

headstone before working quickly to fill 

in the loose soil he’d dug up. 

The man reached his car by the time the 

sun had settled higher into the sky, and 

the canary yellow sedan, with peeling 

paint and rust stains, slowly rolled out 

onto the road. 

Once he was home, he entered the 

house and plonked himself down in front 

of his laptop, waiting impatiently as it 

came on. Sipping coke, he quickly 

uploaded the pictures he’d taken to 

various websites. One was a popular 

site that glamorised death and 

frequently showed pictures of dead 

humans in various stages of decay. The 

other was his personal blog. He sat 

there for a few moments, in the glowing 

light of the monitor, as the comments 

began to roll in. And with a smirk on his 

face, he turned and set the rings on his 

desk, before crawling into bed 

exhausted. 

He slept until the sun went down, then 

he finally rolled out of bed, long black 

hair matted with sweat. He moved his 

naked body towards the shower, turning 

on the water and washing the dirt and 

filth away, stained water drained into the 

plughole beneath him. Once he was 

finished he moved out and dried himself 

off, lightly towel drying his shoulder 

length hair, before pushing it into a 

messy bun and tying it back with 

elastic. He looked into the fogged up 

mirror, reaching out with his hands and 

applying messy, black eyeliner to his 

vivid, blue eyes. Glancing at his slim 

face, he checked his reflection, studying 

the high cheekbones. He wasn’t overly 

handsome, but he wasn’t too bad 

either. The five o’clock shadow on his 

chin and cheeks made him look older 

than his 21 years today. 

Walking out, he dressed in loose black 

jeans and a tank top before sliding his 

wallet into the back of his pants, pulling 

on Dr Marten boots, grabbing the rings 

and leaving the house. He walked down 

the busy sidewalk, until he found himself 

at one of the local pubs he frequented, 

entering and setting down at the bar, 

ordering a beer. 

The bartender smiled, handing over a 

cold Victoria Bitter, and collected his

money before speaking, “How’s it going 

Terry?” he asked the man, as he sipped 

the froth off the top of his beer. 

Terry looked up, studying the lanky, tall 

man with a buzz cut, “Good thanks, 

Drew.” 

“The band doesn’t start for another hour 

or so”, Drew said, leaning over the 

polished bar. 

“It’s okay,” muttered Terry, “I was hoping 

to score a good meal before I really got 

tonight underway.” 

“Alright, I’ll get you the usual.” said the 

bartender, heading off. 

Terry ate a crispy chicken burger at one 

of the nearby tables, sipping multiple 

beers as he went. The band came in, 

carrying instruments and setting up in a 

small corner of the bar. The stage 

wasn’t much, and this place wasn’t 

glamorous. In fact, it was an old pub 

with stained wooden floor and graffiti in 

the toilets. But the crowd was coming 

through the doors, girls and boys 

adorned in black clothing, their eyes 

ringed with black eyeliner, some faces 

covered in glistening metal, all seeking 

to be unique yet looking the same. 

A girl in a full length black dress took a 

seat opposite Terry as he pushed the 

plate aside, her long, black tresses fell 

messily around her face, and the canvas 

of her face rippled into a smile, brown 

eyes twinkling. 

“I’m glad you came,” Alice said, taking 

hold of the bottle in front of her and 

sipping at her Canadian Club, before 

setting the cold beverage back into the 

little wet ring on the table. 

“I am too, should be a good night.” Terry 

remarked, watching the small room 

become filled with spectators. People 

were already lining up to see the band 

as they practiced a set. 

The night went on. Terry was 

surrounded by people, but Alice was 

always beside him. Eventually they left 

the pub, walking out into the night air 

and standing on the sidewalk sucking on 

cigarettes. Curls of smoke left their 

mouths and drifted into the sky. 

Terry reached into his pocket, producing 

a single, gold ring in his palm, “I’ve got 

something for you he said, smiling as he 

did so. Alice reached out, allowing him 

to slide the band onto her index finger, a 

knowing smile on her face. 

“Is this...” her voice trailed off. 

“Cassie Meyer’s ring, yes it is.” Terry 

whispered smugly, watching Alice’s 

face, her eyes wide and studying the 

gold jewellery. 


KATIE JONES 

“I can’t believe you actually did it.” She 

spoke softly, slightly awed by this. 

“Well,” he paused before speaking 

again, “I knew you wanted it, you’ve 

always spoke of those two lovers. And 

look,” his hand went underneath the 

fabric of his shirt, revealing a ring 

dangling on a chain from his neck. 

