‘Crush Your Head’

Jeremiah Gilbert is an award-winning photographer and travel writer based out of Southern California. His travels have taken him to over a hundred countries spread across six continents. His photography has been published internationally and exhibited worldwide. He is the author of three travel books, including Can’t Get Here from There: Fifty Tales of Travel and From Tibet to Egypt: Early Travels After a Late Start. His most recent, On to Plan C, documents his return to travel in a post-pandemic world and is the first to include his photography. He can be found on Instagram @jg_travels

Crush Your Head

Blake was about to switch off the television when a rerun of the first episode of the old Kids in the Hall show came on. He guffawed as he saw nerdy, be-speckled Tyzik, holding his thumb and pointer finger an inch apart, and squinting one eye to sharpen his focus on some nemesis. “Crush your head! I crush your little head,” Mark McKinney squeaked, as he brought his fingers together in a pinch. Ah, Blake thought, if only.

The scritch-scratch at the door finally drew his attention and he punched off the remote.

“Hold your damned horses!” he shouted into the yard, unbolting the back door. Scabby bounded in, bringing with him his stinky breath, the stinging late spring air, and a rush of snow that flew from his fur. With the TV off and the dog in for the night, Blake stretched out on his cot with the old olive army blanket pulled tight around himself. He dreamed of the old days -- getting stoned with his buddies, drinking beer, and eating M&Ms.

Waking late the next morning, Blake rushed out of the house and headed for the Tim Hortons drive-through for his usual pre-work double-double. It was still cold and dark, a typical Canadian March morning. Ten cars were ahead of him and the queue was moving way too damned slow. What the hell was that guy up there ordering? Probably one of those French vanilla double espresso extra-hot latte things. If only he could make the cars in front of him disappear with a snap of his fingers and some fancy-schmancy words. Bam! he’d be the first car in line.

It had been years since Blake thought about having a superpower. It must have been the “Crush Your Head” episode he watched last night dredging up those memories. The first person he ever met who had a special power was Mikey McFaherty, the dark-haired freckled kid who lived up the road when he was a boy. There were three brothers and three sisters in that crowded ramshackle house: Mary Anne, Michaela, Mikey, Mitchell, Michelle, and Marky. The boys all had freckles, and the three girls were skinny and knock-kneed. How the parents ever kept them all straight was a mystery. He and Mikey were in the same grade at Our Holy Mother School.

Mikey was twelve when he discovered he possessed the power to change water into wine. Even though the vino was pretty crappy, his popularity surged and he was the only kid in class invited to all the garage and basement make-out parties. He got a girlfriend way before Blake and the others. When the priests learned of Mikey’s superpower, they told Mr. and Mrs. McFaherty that Mikey had a calling and should enter the seminary. So, when he was fourteen, Mikey was dragged kicking, screaming, and shouting “you bastard, you whore!” to go live at the Rectory with Rev. Father Malachi Aloysius Theophilus (they called him the MAT-man for short). But when round pink Colleen Brody turned up pregnant (though who could tell?) a couple of months later and fingered Mikey, that was the end of his ecclesiastical career and the beginning of his teenage father career. Last Blake had heard, Mikey was working at the brewery and still paying child support to chubby Colleen.

The drive-through wench brushed her shaggy lavender bangs out of her eyes and handed Blake his coffee and chocolate dipped. His first sip burned his lip and tongue so bad he spat it out—now that was a great start to the day. His truck blew a loud backfire as he accelerated onto the interstate and Blake realized he still hadn’t remembered to check the engine timing. If only he had a photographic memory like Missy Orbutt did, he wouldn’t always forget the important things, like paying his rent and power bill so it didn’t go dark. Or maybe remembering to send his mother a birthday card (he’d paid sorely for forgetting that last year). Missy Orbutt wasn’t the smartest kid in school, despite her remarkable memory, but lots of people thought she was because she could parrot absolutely anything she read and heard. Every Sunday after Mass, she entertained the gang by reciting entire skits from Saturday Night Live. That was the best part of Sunday. It didn’t hurt that her go-to-Mass blouse was unbuttoned low enough to show her precocious titties. You’d have thought that with those talents Missy would have been running for some provincial office by now. But she had done lousy on her college entrance exam, after paying good money to obtain the answers from the previous year. Unfortunately, the kid she got them from failed to mention that he’d done abysmally on the exam. As noted, Missy wasn’t all that smart. Blake’s buddy told him he had seen her bartending at Hooter’s. At least she was making good use of one of her superpowers.

Arriving home that evening, Blake was greeted by loud barking from the backyard. Opening the gate from the breezeway, he saw Scabby tangled in his chain. Dumb dog, thought Blake as he unclipped the chain from the post, and then the other end from Scabby’s collar. The sun hadn’t quite set yet and the long grass was swaying in the yard in the golden light. A bit of the day’s warmth still hung in the air. It seemed like a good time to pick up dog poop since he hadn’t done it for weeks. Blake grabbed a bucket and shovel from the breezeway and set about the task, with Scabby close at his heels supervising.

He found the first dead squirrel in the long grass and the second and third were at the base of a tree just inside the fence. There seemed to be no teeth or talon marks on them, though upon close inspection there was a dent on either side of each squirrel’s head, and their heads were flattened. Since Scabby could not have reached them with his tether on, Blake briefly wondered how they had died. Scabby nuzzled each one as it was scooped into the bucket and looked up at Blake expectantly.

As they headed into the house, Blake stopped at his truck and grabbed the bag of Carl’s Jr burgers he had picked up on the way home. Scabby was bouncing like a jack-in-the-box trying to get to the bag. “No way!” said Blake, “These are mine.” Wiping his hands on his overalls, he dumped a load of kibble into Scabby’s bowl and sat on the couch in the TV room to eat. The news was showing a video of the Prime Minister jabbering about the economy. I am so sick of that guy, thought Blake. Every girl he meets in the bar says he’s “such a doll” or “what a dreamboat!” when his picture comes on the TV. Blake took a bite of his burger then closed one eye and focused the other on the PM. With his thumb and forefinger, he crushed the PM’s head.

“I crush your head! I crush your little head!” he said. Nothing happened. Blake tried to crush Scabby’s head, but Scabby just lay there licking his balls. Oh, well, he hadn’t developed that particular superpower. And he couldn’t turn water into wine last he’d tried, and he forgot everything he read. And the damn dog had bounced up again and was trying to steal a burger from the bag.

At the end of his shift on Thursday, Blake headed over as usual to The Beer Mug with a couple of guys from work. They always started the weekend a day early so Friday would feel like it went by faster. Downing Labatt Blues, they talked about the Canadian Hockey League players who had been selected in the NHL draft and which team would come out on top. Their boss took some hits from the guys for calling out Blake this week for being minutes late back from lunch.

“He’s such an f-ing keener,” and they toasted to the boss’s demise. When the international news came on the television, the group all turned to watch the newest drama unfolding to the south. Now there’s a guy who has a real superpower, Blake thought, as a portly old guy with bad hair and a red ball cap pointed and waved to the crowd from a podium. This guy could tell people absolutely anything. He made crazy statements and tweeted pure trash, and they bought it hook, line, and sinker. The crowd chanted his name and waved their own red hats in the air. Some of the women took off their shirts and threw them toward the stage. The guy had a large following that was immune to his lies. Maybe it was genetic. Maybe it was something in their diet, like orange Kool-Aid. It was a powerful superpower to control people with words and

Blake was very jealous of it. If he could lie that way and be believed, he could talk himself into a great situation at work, and probably become at least a shift supervisor. He’d have all the girls he wanted and all the beer he could drink.

The barman switched the channel to the hockey game. When Blake left at the end of the third period, he threw a gold-colored one-dollar loonie on the table, and silently told the coin it was a two-dollar toonie. The loon on the coin didn’t change into a polar bear, and the coin’s color remained the same. Well, shit, then. He tossed a second loonie on the table, pulled his hat down over his ears, and walked out into the darkness.

Blake pulled his truck into the driveway and shut off the ignition. It bucked hard twice before shutting off. When he opened his car door, he could already hear Scabby scratching and whining from inside the house. Damn, Blake thought. He had forgotten to put him out before he left for work. The dog bolted through the door and into the dark yard and Blake made for the john to relieve himself of all the Labatt. Later, as he dozed on the couch with the TV on, he heard the once again forgotten dog scratching and whining. Blake let him in and Scabby raced to the kitchen and sat by his food bowl waiting. Blake threw a handful of kibble in the dish and went to bed.

