Break From Reality. Daily.
The cool morning air whipped across Wade’s face, carrying the fresh scents of misshapen, vibrant tomatoes, jars of honey, and bundles of herbs. He breathed deep, carefully inspecting each cucumber while keeping a close eye on his son, Cole.
“Can we get these for Casper?”
Wade turned and found Cole pointing at the dog biscuits he had discovered. Pausing for only a moment, Wade sighed, took a peach from his basket, and returned it to the stand. “Yes, get some biscuits for Casper.”
My grip tightened around the edges of my algebra textbook, my knee jumping up and down as my fingers brushed the wrinkled corner of the envelope peeking out between the pages. Toby burst through the doorway and my heart jumped against my chest as he made his way over with his typical strut.
“Chris, what’s happening, bro?” he casually asked, but I caught the shift of his gaze to my desk.
“Not much,” I offered with a noncommittal shrug.
Toby studied me for a moment as he settled into his seat. “You didn’t do it yet.”
“You used to believe in the truth.”
The memory of Emily’s words whispered through the dense swamp fog, causing me to yank my jacket tighter as rain trickled down my shivering neck. I crept forward, peering through the brush, the frigid water seeping into my boots as the humid air clung to my face.
Three weeks after her disappearance and I was close. I could feel it.
The dry Nevada wind burned against my face as I stared at the orange painted door that led to my childhood home.
For a moment, the memory of its bright hue and brilliant color stood in all its glory, like it once had.
A familiar muffled shout broke through the closed windows, and the door was once again the fading and peeling entryway of the present.
Mark is gone.
Another day in my tomb. The dark corner of this musty cave shielding me from the outside world. I spend my days surrounded by trash and stale food, basking in the constant stream of nothingness emanating from the television, dying one day at a time.
I hate my life.
A loud knock echoed through the muffled quiet, jolting me off the couch.
The harsh rap came again, and I weaved through the piles of dirty laundry, reached the door, and turned the knob. My face wrinkled as sunlight poured through the crack and a familiar silhouette greeted me.
Maybe if you keep your feet planted, nobody will notice the hole stretching at your heel.
Nice going dumbass. Why’d I have to pick these socks?
You definitely feel very, very awkward. You’re not like the other boys. Your family’s just plain off. People sense it. You’re poor. A charity case. And those damn socks let everybody know it!
“You Tinkers are said to be so obsessed with your craft that no one in the land can match your expertise!” The large man towered over the plump inventor, who was barely taller than a young girl. His voice rose as he continued, “Yet your contraption has failed, once again, to catch the vermin stealing from the kitchen storehouses!”
Holding up a heavy object wrapped in burlap, he continued his rant. “You asked for another part to fix your trap, but the one you described was thrown out with the rubbish weeks ago. So, make do with whatever this is.” He shoved the item into the Tinker’s hands. “And know this—one more failure, and I’ll revoke my patronage, strip you of my protection, and leave you without access to the gears, gadgets, and gizmos you so desperately need to survive. I’ll return at dawn, and your contraption had better work!” He thrust a thick, gloved sausage of a finger in the air. “Final warning!” he barked, slamming the hovel door shut.
It was true: the sole purpose of a Tinker was their obsession, and every Tinker was a master of their craft. You might assume this leaves a few Tinkers waddling about, but rest assured, there are countless subjects in which Tinkers possess infallible knowledge. This particular Tinker was a master contraptor—designing, building, testing, and launching contraptions was as vital to her as breathing. Perhaps even more so, given the events of this particular morning.
“In a hole, in a pond, on a log, beneath a flea, lay a frog.”
I belted the song quite loudly but the boy and his dad did not turn.
I tried again. “At the edge of a pond, in a hole, on a log, sat a frog and above it, a flea.”
When you obsess over one thing your life narrows to a pin prick.
Right then, my tunnel vision was locked onto the payphone in front of me. The same payphone I’d been coming to for the last seven years. At the same time. Every night. Without fail.
The payphone was my gateway to put things right, even if things could never go back to the way they were. All I had to do was wait.
