Diet Riot
Author: Sonora Taylor
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology features twelve fat-positive horror tales of people who come into their own, celebrate their curves, and save the day. There are babysitters and bakers, thieves and roller derby stars. Young women unsure about their bodies meet demons and water spirits who offer assistance–in their own way, of course. Danger lurks in hospitals, in the mysterious occult shop in the local mall, and in a house filled with cats. Campers, trash collectors, and house flippers alike uncover nasty secrets underground. A myriad of horrors await you–none of which comes at the expense of
Publisher: Independently published

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, organizations, and incidents are fictitious. Any similarities to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events is coincidental.

Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology

Copyright © 2022 Nico Bell

Copyright © 2022 Sonora Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the editors, except by reviewers who may quote brief passages.

Edited by Nico Bell and Sonora Taylor

Cover art by Tori Celeste at Vicki Be Wicked, LLC

Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology

Edited by Nico Bell and Sonora Taylor

TABLE OF CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION

CINDERELLA AND HER DEMON GODMOTHER Stephanie Rabig

A CURIOUS GARDEN E.E.W. Christman

BLUE HAIR Marsheila Rockwell

THE LAKE HOUSE Nico Bell

NEON AFTERGLOW Roxie Voorhees

WATERFALL Christi Nogle

THE RED DOTS IN THE WINDOW Judith Baron

FLUFFERS Die Booth

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT Kay Hanifen

CORPULENCE KC Loesener

THE FLOOR IS LAVA Nikki R. Leigh

EASY BAKE Sonora Taylor

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

ABOUT THE EDITORS

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

EDITOR’S NOTE

A list of content and trigger warnings can be found at the back of this book, before About the Contributors.

To anyone who ever felt like they didn’t belong

INTRODUCTION

The body positive movement started in the mid-90’s as a way of promoting and celebrating Black bodies. It grew to include Trans, queer, disabled, limb differences, scars, and every body type that fell outside society’s current definition of “normal.” Soon, plus sized bodies also joined the activism movement in hopes of showing the world that “fat” isn’t a bad word, and fat individuals are worthy of love, dignity, and respect.

Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology grew out of our combined passion to see fat bodies represented positively in fiction. Too often, the fat character is cast in the shadows of a thinner protagonist, acting as the voice-of-wisdom or the funny best friend. Worse, fat characters are written as morbidly obese or lazy, which only perpetuates the very stereotypes that fat positive activists are fighting against.

In horror fiction in particular, fatness is often used as a (lazy) shorthand for evil, disgusting, and vile. It’s not enough for a character to be a murderer, hateful, or monstrous. We have to make sure they’re fat as well, their jiggles and rolls a warning to the thin protagonists that they–and the ideals they project with their thinness–are in danger. It’s disheartening to read story after story, novel after novel, reminding us day after day what many people truly think about our bodies.

Readers won’t find any of that in this anthology. Here, fat bodies come into their own, celebrate their curves, and save the day. You’ll find babysitters and bakers, thieves and roller derby stars. Young women unsure about their bodies meet demons and water spirits who offer assistance–in their own way, of course. Danger lurks in hospitals, in the mysterious occult shop in the local mall, and in a house filled with cats. Campers, trash collectors, and house flippers alike uncover nasty secrets underground. A myriad of horrors await you–but here, none of that horror comes from fat bodies.

It’s time to reclaim the “f” word.

Nico Bell and Sonora Taylor

CINDERELLA AND HER DEMON GODMOTHER
by Stephanie Rabig

“Lucinda? We got a 119.”

I paused the video I was watching and glanced up from my computer, giving the messenger a nod. “Thanks, Jerry.”

He tossed a file onto my desk and scurried off down the hall, his hooves clacking against the tile. I stretched as I stood up, raising my tail and flicking the door closed again. Jerry was a hard worker, but he never did remember to close the doors behind him or refill the coffeepot.

119s were my specialty: a bullied teenager who wants someone dead. I let out a low hum of anticipation at the thought of a surface visit. A mauling or three was always good for the soul—or lack of one.

I conjured a mirror and set to making myself presentable for a mortal audience. Demons don't bother with clothing—Hell being hot, and all—and any urges for individuality are sated by carving and otherwise decorating our horns. But humans, modest little things they are, tend to get all flustered when a naked demon shows up in their room.

I picked up the file, watching the picture of a young girl as it showed her moving around her room, quietly chanting. Her voice came out a little tinny, and I made a mental note to mention that to Pietro up in the Summoning Division. I tapped the girl's forehead, closing my eyes for a moment as I absorbed her consciousness, her past, everything I needed to know.

This one's name was Claire.

I modeled my jeans and chunky necklace after hers, though I chose a crop top rather than the oversized sweatshirt she wore. I regarded myself in the mirror, admiring the way the black crop top set off my stomach, which is a brighter red than the crimson of my arms and legs. On impulse, I added a belly button ring and then returned my attention to Claire's file, touching the chalk circle displayed in the photograph.

In a rush of sulfur-tinged air, I was vaulted topside to the sight of Claire gaping at me.

“Holy shit,” she gasped. “Are you actually—oh my god, you're—”

I waved my hand, sending Claire's mind skipping through the entire 'you're real! It worked!' thought process and straight into acceptance. I'd enjoyed the shock and confusion at first, but it got old after the first hundred or so summonings.

“This is incredible,” Claire said. “I mean, I hoped it'd work but I didn't really think so. I've tried a homemade spirit box before, but nothing ever came of it. Dad said he wasn't surprised; he's a total Shaniac.”

I smiled, noting the Buzzfeed Unsolved logo on her sweatshirt. “That's a fun show.”

“You guys can watch movies and YouTube and stuff?”

“We don't like being bored any more than you do. So, here's the deal. I have two hours topside to solve your problem.” I rubbed my hands together, sparks glinting off my skin. “Who do you want dead?”

Her enthusiasm disappeared, and she stammered as she looked to the floor. “Well, I ... come to think of it, I really shouldn't … this wasn't the best idea, okay, it's just—”

“Fine, fine,” I said, leaving that part of my job alone for now. Some humans had a list of grievances a mile long and were only too happy to talk about who they wanted shuffled off the mortal coil and why, but given what I now knew of Claire and her impulsivity, it didn't surprise me that she wanted to renege on all this once consequences came due. “No death.” Yet.

“What's the problem?” I asked. “Something caused all this.” I motioned down to the summoning circle and to the tear-and-mascara-stained tissues at the top of her trash can.

“There was this guy,” she said. Even without the benefit of having been inside her head, I could feel the humiliation and fury roiling off her as she slowly related the story. She had gone on a quick Walmart run, only to realize as she was heading down one of the frozen food aisles that a man was following her, his phone raised and filming.

“I asked him what the hell he was doing and he ... he puffed out his cheeks and waddled. Then he laughed and walked away. I should have yelled at him or smashed his phone or something, but I was just so surprised and I … I just left the cart there and ran.”

And that frustration had led to this. The dark hope that the summoning would work tempered with knowledge that it surely wouldn't, but Claire had felt good for a few minutes as she made believe that she had some power in this situation, however belated.

“You tell your parents?”

“No. Mom's at work and ... and Dad wouldn't understand.”

“Is he part of the problem?”

“No. No,” she insisted, when she noticed the glint in my eye.

“You really think a demon can't recognize a lie when they hear one?”

“Okay, fine,” she said, huffing out a breath. “He doesn't mean to be. It's just that he's a skinny guy, always has been, and I think he's disappointed I took after Mom. He got me a membership to Weight Watchers for Christmas,” she murmured, looking away in embarrassment.

“Set it on fire,” I advised.

“I will.”

“Here's the thing about your dad,” I said. “I can look. I can tell what his thoughts truly are, if that disappointment is real or something you're projecting onto him because you're insecure as fuck.”

Claire's face reddened, but she didn't deny it.

“How do I know you'll tell me the truth?” she asked.

“Because the truth is usually a shit-ton more painful than a lie could ever be,” I said. “Our whole thing is forbidden knowledge. You can find out, but you have to choose to take that bite. And live with the consequences.”

She hesitated, and then set her jaw. “I want to know.”

“Okay.” I closed my eyes, sending my consciousness through the house until I found Claire's father sitting in the living room, watching some horror movie from the eighties. I slid into his mind, flipping through work concerns and political worries to focus on his wife and daughter.

I saw his wife crying one night, after dealing with her willowy, condescending mother, and felt his helplessness. I felt his love for Claire, an overpowering thing with no conditions or restrictions. He was a genuinely decent man.

I stifled a yawn.

“Answer's no,” I said, opening my eyes and speaking so suddenly that Claire flinched back. “He does wish you were skinny, but only because your mom's been through some shit, too, and he thinks it'd be easier on you if you slid under the radar.”

“And the membership?” Claire whispered.

“He overheard you and your friend Denise talking about it a few months ago, and heard you say you'd love to join her, but you just couldn't afford it right now.”

“That was a brush-off!” Claire exclaimed. “Denise is always trying some diet or another and trying to get me to do them with her.”

“He didn't catch on,” I said. “He means well. Just a dumbass sometimes. He's not disappointed in you.”

Claire burst into tears.

Out of deference to the fact that she'd already had a pretty shitty day, I held back a groan. “Hey, enough of that. I've got 93 more minutes here; deal with this in therapy on Tuesday.”

“How do you know I go to therapy? Or when my—”

“—appointment with Amirah is? You called me. I know everything now. Knowledge is a demon's wheelhouse, remember?”

She nodded, looking wary about that. It'd all hit her later, I knew, when she really thought about the implications of some stranger being inside her mind, inside her father's mind, but that part of it all wasn't my problem. My job was to offer temptation and see how far she was willing to go. If she would end up damning herself.

And if I could get a good meal out of it, so much the better.

“Worry about it later,” I said with a wave of my hand. “If you're not going to let me kill anybody, let's at least go get a bite to eat. Which place around here has the best dessert?”

“No place really close,” Claire admitted. “I've heard Liana's over in Kansas City has some amazing cheesecake, but—”

“Consider it done. You like Christian Siriano's dresses?”

“I guess so,” Claire stammered. “Yeah. He's the one who made that tuxedo dress for Billy Porter, right?”

“That's the one. He's doing some fantastic things with lime green right now. See?” I asked, instantly trading out her sweater and jeans for a strapless tea-length dress and a matching off-kilter hat.

Claire couldn't speak for almost a full minute as she stared down at herself. “Okay, I love this color, but you can't—”

“Steal something?” I asked, grinning as I tapped one of my horns. “Relax, I'll send them back later.” I put myself into a one-shouldered orange-and-black marbled gown. Last year's design, yes, but still a favorite.

Then I changed my skin from devil-red to a human brown and did away with my horns and hooves.

“You can make yourself look any way you want,” Claire said, the longing plain. “Why wouldn't you make yourself thinner?”

“Because I don't want to. And talk to Amirah about that Tuesday. If you got the power to alter your body however you wanted, I'd want you to wish for gills or wings or something fun, not anything about weight.”

Claire nodded, and then I took her hand. “This won't hurt, but it does take some getting used to,” I said. She scrunched her eyes shut, and a few seconds later we were seated at Liana's, with a waitress heading to our table to take our order.

“Hello,” she said softly. “My name's Anabel, and I'll be taking care of you this evening. What can I get you to drink?”

“I'll take a strawberry margarita. One for you, too?” I asked Claire, before she shook her head frantically and I remembered. Sixteen years old, right.

“I'll take an ice water,” Claire said, and Anabel wrote it down on her notepad.

“I've heard you have good cheesecake,” I said. “What flavors?”

“We have classic New York style, white chocolate raspberry, lemon-blueberry, chocolate peanut butter, key lime, and our seasonal is mango cheesecake with a passionfruit sauce.”

“Those all sound good,” I said. “We'll take a slice of each.”

Claire let out an odd squeaking noise and looked warily at the waitress, but Anabel just nodded with a smile and walked away. I'd taken a quick peek and had seen no judgment at us ordering only dessert; just exhaustion after a ten-hour shift.

“I always take time for a restaurant up here,” I said. “The food's a million times better. Everything in Hell tastes dusty, or like it's on the verge of its expiration date.”

Claire made a face, then leaned toward me a little. “I just realized—I never asked what your name is.”

“Lucinda.”

“And you're an actual demon? How does that work? Did you die and go to Hell and become one, or...?”

I shook my head. “Never was human. I'm 18,000 years old, give or take a decade.”

“Wow.”

“You're mayflies. Entertaining, but mayflies,” I said. “And you spend your time worrying about the stupidest shit.”

Claire bristled. “Well, sorry I don't have your thousands of years of perspective.”

I smiled as Anabel brought us our drinks. “Your cheesecakes will be out in a few minutes,” she said.

“Thank you.”

She left again, and I spoke. “Look at how worried you were that the waitress was going to judge you for ordering desserts that people are supposed to want. Humans create things that are designed to taste good, and then you act like it's a sin to enjoy tasting them. I'm pretty familiar with sin,” I said. “That one's not on there.”

“It's just ... embarrassing, I guess,” Claire said. “And you never know who the judgment might come from! So it's easier to be on your guard.”

“It's a classic problem. You feel powerless because your society hates you, and now you want one of society's enablers dead. And I love that anger,” I told her. “Hold on to it. Because you're not going to change the world, or America's attitude on this.”

“I know that,” she muttered, though youthful pride stung her voice.

“I'm not being metaphorical. You will live your life and then die without having changed the world or made society see that fat people are morally neutral. But here's the thing: while you're here, you can either be background noise, or a 'fuck you'. It's easier to be background noise,” I admitted, taking a drink of my margarita. A bit heavy on the strawberry and light on the alcohol, but still tasty. “More fun to be a 'fuck you'.”

Claire wasn't taking my words to heart, at least not yet. She had turned most of her focus to the nearest table, where a trio of young women were sitting. All of them were dressed beautifully (I did like the tailored turquoise pantsuit the redhead was wearing) and one in particular was staring at us as Anabel and another waiter brought over six plates of cheesecake.

“Oh my god,” Turquoise Pantsuit whispered, elbowing her friend.

“I know! No wonder, right?” Emerald Blouse whispered back.