The next morning, pulling on yesterday’s jeans, splashing cold water on his face, and only slightly hung-over from the Thursday evening pre-gaming, he calculated that only nine hours from now he would be off for two whole days. The sun was up and Blake let a whining Scabby out into the yard. Next he looked, the dog appeared to be hanging about a large dark object toward the back of the property. He wondered if the rotting old maple tree had finally dropped one of its huge branches. He stepped into his work boots and ventured into the yard, his breath hanging white in the chill mist. Lying on its back, legs in the air and protruding from the tall fescue was a four-point buck. Blake tugged on the antlers and hauled the buck toward the house through the weeds, Scabby at his heels, watching possessively. Blake examined the animal and was confused to see no obvious evidence of injury or illness, except for a depressed area on both sides of its head. The brown fur was smooth and the dead eyes were clear. There was no stink. It looked as if the animal just dropped wherever it had been standing. Well, whatever got him, this was venison for a year. He covered the buck with a tarp and hoped the chill would hold through the day when he could rush home from work, dress the animal, and carve out some steaks. Today was looking good. It was Friday and there was venison on the menu.

When Blake left for work, Scabby was sitting on the ground as close as his chain would let him get to the deer, a couple of meters away. A few minutes into his drive, Blake realized he hadn’t filled the dog’s bowl with kibble before leaving. Eh, he’ll hold, thought Blake and he continued to the shop.

Blake dashed out of work the minute the buzzer sounded and jumped into his truck. He planned to make a quick run to Carl’s Jr. to get some burgers since he knew he had a couple of hours of work ahead of him dressing that buck and wouldn’t want to wait that long for dinner.

He’d eat burgers again tonight, but tomorrow he’d feast on a venison steak. As he approached the house, he heard the dog barking furiously in the backyard. He put his burgers on the counter and went out back to check on the buck. It had been a cold and raw spring day, so he was pretty sure the meat was going to be fine. Scabby was exactly where he’d been when Blake left in the morning, still at the very end of his tether, and as close to the deer as he could get. Blake untied him just to shut him up, and the dog darted over. Blake shoved him away from the buck using his boot.

“That’s mine! Keep off!” he shouted.

As Blake started to haul the carcass toward the carport, where he had set up a tarp on the concrete floor to do the messy job of butchering, he noticed a dead squirrel lying in the grass not far from the deer. And then two crows, lying side by side nearby. Scabby nuzzled each of them in turn and picked up the squirrel in his mouth as he followed Blake to the carport. Blake briefly wondered if the crows had ingested some of the deer and died, but there were no marks on the deer suggesting it had been bitten or clawed at, and the crows seemed fat with shiny feathers, though quite dead and their heads a bit flat. The squirrel - well, seems like dead squirrels had been littering his yard lately.

Blake went into the house to get his tools. He stopped to grab a couple of burgers and pop open a beer as he headed back outside. Scabby met Blake at the door and dropped the squirrel at his feet, looking up eagerly at Blake. Blake pushed him away and kicked the squirrel back toward the yard, then knelt to start the bloody job of butchering. He began at the groin and made a long slit in the skin down one leg. Two hours later he was done and loaded the meat into the basement freezer.

Then, on second thought, he took out one small venison steak and brought it to the kitchen. He put a frying pan on the gas range. Scabby had begun to jump and bark near the stove.

While the meat sizzled in the pan, Blake tossed a handful of kibble in the dog’s bowl. Scabby ignored the bowl and continued to pester Blake. Once again Blake pushed him away. Scabby abruptly ceased his barking and stood still, looking intently at Blake whose attention remained focused on the frying pan. Scabby tilted his head to the side, closing one eye.

He balanced on his haunches and raised both paws in front of him in what resembled a supplicating gesture, but wasn’t. Blake flipped the meat in the frying pan, breathing deeply of its gamey aroma, and then dropped like a stone to the kitchen floor, his arm hitting the pan’s handle on his way down. The venison flew from the pan and landed on the floor. The famished dog grabbed the steak. Blake lay unbreathing on the floor. Other than two paw-sized dents on each side of his head and a slight flattening, there was not a mark on the man.

Sherri Bale is a retired medical geneticist and part-time personal trainer. She writes flash, short stories, creative non-fiction, and has completed the first draft of her YA/historical fiction novel set in Alaska in 1919. She lives in Maryland, USA with her husband and diabetic rescue pup, Petey.

‘Nostalgia Zombies’

Maia Brown-Jackson has braved the myriad esoteric jobs that follow a degree in literature, strayed to Iraq to volunteer with genocide survivors, caffeinated herself through a graduate degree in terrorism and human rights, and now investigates US spending in Taliban-controlled Afghanistan. Also, she does art.

Nostalgia Zombies

Derry was my best friend, but that was a long time ago.

Since then, I built my career while Derry played in a band. I saved for retirement and Derry saw the world. And when I bought a house, Derry was still burning through a revolving door of roommates. Derry always used to say, “Sam... you’re the Yin to my Yang.” Thanks to him, I had a long slew of firsts. My first girlfriend, first toke, first summer job, first suspension, first set of wheels, and so on.

Derry may have been there for many of my firsts, but not the parts of my life that were built to last. When I graduated from Stanford, Derry was backpacking in the Alps. When I purchased my Tesla, Derry was flat-broke. When I got my partner-track job, Derry was working in the kitchen at a crêperie. So once upon a time, Derry was my best friend.

I see him every year or so when I travel back home to Eugene, Oregon. We go through the motions of well-intentioned phone calls a few times each year. Sometimes, I’m quite restless after these calls. The last time we spoke to one another, I sat in bed staring at the ceiling until well after midnight. My brain kept repeating an old saying I had heard: “Time is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes.”

Early in the morning, the day after our last phone call, my phone started ringing. It was Derry. We had just talked yesterday; I couldn’t possibly think of a good reason why he would be calling again so soon. I picked up and said hello. There was a long pause. Derry breathed loudly on the other end. Finally, he spoke.

“Do you remember Jesse?”

“From high school? Of course,” I replied.

“He passed away yesterday.” Derry’s words cut through the air like a knife.

Finally, I spoke. “What happened?”

Derry sighed. “It was a heart thing. I don’t want to pry, but all I know is that it came out of nowhere.”

Jesse Portsmith. The mighty cross-country runner. The third leg to our inseparable trio of long-distance misfits. Jesse insisted on rocking the shortest of shorts even in the dead of winter. He would unapologetically piss in water bottles on the bus ride to races. And the day before Thanksgiving each year, he hosted a potluck for everyone on the team. I hadn’t spoken to Jesse in years. I wasn’t expecting to ever speak to him again. A rotten corner of my brain wished I could simply unhear this news.

I felt detached from my body as it floated into the kitchen and numbly prepared my coffee. I actually went the entire week without shedding a tear. Meanwhile, Derry was profoundly shaken. We talked on the phone twice more that week. He’d regale stories I couldn’t have possibly remembered from our past. I hadn’t thought of Jesse in years, so there was little I could add other than silent nods from the other side of the phone. Every summer during high school, we would drive into the mountains for a few days. The Pacific Northwest was the one place in the country with snow-capped peaks well into the summer. Jesse stuck with Boy Scouts throughout his senior year, and he would teach the two of us survival skills. Conditions were always pretty extreme, so we would be sure to downplay the risks to our parents.

“Jesse always tried to convince us that Mount Shasta was haunted,” Derry blurted out unexpectedly during one call.

I vaguely remembered these tirades. The mountains were a sacred and mystical place for Jesse. Derry had always been eager to “yes and” any situation. So, the two of them created extensive lore. More than likely just to get a reaction out of me. The snow prints of other climbers were Yeti tracks. Cave creatures lived deep inside the crevasses. I did my best to convince them none of this scared me back in the day, but I wasn’t very persuasive. Shasta was our big adventure to top off high school. We all went our separate ways after that. I went to Stanford, Jesse to University of Oregon, and Derry hit the road. We never made it to the summit on that final adventure. At the time, we thought there would be a next one.

On the second call, I discovered that Derry had been spending a lot of time on the phone with Jesse’s mom, handling funeral arrangements. I was amazed he still talked with her. The funeral was planned for next Saturday. Derry begged me to fly back to Eugene for the service. I went back and forth on whether or not to go. I was very busy with work. There was so much to do, and I dreaded being pulled back to my hometown.

I wasn’t used to Derry needing me like this. Despite my reservations, I acquiesced to Derry’s request. The night before my 6:00 AM flight, I had a hard time getting to sleep. Finally, I slipped into a fitful nightmare. I was back on Shasta. Derry, Jesse, and I found ourselves halfway up the mountain as blood started oozing out of its snowy pores, trickling slowly. Neither Derry nor Jesse seemed perturbed by this.