I abandoned my three-year-old son a few weeks before Christmas. Now a teenager, Tristan was the first person I saw upon entering the funeral parlor. He’s so grown up, so tall. I can still hear my departing words to him: “Daddy loves you, buddy. So much. I need to figure out myself. I’ll make you proud of our name.” It’s been thirteen years since we were last in the same room, and I haven’t lived up to that promise.
My joy is short-lived when I hear Tristan refer to his stepfather as ‘my dad’ in the eulogy. My hands curled into fists as I glared at the large portrait of Lt. Colonel Ezra Almond at the front of the room. I hope the heart attack killed him slowly. Painfully.
A commanding officer should look out for their men, but instead, Almond stabbed me in the back. Then stole my wife and child.
A creature with scarlet skin, a skull adorned with twisted horns, wielding a pitch fork. A cloven hoofed satyr, a possessed child, or a mythical trickster. All depictions of devils across the globe but the only demon Cassandra had known possessed the unearthly beauty of a morning star.
In two lifetimes, he haunted her, and in her previous life, she’d lost everything to his insatiable lust. But this was the twenty-first century, and millions no longer believed in the sun god, Apollo. His temples lay in ruins and no acolytes prostrated themselves before his effigy. Still, Cassandra knew, weakened as he might be, he was still a god. Immortal and more powerful than she could dream. There would be no room for error today.
The setting sun, filtered through a canopy of green, illuminated the cottage, and Cassandra’s eyes fell on the chess table tucked into an alcove that overlooked the mountain forest beyond. Eventually, her gaze turned to the golden-haired man lazing across her lap.
“Shall we play a game?” Cassandra asked.
Grit slid beneath my fingernails as I pushed hard soil off my face. Cracking open a coffin was one thing. Digging six feet below the surface was another thing altogether.. Each press of my palm brought another layer of dirt on my face making it more difficult to see in the dark space. The dirt was more compact the further down I was but began to muddy toward my exit. Hands slipped and struggled to find purchase.
That damn witch really did put a hex on me.
I shook my head, searching my pockets for anything useful. They should have buried me with a damn candle. Or at least a lighter. What was the point of dying from lung cancer if I didn’t have one in my pocket?
Six months after my mother-in-law’s death, Sara and I spent Christmas alone. In our desire for normalcy, we put up a last-minute Charlie Brown tree and sung along to holiday classics. But a weighty emptiness filled the room, and everything felt forced.
Even drinking coquito and eating Ma’s traditional Christmas meal of pasteles with arroz and gandules tasted bland.
After dinner, Sara plopped into Ma’s recliner and closed her eyes. “I can still smell her.”
“I miss her, too.”
GASP
The Last Gasp Motel will have you
Thinking on your feet,
If you like mystery books to read,
This might be up your street.
August 14th, 1997
Dr. Anderson suggested I write it all down–that it would be helpful to get the story on paper and out of my head. A day hasn’t gone by that I haven’t thought about it, but I’m not sure this will help at all. And it happened so long ago that I’m not sure how much of it is real and how much is just part of the nightmares that began afterward.
But I’ll do it because Dr. Anderson suggested it. He’s been so helpful in getting me to talk about it, especially since my parents never would.
So, here’s my story. I’m Violet Cooper and this is my journal entry. Everything you are about to read is true to the best of my recollection.
TOAST
The boy stood on the burning deck,
But he’d no room to boast,
His slice of bread and butter,
Had become a piece of toast!
It wasn’t the pram wheels that got stuck when they crossed the trainline, although that was what she worried about. The iron wheel rims always wedged in ruts. You can’t carry a baby everywhere, not when you have another child as well. The three-year-old liked to be out. Even as a baby, he’d worm an arm free from the blanket and wave his fist to the world. You couldn’t swaddle his independence, not the way she wrapped the baby girl’s sweet, paddling limbs. He ran so fast, flying his wooden train engine on invisible tracks of imagination, catching her own heart up into flights of joy, and fear. She couldn’t tell where he might run. She watched him, but not like the hawk that wheeled above the railway crossing. A hawk only had to watch one thing at once, to track its prey, whereas she had both the boy and the baby. Today the babe was fussing, a broken hiccupping snuffle, after a broken night’s sleep. The mother swatted at the fly sticking to the baby’s mouth. The walk would send the child to sleep soon, she knew it would. And it would keep the boy busy, so he wouldn’t poke his sister with his toy… Where was the boy?