I sent my consciousness into theirs for a few seconds, flipping through memories and ideas and countless mean thoughts. Turquoise and Emerald were sisters, it turned out, and their friend in the black-and-silver gown (who had met them in college) had spent elementary and high school looking very much like Claire and I did. She laughed along with her friends because at least she wasn't the one getting laughed at anymore, and I planted a little knowledge in her head, a way to contact me once she was tired of dealing with this new variety of bullshit.

“That other lady's staring at us, too,” Claire whispered, and I glanced behind me to see a woman in her eighties, lips pursed as she glared at us.

“Never mind them,” I said. “Enjoy your cheesecake.”

I took a bite of the mango passionfruit one, smiling at the tartness with no hint of dust or rot on my tongue. Claire hesitated, and I arched an eyebrow. “Want me to take care of them?”

“Yes, please. Not—I mean, don't kill them, but if you could just...teleport them outside or something?”

“Or something,” I said, as I turned Turquoise's chicken cacciatore and Emerald's salad into maggots in their mouths.

The two women screamed and gagged, spitting maggots out and wailing as they ran from the restaurant. Thanks to a quick mental tweak on my part, no one else noticed their panic save for their friend, who hurried out after them asking what was wrong.

I turned my attention to the older woman, sighing as I came back to myself after leafing through her mind.

“That one isn't thinking about weight. She just assumed we're on a date, and that ...” I chuckled. “That we're going to Hell for it. It's not exactly what you called me here for, but ... want me to?”

Claire grinned and nodded, and I chuckled. I kinda liked this kid.

Willing no one else to notice, I got up from the table and sauntered over to the woman, who managed to look down her nose at me though she was at least a foot shorter and currently sitting down.

“What?” she snapped.

“Got a problem?”

“I don't feel like talking to you.”

“It was a rhetorical question. I know you do. You think you're better than ...” I paused, recalling her thoughts. “Hell, is there anyone you don't hate? Other old conservative white people, sometimes?”

“I'm going to call the police!”

“Good luck. You trick yourself into thinking you're noble, that you're taking a brave stand against society's sinners, but all you're really doing is making other people miserable for no reason, and that self-righteousness'll turn straight to fear as you die alone. And you will,” I said, leaning down and allowing a little hellfire to shine in my eyes. “Die alone.”

I straightened back up, enjoying the sight of her gaping like a fish at me until I remembered the time. Less than an hour left.

“Enjoy your meal,” I said pleasantly, and withdrew from everyone else's thoughts, allowing them to see plainly again when I was once again seated.

“I should bring you to dinner all the time,” Claire laughed, taking a bite of the chocolate peanut butter one. “Oh wow. You've gotta try this one.”

“I will,” I said, selecting the key lime instead. When I glanced back over at Claire, she looked hesitant again.

“Out with it,” I said.

“This isn't actually a date, right? I mean, you're really gorgeous, but I'm straight.”

“I'm not,” I said with a grin. “But no. You're a little young for me.” I took a drink and went on. “If you want, I can tell you who you do end up dating. Marrying, having kids with. How many.”

“Really?” Claire thought about it over most of the chocolate peanut butter cheesecake, then finally shook her head. “No. That's okay.”

Damn. That one usually lured them right in.

We finished our dessert, Claire asking all the expected questions—what's Hell like, did I actually know the devil—and after the bill was taken care of, I stood up and stretched, then picked up my nearly-empty glass.

“The ways people choose to be assholes fascinate me,” I said. “Who people fuck, how much meat's on your skeleton. Thousands of years and all that's changed is the speed of spreading that cruelty.” I raised my glass. “To job security!”

Claire smiled and raised her water glass, clinking it against mine before taking a drink.

“Anabel!” I called, waving her over and blocking everyone else's sight as I materialized three hundred-dollar bills. “You've been wonderful. Keep that.”

“Thank you so much!” Anabel exclaimed, some of her exhaustion melting away as she took in a reward that actually suited all the work she'd been putting in.

“Wow,” Claire said. “I didn't expect—”

“I'm a demon, not an asshole,” I said, and transported the two of us back to her room. “I don't have a lot of time left, so I'm going to do one last thing. I'm going to let you see, the way I do. Honestly. Now it's very important that you don't look at me once I do this. Your brain couldn't handle it.”

There was a reason even angels said “be not afraid” when they showed themselves to humans, and they had a pure benevolence that mitigated the effect of true sight somewhat. Demons did not.

I hoped Claire didn't give in to a mortal's curiosity, but it had happened before. Still, I'd give her the opportunity to make the choice, because those were the rules: let people damn themselves.

I materialized a full-length mirror and moved off to the corner of the room so Claire couldn't see me unless she willingly chose to turn.

“You've had some great food, a fun conversation, and you're wearing a ridiculously expensive dress,” I reminded her. “Now, look at yourself.”

Claire opened her eyes, and I gave her the temporary gift, letting her see herself as simply a person, a human, without any of the hatred she had been seeping in since she was little and the first aunt made a not-so-jokey remark about how pudgy her thighs were; the first kindergarten classmate who yelled “Fatty!” and ran away cackling; the first novel that treated a character's fatness like it was as equally disgusting as her heartlessness.

“Oh,” Claire whispered. “Oh, wow. That's me.”

I smiled and gave her a few more seconds before I rescinded the gift—if she chose to look at me, fine, but getting her incinerated simply for following a teenager's impulsiveness to turn and talk wouldn't be fair.

She did turn as soon as the mirror disappeared, hurrying up to me. “Thank you. That was amazing. But I have to ask why? I mean, you've been so nice. I thought, well—”

“As I said, you called me. That means I have your interests at heart and can go about helping however I see fit. Now, that doesn't mean I had to go about it in a way you liked. A couple of my associates, if some human calls them unhappy about their lives, they kill their entire families and relocate them to a different continent. They wanted change, and got it. So, word of advice, I wouldn't try all this ever again.” I poked at the chalk circle with my hoof.

She nodded, looking a little ill at my warning. Good.

“I don't mind spending time with the people who summon me. Change of pace, and the food is good up here. But I also enjoy the occasional disembowelment, so it's time I said goodbye.”

She gave me a faint smile, trying to decide whether or not I was joking, and I smiled back. “You enjoy yourself. Remember,” I said, giving her a tap on the nose. “Mayfly.”

“I will,” she said, and to my surprise, threw her arms around me in a tight, brief hug. I hugged her back, setting the happiness aside to deal with later. Knowledge was indeed my wheelhouse, but too much self-knowledge wasn't great for anything, even a demon.

—

I disappeared, sending myself to the home of the man who'd filmed Claire. Once she'd calmed down, she hadn't seemed interested in the idea of actually sending me on a lethal mission, so I'd done her the favor of not telling her that this man was dead from the moment she'd completed her summoning circle with murderous intent.

I didn't bother rifling through his thoughts, just appeared in a burst of flame at the foot of his bed. I kept everything toned down for most of the ones who summoned me; it felt nice to engage in some theatrics.

He'd been half-asleep, and leapt out of bed with a scream at my appearance, tangling his feet in his bedsheet and tumbling face-first to the floor. He scrambled up and retreated into a corner when he realized I was blocking the doorway.

“Who are you? What's going on?”

I hurried him through to acceptance much the way I'd done with Claire earlier, then picked up his phone and started scrolling through the saved videos. “Tsk. Not much variety, is there?” Video after video of fat people minding their own business, to be uploaded to his YouTube channel with 'creative' music and sound effects later.

I deleted them all.

“I'm going to post to your Twitter now,” I said. “Explaining that you're a horrible person and that's why you're deleting your channel.”

“No!” he complained, actually daring to take a step forward before I glared at him and bared my fangs. “Do you know how hard I've worked on that?” he whined. “I've got almost 100,000 subscribers!”

“And I'm sure I'll be paying a lot of them a visit someday,” I said, posting to his Twitter and then accessing his YouTube channel long enough to delete the account.

“So who ... who sent you? One of the people I filmed? I'll apologize, okay? And I won't film like that again. I'll do pranks instead or something! Just let me keep my channel.”

“Already gone.”

For a few seconds, I thought he was actually going to stomp his foot. Then he shrank back instead as I advanced.

“Look, I'm sorry! I promise I am! I'll never do it again, I get it now, okay?”

I rolled my eyes. “Do I look like the fuckin' Ghost of Christmas Past? This isn't your redemption arc.” Then I whipped my tail around and slashed his throat with the barbed point of it.

I barely had time to enjoy the shock in his eyes as he collapsed before my time ran out and I was pulled back to my office. The taste of cheesecake lingered in my mouth for a few more seconds before it was corrupted by the tinge of sulfur from traveling. I sighed.

There was always the next trip topside to look forward to.

Jerry opened the door. “Lucinda! Staff meeting.”

I groaned. Hopefully, this one would only last one century instead of two. “I'll be right there.”

CURIOUS GARDEN
by E.E.W. Christman

Sophie was the first to go. Her body crumpled in the early morning heat like a delicate orchid under an abusive, dry sun. Sophie was so soft, so quiet. She told me in smiling whispers about her rabbits as we unpacked our things in the cabin. She had two English Lops—the kind with long, floppy ears, she explained—one with gray fur, the other with brown and white fur.

“I named them Mulder and Scully,” she told me in shy tones, but her eyes danced. “Mom and Dad said when I get home, they’ll get me an Angora. As a reward.” I nodded. Many of us had been given such promises. “They’re so cute!

“What do they look like?” I asked.

“They kind of look like sheep. Like little bunnies covered in wool.”

Soft Sophie. Gentle Sophie who loved rabbits and wanted so desperately to please her parents. Her pleas for water were ignored. When her skin went pale and she stopped sweating, some of us tried to help her, but were shouted down. They were grown-ups. They knew when to intervene. Right?

Sophie’s knees buckled. The heat was intense. When she hit the ground, I tried to make my way to her, but Kevin told me to stay put. Kevin never stopped smiling. None of the counselors ever stopped smiling: Kevin and Chloe, Dave and Patricia, Molly and Geraldine. All smiles held aloft on young, trim, athletic limbs with the vaguest hint of muscles beneath their matching polos. Dave and Geraldine helped Sophie up and carried her off the field and out of sight. When I asked where they were going, Kevin’s smile widened.

“Ok, let’s do jumping jacks! Come on, campers, let me hear that heart rate go up!”

Later, we were told Sophie was sent home. Her mattress was naked and rolled up, her things gone, save for a forgotten photograph caught in the floorboards of our cabin. It was Sophie, her parents, and her younger sister. The pair were holding up Mulder and Scully, all grins. Not the joyless smiles of the counselors, but the kind full of barely suppressed laughter. They looked happy. A happy family. If only the parents could have seen that, instead of focusing on their elder daughter’s belly. I pocketed the photograph. Maybe I could call Sophie and see if the photo could be mailed to her? It would be a good excuse to make sure she was ok.

She wasn’t. Of course, she wasn’t. And she was only the first.

—

That night, I woke up from a dream. In the dream, my parents offered me dinner: spaghetti and meatballs with a Caesar salad. My favorite. But every time I tried to take a bite, my parents shrieked. It was a wretched sound. Dismay, resentment, and betrayal all rolled up into one pain-inducing noise. The food never touched my lips.

When I awakened, the screaming didn’t stop. For a horrible moment, the sound followed me into the waking comfort of my cabin.

After a few blinks, the sound stopped. There was nothing but the crickets and the critters in the woods.

You’re just tired, I told myself before rolling over and closing my eyes once again. Just tired and hungry.

—

Camp GnuYu’s mascot was a waifish antelope in athletic shorts and a sports bra. Rue the Gnu. I didn’t know much about antelopes or wildebeests or whatever she was supposed to be, but I was pretty sure they were prey animals. Her perfectly pearly whites seemed alarmingly carnivorous. Her trim figure was paraded across every sign, every surface. Not just at the front entrance. I saw her face winking at me as I walked to the mess hall. It was the last thing I saw before dropping onto the mattress in my cabin. We weren’t even safe in the bathrooms. Rue was always watching.

The largest iteration of Rue was in the mess. Her body reclined across the wall above the kitchen with a speech bubble that read, “Rue the Gnu says, ‘Let’s make a New You!’” She was eating a carrot.

“Do gnus eat carrots?” It was Rachel asking. She was the youngest camper. Only nine. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was next.

“No,” I told her.

“They eat grass?” Carrie added. She always sounded like she was asking a question.

“Oh.” Rachel tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She tugged at the bottom of her shirt self-consciously. A lot of the kids did this. If the counselors caught a belly or a roll out, they’d lecture you. Nicely, of course: Don’t you want to be thin? Don’t you want to be lovely and loved? Any camper subjected to such treatment could usually be found in their cabin or in the bathroom afterward, sobbing.

Rue watched us eat from the wall. All the counselors watched. There was an egg timer at the frontmost table, ticking down the minutes from twenty.

“Don’t chew too fast, campers!” It was Chloe who spoke. The tallest, wispiest counselor of them all, with enormous white teeth and blonde hair pulled back so tightly it looked painful. The other counselors walked along the tables, watching us eat, making sure we didn’t consume too eagerly or hungrily. Hunger was cherished, Kevin would remind us from time to time. Hunger was a reward.

—

I awoke again that night. My body was covered in an icy sweat. I could not recall the dream but found it harder to fall back asleep that time.

I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I heard something moving around outside the cabin. It was quiet, maybe just one of the raccoons that liked to raid the mess’s trash cans at night. Still, every snapping branch made me shrink deeper into my covers despite the heat.

It’s just raccoons. Maybe a deer, I thought. Yet I couldn’t convince my heart to stop racing.

—

I didn’t find out about Rachel until the morning after. She was in a different cabin, but we all shared meals. When I didn’t see her tiny figure at breakfast, I asked her bunkmates. They shrugged, checking to make sure the counselors weren’t lurking nearby.

“She was just gone this morning. All her stuff, too.”

“Oh.” What else was there to say? Maybe her parents had changed their minds. I envied this thought, even knowing it wasn’t true. Our parents all sent us here because they wanted trim daughters. Adamantly.

I ate breakfast as slowly as possible and made a mental note to ask about Rachel when I asked to call Sophie.