I desperately needed to get off, but they kept assuring me it was fine. I just needed to lighten up. Dream Me went into his tent and stubbornly shut himself away from the others. Their voices died down and all I could hear was the wind howling outside.

An outline of a figure approached my tent. It stood there for longer than I thought possible. Finally, it crouched down and slowly unzipped the flap. It had heavy black boots and muscular legs. They were gray and covered in decomposing flesh. As dread filled my body, its knees started to creak. Each inch sounded like bones snapping. A scaly hand pulled the cover to one side. Then, a decrepit face with an ear-to-ear grin forced its way inside. It was a face that I hadn’t seen for many years, but I recognized it straight away.

Jesse smiled in the darkness as I silently screamed in horror.

Back in Eugene, Derry insisted that we share a hotel room to save money. He was already there when I got in, lying on his queen bed, leafing through a Gabriel Marcia Marquez book. I glanced at his shoes still on his feet and frowned. Ignoring this, Derry sprung up from his bed, placing me in a mighty bear hug. I squirmed uncomfortably and patted him on the back.

Derry seemed genuinely excited despite everything. I reminded him that I was flying out the next morning before glancing at my watch and informing him that we should get going.

There was a long line out front of the chapel. Derry’s face turned pale as we inched our way forward. There were too many people in front of us to make out the casket right away. Finally, we saw Jesse. I had only seen a few dead bodies before in my life. All the others were elderly and tired looking. Jesse looked as if he was still a boy, with a ruffled tuft of black, bushy hair upon his peaceful face. I realized that I had frozen still and was holding up the line. Derry also wasn’t moving. His left hand jutted out and grabbedmine, holding it tight. Normally I would have wrested my hand away from him, but he looked terrified.

“Please stay with me,” he mouthed. I swallowed and led us to the casket.

Derry hugged several old classmates as we stood next to Jesse. I vaguely recognized some of them, but Derry had specific and thoughtful words to share with each. Jesse’s mother held Derry in her arms for a whole minute when she approached us. Derry promised to visit her often.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” was all I managed to get out.

I couldn’t bring myself to say I would visit. I couldn’t imagine speaking with Jesse’s mom even prior to this tragedy. Holding this loss between us felt like an impossible feat. I desperately wanted to get back home to LA. To get away from all of this. Derry and I finally left the suffocating chapel. Outside, late spring danced playfully around us. Derry looked up at the bright, blue sky and smiled.

Finally, he gave an enthusiastic sigh and slapped me on the back. “Let’s go get drunk!”

“Perhaps one,” I reasoned. But somehow, I found myself smiling for the first time all day.

Without my consultation, Derry ordered a shot and a beer combo for each of us. His reason for this was that it was more economical. By the third round, I was ready to object, but my head was swimming. Plus, Derry was very busy explaining who was married, who had children, who had shitty partners, and who was cheating on who. I really didn’t care about any of this, but there was enough booze in my system to ask follow-up questions and nod along convincingly. Plus, the more gossip we covered, the less likelihood of covering the elephant in the room. The thing is, Derry lived for the elephant in the room. I knew there was no avoiding it.

After a long-winded story about Wendy Permoth’s shoplifting addiction, he focused his gaze on me somberly.

“Can I tell you something I’ve never told anyone?” he whispered. Derry didn’t need my permission, but I still nodded. He looked down meekly, as if it pained him to share what he needed to share.

“It feels like everything changed when we came down from that mountain. I’ve told myself this fairy tale for years. I’ve told myself that if we had made it to the top... if we had summited. You, me, and Jesse... we would still be friends.”

Derry’s admission was pure. I didn’t have enough time to put up my defenses. My heart started thumping in my chest. Something was all wrong inside me. I couldn’t breathe. I felt scared. So scared that I looked to Derry for help. All of a sudden, whimpers began to escape from inside of me. Tears started streaming down my face. I missed Jesse. Hell, at that moment, I missed Derry. I even missed myself. Derry held me close. He didn’t seem to mind my tears staining his dark blazer. Against all rational thinking, I let go. And it felt good.

After years of begrudging calls with my old friend Derry, after begrudgingly flying to Eugene for Jesse’s funeral, and after begrudgingly ripping the walls of my heart open for just a few minutes, I begrudgingly agreed to climb up Mount Shasta with Derry. The next morning, all these commitments flashed through my brain. I wanted to find a way to wriggle out of this crazy idea, but Derry was glowing. It was all he could talk about.

So that’s how I found myself at the trailhead of Mount Shasta a decade after my senior year of high school. One member of our trio had passed on, and the other had grown into someone unrecognizable. But the same Derry from way back then was right there in front of me.

Pickaxe, rope, crampons, boots, tents, sleeping bags, and layers upon layers of clothing were all crammed into a backpack I could barely hoist onto my shoulders. Derry insisted that we take a route starting from the north which was far less traveled than the typical southern route.

He wanted the mountain all to ourselves for a purer experience. Since this type of activity wasn’t really my thing, I just had to take his word for it. Personally, I’d much rather spend my Saturday at brunch or wine tasting like a normal person.

It was hard to believe that all this gear was necessary. The May heat was sweltering at the trailhead. I was already sweating at 7:00 in the morning. But as I looked far off into the distance, the tree line faded into rock and snow all the way up to the top. We’d be spending two chilly nights on the mountain. A lot would change in this snowy world above the clouds.

Before starting the hike, I took one final look at the peak. Jagged rocks violently protruded from the glacial snow. They looked deadly even in the distance. This wasn’t going to be an easy feat, but I had missed my chance to opt out. I looked over to Derry for wisdom.

“This is the one place where Jesse didn’t need to piss in water bottles. God bless him for that,” he remarked somberly.

With that, we started hiking. The first few hours crept along at a relaxed pace. The trees around us were ancient and tall. They protected us from the brutal overhead sun. We didn’t see another soul the entire day. The chirp of birdsong and Derry’s idle musings made the hours flow along pleasantly. Late in the afternoon, the tree line cleared out, and we began hiking on a mixture of dirt and snow. Little by little, I put on more layers of clothing. The airer was thinning and my breathing began to labor. The terrain went from solid to sloshy.

Those past few weeks had disrupted so much of my well-being. I had become one of those sad sacks who dwell on high school like it was the apex of their lives. Memories of the three of us kept coming into focus at unexpected times. We all lifeguarded in the summer prior to our Junior and Senior year. At the time, days crawled along endlessly. A five-hour shift might as well have been an eternity.

There was really one reason, and one reason only that lifeguarding mattered. We got the opportunity to hang out with female coworkers. Girls in these cases were literally being paid to hang out with us, so our risk of being abandoned or belittled was quite small for a change.

Life during those summers held a highly regarded ritual. We’d wake up at first light for cross country practice and run our hearts out. By Junior year, Jesse, Derry, and I were like agile antelopes far in front of the rest of the pack. We’d take down a few bottles of Gatorade followed by a shower and pancakes back home. After that, we’d typically make our way to the pool for work. On a lucky day, I’d be paired up with someone like Ashley Whitman for an hour on slide duty. This meant we could talk the whole time while kicking preteen pool rats down the Aqua Loop. Nine hours later, we’d be tanned, tired, and a hundred bucks richer.

The three of us would grab some well-deserved ice cream before going to bed and doing it all over again. That was the summer of The Strokes. Julian Casablancas was the coolest human being on the planet. He was pissed off, righteous, rarely sober, and singing the thoughts we all felt but didn’t know how to say.

“Time, like toilet paper, disappears faster near the end,” I muttered philosophically.

“And you don’t know how big of a roll you’ve got until it’s out,” Derry followed up.

We were now traipsing through inches of powdery snow. Derry had assured me that crampons would not be necessary on our first day. They would only slow us down until the route became pure glacier. It was hard for me to imagine going any slower. We couldn’t be covering more than a mile an hour. With the bird chirping long gone, I was once again certain that an afternoon wine tasting would have been preferable.

We arrived at Marine Camp about an hour before sunset. I am told that it got its name because Marines used to climb here for basic training. Derry also said that they stopped this practice decades earlier due to a horrible accident. A dozen or so recruits had died in a cataclysmic blizzard.

“Your ghost stories were a lot more convincing back in the day,” I retorted. But Derry assured me this was one hundred percent true. I told him he was getting worse at lying with age. Derry shrugged and gestured at our empty water bottles. There was a nearby glacial stream. I agreed to go on water duty while Derry set up camp.