From atop the towering gallows, the hooded hangman inhaled the mingled scents of damp dirt and fresh-cut timbers and smiled. It was a crisp, beautiful morning, perfect for a hanging, and no one deserved the punishment more than the notorious outlaw Henry Slade.
The manacled prisoner danced a carefree jig in the muddy street below. No one ever hurried to ascend the stairs leading to their execution, but Slade was the first to sashay up the foreboding thirteen steps.
The townsfolk gladly constructed the gallows overnight in a downpour, to rid the territory of the evil plague embodied by Henry Slade. They expected him to tremble with fear and beg for mercy, but the outlaw did not oblige. Instead, he cackled with glee from the elevated platform.
I’ve heard voices for as long as I can remember. To start with, they just told me what to do. Let’s change your nappy, Susie. Time for beddy-byes. They seemed kind, so I went along with them. As I got older, the voices took on a sterner tone. Don’t touch the fire.
At school, the pattern continued. No running in the corridor. Detention for you, young lady. As a teenager, I had a social life, but voices tried to control that too. You’re not going out looking like that, are you? Make sure you’re home by ten-thirty.
At Edinburgh University, no voices told me where to go or when or with whom. I was expected to attend lectures and tutorials. Don’t forget to hand in your assignment, Miss James. Luckily, there weren’t too many assignments.
Fred lays back in his favourite recliner two weeks after heart surgery. A cooking show is on the television and his mouth waters as the chef digs into a burger. The juices drip down the chef’s chin as he chews on the beefy goodness.
The clatter of his wife’s cooking comes from the kitchen next to the lounge. Fred’s pulled out of his dream state as a sulfury stench comes wafting into the lounge. “Fwah, what the hell’s that?”
“Your dinner. You’ll love it,” says Ivy as she stirs the cabbage on the stove.
Patricia glared in annoyance at the frumpy reflection glaring back from her full-length mirror. Who are you and what have you done with my body? she mocked. Today was her 60th birthday, and her mood was turning sour. Dismayed at her sagging figure, Patricia mourned her youth. Gone were the lacy ‘barely there’ panties and sexy demi bras. Nowadays, she squeezed her rolls and dimples into spandex briefs and underwire that poked and pinched but did little to lift her drooping cleavage. Maybe Stanley can invent a bra with a built-in wooden shelf. She laughed sardonically at the vision. Aging could certainly be a bitter pill to swallow, and today, Patricia felt as though she was choking on hers.
Stanley would arrive soon. She tried on dress after dress and one by one they pooled into a heap at her feet. Too tight. Too short. This one amplified her heavy chest and the next one suctioned to her ample backside. Finally, peeved, and glistening with perspiration, Patricia sighed, gave her damp armpits the sniff test, and reached for the one dress she was comfortable in; a shapeless black frock with full sleeves and a modest neckline. It was not flattering, but, she chided, Stanley liked her just as she was.
A moment later Stanley’s car squealed into her driveway, rock music thumping through his open window. Patricia raised an eyebrow at the racket, then hurried to put on lipstick. It was sweet of him to take her out for her birthday. She would do her best to smile, even if she had to paint it on.
The email lands in my inbox with a thud, and I stare at my computer as if I’ve found a spaceship in my cornfield. It’s the first time a literary agent has read my entire manuscript. My eyes scan her words for a quick clue as to her intention: is it good, bad?
Does she come in peace?
“You are a terrific writer,” I read. Terrific is in italics, and I feel elated. I imagine the extra two seconds it took to press command + i, and I count them as mounting evidence that this email might change my life. I skip across the following sentences in search of more clues until my eyes tangle at the most unfortunate coordinating conjunction.
But.