—

“I’m sorry.” We were standing outside the camp office during free hour. Chloe stuck out her lower lip in a cartoonish display of disappointment. “The phone is for emergencies only, Jeanie. I know you miss your friend, but what would Rue the Gnu say about breaking rules?”

“Um. That we shouldn’t?”

“That’s right!” Some of the hairs on Chloe’s forehead were freed from her scalp as her expression changed. She didn’t seem to notice. “Besides, the phone isn’t working right now.”

“Oh.”

“Tell you what.” She knelt down until she was eye level. Here, I could see all the ripped, blond hairs that were still trapped in that garroting ponytail. “If you can reach your weight goal two days early, I’ll see what I can do about the phone. Sound good? Two pounds in four days! Let’s do it!”

Chloe didn’t wait for a response. She clapped her hands excitedly and began steering me away from the office. My heart dropped. We already worked out six hours a day. Sometimes more. I hurt. We all hurt, and most of us hadn’t lost anything. The counselors made our weight loss charts public, keeping them posted on a billboard in the mess. Most of us were in the red. No or little weight loss. They’d shake their heads and click their tongues as they marked our current weight.

I couldn’t lose two pounds in four days. I hadn’t lost two pounds in three weeks. Chloe knew this. She had to know this.

Then, I remembered. “What happened to Rachel?”

“She got sick and went home. Poor thing.” Chloe looked down at me. Her smile was mostly teeth. Enormous, bleached teeth that made her lips look so thin. “Not everyone is cut out for GnuYu, you know. You’ve got to be extra special to want to change yourself for the better.”

Better. Not thinner. But they meant the same thing. At least to Chloe. At least to our parents. There was no difference.

—

Brinda fainted in the mess during movie night. We were watching The Parent Trap, and someone shrieked. When I turned, Brinda was limp in her chair. A ragdoll, jaw slack and knees skinned from the day’s exercises. She hadn’t eaten in two days, desperate to shrink herself and claw her name out of the red. She was gone soon after. I saw her on her way to the counselor office with Molly and Kevin. She didn’t wave back. Her eyes were hollow orbs of desperation. I dreamt of them that night, staring at me from under her bed in the dark.

After that was Carrie, who disappeared after she refused to swim laps in the lake and was escorted from the beach by Geraldine. Then, Chloe took Monique away when she hid during hiking hour. Then Marcie, then June, then Yeohlee. Eight girls gone, one after the other. At first, when we asked, the counselors simply smiled and told us the same thing: not everyone was cut out for GnuYu. After Marcie, though, they stopped offering even this lackluster explanation. Instead, they demanded pushups or sit-ups. If we got curious, they clapped their hands and announced cheerfully that we’d run laps around the campsite. None of us dared to question them. None of us dared to refuse.

We didn’t know where the girls went. Maybe they had just gone home, like the counselors said. But none of us could deny the way our hearts sank every time we saw another empty seat at breakfast. We all knew we didn’t want to be next, even if we couldn’t articulate why.

—

Yeohlee had been in my cabin. She had been the exemplary GnuYu fatty. Determined to change. Committed. Athletic. Of all of us, she alone had lost weight steadily during the summer. The counselors loved her. They loved commenting when she refused a snack, or when she swam an extra lap in the lake. Just last week, Kevin had held up Yeohlee’s old shorts triumphantly like a war banner.

“Great news! Yeohlee is our first camper to go down a size!” Everyone had clapped, the counselors enthusiastically, the campers less so. Some were jealous, of course. Most of us wanted to lose the weight, but our bodies refused to give up even an ounce of fat. I couldn’t articulate exactly what I had felt looking up at Yeohlee, smileless, scowling, visibly smaller. Apathetic? There was some of that.

I couldn’t name the emotion until I saw Yeohlee’s empty bed right next to Sophie’s. Pity. What I felt for Yeohlee, who was so determined to alter her body, was pity.

No one knew why she had been sent home. No one dared ask, but if Yeohlee couldn’t make a “gnu you,” what hope did the rest of us have?

—

The sound of a girl crying softly into her pillow woke me up. I turned my head, trying to see who it was when something in the window made my blood freeze. Someone was standing outside, watching us sleep through the glass. A second later, the crying stopped. There was a scream. The stranger disappeared. Girls sat upright, asking what was wrong.

We could see the beams of light cutting through the trees as the counselors searched the campsite. When they came back emptyhanded, it was Chloe with the tortured scalp who suggested we’d been up too late telling scary stories. We were sent back to our cabin, shaky and exhausted. None of us slept.

—

I felt a hand clasp mine under the rough-sawn pine table. I took the paper being given to me and slipped it into my pocket quickly. I didn’t even look up from my hard-boiled egg and grapefruit. I dared not read it here. There was plenty of whispered speculation about the late night visitor at East Cabin. Some girls theorized it had to be one of the counselors. This theory had a lot of traction. Many suspected Kevin, whose eyes always lingered a little too long. The counselors had caught wind of the rumor and had taken to monitoring communications between the campers. Notes were confiscated and read aloud. I didn’t want to risk it. I’d wait until my free hour when I could crouch in the bathroom in sweet seclusion.

The girl next to me was from another cabin. A short girl with pale hair and downcast eyes. Kayla, maybe. Kaylee? I wasn’t sure. She was quiet. The counselors yelled at her a lot for reading. I’d heard Kevin tell her, “You can read when you’re thin.” Then he made her do jumping jacks while he sucked on his water bottle.

I finished my meager breakfast in silence. There were a few hushed conversations, but mostly, girls just stared at their trays before being shuffled off to morning exercises. After we were herded outside, we ran through the camp. We had all learned early to push hard early in the day, before the sun reached its zenith and the heat became unbearable. If we impressed the counselors early, they sometimes went easy on us during later drills. Sometimes.

Today was not such a day. Geraldine was brutal. She pushed us hard during our run. She made us stop and do jumping jacks every mile. Then we had to do an obstacle right up until lunch. Afterwards, most of us were spent. No one had collapsed—no one dared—but everyone looked beyond their limits. Lunch was a sad display of lettuce and vegetables seasoned with nothing and served with some kind of energy drink. More drills followed in the afternoon under the wretched sun. My lungs burned. My body had stopped sweating. I felt cold. My vision was blurry. I felt myself slipping…

I bit into my tongue. Hard. The iron tang of blood brought me back to my senses. I swallowed and kept moving. I wasn’t going to show weakness. I didn’t care about changing my body. I didn’t care about being thin. I just hated the idea of those counselors winning.

It wasn’t until midafternoon, between lunch and dinner, that we got a break. I slinked into the bathroom, Rue’s face watching me as I locked the stall behind me. I leaned back against the cold concrete walls, enjoying the cool sensation against my sweaty back. I pulled out the note from that morning, finally alone, finally able to breathe for a brief moment.

There was just one sentence, written hastily in pencil:

I THINK I’M NEXT.

I read it, then as quietly as possible, shredded the note into tiny pieces and flushed it down the toilet. I left the bathroom in a daze. I had to find Kayla/Kaylee. I had to ask her what she meant.

—

I lingered after dinner that night, waiting for Kayla/Kaylee to bus her tray. The dinner (a depressing spread of boiled chicken and canned green beans) sat heavily in my stomach as I loitered outside. I tried to look casual rather than anxious.

Kayla/Kaylee walked out, and for a second, her eyes darted toward me. If she was scared, she hid it well.

“Jeanie, right?” she asked casually. I started walking with her. The sun was just beginning to set, and other campers were heading toward their various cabins. Those first few weeks, the girls often hung around outside well into the night, gathering around fire pits and chatting. Now, everyone hurried inside, too afraid of the stories to linger in the dark.

“Yeah. Kayla?” I took a stab. She smiled.

“Kylie.”

“Oh.”

We walked a while in silence. Not too fast, but we didn’t even dare whisper until the mess disappeared behind the trees.

“I got your note,” I said. Kylie nodded in response. “What makes you think that?” I didn’t want to be too specific. I couldn’t see any of the counselors, but it was easy to imagine Gretchen or Kevin leaning against a nearby tree, waiting to strike.

Kylie laughed. She grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me close as if I’d just said something especially funny. When she laughed, I could see the gap in her teeth. For a moment, I felt terribly embarrassed. I must have misunderstood. I got ready to apologize and run back to my cabin, cheeks burning, but then I heard her whisper:

“I heard the counselors talking. They know.”

Oh. I relaxed and smiled back. Clever girl.

“What do you mean, ‘they know?’”

“I heard them talking over by the mess the other night about what a shame it was about Yeohlee. They said she’d seen too much. Then I heard them say my name before I got scared and ran.”

I knew the counselors were useless. Monstrous in their own right. But to think that they were involved in whatever was happening to the campers …

Chloe’s words rang in my ears, her smile and tortured hair appearing in my mind.

The phone isn’t working right now.

I gulped. Loud enough for Kylie to hear me; she gave my arm a reassuring squeeze, even though she was the one whose head was on the chopping block.

“Which cabin are you in?” I asked.

“Moosehead.”

“OK. I’ll be there tonight. Don’t worry,” I smiled even though I was scared enough to scream. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

—

A fog had rolled in by the time I was scrambling out the window. Despite the heat of the day, the night air was unseasonably chilly. I shivered as I hustled toward the Moosehead cabin, keeping to the edge of the trail. I didn’t want to be spotted by a counselor, nor did I particularly enjoy the thought of struggling in the thorny bushes. I hurried, trying my best to be quiet even as my heart was pounding. Why had I agreed to be a lookout? I was not brave, nor was I particularly heroic. It wasn’t too late, I thought, to go back to my own cabin and my own bed. How would Kylie know?

My feet kept moving forward despite myself. Maybe I wanted to be the heroic type. Or maybe the memory of Kylie’s smile reminded me a bit of Sophie. She had that same sweetness. That softness.

Moosehead stood at the edge of a hill, big oak trees at its back and huckleberry bushes at its front. Kylie had pointed out the window she slept under earlier that evening. I found a spot nearby where I could crouch down and remain hidden in the foliage while still keeping sight of that window. I got as comfy as possible, and I waited.

Time ticked by. Every now and then, I saw a glimpse of Kylie peering out the window into the night. Perhaps she couldn’t sleep. Maybe she was looking for me. But after a time, even the window grew still. The woods were quiet. Not even the distant sound of crickets or the flickering of a lightning bug. Everything was unnaturally still. The fog was icy against my skin. At first, the cold helped to keep me alert, but as the minutes gathered into hours, my eyelids drooped. The ground made for an uncomfortable bed, and the cold air a worse blanket. But my body was tired. I drifted off.

The sound of footsteps yanked me from my slumber. I caught my breath and peered from the bushes at the window. My heart stopped.

It was open.

Cursing, I looked around in search of the source of the footsteps. Two figures were walking down the trail toward the main campsite. I hastened to catch up as silently as possible. As I got closer, I could make out the familiar red shorts and white tee of a counselor, although I couldn’t be sure which one. Kylie held their hand. She stumbled forward slowly, as if she were sleepwalking.

I didn’t know what I had been expecting. There wasn’t anything particularly nefarious about what was happening. A counselor leading a sleepy camper down a trail could be anything. She could have had a nightmare. She could be scared and want company going to the bathroom. She may even be getting to make a call on the coveted telephone.

So why did I feel this pit in my stomach?

They walked (slowly, so slowly) through the fog that seemed to be growing thicker by the second. I didn’t even realize they were climbing the steps of the counselor cabin; I thought they were beginning to levitate. I saw the wooden sign outside with Rue the Gnu painted on it, then the light from inside as the counselor opened the door. I crept up the stairs behind them and peered through the window. Inside, I could see the counselor—Kevin, I realized—guiding Kylie behind the counter.

He crouched down. Kylie followed.

I waited a full minute. Neither of them stood back up.

My heart racing, common sense begging me to turn around, I went inside.

The cold of the fog permeated the interior. The cold seemed to rise from the floor. Behind the counter, a rug was pulled aside, revealing a hole and a ladder. I listened but heard nothing.

I saw the phone on the desk. I could call 911, I reasoned. Then maybe my parents. It was time to let the adults intercede.

I picked up the phone. No sound. I pressed the receiver down. Still nothing. I followed the cable to the wall where I found a neat cut. The wires were barely even frayed. Had the phone ever worked?

I had two options: run away or descend. No one could help me, and I was the only one who could help Kylie. My eyes wandered to the door. Propped up against it was a wooden baseball bat. Hands shaking, I took the bat and began to climb down the ladder into the depths below.

Luckily, I didn’t have to climb one-handed for long. The ladder was short, and my feet found purchase quickly. It was too dark to see much of anything. I couldn’t even tell if this was a basement or just some hole in the ground. It smelled of moss and damp; the saccharine smell of rotting fruit was so thick it nearly made me gag. But there was a light around a corner just ahead. And a sound that at first I could not place. It was quiet, but as I approached, I could make out the sound of humming. It sounded like “Spice Up Your Life” by the Spice Girls. And beneath it … I could not be sure. Shifting earth? It reminded me of my father working in the garden—the soft metal sound of his spade connecting with fertilizer.

I turned the corner slowly. There was a bulb hanging from the ceiling. I could see now that we were in some kind of cellar. The walls were cement bricks, but the ground was dirt. I saw Kevin crouching next to a large hole. Inside that hole was Kylie, eyes half shut, swaying gently in the dirt. Next to her was Yeohlee, buried up to her neck with earth. My eyes moved from Yeohlee to June, then Marcie, Monique, and Carrie; behind Kevin were all the girls who had been sent home. A horrific garden, like a macabre cabbage patch. At the very back was Sophie. Sweet Sophie. Her skin was pallid, what little of it I could see. Her breathing seemed more labored than the rest. Behind Sophie was a wall of green. Not the green of the forest, nor of anything natural on this earth. A putrid, obnoxious, glowing green that throbbed in the darkness. It had the texture of moss and the coloring of a neon sign by the highway. Tendrils reached out from it to each girl planted in the ground. Was it feeding off of them?

I realized the humming was coming from that green. Not one voice, but five: Chloe, Dave, Patricia, Molly, and Geraldine. All the counselors save Kevin were wrapped up in that plant’s foul embrace, humming Spice Girls as a single unit. When their eyes pivoted to me and I saw their wretched smiles, I couldn’t help myself. I screamed.