I scrambled down a small boulder field leading to the shallow stream just beyond our camp. I crouched down and laid out our bottles. With a sigh, I took off my gloves and allowed the frigid air to numb my extremities. I took this as a sign to work quickly. My hands were shaking by the time I submerged the final bottle into the icy glacier water. I scanned the horizon to distract myself. It was so barren and sterile. Nature here wasn’t the most inviting. All of a sudden, I bolted upright. Someone was watching us. A human-shaped shadow stood motionlessly just beyond the mountain ridge. I looked at it, and it looked at me. Or at least I thought it was looking at me. I glanced down for a moment to grab our water. Just like that, the figure disappeared. With a shudder, I scrambled back to our campsite. I decided not to voice my paranoia just yet. After all, this was a public space.

By now, I was wearing every piece of clothing in my pack. The sun had disappeared behind the mountain, and it was freezing. Derry and I made our way into the tent and zipped ourselves into insulated sleeping bags. It wasn’t late yet, but I knew I wouldn’t be leaving that spot until the sun came out again. It felt weird to be so close to Derry. If Jesse hadn’t died, the next correspondence between us would have probably been my annual Christmas card. Or more accurately, it would’ve been me asking Derry what his latest address was so I could send him a Christmas card.

The day had been hard on my body. It needed to rest. In no time, I drifted off into a dreamless and stale sleep. Derry’s infamous bladder issues caused him to step outside twice to urinate. I’m sure that could not have been comfortable. I silently thanked myself he didn’t have Jesse’s tendency of pissing in water bottles.

The next morning, we woke up to a grisly surprise. A Coyote head had been planted on the ground in front of our tent. There was no meat left on the bones; just two hollow sockets and a taunting grin. Its front teeth jutted out like daggers. It smelled all wrong too; like it was still decomposing. I lifted my thermal over my nose and looked to Derry for advice. I could see the hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

He shoved the skull off to the side with a nearby branch.

“I’ve seen a lot of shit outside, but this is new for me,” Derry stated cautiously.

My head was spinning. I couldn’t figure out how to gauge this eerie situation. This was why I liked the indoors. “We’re going back down, right?” I asked.

Sean Newman is 31 years old and lives in San Francisco. He has combined his love of literature and the outdoors for a tale about adult friendships clashing in the mountains.

‘Gifted’

Charlotte Aeb is an artist and photographer who graduated from the CEPV in Vevey. After her studies, she travelled through Hong Kong, Taiwan, Hanoi, as well as Hobart and Sydney, where she exhibited in galleries throughout her journey. In 2017, she co-directed a short film inspired by a short story by Charles Bukowski, which was screened at the Lausanne Underground Film Festival and at the UpLink cinema in Tokyo. She also worked on a series of videos entitled "PORNFOOD" in collaboration with noise musicians from Hanoi, Tokyo, Moscow, Novosibirsk and London, as well as other short films exploring the theme of the flesh, shown at the meovco gallery in Fribourg and Novosibirsk in 2018.

Gifted

At nine I was skipped two years ahead in school, by eighteen I had graduated University, and by twenty-five I had done so much cocaine, not even my mother’s plastic surgeon could fix my nose. It would be nice to blame her and my father. In contrast, it would be easy to blame myself. But it was the least kept secret amongst my family that the fault of my so-called demise lay with my cousin, Anastasia.

Annie and I had grown up together, raised like siblings. I did love her, but she had always been exceptionally average. Unfortunately she dulled out against my own academic achievements. Perhaps in a public-school Annie may have fared better, but amongst the elites like myself she just didn’t stand out. Obviously, I did my best to support her – she was family. She never did quite take to my teaching methods however. I think it was her low grades that caused her to act out, rebelling and all that.

Mischievous, facetious, and scarily queer; Our nanny used to make fun of her. She called her ‘charming Anastasia’ and called me ‘flawless Alistair’. I understood what she meant; Annie saw it as a compliment though. But I don’t think anyone saw her as truly charming. Almost no one. I did. Even if our nanny or our parents didn’t, I always found her delightful. Annie was so entertaining. And it was nice to know someone was watching my back. Even when we bickered.

I think it was her poor-manners that upset her parents the most. I had often overheard our parents calling her impolite. But then so were they to speak about her in such a way. At boarding school it was amazing to see how some of the boys debased themselves. And they were supposedly the cream of the crop.

Anyway, Annie excelled in other areas. Not like our parents cared. She made the first team for hockey in our fourth-year. Despite being disadvantaged, she could even keep up with some of the boys. I too made the first team for football, which our parents didn’t care about either. But I had other stuff going on. Annie, well she had nothing. No, nothing was too harsh. She had me. She also had her best friend, Robert, or Bobby as he preferred. He was nice enough, but I had tried to talk to Annie about the company she kept. Not that she ever listened to me.

Bobby was not a good friend to her though. It culminated one week, when we were fifteen. We’d been at school, and argued over him. It had been a Friday evening, and bored I’d decided to head to the girl’s boarding house to visit her. She was in there with Bobby, watching a film. He’d had a haircut since I’d last seen him. His hair was shorter now, slightly more masculine then it had been. It suited him. He looked less like a girl. A bit less pretty.

After seeing them together I probably would have walked away had she not noticed me already. She jumped up, rushing to pull me over to watch the film with her. It seemed to be an old romance film.

Bobby greeted me fairly warmly, pulling me into a hug. I stiffened up, and his hands lowered slightly, his fingers brushing against my lower back.

‘Don’t do that,’ I warned, breaking our connection.

‘Oh,’ he said, surprised, ‘I’m so sorry,’

Annie looked up with a confused look on her face.

‘Play nicely boys,’ she taunted us.

We sat on the couch as a three, Annie in the middle of course, barring us from each other. As the film went on, fortunately only girls passed through the common room. No boys did. None of my cohort.

We stayed in silence. Besides the occasional laugh from either Annie or Bobby. His laugh was high, almost higher than Annie’s. He had a girl’s laugh, gentle and cute.

After the film ended, Annie invited us to have dinner with her and some of the girls in her house. I was unsure whether to say yes, especially after Bobby did so. But I was tired, and I was hungry, and it was convenient. Yes, it would just be easier to eat with Annie and Bobby then to rush back to our house. So I agreed.

The dinner was salad. Usual for the girl’s houses. I think we were meant to have steak
that night. It was good for the girls definitely, but less so for Bobby and myself. Especially
for a footballer like myself. We found some seats in the corner of the dining hall, but soon the place began filling up with young women to join us. Most of them were attractive. Blondes and brunettes, large breasts, strong arms, strong jaws. Annie herself fit in pretty well with the attractive house.

She was definitely a pretty girl. In the last year she’d really grown into her looks, and into her body. I thought she was shapely.

In some ways Bobby could also fit in with the women. It was especially prevalent when he had longer hair. Then again, from the neck up he could be a tomboy, or possibly a dyke. He had a feminine face, and a girly demeanour. But physically he seemed surprisingly strong. His body was sharp. It had edges. Blades. I’d seen him shirtless once. During PE, a few weeks ago. It surprised me. Bobby was almost masculine. As masculine as people like him could be.

Beginning to eat our food, three girls sat next to us, nattering away about something unimportant. One was a blonde, one a brunette, and the other a ginger. The brunette was the most attractive, in a plain-ish way. I’d seen her around before. We’d occasionally made eye-contact, but she’d always look away, blushing. I liked her hair. It was longer than both the other girls’, and she kept it in a high ponytail. It was similar to Annie’s, only a few shades darker.

The three girls greeted Annie. They smiled at her, and acknowledged Bobby before turning to me.

‘Well, well, well,’ the ginger said, in an annoyingly high-pitched voice, half-smiling.

‘Alistair Knight,’ the blonde picked up, ‘what are you doing here in Austen House?’

‘Eating.’ Bobby chimed in, ‘it’s dinner.’

The blonde and the ginger looked at each other and laughed. I shot Bobby a dirty look for answering in my place.

‘I’m seeing Annie.’ I said, not really sure what they were getting at.

‘Sure, sure,’ the blonde said, still snickering, ‘and not anyone else?’

The brunette looked away again, smiling.

‘No.’ I said.

The brunette dropped her gaze, a look of disappointment washing over her face. She returned to picking at her food, pushing it around her plate. My tone had come off harsher than I had intended, but I ignored it, and returned to listening in on Annie and Bobby. I ignored the side eyes I was getting from her friends. I did glance back at her though, but she didn’t return my looks.

‘I don’t know,’ Bobby continued, mid conversation with Annie, ‘I think it could be good, but I’m not sure I want to put myself out there like that.’

‘Yeah, but like it could be helpful,’ Annie said, ‘then again it’s like, not your responsibility Bobby.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked.

‘Oh,’ Bobby said, looking slightly uncomfortable, ‘some of the first-years were thinking of making a pride society. And they asked if I wanted to join, and I don’t know, set it up with them.’

‘Really?’ I asked. ‘Like in school?’