It was five minutes to the hour and the couple sitting in Alan’s therapy office were in a tail spin. To stay grounded, Alan gripped a small, smooth piece of granite, with colors evenly split between speckled white and creamy black. He found the stone on a trip to the Oregon coast with his wife and daughter during happier times. When he picked it up, his wife said it looked like a yin and yang symbol. Alan sometimes used it as a tool to keep him centered during tense sessions, but today it wasn’t working. He had been reaching for it a lot lately. He loosened his grip on the stone along with the thoughts of his own marriage and refocused his attention to the couple on the couch in front of him.
“I can’t do this anymore” Carol sobbed into her hands.
”Carol, I love you. We can figure this out.” Ted reached his hand to Carol but his voice was flat, void of emotion.
Ernie hated breakfast in general, and he hated muesli in particular. Yet here he was, munching away at a full bowl, just as every morning, because ARG-U5, his health insurance’s AI, had decided in all its wisdom this was what he needed. This and a glass of freshly replicated orange juice. No sugar, of course.
When Ernie had finished, he put on his coat and went to the Blitz, just as every morning. These things run at 450 km/h, he thought, one comes along every 8.5 minutes and yet, they somehow manage to be 28 minutes late on a ten minute ride.
35 minutes later, Ernie entered his company’s 55-story building. It was one of the smaller ones in the area. A nice cozy hut, former ACCE boss Dan Acreman had called it. Then, Acreman resigned and became CEO of GFY, a company with a 122-story building.
Ernie sat down at his desk and paired his neuralink with his workstation. He’d been away two days, and now had 342 new tickets. That’s what you got for taking off a long weekend.
So, the job had gone left.
“Don’t panic.”
“I’m not panicking.”
Stars sprinkled throughout the darkening skies and the moon grew in size as Mick made his way back to his colony of family and friends that lived in the hollows and caverns nestled in the mountains of the Irish countryside. Thirty-three leprechauns and their extended families had lived there for centuries and most were related to him.
He tapped his walking stick against small rocks and hummed to himself, lost in the tranquility and peace of his surroundings.
A voice cried out, “Help”, and he startled, stopped and looked around. He waited and listened, but the only sound was that of the wind as it whispered through the trees and brushed against his face. “Sure ‘twas nothing,” he muttered under his breath and continued onward.
The voice grew louder. “Please help me.”
Daniel whimpered, but the sound was lost amongst the shouts in the village below. Dust billowed in the distance, cloaking the sunrise, yet it mattered little. Everyone knew what lurked in the shadows.
Vleron had finally found them.
The northern king sought to conquer Daniel’s homeland, and had spent most of the year consuming it bite by bite. Now, a small army had made camp near Daniel’s village, teeth bared for another mouthful.
Marwen felt strange as her uncle approached. Radoc had been family, but it had been years since she’d seen the man, and now he was a priest, a representative of mystery and power. He had been summoned to relieve the drought, and when his eyes met Marwen, she felt a stab of unease at their weight.
‘Radoc…what’s wrong?’
‘I bring bad news,’ her uncle sighed. ‘Do you remember Vilnus?’
Marwen nodded, recalling the legend of the man who’d given his body to bring water. It had been a barren year, so dry the oasis had turned to clay, and Vilnus had agreed to become the wind, to carry clouds from far away.
I was only eight years old when I rode the riverboat Twilight. That day Dad picked me up early from school. It was right before show-and-tell. I had been ready to show off two pennies that I had pressed flat on the South Side tracks when the school’s secretary, Ms. Richardson, poked her head into the classroom.
“Lillian, honey? Your daddy’s here.”
I whined in frustration but shoved the pennies into my pocket and said goodbye to my best friend, Rebecca Moyer. We made plans to meet up later to work on our clubhouse, then I followed Ms. Richardson out the front doors of the school.
Dad was waiting in front of his car, smiling. I was relieved. That morning at breakfast he hadn’t been smiling. He’d been shouting and making a scary face.