Kevin turned, but I was lucky. He alone was surprised to see me. I had enough time to swing the bat full force at his head. I could hear the wood splinter and break as it collided with his skull. He fell forward into the hole he’d been digging. I dropped the broken bat and grabbed Kylie, shaking her furiously.

“Wake up! Please wake up!”

“Jeanie,” the voices called from the other side of the room, familiar yet alien. “Jeanie, we can explain.” The counselors must have found this terribly funny, for they all began to laugh. Or it was something like a laugh, except their lungs sounded wet. Like when you have a terrible cold and need to hack up something from the back of your throat. I began to cry as I watched them slowly pry themselves away from the mossy plant. Running out of ideas, I mumbled a quick sorry, then slapped Kylie as hard as I could. Her eyes shot open. She looked at me, then at the hole, then at Kevin who had partially fallen into the hole with her, then at the terrible place they were in.

She screamed. It was a fair reaction.

“Come on!” I hauled her out of the dirt and wasted no time running back the way we came. The counselors were slow in their pursuit. Perhaps the plant didn’t want to relinquish them. Even as we climbed up the ladder and began to run out of the cabin, I could still hear them laughing and calling out my name.

We didn’t stop running until we hit the main road. A truck stopped for us and took us to a gas station. We called the police, then our parents. The attendant gave us cans of Surge while we waited. When the police drove us back to Camp GnuYu, ambulances were already there. I could see Yeohlee, June, and Marcie all sitting together under blankets under our grinning mascot, painted on the side of the counselor’s cabin. They were a bit dirty from their time in the ground, but otherwise seemed alright. The girls who had been down there longer were on stretchers. Poor Rachel was still passed out. Kevin was bleeding from the head, but conscious. The cops had him in a police cruiser. He wouldn’t stop smiling, even now.

Then there was the bag. A black bag with the outline of a body inside. They were wheeling her out of sight when we arrived, but I knew it was Sophie inside. Sweet Sophie, who’d loved rabbits and The X-Files. Kylie squeezed my hand as I began to cry again.

There was no trace of the other counselors, nor of the strange plant I’d seen. It was written off as a child’s fantasy in a high stress situation. There was a search for the other counselors, but they were never found.

—

School starts tomorrow. My parents finally stopped hounding me about my weight. For now, at least. Every fat person knows it’s only a matter of time, but I relished the break. Kylie and I became pen pals. We both loved Animorphs and watched The X-Files as a tribute to Sophie.

I was writing a response to Kylie in bed when I heard it. At first, I thought it was the drone of a cicada, or even a distant car radio. When I realized what it was, I dropped my pen and gasped. Humming. Someone—several someones, by the sound of it—was humming. I peered out my window. Someone was standing under the streetlight. I could just make out their red shorts and white shirt. They raised a hand as if to wave.

Before they disappeared into the darkness, they smiled at me one last time.

BLUE HAIR
by Marsheila Rockwell

When I first met Izzy, her hair was the soft haint blue of a southern porch, and her smile as sweet as the tea you’d find there. I, fool that I am, suspected nothing.

It was spring, and the local theater group was doing their annual rendition of Shakespeare in the Park. This year it was Macbeth (billed as “The Scottish Play,” because the actors liked to pretend to be superstitious). The plays were always surprisingly popular, and the odds of finding a spot out of the sun on the lush park lawn rapidly dwindled after the first five minutes.

I was ten minutes late for the curtain rise, and there was only one shaded spot left on the lawn. Late as I was, I knew even that spot would get snatched up if I wasn’t quick, and I’d either be left standing amongst the surrounding trees, like an extra in the Birnam Wood scene, or out in the sun, broiling in support of the arts. So I excused myself across the checkerboard of blankets, deftly avoiding a veritable garden of fingers and toes, my eyes on my path instead of on my goal.

So of course I didn’t see her coming from the other side of the lawn, doing the same.

We both arrived at the spot at the same time, heads down, blankets in hand, mine an old relic from my alma mater that I kept because it was decadently soft, hers a Carolina blue plaid with fringed edges that should have looked like a baby blanket, but somehow didn’t.

The collision of our skulls was loud enough that the actor playing Duncan stumbled over his line.

We both stepped back, hands to our foreheads, then laughed at the mirror image we presented.

Then, she stuck out her well-manicured hand. Glitter in her nail polish caught the sunlight and made it look like stars danced along her fingertips.

“Isabel. Izzy.”

“Grace,” I said, and we shook. Did she hold on longer than was strictly necessary? Did I?

“That’s ironic,” she deadpanned, then laughed again as she let go.

The people whose views we were blocking started hissing at us to sit.

“Down in front, fat ass!”

That one was directed at me; Izzy was reed-slender and had probably never seen the inside of a size 16 in her life, but she flipped the guy the bird anyway. Then she turned back to me and gestured toward the contested patch of grass. “Share?”

At my perhaps too-eager nod, she set down the small Igloo cooler she’d been carrying and quickly spread out her blanket. As we settled in, she quietly passed me a sweating mason jar of lemonade from the cooler, fresh mint leaves clinging to the undersides of the ice cubes. There was a strict “No Alcohol” ordinance in the park, but if that applied to homebrew, it had never been enforced. She flashed me a dazzling grin, then nodded toward the stage, where Act I, Scene III was just beginning and the three witches were being ushered on by the sound of recorded thunder.

“Oh, this is one of my favorite parts!” Izzy exclaimed, quoting the lines along with the trio of hags.

“Where hast thou been, sister?” the First Witch demanded.

The Second Witch cackled (though I was pretty sure a laugh wasn’t actually in the script at this point) and replied, “Why, killing swine, of course.” And then she gave a big Agatha-All-Along wink at the audience (which I knew wasn’t in the script), as if to imply that she had indeed been out killing something, but it might have been the kind of swine that walked on two legs instead of four.

Izzy collapsed into quiet, gleeful giggles, and I felt the fateful snare settle and tighten around my heart.

I was caught, and ne’er a happier slaughter-bound soul had there been.

—

I moved in with her a month later. Izzy lived in a rundown Craftsman bungalow in a neighborhood folks around here politely called “gentrified.” A weary cornflower blue, the house boasted a small front yard overrun by rioting blooms and goth garden gnomes, as well as one of the most comfortable porch swings known to man. Multiple crystal windchimes turned the swing into something akin to an acid trip on breezy summer days, complete with madly cavorting rainbows and a soundtrack for manic pixies. A horseshoe hanging upside down over the front door completed the picture.

Moving in with Izzy, I instantly gained nine new roommates—her, and her eight torties. Each wore a stonewashed denim collar from which dangled a metal fish engraved with its name: Solange, Bea, Rhea, Maddy, Destiny, Katya, Lulu, Cleo. It was the only way to tell them apart.

Normally, I was good with animals; I’d even thought about becoming a veterinarian once upon a time. But these cats were fey and feral, and they hated me on sight. They would narrow their eyes and flatten their ears, hissing and growling whenever I trespassed into their territory. Which was pretty much any time I breathed, since their territory encompassed the entire house, with the possible exceptions of the bathroom and Izzy’s workshop, where she made pagan candles and soaps that she sold on Etsy. I say “possible,” because so far none of them had followed me into the bathroom—perhaps observing some strange sort of litterbox etiquette unknown to mere humans—and they gave the workshop door a wide berth, probably because that part of the house stank of patchouli and rust. Even the bedroom was theirs, though Izzy chased them off her periwinkle-dotted comforter and locked them out whenever we made love, and at night while we were sleeping. And while none of them had scratched me yet, I knew it was only a matter of time.

My only consolation was that the cats seemed to hate Izzy just as much as they hated me, maybe more. But they were also afraid of her, crouching low and tucking their tails whenever she came too close. I had never once seen her pet them. I honestly don’t know why she kept them.

Or I didn’t then, anyway.

—

The day of our first fight, a storm was brewing, but hadn’t yet broken, and though it was just past noon, the sky had already taken on the steel-blue cast of early twilight. It wasn’t tornado weather, but promised angry winds and driving rain all the same.

It was a Saturday, and Izzy had gone out to get her hair done and to shop for supplies for her Etsy store, Izzy’s Infusions & Incantations. She didn’t like me going in her workshop when she wasn’t home—or even if she was, really. That wasn’t normally an issue, since the place was pure olfactory overload, smelling of essential oils, wax, lard, dust, and other older, earthier things I couldn’t readily identify. But on this particular day, a new scent had joined the others—smoke.

I knew that Izzy sometimes left things boiling in her various pots and pans while she went out, but never over an open flame. She might use tapers for her rituals, but she favored hot plates for their formation, and her cast iron tended more toward the skillet end of the spectrum than the cauldron. Izzy was nothing if not modern—or as modern as a Dixie witch could get, anyway.

The cats were uncharacteristically nervous, jumping at nothing, backs arched and tales bushed out like Halloween silhouettes. At first I attributed their behavior to the pending thunderstorm, and tried to ignore them as I read one of Angela Carter’s retellings for my “Fairy Tales Through the Feminist Lens” class, but then the smell of something burning finally infiltrated through the dense, baroque text.

I checked the kitchen first, though I hadn’t eaten since my breakfast of a fried egg sandwiched between two toaster waffles. Izzy, of course, only ever ate fruit in the mornings, when she ate breakfast at all.

I made a cursory inspection of all the other rooms in the house before turning with some trepidation toward the workshop door. The cats fell in behind me one by one, for once not growling or hissing, which was almost more unsettling than their usual hostility.

The door to Izzy’s workroom had once been painted a vibrant shade meant to recall the Caribbean, but age and disrepair had dulled it to the color of dirty turquoise, complete with veins. The burnt smell was definitely coming from behind it.

There was nothing for it. Though I could feel the cats’ silent reproach, I grabbed hold of the doorknob—thankfully cool to my touch—twisted, and pushed.

The source of the odor was obvious. Something in one of Izzy’s pots had burned itself in effigy; its charred remains caked the inside of the pan and wispy tendrils rose from it like the last gasps of a funeral pyre. I quickly turned off the hot plate and hustled the smoking pan over to the nearby utility sink, running water in and over it until it was cool enough to set down, rapidly blinking away the hot steam that enveloped my head.

I’d never really been inside Izzy’s workshop before, though I had stood in the doorway and talked with her while she worked once or twice, back when we first started dating. Izzy’s beauty had bewitched me in those moments, so I’d paid little attention to her surroundings, but now I got a good look at her sanctuary, and it was every bit the modern witch’s lair.

Fresh herbs grew in boxes on the windowsills, while dried ones hung from the curtain rods. Though the curtains were open, the storm’s dark clouds and the cypress-paneled walls combined to drape the workshop in building shadow.

There were tables set up throughout the room: the one by the sink held Izzy’s hot plates and their various pots, another sported drying racks and finished goods, and a third was dedicated to packaging and shipping supplies. Shelves above the first table were crowded with various bottles, jars, and Tupperware containers, and a bookshelf nearby held encyclopedias of magical herbs and their uses, guides to making essential oils, histories of soap-crafting, recipe compilations, and more.

One of the recipe books was open beside the hot plate I’d turned off earlier. Curious, I walked back over to see what Izzy had been making in her now irreparably charred pot.

The page looked old and fragile, and I wondered if it was a family heirloom. The writing on it appeared to be calligraphy, and there were drawings around the edges of cats and women intertwined, reminding me of nothing so much as an illuminated manuscript. I only had time to read the recipe title before I heard the front door slam and Izzy calling my name.

“Paramour to Puss: Part One of the Athanasia Ritual.”

Then I heard Izzy’s heavy tread in the hallway. Spinning guiltily away, I caught a glimpse of a slim wooden box at the edge of the table, with an engraved metal plate and a small hasp. The plate bore a name.

“Grace.”

I faced the doorway and saw a furious Izzy. The cats were nowhere to be seen.

“What in the fuck do you think you’re doing in here?”

—

Izzy didn’t care that her unwatched pot could have burned the whole house down. She only cared that I had violated her privacy.

“That’s my refuge, where I can hide from the world and just focus on my crafting. It’s my safe space. You had no right!”

I tried to stay calm.

“Izzy, whatever you had cooking in that pot had burned down to sludge. I’m surprised it didn’t set off the smoke detectors!”

“It was perfectly safe,” she insisted.

“No, it wasn’t.” Conflict-averse by nature, I usually let Izzy have her way whenever we disagreed about something. There weren’t really a lot of hills I was willing to die on, but our safety was one of them.

Her eyes narrowed to slits at my unaccustomed pushback. She reminded me of the torties.

“Stay out of my workshop.”

“Stop leaving your potions unattended.”

She tossed her hair, which I only realized at that moment was now an ombre that darkened from the childlike pastel it had been when we first met to a more adult, stately indigo. It was lovely, but of course I couldn’t tell her that.

“Fine,” she snapped as the storm finally broke and thunder crashed directly overhead, shaking the whole house.

“Fine,” I snapped back, then pushed my way past her into the hall. She slammed the door behind me as I made my way to the bedroom and grabbed my pillow and my old plush blanket. I stalked to the living room and staked my claim on the couch, where I remained until I fell asleep binging true crime shows, the cats curled up watchfully on the floor and furniture around me.

—

Our last fight also happened on a Saturday, and began for the same reasons as the first one had. The reason it ended, though, was far different.

We’d made up a few days after that first fight, Izzy reluctantly apologizing for her behavior while I grudgingly accepted blame for mine. Neither of us really thought we were in the wrong, but the makeup sex was good, and Izzy had gotten tired of sleeping by herself, so I returned to the bedroom. I was frankly grateful for the change; I’d become increasingly worried about the cats sleeping with and on me. Their abrupt shift in attitude toward me was even more frightening than when they’d been openly antagonistic. I assumed it meant they’d be smothering me in my sleep any night now, so the sooner there was a closed door between them and me, the better.

Speaking of doors, Izzy had taken to locking the one to the workshop at all times, whether she was home or not. She obviously didn’t trust me to stay out of her inner sanctum if left to my own devices, despite our fragile reconciliation. Which was fair enough, I supposed—I no longer trusted her not to burn the bungalow down around our ears.