‘Yeah,’ Bobby said.

I didn’t really know what to think about having a society like that in school, I mean, surely it wouldn’t be a safe place for them. Not if anyone else in the school found out about it. Anyways, there were only like two gay kids in the school, including Bobby. A gay club seemed kind of unnecessary.

Before I spoke, I looked over to Annie who gave me a look, as if she was warning me to be careful.

‘I mean it’s a bit weird,’ I said, ‘would you join Annie?’

Annie and Bobby shared a look.

‘I mean, maybe, to support Bobby of course. I mean, you’d be more than welcome to come if you wanted to.’

‘Definitely not.’ I said, slightly annoyed at the suggestion.

It was a dumb question. It would be bad enough if our parents had found out that Annie joined, let alone if I did as well. I’m not sure what would be worse: my mother’s disappointment or my father’s anger.

‘Like do you really need a gay club?’ I asked Bobby, ‘like yeah I get like sometimes the lads call you names and stuff, and it’s shit, but like it can’t be that bad here?’

‘I mean, it’s not really about that,’ he trailed off.

‘Then what is it about?’

‘Come on Ali, drop it,’ Annie said.

I shot her a small look. I didn’t think I was being out of line, if anything I was being overly politically correct.

‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Bobby said, ‘like, I think it’s more so people have a place to go, like there’s not really anywhere else in the school.’

‘Do you really need a space like that though?’

‘Everyone deserves somewhere to feel welcomed.’

‘But isn’t that everywhere?’

‘Enough,’ Annie interrupted, ‘Ali, stop it. You’re pissing me off.’

‘How?’ I asked, ‘Bobby doesn’t care.’

‘Well just leave it,’ she said, ‘I don’t like hearing you talk about this stuff.’

‘What, why?’

‘Because you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The meal ended shortly after that conversation, with Annie kicking me out and asking Bobby to leave. As we did leave, she was pretty quiet. She gave Bobby a hug though, whispering something to him.

Leaving Austen House, I tried to speed up, but Bobby caught up, and we walked together, out of pace. Bobby tried several times to muster up conversation as we walked back to our house, but I only gave single word answers each time. I wasn’t even sure why I did.

Normally we could make at least a little conversation.

Going back to our house we split off quickly. I went back to my room and I assume Bobby did the same. Alone again, I messaged Annie to ask if she was okay. She didn’t reply for the rest of the night. I knew it was going to be fine though. We often fell out, especially about stuff like this. Normally I would have dropped the topic when she first asked, but I didn’t think I was offending Bobby.

The rest of the evening I spent relaxing. I did have a test on Monday, for Latin, but I
knew I would do fine, so I spent the night watching films and reading. I decided to go to bed at half one. An hour and a half later than I should have done.

As I walked to the bathroom, I passed by our matron who stopped me.

‘Excuse me Mr. Knight, what are we doing up so late?’ She asked, stopping.

Matron was an old and pudgy woman, with a face resembling a bulldog. As she spoke, she shoved a chubby finger in my direction.

‘Just the bathroom, matron,’ I said.

She gave me a cynical look, but mumbled something and walked off. Miserable
woman. Probably not getting any. That was a strange thought; matron getting some. I mean she had to have gotten it at some point. I shuddered. What an uncomfortable thought. In the bathroom, I prepared to go to bed alone, when the door opened. It was Bobby, in a plain shirt and a pair of white briefs. He looked surprised when he saw me.

‘Oh, sorry Ali,’ he said, ‘I didn’t think anyone would be awake.’

‘It’s fine,’ I said.

I gave him a look up and down, his eyes following mine. Bobby had a strange choice
of underwear. Briefs. They were tight, revealing. Surely it was wrong for him to walk around the boarding house dressed like that. He was practically naked. Especially for someone like him. It wasn’t right. It was almost predatory.

‘What you doing up so late?’ Bobby asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

I turned my body around, so I was facing the sink and away from him.

‘Has Annie messaged you?’ He asked.

‘No.’ I said.

‘Look I’m sorry,’ Bobby said, taking a step forward, ‘you were fine earlier, like, we’re fine you know.’

‘Yeah, yeah, cool.’ I said.

I wished he’d go away, leave me alone, but instead he took another step.

‘Like, we’re fine.’

He reached out, putting a hand on my shoulder, and I whipped around immediately. We were close now, our bodies almost touching. We were staring into each other. I don’t know what I looked like, but he looked sort of terrified. I don’t know how I was feeling. Surprised, confused, scared, I felt it all. He moved in closer, licking his lips, wetting them. I pushed my face in too, before realisation overwhelmed me, and I immediately pulled back, knocking Bobby away in the
process.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, shocked.

‘What,’ he said, his voice cracking.

Bobby was frozen.

‘Ali, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to.’

‘I’m not like you.’ I cut him off, ‘I’m not into all that shit. I’m not gay.’

Bobby said nothing, unmoving. I wanted him to go, to run away. But he didn’t.

‘I’m not,’ I said, mustering up the confidence to speak, ‘I’m not a faggot, Bobby.’

‘Ali,’ he said, hurt in his voice.

‘Don’t.’

If he wasn’t going to leave, I was, and I shoved past him, rushing back to my room. I dove into my bed, burying my head in my pillow. It meant nothing. It meant nothing. I wasn’t gay. I wasn’t like Bobby. I was normal. A footballer. A normal footballer. I closed my eyes, but the image of Bobby wouldn’t go. His face. His lips. His briefs.

Fuck.

I needed to do something. Someone. A girl. A hot, sexy, feminine girly girl. Big boobs, a piece of ass. The brunette. She was practically drooling over me at dinner. I got out of bed, sending Annie another text, telling her I was coming back over. I knew I had to be careful; it was late. But I could get back to Austen uncaught.

Sneaking out of my own boarding house, I made the short journey over to Austen House. It was risky, sure, I don’t know what would have happened if I was caught. Fortunately I wasn’t, and I made it to Annie’s house, sneaking in through the back window the girls purposely left open at night.

I crept upstairs, careful to avoid the girls’ matron. She was even older than our own, and twice as miserable. I headed to Annie’s room first, and hope she’d know where the brunette’s room was. Getting to Annie’s room, I slowly pushed it open and closed it behind me. She was in bed, half-asleep, and she jumped when she saw me.

‘Annie, it’s me,’ I whispered, ‘it’s just me.’

‘Ali?’ She asked, putting her lamp on, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘The brunette,’ I said, ‘which is her room?’

‘What?’

‘I need to know, now.’

‘What, you mean Lucy, why?’

‘I’m going to have sex with her.’

‘What?’

‘I’m going to pop her cherry.’

‘Ali, what the fuck? No, I’m not telling you where she is. What’s going on with you? Has something happened?’

I stopped.

‘Did something happen in your boarding house?’

She looked up at me skeptically and I froze. Her tone of voice. It sounded like she knew something. But she couldn’t.

‘Sit down,’ she said, patting the bed next to her.

I did as she asked, dropping down next to her, our sides touching.

‘It was Bobby.’ I said, ‘He was weird.’

‘What?’ She asked, ‘how? What did he do?’

‘He tried kissing me.’

His lips passed through my mind again, and I forced myself to shudder.

‘Ali are you sure?’ Annie asked, her face dropping ‘I wouldn’t think he’d try something like that. He’s not like that.’

‘He did,’ I protested, ‘and I’m not, I’m not gay.’

‘Ali that’s fine, but sleeping with some poor girl isn’t going to prove that.’

‘It could make me feel better.’

Annie didn’t say anything, and I looked up. She was staring at me. I stared back. I swallowed something, and I moved my face closer to her own. Still, she did nothing. I moved in further, and placed my lips on hers, kissing her deeply. I pulled away from her, but she remained frozen. No. She was still, but not frozen, not like Bobby had been.

‘Ali?’ She whispered, barely audible.

‘Don’t say anything,’ I said.

I stood up, moving my body on top of hers.

‘Ali?’ She said again.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, ‘we’re fine.’

I pressed my bodyweight on hers, holding her in place. She looked pretty underneath me, still, a marble statue. I kissed her again, deeper this time, rougher, more passionate. Her body was motionless below me. I kept going though, uniting us, interlocking our bodies.

We made love that night. Falling asleep together. We fell asleep cuddling, my arms around Annie’s waist. She didn’t move for the rest of the night, only finally stirring after I got up and released her.

‘We had a good night last night,’ I said, getting changed.

She didn’t react again. I’m not sure why she was being off. Maybe it was about Bobby, or maybe it was about the brunette. I get why. It’s not easy to hear what she had to say about her best friend. It couldn’t have been.

Taking her again, I kissed the back of her neck.