“Bamboo Walk cottage is haunted.” Allistair Cavendish’s family told him, claiming that is the only reason uncle George left him the property free and clear of any debts. He agreed that the cottage would be the perfect breeding ground for ‘duppy’ stories’— ghost folklore— vital to Jamaica’s culture as reggae to dance hall battles. He smiled at the notion of a ghost community; and wished he could write horror stories. He had not seen any shadows or ghosts; myths about duppies were entertainment when he was a boy.
What did his family know about loneliness and isolation? They were responsible for the isolation he felt every time they questioned his writing ambition.
“Allistair, when are you going to finish that novel?” Cousin Gary asked.
“How long has it been now? Ten years? Better stick to your day job.” His brother Ira teased.
Could it be?
Yes. A resplendent quetzal. The most beautiful bird in Costa Rica. Sacred symbol of the Aztec feathered serpent god, Quetzalcoatl.
Ilana had only learned about this creator god from Mesoamerican mythology at breakfast that morning. Their host at the lodge had told his captive audience of American tourists about Quetzalcoatl’s rise and demise. As with most gods, sordid sex spoiled his legacy. He slept with his sister – didn’t they all, Ilana had thought – and, riddled with shame, set himself on fire. It didn’t end on a completely sour note for the god, though. As his ashes rose into the sky, a resplendent quetzal swallowed them whole and promised to keep him safe until he was ready for rebirth.
Without making a sound, Ilana tugged on her husband’s jacket sleeve while pointing to the bird’s long, metallic green tail with her other hand.
Shadows danced and crackle filled the sky with gentle snaps as light traced her features, mouth open, convulsing. The smoky aroma, choked out by the day’s freeze-dried dinner and sunflower seeds. A rancid scent lingered in a pool between her hands.
With a quick motion, he snatched the feather from behind her ear, marveling at the damage it might have caused. “Let me hold your hair back?”
Unmanageable, tangled and falling out, he said, “Was it worth it? Free stones for your new garden. A stupid idea.” He tried to tie it back, but her scalp released more, falling to the ground, most sticking to his hand.
It was on a Wednesday in early spring when Carla woke up dead.
Since she did not realize the seriousness of her situation, she went about her normal routine. She headed for the kitchen where the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air with tantalizing familiarity.
The coffee pot with a timer had been a birthday gift from her very busy son, Robert. He had loved coffee from the first day he stole a sip as a youngster. Throughout his childhood he surreptitiously drank from Carla’s cup until she acknowledged his craving and proffered a mug of the captivating liquid to accompany his breakfast. Coffee became the beverage of choice not only for breakfast, but for discussing life’s issues, both big and small. A mug of hot coffee had been an invitation to talk. In recent years visits were few, conversations fewer and the coffee pot a sad reminder.
If there was ever a day for pumpkin pie, this was it. I approached the wooden counter of my small, sunny kitchen and removed the glass case that protected the delicious treat and cut a slice for Mrs. Mayapple and myself. The pie shone like copper on the plate. I snatched a couple of forks and swept back across the room. Mrs. Mayapple had been assigned to be my chaperone ever since I was born.
When I was old enough to question it, my mother’s answer was, “How else are we supposed to guarantee that you stay pure?”
My father’s rumbling laugh followed. “That’s right. You know we can’t be with you every minute of every day.”
When June first started the trail, she’d set herself apart from the other thru-hikers, preferring to travel solo. Now, at the tail end of the season, there were only a few of those thru-hikers left. Some days June didn’t see another human at all. She typically preferred it this way, despite her family’s warnings.
“Don’t walk alone,” they’d said. Her mom’s voice rang in her ears. “You’re a woman, Junie. I know you’re strong, but what if someone takes you, hurts you? Women shouldn’t travel alone; it isn’t safe.” And June boiled inside. Apart from the fact that no one in her social circle could or would hike the 2,190 miles to Katahdin with her, she shouldn’t have to have a buddy. Yes there were risks—she’d read the statistics about women who hike alone—but there were too many things in this life that she “shouldn’t do” because she was a woman. This wasn’t going to be one of those things.
So she bought pepper spray, bear spray—all the sprays—and she bought a knife. Then she laced up her boots, flew to Georgia, Ubered to Springer Mountain and said, “screw the patriarchy.”