Alice’s eyes bulged, reaching forward 

she fingered the gold ring ever so gently 

with the tips of her fingers. “Forever 

lovers,” she whispered voice barely 

audible. 

Terry leaned forward, and his lips met 

hers, gently caressing the soft, plump 

flesh of her mouth. She kissed him 

back, before finally pulling away, wide 

eyes locking onto his face. “Thank you.” 

The two parted, and Terry headed back 

home, walking in the light provided by 

the street lamps above and smiling to 

himself. He went slowly, enjoying the 

darkness and the stars, his lips still 

curled into a grin as the kiss lingered 

there. When he slid the key into the 

lock of his door, he felt something 

caress the back of his neck. Crying out, 

he spun around, stray hairs freeing from 

the tie in his hair and settling around his 

shocked face. 

There was nothing there. He reached 

back to touch the flesh of his neck and 

the skin was ice cold and slightly 

wet. He brought his fingers back and 

close to his face, studying the thin film of 

moisture there. Frowning, eyebrows 

drawn close together he turned around 

and opened the door, locking it behind 

him and switching on the lights. The 

screen of his laptop was still on, and he 

walked over, settling down into the chair 

and focussing on the pictures of the two 

in the grave, the comments were 

endless. People were both impressed 

and enraged. Terry grinned and began 

to type furiously, hitting the keyboard 

hard as he went. He looked down, and 

noticed that there were flakes wedged 

between the keys, between his fingers 

he picked one out staring at it; it was dry 

and crumpled from his touch. Ignoring 

it, he typed on, before settling into bed, 

mind fuzzy and still drunk. 

He awoke a couple of hours later, and 

rolled over and onto his stomach, but his 

face was pressing into something 

beneath him, it felt like crumbs on his 

pillow. He reached out lethargically, and 

switched on the lamp, only to discover 

the little flakes were not crumbs, but 

something else, transparent and light, 

they covered his pillow case like 

dandruff. He threw the pillow off the 

bed, stood up and made his way to the 

linen closet, grabbing another pillow 

case and peeling the used one off it 

before forcing the bulky pillow into its 

cover. Sleep came almost suddenly, 

and his slumber was peaceful. 

Hours later the alarm buzzed in his 

room, and he moved to turn it 

off. Stepping out of bed and into the 

shower, he stood there as the water fell 

over him, wiping away at his body 

blindly before stepping out and drying 

himself off. As usual, he checked his

eflection in the mirror. Terry’s eyes 

went wide and fear licked at his insides 

as he glimpsed himself. The person 

staring back at him looked like him, but 

something was different, the skin on his 

face was cracking in places, and the dry 

layers were literally peeling away from 

the flesh underneath like old paint. He 

desperately searched through his 

bathroom cupboard, grabbing 

moisturiser and slathering it onto his 

skin furiously. It was less noticeable this 

way, but the skin was still discoloured. 

He checked his body and the dandruff 

like flakes were everywhere. 

He pulled on clothes, and though it was 

hot he wore pants and a long sleeve 

top, hiding his skin, before placing a hat 

and sunglasses on his head, moving out 

into the day he headed off to work. 

At the coffee shop, he served people, 

but he was forced to remove his hat and 

glasses. People gasped at the sight of 

his skin, and two hours after entering 

the workplace he had to check his 

reflection again; the bulging eyes and 

worried looks were too much for him to 

handle. Frantically he moved to the 

bathroom, staring at himself in the 

mirror, his hands clenched the basin 

until his knuckles were white. The skin 

was peeling off, bubbling and enlarging 

in places, while some of the flesh on his 

cheek bones was filled with holes. The 

meat looked necrotic, black and dead 

around the small caverns on his 

face. He backed away suddenly, as a 

large, dead chunk of flesh began to give 

way, revealing white slime and dark 

flesh underneath. He used his finger to 

prod at the hole, gathering mush onto 

his finger and inhaling the scent. 

The stench was incredible, and his 

body heaved as gags ripped through his 

throat. The smell was nothing he had 

ever come across, something close to 

meat that had gone off in the heat of the 

summer, but a thousand times 

worse. He lifted his shirt and his pale 

skin seemed to be enlarged in places, 

his belly swollen and filled with 

something that could only be gas, 

discolouration speckled his flesh, blue, 

purple and white; he looked like the 

surface of a fine china plate. 