‘I’ll see you Monday,’ I said, ‘give me a message if you need some help with the test.’

Cameron Wagg is a writer from Lichfield, United Kingdom. He studies English Literature and Creative Writing at University. When not writing for his degree Cameron can be found writing for pleasure, and enjoys fiction, non-fiction, and script-writing. @camwg7

‘Lessons from a Skating Spider’

Daniel Newcomb

Lessons from a Skating Spider

I still remember the night fairly well—even being some twenty years ago. The summer of ’09. The new World of Warcraft update had just released a couple of months prior, and so I’d been playing on my PC nearly every day and well into this particular night—a fact I recall because the glare from the window onto my monitor hadn’t bothered me in hours as it did
constantly through the afternoon and into the evening. Also, because I checked the time before logging off my PC; it had to have been around three in the morning.

The summer day turned night had been an average one consisting of an abundance of teenage degeneracy, and I was tired, but still I needed to shower for two reasons: the first being that I was encased in an odor of what was most likely Funyun’s and Coke, and the other being that I was depressed (though I didn’t know it yet and this was years before I’d seek you out for help) which meant that I—determined to lose even more sleep than I already had—grabbed underwear and a t-shirt, and headed for the bathroom.

Thankfully, my three-bedroom house had been built in a way in which my bedroom and bathroom were located on one side of the kitchen, and my parents’ the other. My brother’s vacant after his move to Chicago a year ago—had been turned into a guest room; I had nobody to bother, and no one to bother me.

The house was old. Shoddy red brick on the outside with no central heating, a swamp cooler instead of an AC unit, and the original decaying wooden floor that would finally get replaced in a year’s time. This, along with my parents’ incessant need for fresh air by way of an open back door, meant that we’d get our fair share of insects throughout the house. Flies roamed free in the living room, gnats clung to the light fixtures above my bed. They’d always tell me I was overexaggerating about the bugs, but I’m not so sure I was; I guess it’snot so much of a problem now as my father decided to sell the place after I moved away.

Also, I make sure to use the screen door whenever I crave a cool breeze. The bathroom was no different from the rest of the house, and the gaudy white carpet that lined my bedroom floor met the Jack-and-Jill’s white-painted wooden sliding door. I had to calm myself before facing the bright brass shower head and faucet—unchanged since the 80’s—so I could initiate my check. I did this check every night before my long-lasting shower. A check for spiders. Now, arachnophobia is quite easily my biggest fear—other than the quiet dread (it gets louder the older I get) of never having any meaningful amount of success in my life. A mindset my father instilled in me as a young man.

Anyway, I threw open the door and moved in like a Navy Seal, checking the corners of the chipped doorframe, inspecting the very threads of the teal and green striped rug, and under the lid of my disgustingly neglected toilet seat. I then moved down and examined the rim of its base, a few conglomerative clumps of hair and dust making me double take, before deciding that it was all clear.

The shower was my place of Zen. Of silence. A few embarrassing memories here and there would usually recreate themselves—they still do—in my mind, but the thumping of the fully pressurized showerhead could more often than not wash them away. I had, and still have, a bad habit of sitting down in the shower; I let the steam from the heated water fill my sinuses as I lean my head back against the corner of the tub and the wall, using the former’s slope as a brace for my neck. And so, on this particular night, I was resting as such. I am cognizant now of the ongoing drought in my home state and how my actions probably weren’t helping, but as they say, old habits die hard.

Something else I used to do: bring my PSP into the shower with me. That has long since been replaced by my phone in which I scroll social media endlessly, but it doesn’t matter in any case. On this particular night—the reason eludes me now—I didn’t have my portable system in hand. I’d let the night pass, sure, but I did so while my addictive device rested on the off-white marble countertop of my sink. A decision made so carelessly, yet its outcome of much consequence.

I feel as though we as people remember the tiniest, most peculiar details when experiencing life-changing events—not that I have nearly enough credibility to make such a claim. Let’s just say I saw an article about it on Reddit one day and decided to take it as my own opinion. This detail happened to me near the end of my time in the tub where my still-dry buzzed head—shielded from the water by that plastic shower liner that hotels never seem to have—was resting fully on the small shelf that forms just before the tub meets the wall. I remember zoning out while looking upward at the acoustic ceiling where a mold spread like tiny brown stars of a child’s bedroom. I remember scolding myself at the negligence of it all. A spider could’ve hidden there, plotting its next move, and I had no inclination to check it. I made a mental note of the potential catastrophe, adding it to my inspection for next time. I’d never forget it again.

Eventually, the shower had to end. The water was running strong, but I have never been able to tolerate even cool water, and I don’t think I ever will. I yanked my towel from the rod overhead—more practical than a hook across the room—as steam still condensed on the faux-tile walls. After drying my torso, I hooked the tan towel around my waist, and pulled open my twin- suns-of-Tatooine shower curtain in order to step out.

As I did so, my back foot slipped on the slick plastic tub. I caught the corner of the counter with an outstretched right hand, and just barely gripped my towel with the other, hugging it to my chest, as it awkwardly fell from my disjointed hips. Thankfully, my parents had an unnecessarily large mirror installed some years earlier—one of the only things they deemed necessary to modernize the house—so I saw myself squatting awkwardly low, a fleshy, butt-naked rendition of the Heisman Trophy in the mirror’s reflection.

I hadn’t so much as stood up straight, tying the towel once again around my lower half when it came into view. A spider blacker than the burgeoning night. Descending from the ceiling, not three feet from my face, and most likely by way of the hole in the rotting doorframe, was a creature of the purist evil. A descendant of Shelob, no doubt, the spider might as well have had a wig of snakes atop its grotesque head for I was frozen, still. Eight spindly crooked legs, it had, of which two worked at the white thread above while the
others hung in anticipation, eager for a meal.

Remember the issue with my parents opening the whole of the insectile world to our home? Well, it wasn’t just the gnats, flies, and moths that bothered me—trust me they still do— but it was more so the hunting ground that they created. And the summer months proved most bountiful for the predators who’d seek it out.

The gluttonous often found more than prey, however, amongst the halls. Enter me: a fourteen year old boy with a godly disdain for the eight legged. Sure, I wasn’t immortal or all-knowing, but I was both Osiris and Ammit to the arachnids and their kind for with my size eleven sneakers as my scale, I had judged their hearts too heavy against the feather of Ma’at. And I did so without prejudice. Surely, the spiders had erected great monuments in my name as the pharaohs did along the Nile. Though I’m not sure any amount of sacrifice could satiate their god of death and his righteous thirst.

I’m not sure what made my hatred so. I had often wondered as a child if spiders had always been evil in the eyes of man or simply an invention of the twentieth century. Could my fear have been avoided if Kevin never dropped the tarantula onto Marv’s face? What if Hagrid never told Harry and Ron to follow the spiders into Aragog’s Lair? Whether or not my hatred was contrived by anti-spider propaganda didn’t matter—at least not to the spiders.

This particular spider, however, was not one I could just step on with the sole of my shoe. This was the queen, in all her disgusting glory, and as it twisted on the axis of its own making, I saw it. An hourglass of scarlet. A symbol of fear for both insects and men that would haunt my very dreams for weeks to come.

It landed near the back of the sink, sniffed the wet air in the room, and started its hunt. It stalked across the countertop, a blight against the marble, white. Eight long legs in unison searched for the weak, but I would not be its victim on that day. Making as little noise as possible, I reversed into the tub, and moved the clear plastic liner back into place. With one eye reaching around the barrier, I watched it crawl and creep from the brass faucet head to my electric toothbrush standing tall in its holder. It circled left from the back of the sink to the corner where, moments earlier, I’d been gripping on for dear life. It approached the area, taking in my scent before turning once more to where my PSP lay without protection. And I—hiding in fear—was powerless to save it from the spider’s touch.

The widow circled thrice around the unfamiliar black console, and to this day I’m not sure why. I do know, however, that the spider appeared timid, scared to get too close to the device’s screen. How could this spider, a vessel of death, be so shy? Perhaps, it was afraid of its own hideous reflection in the glass, arrogantly having moved through life thinking itself a butterfly. It had no patterned wings to distract from its figure. Its thin, crooked legs. Its bulbous body, full of poison. The red hourglass—its supervillain symbol of doom—that it hid from its prey until their lives were a moment past.

Not until the spider ascended toward the screen—using the PSP’s rubber case for traction—did my fear and panic fade. And they did so in an instant. From over the edge came its two, long front legs, only they weren’t as I’d expected. A pair of skates clung to the bottom of the widow’s feet. And another pair with its next two. And another. Soon enough, eight ice skates scattered my PSP’s surface, all under the weight of my biggest fear. And soon enough, I learned that the spider was no master in its craft. Its front two legs gave way first, straightening out like I’d only seen from a newborn fawn. Then, as it regained balance, its back two. Its left side then its right. The second leg on one side would stand strong only for the third on the other to fail. Fear exuded from the spider’s face, struggling to find footing on the unnatural terrain.