But despite my misgivings, I would have kept up my end of the bargain and stayed out of her witch’s lair—if it hadn’t been for her damned feline familiars.

Izzy had been out shopping for about an hour when I began to hear what I thought was a baby crying. I didn’t think much of it—the windows were open to let in the late afternoon breeze and it wasn’t unusual for one or the other of our neighbors to have a small child in residence for the day. But the sound didn’t let up, and after a while I realized that it was actually coming from inside the house.

So like a dutiful character in a cliché horror movie, I abandoned my spot on the couch and my worn copy of Sexton’s Transformations to track down the source of what had become an almost continual wail.

It came from the workshop, of course. A quick count of the torties winding themselves around my ankles confirmed the cause of the caterwauling. With only seven out here with me, one of them must have gotten shut inside the room—presumably by accident—when Izzy had locked up earlier.

Knowing that Izzy would no more want one of the cats running rampant in her Sanctum Sanctorum than she would me, I pondered my options. The house was old, but the door was solid, and anyway, breaking through a door was not as easy as they made it look on TV. I tried the knob, on the extremely unlikely possibility that Izzy might have left it unlocked just this once, but no such luck.

I was going to need the key.

There was a better-than-even chance that Izzy hadn’t taken it with her. She liked to travel light (unless she was carting spiked lemonade to the park) and she usually only carried a clutch wallet when she went out. Even her car was a newer model that only required the fob to open its doors or start the engine, so she didn’t have to deal with the hassle of a clunky keyring. And I’m not sure she actually owned a house key; I’d never seen her lock the front door—she assured me that the cats were the only security system she needed, and she was probably right about that.

But if she had left the key, where would it be? It would have to be someplace she didn’t think I’d ever look, but I wasn’t nosy by nature, so that could be almost anywhere.

The yowling on the other side of the door intensified, and I looked at the other cats.

“Well, don’t just sit there plotting my demise. If you want me to rescue your sister, you need to help me. Show me where Izzy keeps the key.”

I did not expect a response—they were cats, after all—but to my amazement, one of them detached itself from the mass around my ankles and headed down the hallway toward the bedroom. When she stopped halfway there and turned to look at me reprovingly, I picked my jaw up off the floor and followed. The other cats stayed where they were.

The tortie—I thought maybe it was Lulu, but even after three months, I still couldn’t tell them apart—led me into the bedroom and jumped easily up onto Izzy’s vanity. She stepped daintily across the minefield of scattered makeup, scrunchies, and bottles of nail polish to stand by Izzy’s jewelry box. She turned and looked at me.

“Okay. Whatever you say.”

I generally didn’t mess with the stuff Izzy kept here. There was no need; I had my own dresser with its own cluttered top, though mine tended to hold things like receipts, coins, and two or three books in various stages of being read at any given time. I seldom wore much in the way of makeup—maybe eyeliner and some tinted lip balm—and I owned exactly one piece of jewelry, a triangular hunk of lapis strung on a cord that I’d gotten from my Aunt Mallory.

So I was completely unprepared for what I found when I lifted the hinged lid.

The top level held the sorts of things you might expect to find in such a box: a tangled jumble of chains, various Pride pins, a rosary, a very old wedding band, and a locket that held a vintage photo of two women, one of whom looked so much like Izzy that she must be an ancestor and one whose face had been scored out with something sharp. The mementos of a life lived before we ever met. On top of them, like a chick sleeping snug in its nest, lay a key.

But as interesting as those trinkets were, it was the startling contents of the bottom level that really got my attention. Instead of jewelry, there were nine bundles of hair lined up in a neat row, all tied with smart navy blue ribbons. I thought I recognized the hair in the last bundle, remembering when Izzy had offered to trim my veil-like bangs a few weeks back. A chill crept down my spine.

As if on cue, another loud yowl sounded from down the hallway. I quickly snatched the key and slammed the box lid shut.

“Is this it?” I asked the cat, who’d jumped off the dresser when I’d first dared to opened Izzy’s coffer of creepiness. The cat’s response was to turn and head back into the hallway, which I took as a “yes.”

Suddenly feeling as if a bit more haste might be in order, I hurried down the hallway to the workshop door, fit the key in the lock, and flung it wide.

Instead of bounding free of its imprisonment, the ungrateful cat who’d been making all the ruckus turned and ran further into the room, jumping up on Izzy’s crafting table. The other cats followed suit, the one who’d led me to the key perching atop Izzy’s open recipe book while the former damsel in distress stationed herself by the slim box I had noticed last time I was here. The one that bore my name.

“No, wait, what are you doing? You’re supposed to leave, so we can lock everything back up and make it so Izzy never knows we were here. You’re going to get us all killed!” And as I said those last words, I realized I wasn’t really sure if I was joking or not.

But they ignored me and when I tried to shoo them out, they began to hiss and growl at me the way they used to. So I finally just gave in, figuring the faster I did whatever it was they wanted me to do, the sooner we could all make our escape.

I went to Key Cat first, and she obligingly moved aside so I could see the page she’d been sitting on. It was the same one the book had been opened to before, “Paramour to Puss.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what she expected me to do, so I skimmed the page, becoming more alarmed the further I read. What I’d at first taken to be some trendy New Age crafting book peppered with cheesy affirmations and meme-ready proverbs seemed, in fact, to be something quite a bit more serious—and sinister.

The Athanasia Ritual was a spell in two parts, the first requiring the witch to use the hair of nine lovers—both from their heads and from their privates—to literally turn them into cats. The spell needed to be cast when the new moon was in Scorpio for maximum transformative power. I had no idea what ‘in Scorpio’ meant, but I did know there was a new moon next weekend; it happened to correspond with my monthly cycle, which I regularly charted in my calendar book so as to avoid carrying around tampons and a change of underwear everywhere I went. A book that just happened to contain all sorts of extraneous information, from obscure religious holidays to moon phases.

I was almost too afraid to find out what the second part of the spell entailed, but goaded on by the unblinking stares of eight silent cats—Izzy’s former lovers?—I turned the page with a trembling hand.

I read the words at the top in a voice barely above a whisper.

“Longest Day, Longest Life: Part Two of the Athanasia Ritual.”

This spell was prefaced by a warning. It would only work on the summer solstice; if the witch did not cast it on her ennead of cats by midnight of that day, she would have to wait another entire year to attempt it again.

Today was June 7th.

As I read on, the chill that had run down my spine earlier spread to my veins, filling them with ice. This part of the spell required the witch to use her athame to slit the throats of each of her cats in the order that they had been transformed, collecting their blood in her chalice as she went. Then, she was supposed to recite a short rhyme over the cup and chug the contents down like a pledge during rush week.

“Nine the number of lovers enchanted.

“Nine the number of lives cats are granted.

“The years they had left, allot now to me.

“By their blood and my will, so mote it be.”

The book painted a pretty clear picture of why Izzy had zeroed in on me all those months ago. She probably thought someone like me would jump at the chance to date someone like her, and I suppose she hadn’t been wrong, but not because I was fat, and she was beautiful. I was happy with my rolls and curves, and I didn’t really give a damn what people thought of me based purely on some number on a scale.

No, I’d been captivated by the very thing that now repulsed me: Izzy’s magic. But that was because I thought her charms revealed a sweet sense of wonder with just a dash of spicy mystery. I didn’t realize they were a front for psychopathy.

I’d seen pretty much all I needed to, but just in case I had any lingering doubts as to what Izzy really wanted me for, Lulu the Key Cat herded me over to the slim wooden box Formerly Distressed Damsel Solange had been guarding.

The box was locked, and required a key much smaller than the one to the workshop. I didn’t have time or patience for more hunting, so I grabbed a nearby soap scraper and shimmied a corner of it under the lid. A quick turn of my wrist and the box popped open. I braced myself for more horror.

There, nestled on velvet of Prussian blue, was a denim cat collar. It sported a dainty little fish engraved with one word.

Grace.

I spun toward the door, intending to run away as fast as I could, somewhere, anywhere, but it was already too late. Izzy stood in the doorway.

“Oh, Grace, you stupid cow. You’re really going to wish you hadn’t done this.”

—

Izzy blocked the room’s sole exit, an ornate knife in her hand. I had only the soap scraper I still held.

But I outweighed her by a considerable amount, and the cats—no doubt realizing that if Izzy successfully transformed me, it would hasten their own deaths—stood arrayed beside me, ears flattened and teeth barred. It was nine against one. I liked those odds, even if that one did have magic at her disposal and a maniacal look of merriment on her face.

“Why couldn’t you have just—” Izzy began, stepping forward, but I didn’t wait for her to finish. I bull rushed her.

The workshop wasn’t that big, so I couldn’t exactly get a running start. I didn’t really have a plan other than maybe knocking her over and running.

That’s not what happened.

I instinctively lowered my head at the last moment, and the top of my head collided with her chin with a noise reminiscent of that day in the park. She fell backward with me on top of her. I quickly rolled to one side, and we both just laid there for a moment, staring at each other, stunned by the impact. I’d had the breath knocked out of me, and little shocks running through my arms and hands made me wonder if I’d just herniated a cervical disc. There was a thin line of bright blood trickling from the corner of Izzy’s mouth, so she’d probably lost at least a couple of teeth.

More than a couple, I saw, when she started talking.

“…Can’t believe…so many years….”

I couldn’t quite figure out why she was doing the fighting-for-breath, last-words thing until I realized that her athame was sticking out of her chest, apparently having gotten caught between my rock and her hard place.

“…So close…then you….”

“Yup. Then me,” I said, climbing slowly to my feet. I definitely had a slipped disc.

As I stood, the cats surrounded Izzy, then looked up at me expectantly.

I looked at Izzy. Her skin was growing paler by the moment and she was having trouble keeping her eyes open and focused.

“Is the spell reversible? The ‘Paramour to Puss’ thing?”

Izzy still had enough life left in her to glare at me.

“Fuck off.”

I shrugged.

“Suit yourself,” I said, then looked at Lulu. “Have at it.”

The cats needed no more encouragement. Izzy’s eyes went first, then the soft flesh of her cheeks. Some of the cats started worrying at the knife wound, loosening bloody chunks of skin and muscle around the blade until it came loose and fell clattering to the workshop floor. Dark sapphires winked at me from the hilt. I wasn’t dumb enough to grab it.

Instead, I turned and walked back to Izzy’s crafting table and her book of spells. Leafing quickly to the front, I was pleasantly surprised to find a table of contents.

Perusing the list, I saw that there did in fact seem to be a reversal spell, helpfully labeled “Feline to Foe: For Those with Guilty Consciences, or Those Who Best Them.” Someone had a twisted sense of humor.

The spell was conveniently located on the page following the second part of the Athanasia Ritual. I flipped to it and scanned through the instructions. It was, in fact, something the cats could do themselves once they reclaimed their hair from Izzy’s jewelry box.

I tore the page from the book and left it on the table, weighted down by the now-empty wooden box. I put the collar it had held in my pocket and closed the book. The cover was bound in soft leather dyed the deep, rich blue of a midnight sky, the words “Books of Shadows” inscribed on it in raised metallic letters. I tucked it under my arm and started toward the door.

I stopped at the threshold and turned back to Lulu, who was busy licking the blood from her paws.

“I left the spell to undo Izzy’s handiwork on the table. Make sure you ladies clean up after yourselves when you’re done here. None of us want people asking uncomfortable questions they won’t like the answers to.”

Lulu nodded her head and meowed what I imagined was either her understanding or her gratitude (although, being a cat, it could just as easily have been, “Don’t let the door hit you.”).

I made a quick detour to the bedroom to grab my own hair from Izzy’s box—you couldn’t be too careful when dealing with a witch. Or her familiars. I threw the Book of Shadows and a few other items I couldn’t live without in a backpack and headed for the front door.

As I walked away from Izzy’s house of horrors, I thought about where I might go and what I might do. I could finish my MFA online, from anywhere in the world. The possibilities were endless, especially now that I had a little magic at my disposal.

I might even dye my hair.

Any color but blue.

THE LAKE HOUSE
by Nico Bell

Of course, the basement flooded. As the storm raged, overflow from the lake streamed into the cellar. The fixer-upper had many problems, and Erin had convinced her wife Lauren to put off filling the hole in the clay dug out basement wall. Now, she waded through the knee-deep water to retrieve yet another unpacked moving box awaiting rescue in the back corner. A stale stench of mud filled the air as she sloshed towards the basement steps and handed it off to Lauren.

Her wife grabbed it and hurried upstairs where the other saved boxes sat. “Fuck. This one has my winter sweaters in it. They’re probably going to get all moldy now.”

Erin’s shoulders sagged. “You know, we can still leave for the night. That little hotel in town might have a room free.”

Lauren huffed and started back down the stairs. “I’m sorry, but where do you think we’re going to get the money for a hotel room?”

The words stung. Erin focused on the task at hand and started to make her way back to the corner for the next box. The clay walls had a few small holes in them, but the large one that was the source of the major leak looked like an animal had dug its way through. The last thing she wanted was to come face-to-face with a rabid raccoon.

When she’d started this rescue mission, the water rippled around her feet. Now, it twirled around her calves, soaking through her sweatpants, and chilling her bones. Her body shivered, and she couldn’t wait for this terrible night to be over so she could put on warm clothes and sit by the fire.

A crack of lightning caused the lights to flicker. Erin thought she saw something move in the water—a shadow, long and slender, gliding past her. Her pulse quickened, but she forced a steadying breath. It was probably a renegade sweater that had somehow escaped from the box. She didn’t have the energy to check it out. Fatigue settled over her shoulders and caused her to slouch.

“Are you getting tired already?” Lauren sighed. “If you need a break, I’ll take over, but you’d still have to climb up and down the stairs to save all the boxes.”

Erin frowned and pinched her eyebrows together as she stared at her impossibly-fit wife. “I’m not as weak as you think I am.”

“I know.” Lauren held her hands up, palms facing Erin. “No need to get defensive.”

“There’s no need to bring up my weight.”

Erin let the words stay low and guarded as she continued rescuing their belongings from the water. She took a few deep breaths and kept moving. “I can do this.”