And then his eyes locked onto the 

reflection of a band of gold hanging from 

his neck, he reached up with his fingers 

and tried to rip it off furiously. Agonising 

pain sped down his spine. He gripped 

it with both hands, ripping at the flimsy 

chain furiously, but it wouldn’t come 

off. His fingers searched blindly behind 

his head, moving through messy curls 

as he went, and searching for the latch, 

but the tips of his fingers prodded 

something odd and when he moved 

forward to inspect it. Twisting and 

pulling his collar down, the horror 

caused his eyes to bulge. 

The skin at the back of his neck was 

swollen and raised; the thin chain 

disappeared into the flesh, as though it 

was growing out of his body. The entry 

point oozed cheese coloured puss, and 

the skin itself felt hard as stone. 

Terry felt nothing but blind panic now, 

and he rushed out of the bathroom, 

bursting into the cafe’ and speeding out 

of the door. Customers yelled at him as 

he ran past, pushing and shoving his 


KATIE JONES 

way through the oncoming crowd. His 

feet hit the pavement and he took off, 

stumbling every once in a while, 

steadying himself and regaining balance 

as he zigzagged in and out of traffic, car 

horns blasting as the crazed man ran 

on. At one point, he tripped, chin hitting 

the concrete, pain radiated through his 

jaw, and as he pushed his face back 

from the pavement, his eyes locked onto 

a chunk of meat, the size of his fist that 

was stuck to the filthy 

concrete. Springing back up, he 

sprinted down an alley way, and 

rounded a corner, fists beating 

frantically on the front door of an old, 

weatherboard house. 

The door opened, and Alice answered, 

a veil covering her face. She screamed 

at the sight of Terry, the flesh of half his 

bottom jaw was missing, and ivory 

coloured bone glistened before her, the 

row of his bottom teeth revealed to her 

eyes. She grabbed at his wrists, with 

her own hands and hung on tight, 

pulling him inside when she realised 

who he was. Terry looked down to find 

that the tips of her fingers were nothing 

but protruding bones, the flesh had split 

and peeled away. 

He followed her inside and she slowly 

reached up and took off the veil, 

breathing slowly before turning to face 

him, her neck was almost bare, vertebra 

exposed here and there, and black, 

necrotic tissue was all that remained of 

most of her once beautiful face. Her 

bulging, brown eyes had sunk back into 

the sockets in her skull and her hair was 

coming out; bald patches speckled her 

skull on the right side of her head. 

Tears welled in Alice’s eyes and rolled 

down her rotten flesh as she spoke, her 

voice raspy and crackling, barely 

audible, “What have you done?” 

Terry looked away, staring at his palms, 

dry flesh clinging to nothing but tendons 

and bones, “I’m sorry, Alice.” 

He sank to his knees, and his body 

shook, sobs echoed off the walls, the 

fabric of his clothes hung off him like 

sacks as he wasted away before her 

eyes. She knelt down beside him, lifting 

his head and studying the grotesque 

face before her, “I love you,” she said. 

Alice leaned forward, gently kissing 

Terry, the flesh of her lips meshing with 

what was left of his, and the skin flaked 

and peeled as their mouths 

moved. When she pulled back, black 

gunk was smeared over the teeth that 

permanently smiled through Terry’s 

jaw. They held each other and silently 

waited. Their organs failed, as enzymes 

and bacteria caused membranes and 

walls to rapidly decay and their bodies 

were filled with a mixture of soup. Skin 

swelled and peeled, gas burst free of 

cracked flesh and the flies were drawn 

to the scent of decay. They held each 

other as their bodies became revolting 

mush and dry bones, blooming into 

flowers of grotesque remains. 

When they were found, they were 

nothing but skeletons hidden under a 

pile of clothing, holding each other 

close, the smaller one wearing a ring on 

her finger, the larger one adorned with a

simple chain, an identical ring sitting 

inside its rib cage. Dental records 

confirmed their identity and the family of 

the deceased were notified. Two 

separate funerals took place over the 

next ten days and the lovers were 

buried apart. 


BOY 

by 

CIO CARRION BOY 

by 

IGNACIO CARRION

The price of admission to their club is an 

answer to a question. The question is 

whispered to the candidate at the 

beginning of the evening. After dinner, 

when the coffee is being poured, he is 

obliged to answer. The men converse 

quietly; anticipating that they will have to 

stop talking soon to give the young man 

the floor. He’s standing next to the sofa. 

He’s very chilly and regrets not having 

chosen a spot next to the fireplace, if for 

nothing else, to add some color to the 

story. “Ok, it’s now or never,” he says to 

himself as he takes a deep breath. The 

custom is to repeat the question to the 

group and begin. He clears his throat 

and looks around the room, making eye 

contact with a few members but ignoring 

most. 