I was seduced by its emotion.

One foot after another, I moved from the tub and onto the teal mat in front of the sink. I’d never even been slightly intrigued by the likes of it before. Hypnotically, I stared. At the creature, at its suffering and pain. The spider would seemingly build up enough strength to stand tall—at least as tall as spiders could—but that would only last a moment before it slipped and slipped again. Legs kicked out in all directions; it was a clumsy, foreign dance to me. One that lacked any grace or grip at all. And as the spider fell and failed to skate, I was pulled in.

Never in my life did I feel such a pull as this. One that held on to me for minutes before saying, “See? Uncertainty shouldn’t be fear, but it is.” The queen of all spiders hadn’t anything to be afraid of, but as soon as it strapped on its skates and took to the ice, it was helpless, defenseless in a world not its own. But was it not brave to do so?

Guilt flooded my senses, and I saw my own gross reflection in the mirror for I too had no wings. My torso, skinny and bruised, didn’t enrich my being. My eyes a deepest brown didn’t lighten my face. I still loved myself, no? I looked on for a long while; only a shroom trip some years later would overtake this instance for “longest I’d stare at myself awkwardly in the mirror”.

Five chimes tolled the bell tower before I finished gazing upon my own reflection. I slid open the white door, now dried by time, and met the callous night—though not alone. Sometimes, I’d spend so long in the bathroom under the fluorescent lights that I’d forget what darkness looked like. This time, rather than heading back into my bedroom to stay awake for another hour under the guise of sleep, I turned to the back door. With PSP in hand, and a skater on top, I opened myself to the moon and set the spider free near a rose bush under my parent’s window.

Lessons were taught that very night—ones I’m sure neither I nor the spider would forget for a long time. I’d use the lesson not six months later when asking Alissa Abbot to our school’s Winter Fair dance. She was a spider. No widow, but a spider, nonetheless, and my crush since the seventh grade. I’d end up staying home the night of the dance, but she no longer haunted my dreams, and that feeling freed me. A couple of years after that, I’d build up the courage to tell the two wolf spiders closest to me that I’d be moving to the East Coast for college. They’d always wanted me to stay in California for school, but I wanted to try something new, and ice-skating wasn’t really that popular in my hometown.

Most recently, I’d find the courage to find help. I’m not so sure what’s so arachnid about that, but it had been a black widow to me, and bigger than any I’d seen since that night. As for the spiders, I exercised restraint when met with the allure of my great power. Not to say that I didn’t instinctively stomp a few out when they snuck up on me. They still disgust me, and I get a deep shiver when I see one at night, but let’s just say I don’t go out of my way to kill one minding its own damn business. If they stay away from my room and my shower, I stay away from them.

I never again saw the spider who slipped on glass. Maybe it hung up its skates and took on a new hobby like juggling. I’m sure it’d be good at it. Because it too had learned a lesson on that day. Whether it had been stupid or brave to venture into its god’s treacherous domain with such uncertainty as the floor it stood on, it did so nonetheless, knowing its deepest truth: It couldn’t skate.

Zach Gearey is an up-and-coming writer from Reno, NV. He was born and raised in the city and attended the University of Nevada where he studied English and creative writing. Still early in his career, he is looking for his first publication.

‘Coffee Talk’

Gugulethu Ndlalani is a self-taught visual artist and photographer from Soweto, South Africa, born on September 20, 1998. His work is deeply influenced by the rich cultural heritage of Soweto, a township renowned for its historical significance and vibrant stories. As the creative director of a collaborative project called Brokenvillages, Gugulethu focuses on storytelling that reflects the African narrative, particularly the experiences of black individuals who navigate the complexities of daily life.

Coffee Talk

I had not spoken to her in a long time when I received her WhatsApp message.

“Do you wanna have coffee sometime this week?”

“Sure, let me know when, where, and at what time.” I texted back while enjoying my granola.

We settled for the café where the staff knows me on a first-name basis. I arrived early before the morning crowd. She came in complaining about traffic and parking, she ordered a cold latte while I asked for a hot flat white. We chatted about summer break vacations and back to school night until the waiter came with our drinks and our conversation moved into a new direction. On the first sip, I deformed the heart designed on my coffee’s milk foam. I must have paused too long admiring the artful precision of the barista because she leaned in closer demanding my attention. She lowered her voice as if she were to spread a rumor or confess an indiscretion.

“Can you share your secret to happiness?

“What?” I could feel my forehead lines appear as I frowned in confusion.

“Please, I’d like to know.” She insisted.

“What do you mean?” I said straightening up my back as if preparing to fight back.

“Happiness looks good on you. You smile, you work, your children respect you, you have a stable marriage, you cook, you bake, you exercise, you...” she paused as if running out of verbs. “You don’t even have domestic help.” She looked way raising her arms up in frustration almost out of breath. “I mean, where do you find the time to do so much? Please, I need to know your secret.”

I smiled with a dash of embarrassment. Was she giving me a compliment or shaming me for appearing as an overachiever?

“I suppooooooose” I said elongating my word, “effective time management?”

I served myself some water while she twisted her mouth and looked at her watch with the impatience of a spy who is not obtaining the classified information his target promised to deliver.

“How are things with you?” I said attempting to change the conversation.

“I’m not well,” she said as she turned to call the waiter.

We both ignored that within a year, she would be divorced and abandoned. She began to rummage through her purse, and standing up she moved forward her chair under the table and said,

“You should be as miserable. Who do you think you are?”

I laughed, I couldn’t believe I was reliving middle school drama at 40.

She continued, “Why do you think we don’t invite you to our get-togethers anymore?”

She threw money on the table for me to cover her bill, she placed her purse on her right shoulder, turned around and walked away. Her pony tail moved at the rhythm of her fast- paced steps. She looked like an entitled teenager unable to get her way.

I used to take the elevator directly to the garage to avoid walking through the courtyard of our apartment complex until our coffee talk. The next day, in a brand-new outfit

I walked by her apartment wearing the high-heeled espadrilles she complimented once. I took my time enjoying each step for I knew she would be sipping her cold morning Nescafé in her ground floor balcony, sitting in the darkness of the morning shade. I delighted in the fact that under the sunlight, my happiness made me shine.

Marlene Wood’s iammarlenewoods@gmail.com poetry was published during the pandemic and one poem was recently accepted for the WILDsound Writing Festival. Additional work can be found at www.marlawoods.com and on social media @marlaswordplay.

‘MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY’

Joy Curtis

MALORY, TWO BLOCKS AWAY

Walking like a crippled ghost, I only saw her from behind. I wanted to write “angel,” not
“ghost,” because it sounds prettier. But this was not pretty.

Her dyed blond hair was in a short, disheveled pony tail, tied by a colorless twine. Her dress, if you can call it that, I think may have been a hospital gown. And she was wearing slippers meant for walking on carpets. Thank heavens it wasn’t cold outside. I couldn’t see her face, but she behaved lost as she passed the multi-storied buildings. Peeking into entrances — including mine — at each apartment house. It seemed like she was trying to find something she recognized.

I pulled my keys out from my jean’s pocket, turned into my building’s lobby at an automatic
pace, as I’ve done for decades now. Once inside I climbed the marble stairs to my one bedroom home on the second floor.

I don’t think that this walking invalid was my good friend Malory. Mae was now confined to a convalescent home on a busy corner two blocks from my house. My broken heart was for a memory awakened by this wandering stranger, seemingly lost and searching the city streets.

Malory has four sons. I am more than casually acquainted with two of them. If I lived in Los
Angeles, I’d call them friends, since it seems that anyone you have an actual conversation with is labeled, friend. Maybe it’s just semantics. But here in New York City, unless I’ve shared a few meals with someone, by my definition, they are an acquaintance. One of Malory’s sons, her youngest, is a writer and someone I would spend more time with, if our worlds were aligned differently. The second son who knows me, is a “celebrity.” He would hate my using that word.

Mostly known as a movie star, he also directs, writes and is a film maker. Being five years
younger than I, I’m not sure that my mother would recognize his name, but all of my
contemporaries know who he is, whether they’ve seen his work or not.

Malory grew up in Brooklyn, though I don’t remember which section of the borough. She was the daughter to cold, unkind parents, and heir to a family company that built pianos. She married a wealthy and successful man. They raised their four sons in an affluent town in New Jersey.