As she worked, old resentments began to surface. Truthfully, she could do it. She’d proven over and over to Lauren that she could do all the activities they both wanted out of life. Sure, she’d taken a break when they hiked that steep trail, and, yes, she walked her mountain bike up the hill while Lauren pedaled ahead, but so what? Wasn’t the purpose of those activities to have fun spending time together? Did it really matter if Erin took a few extra water breaks?

When they dated, Lauren celebrated Erin’s curves, but after they got married, things slowly changed. Lauren, always slender and fit, started bringing home green smoothies and detox teas. They dieted together, but Erin realized that it wasn’t just her body that was changing. Her mind focused solely on weight loss, and before long, Erin didn’t like the way she obsessed about her body. Before Lauren started pushing the diet pills, Erin spent her days enjoying her life, but just a few months under her wife’s regime caused Erin to feel imprisoned by food and exercise. It was too much. Erin quit, and she honored her body by listening to it, eating whatever she wanted, when she wanted, and stopping when she was full.

It'd caused tension in the marriage ever since.

Lauren shrugged. “Fine. It doesn’t matter anyways. Take as much time as you need. All of this stuff is going to be ruined.”

Erin frowned and hurried to the box, moving her legs against the growing resistance of the water. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed, but it’s not like I’m particularly happy right now either. If we’re going to stick out this storm, we need to stay calm and get through the night.”

Lauren shook her head. “We shouldn’t even be here in this crappy house, next to this fucking lake.”

There it was. The truth cut Erin as she looked at her wife—once a vibrant woman with dreams of becoming an artist, a woman who was born and raised in a city she loved, one that awakened creativity and vitality within herself. Now, Lauren shifted from one foot to the other, exhaustion creasing her forehead while her eyes held anger and frustration.

Lauren always struggled to make money from her art, and Erin had been laid off, so they had no choice but to sit down and make some hard decisions. When they’d examined their budget, Erin practically had a heart attack when she realized how much they spent on Lauren’s fad diets: two hundred dollars for a detox intravenous micro-nutrient therapy, fifty dollars for a month’s worth of bee pollen that was supposed to speed up weight loss, one thousand dollars for a procedure that supposedly froze fat cells so the liver can detox them out of the system. Erin suggested cutting them all, but Lauren had stared daggers and said, “Just because you’ve given up doesn’t mean I have to.”

Fast forward and they lost their apartment, moved out of the city, and now resided in a fixer-upper house they’d bought at a bargain price, situated next to a beautiful lake that the realtor assured them never overflowed.

Erin picked up the last box and moved toward the stairs. Her lower backed ached for a warm shower, but it’d have to wait. Thunder cracked, and another bright slash of lightning illuminated through the hole in the wall. Lauren yelped as the lights flickered and died. Erin’s feet froze in the chilly water as the entire basement fell into darkness. She braced against the slow swirls of flood water. Unease crept into her gut.

Relax. Take a breath. You’re okay.

“I’ll grab a flashlight,” Lauren said.

Panic tightened Erin’s chest. “Don’t leave me here.”

“For fuck’s sake, I’ll be right back. Calm down.” Lauren’s footsteps thumped up the stairs until silence draped the room.

Erin took a steadying breath and waited as deep silence wrapped around her. In the city, the streetlights and cab headlights and storefront signs and traffic signals and apartment lights speckled the night with brightness; but here, steadying her legs against a growing chill that tickled down her spine, she heard nothing. She saw nothing. The basement was basically a giant hole in the dirt. Eventually, they would get a contractor to come in and lay down cement, make it a functional room, but for now, it looked more like a grave. The thought made Erin’s skin crawl.

“I can’t find the flashlight,” Lauren shouted from the top of the stairs. “You were supposed to put it next to the toolbox.”

“Try the drawer in the kitchen,” Erin responded.

“Wait. Hang on. Isn’t the breaker box down there?”

Erin frowned, remembering that the breaker box hung deep in the shadows of the far wall. No way was she about to walk further into the creepy darkness without a light. “Oh. I think you’re right.” Lauren was always right.

Lauren hustled back down. “Okay, I didn’t find the flashlight, but I did find a candle and some matches.”

Erin let out a nervous laugh. “Great.”

Lauren appeared on the staircase surrounded by soft orange candlelight. She looked down at the water that covered the bottom few steps. “Shit. This is going to be a nightmare to clean up.”

Another bolt of lightning cracked through the sky. It was enough to show Erin how much further she had to make it to the stairs.

It also illuminated the monster.

Impossibly tall and gaunt, outlined in shadows, an elongated head that looked more fish shaped than human, it stood in the back of the basement with tiny red eyes that bored into Erin’s skull.

Erin screamed and stumbled backwards. She dropped the box and fell hard. Her whole body dunked below the water, and her butt broke her fall, sending a sudden pain along her body. The coldness of the water jolted her senses as panic and fear surged along every nerve. From the darkness around her, she thought she sensed movement in the water, followed by a low groan, almost like someone—or something—laughing. Before she could make it out, a hand tugged at her arm and pulled her up. Lauren’s concern shined in the dull candlelight that sat on the step.

“Are you okay? What happened?” She tugged harder as Erin stumbled to her feet spitting out rancid water.

“I saw …” She looked over Lauren’s shoulder into the shadows only to see the bookshelf they’d set up earlier that day. It remained sturdy and erect.

“What?”

“I thought …” Erin ran her hand down her face and shook her head. “Never mind. I guess my eyes are playing tricks on me.” But her heart’s loud thumping refused to steady as she stared at the spot where she’d seen the monster.

“This sucks.” Lauren let go of Erin’s hand and stared down at her jeans, now soaked from the knees down as they both stood in the water. “This house is a bust. We dumped the last of our savings into it and look. If this isn’t the universe saying, ‘Move on,’ I don’t know what is.”

“Move on?” She took one final look into the darkness. No monster. It must have been a trick of the flame in the darkness mixed with her never-ending fatigue. Her attention refocused on her wife. Lauren’s frustration etched in shadows on her face. “You’re the one who so kindly reminded me that we can’t even afford a hotel room. Whether you like it or not, this is our last chance to build a home together.”

Lauren took a deep breath. “I wasn’t talking about the house. Maybe it’s time to admit that we aren’t right for each other.”

Erin’s breath caught in her throat. “You don’t mean that. You’re stressed. We’ll get this taken care of and things will get better. You just need to give it some time.”

Lauren shook her head. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“No.” Erin didn’t want to hear whatever her wife had to say. “Please, let’s just finish up here, get dry and comfortable, and then we can—”

“There’s someone else.”

Erin sucked in a deep breath. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t want to tell you like this, but come on,” Lauren let out a humorless chuckle. “This is a disaster.”

“No.”

“We are a disaster.”

Erin shook her head. Impossible. They’d made a promise to each other, a vow, to love in better or worse, and when they hit rock bottom, they moved into this house to begin again, not to end it. Erin dug her nails into her palms.

“Who is she?”

Lauren frowned. “Does it really matter?”

“To me, yes.”

Lauren paused for a second and chewed her lower lip. At one time, Erin found the quirk cute, but as they stood in the flood water with their life falling apart, all she could think of was how some other woman had kissed her wife.

“She’s someone I met at the gym.”

Erin’s heart split in two.

“She’s…more like me,” Lauren said.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Anger iced her words as she stared into Lauren’s eyes, daring her to say the words out loud, to turn Lauren’s infidelity into something about Erin’s body.

“She…” Lauren shook her head. “It really doesn’t matter. I thought I could make it work here with you. I really did, but look around.” She motioned to the water. “It’s time to cut our losses and move forward. We deserve to be happy, even if it isn’t with each other.”

“I thought—” The words caught in Erin’s throat. Sure, they hadn’t been happy recently, but that was only because they were going through a rough patch. The whole point of declaring their love together in front of their family and friends was to commit to each other for better or worse. Now, worse was circling their legs, and Lauren just threw in the towel.

Lauren turned her back and started moving toward the steps. “Look, I need to get out of this water. Let’s just go upstairs and talk some more, yeah?”

She’s someone I met at the gym.

Heat bubbled in Erin’s core.

She’s … more like me.

Another bolt of lightning lit up the basement. The monster appeared. Erin sucked in a breath. This time, she was certain the monster wasn’t in her mind. It stepped out of the shadows and towards her with swift long strides, barely disrupting the water that had stopped flowing during all the drama. The current now sat still, as if waiting for the monster to tell it what to do next.

Erin could see the creature in greater detail as it closed the gap between them. The body appeared human—if a human were stretched and starved—but she’d been mistaken about the arms. They were actually long flippers that skimmed the water’s surface as it walked. It’d be comical if not for the eyes that emitted nothing but malice. Gills opened and closed along the side of its body as it glided to a stop right beside her.

Panic welled in her throat. When she opened her mouth to scream, nothing came out. Fear glazed over her, tightened her lungs, and froze her in place. The monster leaned over. Its face was inches from her own. In the soft light of the candle, she saw nothing but those hypnotic eyes. Its lips parted and revealed razor-sharp teeth.

“Are you just going to stay down there all night, or are you coming with me?” Lauren called.

The monster curled its lips in what looked like an amused expression.

“Just come upstairs, okay? We can talk more about it.”

Erin recognized the heaviness in Lauren’s tone. It really was over. Everything they had once been to each other was done.

But maybe there wasn’t as much there to begin with as Erin thought. Afterall, Lauren had been trying to change her for years. Maybe that’s all Erin had been to Lauren: a project. One that failed—just like their marriage.

Tears welled in Erin’s eyes as her entire body trembled. The monster slid its flipper down the side of Erin’s face. She quivered in terror under its slick touch. A layer of slime coated her skin, soaking up her tears as fast as they slid down her cheek.

“Please.” The plea squeaked out of Erin’s mouth, barely above a whisper.

The monster tilted its head. A foul stench filled the short space between them as it seemed to breath in her fear. The monster’s mouth opened wider, releasing a low growl.

“Don’t hurt me.” Fear knotted her stomach as the sounds of footsteps going up the stairs left her with the sinking realization that she was truly alone.

If she wanted to live, she needed to be smart. Her mind raced in a million directions, conjuring flashes of the next five minutes of her life, all of them ending in her being torn to shreds. Could she fight the beast on her own? Maybe, but she stood a better chance of knocking it down and racing to the stairs. If she did miraculously make it without being gobbled alive, the monster would surely follow, and kill both her and Lauren.

“Erin?” Lauren’s voice didn’t sound that far away. She wasn’t completely upstairs yet. Erin realized there was time to warn her. Even if Erin didn’t make it, Lauren still had a chance.

The thought coated her mouth with sourness. Another took root in her mind and quickly sprouted. An instant wash of guilt swept through her, but one look at the creature’s teeth sent the guilt to the back of her mind. For once in her life, let Lauren be held accountable for her actions.

“Take her,” Erin said. “But please let me go.”

“Hey, are you okay?” Lauren repeated, louder, the footsteps now coming back down the steps.

The monster looked over its shoulder at the candlelight growing brighter as Lauren slowly descended back into the basement. It turned its to attention Erin and gave another low growl.

“Take her.” The words came out with more urgency. “Let me live, and I’ll do whatever you want.”

“What’s going on?” A hint of fear crept into Lauren’s voice. “Are you messing with me?”

“Do you want more of them? More like her?” Erin spoke quickly and in hushed whispers. She didn’t stop to let the implication of her promise sink in. “I’ll bring you as many as you want. I can help you, but you have to let me live.”

The creature hesitated, just a moment, before lowering itself back into the water.

Erin didn’t dare move. She held her breath as the monster’s shadow swam away from her and towards the steps. Lauren reached the bottom of the staircase. She held the candle up higher and squinted into the darkness.

“Why are you still standing there?” There was no malice or mockery in the question, just pure concern.

Oh, God. What have I done? Erin couldn’t just toss her wife to a crazy monster and walk away, even if Lauren was a cheating asshole. Panic threated to swallow her whole, but she had to do something quick.

“Lauren—”

The monster jumped out of the water and wrapped its long flippers around Lauren before plunging back under with a loud splatter that swallowed Lauren’s high-pierced scream. “Help!” Lauren’s gargled scream pierced through the air.

As their bodies wrestled with each other, splashes of water splattered across Erin’s face, waking her from her fear. She hurried towards Lauren, but she stopped short of the scene unfolding in front of her. She looked over her shoulder back toward the hole in the clay wall.

Old memories quickly surfaced: Lauren pinching Erin’s belly fat, playfully at first, and then with a hint of disgust. Lauren swapping the ground beef for turkey meat in their shopping cart when she thought Erin wasn’t looking. Lauren making googly eyes at the younger woman who moved in across the hall from them, the woman with the flat stomach and round butt, and then waving off Erin’s concerns when she tried to bring it up later.

She’d been fooling herself all along.

Lauren didn’t really love her. Maybe she never had.

Erin took one last look at her wife struggling to keep her head above water as the monster repeatedly slammed her down, then hurried toward the hole.

“Erin!” The agony in her wife’s voice brought bile to the back of Erin’s throat. Vomit burned her tongue, but she stayed focused on getting out alive before the creature reconsidered their deal. Erin reached the wall and saw that the hole was, in fact, quite small.

“Shit.” It was too small for her plus sized frame. She stared at the wall as resolve bubbled up from her core. “Fuck that.” She was tired of being told that the only way for her to survive in this world, to be respected in this life, to be loved by another, was to shrink herself. If the world didn’t like her as she was, it needed to change, not her.

She dug at the clay sides, pulling away chunks of earth in a frenzied panic. It came off easily with each tug. She squeezed herself through the enlarged hole and stood in the soggy backyard, which now looked like a wading pool. Despite the distance between them, Lauren’s screams echoed into the night.

The rain had slowed to a steady fall, and the moon peaked through a break in the dark clouds, giving just enough light to show the outline of the lake. She spotted where the bank broke and gave way to the overflow. Her feet sank into the soft ground with each step as she ran around the house and to the higher ground of the front yard. When she reached the top, her feet no longer shuffled through standing water.

Her relief was short-lived. She looked back at the lake and saw the head of another monster emerge from the water. First, it was just one, and then another. And another.

“Oh, shit.”

Erin ran to the driveway where their truck sat. She reached under the tire and pulled off the magnetic box containing their spare key. A second later, she sat in the driver’s seat with the engine running and the heater blasting.