“There’s a body for you downstairs,” Cassia’s mother announces, wiping the blood from her hands as she passes the open bedroom door. “All set and ready for you.”
Her words spark a flood of excitement in Cassia, and she springs from her bed to follow her mother down the stairs and into the kitchen. Her fingers itch to snatch up the scalpel, to dig under the skin and see what lies within the corpse.
“I thought it was Alistair’s turn,” Cassia says, falling into step with her mother. “He claimed the next three that came in.”
“Cousin Alistair is otherwise occupied with another target. He’ll be gone a few days.”
Cassia eyes the basement door, practically twitching in her eagerness to get to work. Her mother pulls a mixing bowl out of the cabinet and sets it on the counter. Then she turns back to Cassia, sees her inching towards the door, and laughs.
“Your father and I already had our fun tracking him down and killing him,” her mother says. “You go have your own now. I’ll be baking a pie for the Mitchells’ funeral.”
The vast, red expanse of the planet spread out in front of Rodriguez—nothing but scarlet cliffs and crimson dust as far as the eye could see. A single speck of white, the pearlescent Hub of SX129, stood at the crest of the distant hill, becoming a rusted orange as the sand kicked up. Rodriguez could feel the wind pressing in on the arms of his EVA suit as he turned to scan the horizon. He clicked commands into his bracer, and the display inside his helmet overlaid waves of neon green onto his vision.
“Nothing here but dead space. I’ve tried every scanner I have; are you sure you saw the signature over here?” he asked Emerald.
“The infrared lit up like a Christmas tree,” she said. “Alerts and all.”
“There’s no way it could be that easy. We are not finding evidence of alien life forms this quickly.” Rodriguez rolled his eyes even though he knew she couldn’t see them.
“I swear it was right here,” she said. “If you’re scared of a little wind, you can go back. I’m going to keep looking.” Her grayish form disappeared with the next swirl of dust.
“The forest is haunted,” Tilly says. She holds me back but I pull from her grasp.
“Aunt Bess says you’ve never been in the woods,” I retort.
“That’s true,” she murmurs, twisting her long yellow braid in her fingers. “Because of the bone children.”
“The bone children?”
Tilly nods, her cheeks pink from the autumn air.
It was another miserable morning in a string of incessantly gray days when Beverly pulled aside the flimsy lace curtain and first glimpsed Millie’s even-paced shuffle. A shadow had initially drawn her to the window. She suspected the nasty black cat that had been hanging around might be lurking in her box hedges. But there was no cat, only her neighbor Millie in the road. She shuffled past without waving. Beverly frowned and closed the curtain.
The next morning, Beverly checked to make sure no cars were parked on the street. This was a favorite part of her daily routine; she’d gleefully ring the HOA to let them know about her neighbors’ policy violation. When Beverly glanced at the street, she found herself watching Millie walk by yet again. It was a strange coincidence, but Beverly didn’t believe in fate. Everything in her life could be controlled, managed, or leveraged.
Proper control was how she’d handled her son when he brought a boy home; unacceptable behavior was not tolerated in her home. He left. Her ex-husbands had to be dealt with so that she could control her own finances. Their departures were more permanent. Taking control of the situation was the practical prescription for all ailments.
At first I was delighted when Aunt June returned from the dead. I had adored her as a child and even more so as an adult. She was the most competent woman I knew. She had managed her sixty-two-acre farm alone after her husband Ed died in a tractor accident when she was twenty-six. She could repair heavy equipment and wield a chainsaw. She could tell the difference between the whistle of a Broad Winged Hawk and the raspy shriek of a Red Tail. As a kid, I followed her around the farm with the same devotion as the pack of stray dogs that never left her side.
But after a while, June’s miraculous return began to feel less like a cosmic gift and more like a haunting. Unlike the live June, who had been placable and easy-going, the ghostly June was usually in a foul mood and complained nonstop about something I did or didn’t do on her farm, which she’d left to me on her death. These days, June and I bickered—a lot. I hated that.