Later in time, her husband absconded with the majority of their funds, relocating to the
Hamptons on Long Island, in a midlife attempt to find himself. She managed to keep the house by selling real estate, before eventually leaving the suburbs and moving to a small apartment on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, once her children were grown. Sometime after that, she and I met. She interviewed with the owner of the gallery for whom I
was employed. Pretending my opinion had any weight in his decision making, at a Soho
restaurant, he introduced Malory to me before he hired her. She and I immediately hit it off.
I have never known her age, though I would guess Malory is closer in years to my parents’ than to mine. Though politically and socially conservative, she had an unorthodox style all her own.

Including her lipstick and liner, applied to create a pronounced upper lip. She was elegant to the point of being arrogant, yet nurturing and hilarious. And she loved me. Though I wouldn’t say she was the most talented art sales person I’ve ever worked with, Malory
was almost always at the top of the numbers board each month. I have many theories but one I stand by was her stage in life. She’d be angry at that but I defiantly believe it to be true. Most of us who worked at the gallery were in our 20s and 30s. Being older — or let’s say more mature — gave her the ambiance of honestly. Especially to younger, professional men whom I think may have unconsciously seen a trusting mother figure in her. My boss at the New York space (a woman, by the way) couldn’t understand her method of presentation and I believe didn’t like her very much. And though I didn’t necessarily understand her sales style either, I didn’t really care as long as Mae brought in the bucks each month. Utterly adoring her, I asked that she be scheduled on my shifts. Until I left the company, she and I worked together five days a week.

In disagreements, Malory displayed a great deal of stubbornness. I think it may be how she
survived relatively well, from her affectionless childhood to her success in real estate, art sales and the unwavering parental armor she wore as a struggling single mother. After I left the art business, Malory and I saw each other about twice a year, usually sharing a meal and catching up. Eventually, even that ritual faded. She moved to a small studio apartment
near the United Nations. She had a grand piano in her limited space, taking up what seemed to be half the room. I don’t remember if it was a family labeled instrument or not. I don’t believe so. One time while visiting her, she cooked dinner for me in her tiny kitchen. Salmon and rice.

As always, our conversation was easy and affectionate. I sincerely intended to stay in her life. But like many things affected by time and excuses, we no longer stayed in touch. Her youngest son contacts me every once in a while. Odd as this may sound, he feels like a
family member to me, though we know very little about each other.

He recently texted to let me know that his mom was in a retirement home, close to where I live. He would walk by my apartment when he’d visit with Malory. If I wanted, he could pick me up one day and we could see her together. I told him I’d love that, but I never arranged for it to happen. I wanted to see her, but I was unforgivingly frightened, particularly after learning that she may not have her memories in tact. Without specific explanations, her son told me that Mae’s mind was fractured. I didn’t know if that meant she was suffering from severe dementia or facing the predictable loss of pieces from her past, due to the aging process.

I’d like to paint this as romantic and say it’s because I want to remember Malory as she was, in her full capacity. And that may be part of the reason. I spent over a decade visiting my aging and infirm parents once a week in West Orange, New Jersey, until their respective deaths. It’s more multifaceted than having to witness Mae’s fragility and impending passing. I defensively compare my reaction to PTSD. It’s the uncomfortable event of revisiting the medicinal smells and fluorescent ceilings and rooms filled with humans who once had lives filled with hopes and expectations. It is a glaring reminder that in the not too distant future, this could be me.

Andrew Sarewitz has published several short stories (website: www.andrewsarewitz.com. Substack access is @asarewitz) as well as having penned scripts for various media. Mr. Sarewitz is a recipient of the 2021 City Artists Corp Grant for Writing. His play, Alias Madame Andrèe (based on the life of WWII resistance fighter, Nancy Wake, the “White Mouse”) garnered First Prize from Stage to Screen New Playwrights in San Jose, CA; produced with a multicultural cast and crew. Member: Dramatists Guild of America.

‘Churros y Lucha Libre, Pan Dulce y Juegos’ & ‘Un Deseo’

Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium in 1946. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force. He earned an MA and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997).

Churros y Lucha Libre, Pan Dulce y Juegos

after “panem et circenses”

Poetry’s pageantry

is the underwhelming truth

of our true nature.

Our nature to nurture community’s compassion

through the compression of our wordsmiths.

Our playwrights

search for meaning between

synonyms adrift in naked storms.

Our journalists gather around similes of colonization

confuse the muse for the sake of impartiality,

Our novelists placate imagery of atom bombs

with sake bombs and truckloads of propaganda

programs’ explosive fulfillment of corrosive subatomic metaphors.

Have you found balance with interest?

Have you calculated the precise percentage

of the fiscal deficit in your heart’s budget?

If not, we can sit tight as

minds extend olive branches.

We can let the branches break

and let the leaves cascade

We can acknowledge existence of our somber songwriters

that prickle their sickle cells and let the rhythm of their choruses

tickle our cerebellums and cerebrums.

Marching drums, march on,

seasons evolve our ecosystem.

Lives revolve around the bomber’s flight

and the peasants’ fight for freedom.

With each snap, crack and every boom,

Destiny crushes not only the sticks, but every mother’s back,

and the babies watching their sisters die.

Un Deseo

In the 5th grade, all I wanted was to be strong.
I saw the homie Tutti’s nephew tote the big one four, so I asked my family about it.
That’s when my dad showed me his back, marked with a large 14,
a number symbolizing power to northern gangsters.

I wanted to embody that power to grasp peace and prosperity.
But our bodies aren't meant to bear burdens or serve as outlets for our desires.
Yet here I am, with my mother's eyes, my father's face, his superstitions, her indecision,
and both of their attitudes. I carry the weight of my sisters' expectations,
hoping they see that our mistakes don't define us.
Because the greatest common factor is love: love for ourselves,
our family, our friends, and our neighbors, because our haters
are the least common denominator of earthly woes.

Striving for power and money often leads to
self-gratification and a lack of self-regulation in love and hate,
while we struggle to survive on a deteriorating planet.

Fate dictates that trying to get by results in tears and sleepless nights. So here I am, inheriting my father’s tendency to run from challenges,
never facing the consequences, and my mother’s drive to
chase material success over happiness, letting fatigue control my anger.

I have his asthma, her migraines, and his 14 etched into my soul, as a reminder
you don't need to act hard to be strong, and her orange jumpsuit,
a reminder you don't have to be a gangster to go to prison.
Yet, etched on my heart are the desires to do all that I can.

Alexander Antonio Cortez is a Chicano poet, mosh pit enthusiast, and tamale lover from Sacramento, California. He is a member of GTFO Poetry and host of the Profiles in Poetry Podcast. His work has appeared in Fleas On The Dog Magazine, and Tule Review. @corteiscortez2.0 on Instagram and gtfopoetry.com

‘Forgive Me’, ‘Ashes’ & ‘Painted Turtles’

Christopher Zarcadoolas is a photographer and arts worker based in New York, NY. His ethereal imagery — steeped in the quotidian — asks viewers to slow down and consider what is often overlooked or taken for granted. Zarcadoolas’ photographic work engages with ordinary moments from his life, using photography as a meditative act that is both existentially fulfilling and personally revealing.

Forgive Me

I didn’t understand
how meth was an anchor,
buried beneath the ocean,
tugging you back.

You hated to disappoint.
Standing still was not defeat—
the deck was slippery.
Your flip flops had no tread.

Then someone threw a dock party—
the laughter and the dancing,
a string of LED pumpkins,
the voices echoing.

Everyone admired
the way you twerked.
How good you looked
without your shirt.

There were no shadows,
only halos around the lights,
the moon too small for the sky
as the tide brought you under.

Ashes

Sitting at my sister’s kitchen table,
The FedEx box arrives,
Heavy for its size,
You, but not you.

Not your smooth back
I rubbed at night,
An island bird
Perched on your shoulder.

Just grit and bone
We mixed into soil,
The coral hibiscus we planted,
The same color as your suit jacket

In that photo—chin resting on your palm
Gazing into the distance
Channeling a haughty escort
Or a dashing model.

Painted Turtles

My friend’s brother’s death
Reminds me what I miss:
No gold bars in his safe,
Just Star Wars keychains,
His grandmother’s earring—
A life packed in two hours.

The stories you told:
Native American ancestors,
Your sister a rock star,
Growing up in a mansion.
Ghosts lurking--
Only a wizard like you could see them.

I sent you a book
Of spells and incantations.
Too noisy to read
In the Suffolk House of Corrections.
A mother searching for something
To transform you.

Kayaking on the Mystic River,
I spot a bale of Painted Turtles
Lining a black, gnarly branch.
They fall into the water
Like synchronized swimmers--
One goes under, then another.

Randi Schalet