From where she sat, she couldn’t see the monsters or hear Lauren’s screams. The only thing she could see clearly was the house, standing unassumingly in front of her with the power off, windows dark, a shine from the rain coating it. On the covered porch, a two-seater rocking swing hung, flapping in the wind. They hadn’t even had a chance to sit on it together. It’d taken twice as long to install it as it should have because Lauren used the wrong tool and Erin misread the instructions. Neither felt like swinging when it was finally up.

The house looked black in the dark storm, but it was actually brown. They’d plan to paint it white with a yellow door. They both loved the inviting color, one of the few things they still agreed on, and since it had been the color of their wedding, they decided to brush the front door a sunflower gold that would hopefully remind them of happy times. It’d been Erin’s idea, and as she thought back to when she first proposed the door color to Lauren, she now remembered clearly how indifferent her wife had been.

Erin bought a “Welcome Home” doormat that she’d meant to put out on their first day but forgot. It was probably in one of the moving boxes that no longer mattered. The porch swing didn’t matter. The yellow door was pointless. It was all stupid. They were broken before they moved from the city. Erin saw it all clearly now.

She knew, deep down, that she should help her wife. She could try and get aid, but the nearest town was twenty minutes away; and who would believe her babble about a lake monster? There were butcher knives in the house, a wedding gift from Lauren’s friends, but what use would they be against that creature and the others?

That thing made a deal with her, a promise, a vow. The monster had spared her and taken Lauren.

Unlike her cheating, fatphobic wife, Erin kept her vows.

She put the car in reverse and backed out of the gravel driveway, pushing down the image of Lauren getting dragged under the water, the sound of agony in her plea for help, the other monsters heading toward the house to join in the fun. She’d just have to put it in the past. Didn’t Lauren say she wanted Erin to be happy, even if they weren’t together?

As the house grew smaller and smaller in the rearview window, she promised herself that she’d find another to love and to marry. If it didn’t work out with the next woman, Erin knew a house in a secluded area on the edge of a lake that was move-in ready.

NEON AFTERGLOW
by Roxie Voorhees

A jiggle of thigh fat steals my attention in a sharp jerk. The ripple faint—barely noticeable, mini ridges elevate and fall in a fleshy mockery of a dark lake’s surface. A glossy smear of KY Jelly glistens in the hazy warm orange tone that the lava lamp and dragon’s blood incense give off—a moist skeleton of the soft thud formed hot pink latex left behind. Inhaling, I pause, tiny droplets of lust still lingering on my tongue. I lick my lips—twice, and let out a coarse little chuckle of amusement.

Nefertiti, an African goddess in her own right, relaxes her hips with the softest sigh of pleasure. “Damn. Baby.” Labored breaths punctuate each word as she battles to catch it. “That was. Whoa.” Thick lips part to allow the depravity of oxygen to dampen. Perspiration huddles in the cradle of her cupid’s bow making a lake of our efforts, and I quelch the urge to lick it off. Her long, dark lashes kiss the top of high cheekbones, once, twice. On the third time, she closes her eyes and smiles. That smile is what I long for, the smile of satisfaction. That smile is hard to fake.

The bright glow cascades across the mountain range that makes up her curves, dewy, sparkly, coated in a wash of sweat and golden sin. Leaning back on my heels, I relax the tension on the harness, and somewhere between delicately lie and abruptly flop, I manage to find my space next to her. The gap between us vacuums out of existence as her body configures into mine like a dark, sexy sarcoline Tetris piece. Buckles give little resistance as I tug on the harness before peeling off and dropping it to the floor. Her back pushes into my chest, vibrating with ecstasy, almost a purr, the rumble rolling from my nipples to my heart, and I pull her closer. Damn, I love her.

We’re still, frozen, solidified into a block of pure love and happiness. In this protected stance nothing can bother us, not the sound of voices arguing in the streets, not the not-so-distant gunshot that follows, and certainly not the fucking squeak Donovan’s bed is making upstairs. Here we are safe and whole and free, free to be ourselves when we aren’t anywhere else. Free for her to be assigned male at birth but to live as a woman. Free for me to love her, as a woman. These freedoms are sacred and must be protected at all costs, so here, in this space, with her pushing her delicious body into the rolling squish of mine, this is home.

Sudden silence knocks us into a panic. It’s never a good sign when this side of the city goes silent. Then, I hear Javon and Parris and everything resumes the normal broadcasting schedule.

“Alejandro died,” a warm raspy voice seasoned with exhaustion creeps over her curves.

“He did?”

“Saw them carry him out this morning.”

I slowly sigh the words out: “I’m sorry.” My grip on her stiffens. “What was it like?”

“Like they was taking out the garbage.” Small raindrops of sorrow fall over her cheeks. She turns her face back toward mine. “If they treated him like that, what are they going to do with me?”

The pain in my heart burns bright and fierce. To think others see this woman as something other than magnificent, for her to feel something other than magnificent, causes a fire to blaze throughout my chest, the flame tips lapping at the strings tethering our hearts. I am confident my feelings are not unbiased. She is my everything, while Alejandro and his group of amigos could be burning alive and I wouldn’t piss on them.

I’ve lived in this city my whole life—and maybe that is the first problem. Everyone remembers Kirby from the block, the dark-skinned girl with a chunky face. Then, they see Kirby, the lesbian, and suddenly they are losing their damn minds and, too often, their ability to keep their mouths shut. Those with issue took to telling me to my face, decorum and respect an abortion (or an afterthought at the very least). Alejandro had no such issue.

The ‘80s were a mere infant when I moved into the six-floor rundown building on 86th Street. Mack, Granny’s cousin, and his brother Felton moved my possessions with careless abandon up each flight of stairs to the small drab apartment on the fourth floor while Nefertiti and I delegated from the beat-up Ford truck parked in the loading zone. My memory is crystal clear of that day, although I have often berated my recollection as paranoia.

Nef playfully swatted me with one of her thousand pillows—seriously, why does she need so many? I chased her, halfheartedly, down the block, catching her in a loving embrace, pulling her to me, and without feeling a dozen eyes fixed on us at that moment, I kissed her. Delicate, testing her comfort, then deep and passionate, voyeurs be damned. One of those was Alejandro and his crew of misfit homos. No, forgive me, I shouldn’t say that. Their homosexuality isn’t what makes them assholes, and it isn’t what my problem is; it isn’t what I should be mad at.

No, social gender roles get that hate.

After we walked back to the truck, Mack and Felton waiting on us, sweat-staining their navy t-shirts, my paranoia turned up to eleven. That is when I heard it. I think. I talk myself out of this part, chop it up as just my own fear, but I am convinced I am right.

“Pinche dyke.”

The power to destroy me in just two words. Ten letters.

The soft whistle of nasal breathing slips me back to the present in a whirl of happiness. I tighten my hold on her, both a sign of adoration and reassurance—for myself just as much as her. My eyelids settle shut as I nuzzle into the familiar and comforting smell of coconut oil from her mass of tight curls.

“Baby, we need to do—” she mutters, a drawn-out statement of empathy—“something.”

“Yes, my queen, we will.” I don’t know what, but we will.

—

“Have you ever had sex with a man that has had sex with another man, even once, with or without a condom?”

A ceiling fan whirls above with a womb at each revolution, a brass chain jingling with the vibration. What? What kind of question is that? No! I’ve never had sex with a man. Is that what you want to hear? Is that what you need? For me to expose myself? Do you want me to blurt it out for everyone to hear? I am a les-b-ian. Fuck. Coarse and dry, the word creeping up my throat and crawling out at a revenant pace, “No.”

Her face pinches into a scowl but only for a second before she marks on a checklist in front of her. Slapping her ballpoint pen under the clipboard, she forces a curt smile and nods to me to follow her, a cloud of White Diamonds lingering behind her. The squeak my British Knights make on the faux marbled linoleum, yellowed with nicotine, echoes down a broad hallway. She leads me to a root beer brown leather chair and motions for me to sit. A fluorescent light flickers above as the tight latex band constricts my upper arm. Bulges of fat bundle around it, creating a cottage cheese effect.

“Ready?” She smiles down at me, the light, solidifying its connection, beams like a spotlight on the needle’s tip. Giving my eyelids permission, they float down and gently cover my eyes. I am not afraid of needles, but allowing this old white lady to stick something sharp in me takes all my composure to fight back my natural instincts. A tiny prick fades to nothing. I open my eyes and focus on the blank wall opposite me. I should have brought a book.

Nefertiti, Richard Allen Lewis the third to them, is in here somewhere, probably behind me. Michelle, another lesbian in our building, one of those ones that eats grass juice and does yoga, is seated down my aisle. Her patchouli insults my nostrils from three chairs over, covering the thick pungent scent of skunk. She and Caroline, a queer I know from Nef, are deep in a discussion when the nurse walks away.

“Mysti is real bad, girl. Like, she ain’t going to make it. And they have her in this room right, but no nurses go in there.”

“What the fuck?” Caroline’s southern drawl drags itself down the room.

“Yes, bitch. Can you believe that? She called Domina, fucking crying that she was hungry but too weak to go to the door to get her food. I was pissed.”

“That’s legit fucked up.”

I don’t know who Mysti is, but I agree.

“So you know, I tell the girls down at Ruby’s that we need to do something, a benefit night, or I don’t know, just something.”

A meek voice creeps in, “I heard about a volunteer group some fag hags and lesbians are doing.” I can’t tell who is speaking, but turning my head in the direction of the voice, I spot Nefertiti out of the corner of my eye, behind me, and two chairs to the right. I smile but drop it quickly when I see the unmistakable diamond shine of tears in the corners of her eyes. We have to do something.

“Where do they meet?” My voice nearly barks out at them, its tone harsh, urgent.

A petite Black woman with tiger spandex shorts and gold L. A. Gear sneakers—I could only see her from the thighs down—responds. “The Twisted Tea Shop on 43rd. Every Tuesday. A bit of a walk, but they wanted to be closer to the hospital.”

“Okay, radical. I’ll be there.” I steal one last look at Nef before returning to my wall gazing. I am doing something.

—

The astringent smell of looming death lingers in the sterile hallway. It concerned me the first time I walked these halls, but now, I have come to expect it. The soft sodium glow of the lights on the cream walls cause the mauve and teal motifs to appear dirty and out of place in such a clean environment. The ominous beeps and bells from each room creep out into the hallway, medical staff trained to tone out the intense doom each causes me. Licking my lips, the familiar tang of heartbreak on my tongue, I force a smile and enter a room.

Volunteering has become a second, more important job. When I am not at the shop, I spend my time here. I would say it is impacting my relationship with Nef, but she is here too; both of us are determined to do what little we can. Joining the Blood Sisters was an easy choice and not one I will regret. The group takes shifts, covering eighteen hours a day, seven days a week, even holidays, to feed, help clothe, and bathe, interact with the gay men losing their dignity along with their lives. We don’t stand for that.

Over the past few weeks, I have gotten to know Pete—a thirtysomething Black femme gay man, infected by a partner that he assumed was clean, Mysti (with an i as she told me the first day with a snap of her fingers, so I responded I’m Kirby with a y)—a gay man that lives as a woman, the main reason I started coming, and Lawrence—an older bisexual white man married with adult children; he never told his wife that his long board meetings included meeting men in a leather bar bathroom.

A serendipitous power outage at the shop gives me an extra afternoon to spend with Mysti. Her face, skeletal and aged by the illness sucking her very soul from her, greets me with a wide smile and gleaming eyes. “Kirby!” Her voice cracks through the weakness, excitement just the same.

“Hey, girl! Work let me off early, so I wanted to surprise you.” I pull out a McDonald’s chocolate shake from behind my back, peeking around the room to check for any nurses. I don’t know why, they never come in here. Maybe just to enhance the spectacle.

The excitement gets to her, taking all the energy she had left for the day, so I slip into the bathroom, leaving the door cracked a hair, to pour out the remainder of the shake and dispose of the evidence. My stomach rumbles as I swish the sink with warm water—I really shouldn’t have stopped for those street tacos—when I hear a deep voice I don’t recognize. Careful not to squeak on the tile floor, I peek out of the door and see the nurse that wouldn’t come in the room standing next to a man I’ve never seen before in a crisp white lab coat, injecting Mysti with something. I pull away from the door and hold in a cry and my breath. What the fuck?

The distinct sound coming from the heart monitor confirms my fear. It’s muffled, but I can hear the nurse say something about side effects.

In his gruff masculine voice, the man says, “Well, that doesn’t matter, these types of people aren’t really human anyway. It’s all in the name of science, Karen, remember that. For the betterment of man.”

A memory of Alejandro floods my thoughts while I clasp my hand over my mouth to muffle any protest. There was a gay bar in the neighborhood, not a leather bar, but the kind that obviously catered to a certain type of consumer. I had agreed to meet a buddy from the shop about some side construction gigs for the summer and walked by Alejandro and his gang.

“Dyke, you don’t belong here.”

Alejandro leaned against the pool table, stick in fist, looking like Magnum PI and Tony Montana had a bastard love child. All muscle, no brain, and one seriously gnarly mustache. Luckily, a lifetime of casual racism had thickened my skin, or I may have left in handcuffs that day, and that was not an outcome beneficial for anyone.

That same disgusting feeling fills my belly and rises with a bile-like burn; the feeling of not being enough, of being subhuman, to exist only for the comfort of others, our essence coating the gutters and sewers. Fuck that.

When they leave, I slip out and check on Mysti, her face calm like a sleeping child before they ever experience heartache. My chubby dark fingers, nails bitten to the quick, find hers, chipping flamingo polish doing a lousy job of hiding the discoloration, and I hold a squeeze for a moment.

I see a pink triangle stamped onto the backside of Mysti’s hand. Confused, I drop it. Those fuckers marked her. But why?

With the grace of a hippopotamus dancing like a gazelle, I slide out of the room, gently latching the door. Attempting to not be suspicious, I casually look to my right, then my left. Past a busy nurse’s station, I see the man talking to that same nurse and another doctor. Casually strolling that way—which isn’t easy, considering I’m an African Amazon compared to the stark whiteness of this building—they continue to whisper to each other. I walk past, then linger at the drinking fountain while they continue. Taking my Raybans from my shirt collar, I use the lenses as mirrors, tiny closed caption cameras of a sort.