“What’s the worst thing you’ve ever 

seen?” 

“I’ll tell you the worst thing I’ve ever 

seen and along the way I’ll also confess 

to the worst thing I’ve ever done.” He 

pauses to collect his thoughts and 

begins. 

The summer was hot and boring. I am 

an only child, and so I was always left to 

my own devices. My father worked and 

was never around. Although my mother 

didn’t work, I don’t remember her at all 

through that summer. It’s as though she 

disappeared until the day when much to 

my surprise, both my parents appeared 

to tell me that we were moving. I was 

eight. 

There was a handful of kids my age on 

our street that would typically come by 

my house in the morning. One would 

look through the screen door to see me 

sitting on the couch watching TV. After 

he could see my mother wasn’t in the 

room, he would say, “Hey pussy, ready 

to go?” 

“Yeah, fucker – give me a sec,” I would 

respond. 

I’d put on my shoes and let myself out 

the back door to get my bike. I would 

ride it to the front of the house, joining 

the small group of boys, and we’d start 

our day. 

One morning late in the summer we set 

out but didn’t stick to our normal route. I 

yelled to ask where we were headed. 

No one answered so I yelled again; this 

time making sure my voice was louder 

than the wind in our ears and 

punctuating the sentence with a curse 

word. David, who was just ahead of me, 

turned his head very quickly and yelled, 

“You’ll see!” Then turned and yelled

IGNACIO CARRION 

again for good measure, “But for now, 

just shut the fuck up.” 

We rode for what seemed like forever 

though it couldn’t be too far. The 

newness of the route deceived me. 

We ended the ride in front of a house 

that had clearly been a fine house about 

a million years ago. It stood abandoned, 

choked by an ancient wisteria vine that 

filled the air with a sweet, ripe scent that 

reminded me of an old lady. It was at 

the end of a dead-end street on a large 

lot, and it didn’t look like there were any 

neighbors nearby. 

We left our bikes in the front yard, next 

to a gravel driveway and gathered. 

“Boy told me about this place,” David 

said. He was the kid who had told me to 

shut the fuck up earlier. 

“Bullshit,” Hank interrupted, “he didn’t 

tell you.” 

“Well, OK,” David started again, 

correcting himself. “I heard him tell 

Patsy about it. He said he’d bring her 

here today so we better take a look and 

then leave. We don’t want to be here if 

he comes. Jason, you stay out here and 

be our lookout. If Boy shows up, you 

need to sound the alarm.” 

“Fuck that,” said Jason, “I’m coming with 

you guys.” 

It was settled. We would explore the 

house as a group with no one on the 

lookout for Boy. 

Boy had gotten his name when his 

brother David was just a baby. The story 

goes that David, never having said a 

word, pointed at his older brother and 

said, “Boy.” Their parents thought the 

baby was some kind of genius and 

decided on the spot that the elder 

brother would be called Boy from then 

on. Earlier that summer Boy had 

bragged about turning sixteen. He was 

big for his age and always smelled like 

onions. Though we all were, David, his 

brother, was especially afraid of him. It 

was as though Boy had decided to hate 

his brother from the moment David had 

pointed at him and made his first sound. 

Boy had been with Patsy the last time I 

saw him. It’s clear to me now that the 

girl was mentally challenged but back 

then we all thought she was just dumb. 

And a slut. It was well known that Boy 

was having sex with her. I was on my 

way to the public swimming pool and 

wanted David to come with me. As I

knocked on his door, Boy snuck up 

behind me. He wrapped both his arms 

around me and lifted me up so his 

mouth was right next to my ear. I could 

smell his body odor which was familiar 

and foul and realized I couldn’t move. 

“Hey buddy,” he said to me, not knowing 

who I was, just knowing I was one of his 

brother’s friends. “I just fucked the slut. 

Her pussy was real good. How about I 

fuck you next? You want that?” 

In spite of the heat I shivered and kicked 

with both my legs at him, missing him 

completely but managing to get loose. 

“No, you fucking asshole,” I said as I got 

up and ran away from him to my bike. 

Once safely on my bike I turned to him 

and repeated myself for good measure, 

“You fucking asshole.” It was only then 

that I noticed Patsy had been standing 

well behind us on the sidewalk. 

Watching. 

I had not factored running into Boy 

today. Suddenly I wished that Jason had 

agreed to be our lookout. But I wasn’t 

going to chicken out. I joined the rest of 

our small group as we made our way 

around the back of the house. I saw 

right away that Boy had been there. The 

back door was broken as were the 

windows, the broken glass mingling on 

the ground with the grass and weeds, 

shining brightly in spots as I shifted my 

gaze. That’s when I noticed something 

moving in the brush. I walked away from 

the other boys towards it and it took a 

little jump in my direction. While the 

other boys made their way into the 

house, I found a gray rabbit. 

I bent over to touch the rabbit and 

started talking to it like I’ve seen people 

talk to babies. It must have been 

someone’s pet at some point because it 

didn’t try to get away. I had never been 

this close to a rabbit, much less touch 

one. I was just getting used to its very 

soft pelt when I heard one of the boys 

scream from inside the house. I was a 

good twenty feet away from the back 

door when they burst out of it. The first 

was Jason, then David, whose look 

seemed weirdly vacant, and who 

managed to wave me towards him as he 

turned to run. Then the other two. 

At the same time, I had gotten up to 

follow. Without realizing it, I had 

gathered the rabbit in my arms and, not 

knowing why they were all running, I 

followed suit and started to run towards 

my bike. 

I had managed to make the corner when 

I felt something tug at my jeans. My 

body was lifted off the ground by the 

force and I flew through the air and back 

towards the house. I landed hard on the 

ground. I tried to break the landing with 

BOY


my left arm and in the process dropped 

the rabbit. The rabbit scampered a few 

feet away from me as I realized that my 

arm hurt like nothing I had ever felt. I 

noticed the rabbit looking at me. I 

noticed the blood gathering around the 

small pebbles now embedded into the 

palm of my left hand and then I noticed 

Boy standing in front of me. 

He looked down at me and smiled. He 

wasn’t wearing a shirt and his jeans 

weren’t zipped up. His pubic hair 

protruded from his pants as I tried not to 

look. It was the first time I had ever seen 

that. 

“What’s this?” he asked looking down at 

the rabbit. 

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling 

immediately stupid. 

“You don’t know? What are you? A 

retard? Like Patsy?” 

Patsy, by then, had also made her way 

out from the house. Her breasts were 

exposed, as she also didn’t have a shirt, 

but her shorts were on, if slightly offkilter. 

She looked over at me. Her face 

was bloody. Her eye swelling and her lip 

split. She’d been crying. She had not 

wiped her nose. 

“Don’t worry about her, buddy, we’re 

trying something new today and she’s 

not quite used to it,” Boy said as he bent 

over and picked up the rabbit. “Is this 

yours?” he asked and smiled at me 

again. 

“Yes,” I said, knowing that was not the 

right answer. 

Boy’s response was to jut out his lower 

jaw and nod his head. 

The other boys were all gone by then. I 

knew this because except for the breeze 

and a few distant birds, there was 

silence. 

Boy held the rabbit close to his chest, 

then rocked it a bit as you would a baby. 

Then he kissed it. He looked at me, then 

looked at Patsy, then kissed the rabbit 

again. We were a summer triangle on 

the point of collapse. 

Boy lowered himself to the gravel and 

reached behind him. From his back 

pocket he pulled out a switch blade. 

Patsy started making a guttural, pathetic 

sound that started as a “no” and swelled 

to a sob. I sat on the ground, guarding 

my arm, which I was sure was broken.

Boy placed the rabbit in the center of the 

triangle and rolled it on its back. He 

pressed the button on the side of the 

knife, which immediately doubled its 

size with the blade now exposed. He 

made a point to show me the knife, 

slicing the air in front of him slowly, once 

then again, making an invisible “x”. Like 

the broken glass on the ground, it 

sparkled for a second. Then in a 

graceful movement, he lowered the 

knife to the neck of the rabbit and slit its 

throat. The rabbit had tried to get away 

the whole time but quickly quit moving. 

A small puddle of blood spilled and 

gathered beneath it, the red tint 

contrasting wildly with the gray of its fur 

and the white of the gravel. 

The moment held us immobile. Then it 

was released. 

“I’ll bet you think this is over, don’t you 

buddy?” Boy said to me. 

I had no idea what he could mean. 

“Don’t you?” he repeated. 

Then I thought, Yeah, this should be 

over, but it’s not. 

Reading my mind, he said, “It’s not over, 

not by a long shot.” 

With the hand holding the rabbit he 

turned its body so that its head was 

opposite to where it had just been. The 

movement made the dirt underneath it 

mix with the blood. The track left a semicircle 

in front of the rabbit and Boy. 

Then he took the knife, now with clear 

access to the belly of the rabbit and 

sunk its tip into it. Without much effort, 

he cut down and up in a semi-circle 

through the rabbit’s stomach. 

“Look,” he said, “she’s smiling at you.” 

I stared at the rabbit, trying not to think 

about how quickly my arm was swelling. 

Trying not to think about the 

pain. Trying not to think about Patsy 

who was still saying, “No, no”. 

Boy set the knife down next to the rabbit 

and then used both his hands to split the 

rabbit apart. He reached into it and 

pulled something out. They were tiny 

sacks that appeared to be strung 

together. He pulled and out they came 

from the belly of the rabbit. It took me a 

second to realize the rabbit had been 

pregnant. He dropped the string next to 

the dead rabbit with the last bit still in 

her. Then he got up and walked towards 

BOY


me. I took a deep breath and I ran all 

the way home. 

The worst thing I ever saw was what 

Boy did to that rabbit. The worst thing I 

ever did was not say anything about 

Patsy, until now. 

He takes a deep breath. As he exhales, 

the group of men seems to take his cue 

and also breathe in the last of the 

evening. They will think about him later. 

They will think about the gray rabbit and 

about Boy and Patsy. They will come to 

the conclusion that they have new blood 

in their ranks. 

Later that night, sleep is elusive as it’s 

been for the last couple of months. The 

insomnia started late in the summer 

when one night he had been dreaming 

about the day Boy killed the rabbit and, 

though he had never suffered from it, he 

realized he had been sleepwalking. He 

woke up in front of his bedroom window. 

He had been dreaming that Boy was 

standing outside in the middle of his 

backyard without a shirt and with jeans 

undone. 

Sometimes the thing that goes bump in 

the night is the house settling. 

Sometimes it’s something else. Tonight 

the bump wakes him and, thinking he is 

fully awake, he gets out of bed to look 

outside his window. Just as he thought, 

Boy is standing outside like he had in 

the dream. Boy is no longer sixteen. He 

is much older, almost old. He wears 

sunglasses even though it’s dark, and 

he is without a shirt. His body is ripped. 

He’s tattooed. He speaks and though he 

shouldn’t, he can hear the words as 

though Boy is whispering in his ear. 

“That’s not the way the story really went, 

did it buddy? That’s not the way it 

ended.” 

He turns away from the window and 

heads back to bed. If he is lucky he 

might be able to go back to sleep. If not, 

tomorrow will be a gray day. 

No, that’s not the way the story ended. 

He thinks that maybe if he says it out 

lout, he can end the exorcism he started 

earlier in the evening. He addresses the 

bedroom and finishes the story, telling it 

not as himself, but as if he was the 

wisteria-choked house, or the old, 

scarred trees or some other witness. 

After he killed the rabbit, Boy moved 

towards him, scooping him up in one 

movement. Patsy rushed over to get him

to let go but Boy easily backhanded her 

with his free hand. She fell on the 

ground and let out a now very audible 

cry. Boy carried him inside the house. 

He tried to get away but all Boy had to 

do was grip his arm, now fully swollen. 

The pain was too much to do anything 

else but concede. 

Boy took him to the living room of the 

house; there he had set up a pad for 

himself. He drank from an open beer 

bottle and held him down much like he 

had the rabbit just a few moments 

earlier. Boy unfastened the younger’s 

pants and pulled them down. The 

underwear he just ripped off. 

Afterwards, he pulled his pants up with 

his one good arm and slipped out of the 

house afraid to wake Boy and almost 

tripping over Patsy who was by now just 

whimpering on the ground. Ignoring the 

pain, he took a few steps and stopped in 

front of the rabbit. The ants had already 

started to get to her. He bent over and 

picked up the string still sticking out from 

her stomach. He gently pushed each 

little sack back into her. 

“Sorry,” he said to the rabbit and got up. 

He didn’t run into anyone as he made 

his way home and when he got there, 

he walked directly to the couch and fell 

asleep. He woke to his mother 

screaming, asking him what he had 

done to his arm. 

Later that night, when he and his 

parents returned from the hospital, 

David stopped by. David didn’t ask 

about the cast. Instead, he shared the 

news: Patsy flipped out after they left 

the house and killed Boy. She took his 

knife and slit his throat, then made his 

stomach smile. 

BOY

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at HelloHorror retain all rights to 

their work. For permission to 

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to reprint, contact the editors who 

will forward the request. All content 

on the website and electronic 

journal is protected under copyright 

law. 

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Cover by Ignacio Carrion 

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