Seconds turn to minutes. It feels like I have been standing here for far too long when the group breaks up. I follow the man, doctor, scientist, asshole, whatever, at a distance, thankful my long legs make the stride easily. The gray patterned carpet resembles vomit and I chuckle to myself at the irony. Through a labyrinth of hallways, I match step for step, but I stop cold in my tracks when he walks through a door marked BIOHAZARD.

—

The heavyweight of hesitation drags behind me—I am no hero, what the fuck am I doing?—my fear stomping on the brakes to no avail. The clammy cold of the door’s veneer under my trembling hand signals a shaky breath; scared, I push to enter, using twice as much force as necessary. The strong astringent smell of the hallway blends with something different, sour and earthen. I can’t quite make out what it is. Cautious as a mouse near a sleeping cat, I navigate the small room designed to be a makeshift foyer complete with a row of lockers along one wall and six large industrial hooks aligned on the other. On three of the hooks hang coverall suits and helmets like the dudes in the latest alien invasion flick wore. Of course I’ve seen all those kinds of movies, so with haste, I pull the middle suit off the hook and tug it on. Glancing down to the nearly painted-on suit, I realize they aren’t, in fact, one size fits all. Slow and steady, I move through the doorway at the end of the lockers resembling a giant marshmallow man.

My feet skid to a stop after a slight trip in my step. “Holy shit,” I mumble, vibrating the plastic film of the helmet’s face covering. Every horror movie I have ever watched has not prepared me for what I see.

A large room is full of outdated hospital beds, the ones with metal rails, all lined up in rows—four beds deep, six beds wide, each with a body, each in a different stage of change. I study the beds in the first line. A man—or what was left of a man—lies before me, still and silent, mid-30s. The left side of his face drips, resembling melting candle wax. His right eye stared at me unblinking, and if it wasn't for the heart monitor he was attached to, I would have assumed he was dead.

Across from him, another person lies in a bed, unmoving. The solid dome of the back of a head faces me, an algid blue tint shining in the dim light. I would’ve assumed this one was dead were it not for the telltale beep of the machine.

I lean in close, eying for their left hand. They move, abrupt and quick, twisting their head to align our faces.

“Ohh,” a peep of a gasp slips through clasped lips as I take a few steps back. The lean skeletal shape of the face isn’t what surprises me. Many suffering from AIDS are skin and bones. But the fist-sized charcoal beak protruding from their face wasn’t something I expected.

Exhale, Kirby.

My gaze seeks the next victim—not patient, this isn’t medicine—in the bed above. Shadows fall and make deciphering what I am looking at difficult. In one light I see a mass of pink flesh in the shape of a human, and in another, the light refracts on the metal rods protruding each of the limbs in a morbid marionette design. Lowering my eyes in pity, I shuffle to continue my path when an iron clasp squeezes my wrist, their gelatinous fingers curling around thick steel creating a manacle.

I scream, the noise muffled by the mask. It still startles the blob into letting go. The fingers’ release is timed exactly as I jerk my arm away, the momentum causing me to tetter backward, tripping over my own giant feet and crash into a pair of beds behind me.

“Fuck,” I say under my breath as I quickly get back on my feet before whatever is in one of these beds can grab me.

I soon realize I am in no danger of being grabbed. I was in no danger because the creature in the bed had no arms. Of course it fucking doesn’t. To make matters even worse, it also has no nose or ears. Rather, it bears an uncanny resemblance to a snake.

Disgusted, I turn to my left, but I soon wish I hadn’t. In the bed above the snake dude, I saw a swollen figure of a man with four arms, his extra pair asymmetrical, one growing from his neck, the other his belly button. He also holds the extra ears and nose—all are accounted for. He must have been his mirror creature.

Each man with a pink triangle on their hand—or where their hand should be.

The farthest wall to the left houses large glass tanks, four in total, filled with a viscous fluid and strange lichen growing on the top, its belly illuminating the tank. This is the source of the sour earthen smell, rank like death buried in fresh soil. The swirl of dark liquid is in constant motion, making it hard to tell if the movement is from the tank being occupied or not. A slap of smooth virescent skin against the glass side removes all questions.

Two people in identical suits to mine wheel in a gurney, protest screaming from the wheels as they turn, bumping into the door jamb without regard for the person in the bed before stopping in front of that man in a lab coat. A hand slips free and I recognize the chipped pink nail polish right away. Mysti, whom I have gotten to know over the last few weeks and is one of the kindest people I have ever met, being treated like common garbage. I fear my anger might melt this hazmat suit off.

“I’m getting closer. I can feel it.”

“Tank two, Doctor?”

To my horror, he nods in assent.

An eruption of flaming stomach acid splashes the back of my teeth, and I struggle to swallow it back down, recognizing the familiar taste of jalapeño. The gurney wheels squeak to a stop twenty yards to my left and gloved fingers search for purchase on the skeletal form of Mysti.

“Hey!”

I had imagined this part much more eloquently—a symphony playing threatening vibrato as I fly forward and stop them in a heroic flash of wind and light, leaving me in a celebratory dance of triumph.

That is not what happened.

I launch my body forward, arm fat flapping a hook for the soundtrack. My vision tunnels and I laser focus on those latex-covered fingers around frail leg bones stretched in melichrous skin, the short fat phalanges reminiscent of fresh packed sausages. Of course, my stomach chimes in with her two sense.

As graceful as a black swan tumbling down a muddy riverbank, my foot snags the white sheet covering the body with four arms, causing an arc of billowing fabric to snap through the thick tension in the air. It crashes down upon a medical cart pulling it to the ground in the force of its wave.

Throwing out my hands, I prevent myself from falling fully, only catching the impact on my left knee. Within the same beat, I jump my body upright and continue forward with the motion, walking like I meant to do that.

“Stop touching her!” I yell.

A deep voice booms from my left. “Who are you? What are you doing in here?” The doctor—in my haste, I forgot he existed. Stopping abruptly, I turn to address him—the monster.

“Who the Hell are you?” Unaware I have landed my hands on my hips until I notice the scattering of medical supplies at my feet—a green halo of light reflects off the sharp edge of a scalpel.

“Giving their lives purpose by letting them create something...leave the world better for humans...genetics and cloning...able to cure diseases before they even infect.” The hyperbolic chamber rings an alarm, dissecting his monologue.

“Look, I’m sure what you’re saying is super important to you, but frankly I’m hungry, tired, miss my wife, and really don’t give a fuck.”

There is no plan—only impulse, instinct. The other two suits vacated long ago through the biohazard door—away from the violence, the pain, the responsibility. No worries, I’ll catch up to them soon. For now, my distance shortened, I swiftly snatch the scalpel off the floor and encroach on the doctor’s personal space.

“How could you do something like this to these people? What did they do to deserve …” I motion around the room, letting the evidence linger around my words.

He opens his mouth, carefully articulating his words, but no sound emerges. Instead, a blur of castory skin becomes the four-armed man launching himself at his creator. Each hand grabs at him, holding his arms against his body, his fourth hand occupied with a fistful of salt and pepper hair. Then another one arrives, the one with no arms or nose, and slithering like his snake-like appearance, he maneuvers close and rips the doctor’s throat out in a clean precise swipe.

An arterial stream of blood pumps out onto my face shield in steady sanguine spurts. Then the monsters, in a wicked episode of self-awareness, look at each other and drag the doctor into the water tub glowing green with bioluminescence. They submerge, and in a clash of titans, the snake bites the throat of the other, while the four arms break it into impossible angles. Tiny gushes of air bubbles rise and pop at the top, then it returns smooth, unmolested, like a dark lake’s surface.

—

When I wake up, a warm blanket is wrapped around me in a hospital bed. Another doctor, the same from the hallway, stands at the foot of the bed staring at a clipboard.

“You.”

“Yeah, me. How are you feeling? You hit your head—”

“I saw you. I saw you with him.”

“You did, in the hallway. Your trip to the drinking fountain was a nice try, but I knew what you were doing.”

I glare at him. He continues, “I met Dr. Ratherburger in Vienna two years ago at a genetic science convention, and I haven’t been able to avoid him since. He had been trying to recruit me, use my genetic modification in sheep research to apply it toward humans. I laughed at him and told him he was crazy. And he still persisted.” He looks down at his scuff-marked shoe, avoiding eye contact, the guilt a little too much to bear, and he mumbles, “I had no idea what he was doing.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“No one did. That part of the hospital is closed for remodeling, so security never patrolled. It took three days for someone to find you, find that.” He paused, giving the full weight to the abomination. “I didn’t see a red flag until I went to visit a really good friend of mine. He was doing great, smiling, and actually had energy. I left to pick up some lunch, and when I returned, he was unresponsive and a pink triangle was on his hand. Within hours he was gone. I didn’t even get to tell him goodbye.”

Sweat beads on my upper lip while I tremble at the memory of happy Mysti sucking her milkshake, to the chunky pale fingers grabbing at her ankles. “What happens now?”

“Well, you’ve been in a medically induced coma while the swelling on your brain healed. The official story is that lab contaminants caused half of the hospital to quarantine, which we’ll hold to while Ratherburger’s mess is cleaned up. Government agencies have already swiped it clean. Everything is gone. Everyone is gone.”

Of course the hospital is going to cover it all up. I shake my head, more disappointed in myself for thinking anything less would happen. I can’t tell anyone. No one will believe me. All the research the doctor was doing has been terminated.

Why do I feel like that isn’t the whole truth?

It's been two weeks. Fuck! It’s been two weeks! Nefertiti.

Her steps are soft and sweet as she comes into the room. When she locks eyes with me—then notices they are open—she drops the soda and fries she was holding.

“I’ll give you two some privacy. Hello, Nefertiti.” He curves a polite smile and walks out the door.

Tears. So many tears, but she runs to me. Her forehead presses against mine, her fingers entwine with mine, and her lips find mine for a tear-soaked kiss.

Behind the weight of a veneered door, deep in a corner of a light-deprived cabinet, a tiny blink of neon green flashes on, then off, as if to the rhythm of a heartbeat.

WATERFALL
by Christi Nogle

The big couple promenading through the cafeteria had an aura of royalty, the boy in his long tweed coat and the girl—who I noticed right away was heavier than me—in a floor-length sleeveless dress showing off pale tattooed arms. Her hair was silvery blonde and spiral-coiled; his lay in long black feathers hiding his face until he tossed it back to reveal a handsome round jaw and large dark eyes. People called out to them, stopped them for a moment to talk and laugh, then they walked on to the next table.

“We call them Branjelica,” said my cousin Allie when she noticed me staring.

“Brad and Anjelica?”

“No Krissy, Bran and Anjelica,” Allie corrected, not quite rolling her eyes.

It was my first day at her school. We sat with her friends, every one of them thin and nervous. The word meticulous came to mind. I felt out of place with them, as I so often did.

“Those two are popular, yeah?” I asked.

“The most popular couple in school,” said Allie.

I didn’t see how that could be. They were seniors for sure. That helped, and maybe Bran played football or something, but I’d never known a popular girl as big as Anjelica. I couldn’t imagine wearing a dress like that, and my arms were nowhere near as large.

Soon the couple had come to the table next to ours, and I could make out her tattoos. Beautiful, intricate graywash butterflies, moths, and other insects, each with a tiny human face. They were the kinds of images I'd have loved to be able to draw, to imagine. She laughed and talked, her voice gravelly and bubbly at once. The kids kept touching Bran on the hands and arms and casting loving eyes on him, yet something about his stance told me he was no football player. His manner was sweet and shy.

For a second, as Anjelica spoke to some girls, his interest lagged. He looked at the sketches on the cover of my notebook and then straight at me. He smiled. They moved on, and soon they’d left the cafeteria.

“Why are they so popular?” I said, realizing just then that I was interrupting a conversation between Allie and her friends.

“They’re rich,” said one of the friends.

“—or he is,” said another.

“I think they can get things for people,” said another.

“I mean, all of that I’m sure, but they’re hot,” said Allie, as though that was all that mattered. The others nodded.

I was about to feel offended—I very nearly bolted up and made a scene—but looking in their eyes, I could see they weren’t joking. Not at all.

—

It was my first day of school, but not my first night at home with the uncle and aunt, Allie, and her little brothers. It was dinner number nine, in fact, no more interesting or comfortable than the previous eight. Chicken breast, rice, and cooked spinach with a side of raw spinach salad. Talk of sports and accounting (both of them worked in the same firm), and now that the summer was over, talk of school.

It was the first night I didn’t call Grandma straight after dinner. We’d cried on the phone eight nights, and that was enough. She was as sorry as I was about the move. She wished she had kept me, would come get me if I said the word, though she didn’t like to drive so far. I’d resolved to let her be.

This move was supposed to be good for me, and all the aunts and uncles felt it was the first step in getting Grandma out of her little broken-down house. Maybe she’d follow me here, or go to another of her sons’ houses, or to a retirement community of some sort (though if there was money for that, why not money to fix up her place?). Without me she would move, and she would be happier too.

Happy like me.

I lay on the bed watching storm clouds and letting my mind go blank. There was homework, but it wasn’t anything. My phone was already buzzing less and less often. I was going to let all those friendships fade as quickly as they could. I was going to make something new of myself. The thought brought up images of those human-headed butterflies on Anjelica’s arms.

My window looked out onto the street, which was filling with puddles. Cars splashed along in and out of the subdivision. It was that time of the day when everything’s dark blue, except the sky was all black and silver with storm-clouds. I found it lovely, and after a while, pulled out a sketch pad and markers. I didn’t care about capturing how the sky looked so much as the feeling of doom and promise I got from it.

I was supposed to be firming up some vision for my future. Drawing was all I could think of, maybe cartoons or graphic design. The aunt and uncle were going to love that idea, no doubt. Plus, I wasn’t all that good at it. Back home, maybe, but here, everything I did would be less than it had been. I threw away the first sketch and started again.

I thought of calling Grandma after all, but just then, a tall pewter-colored Jeep-type thing crawled by. It was like they were looking for an address. I saw four or five heads through tinted windows. Then the front passenger window rolled down enough to show a glimpse of Anjelica’s silvery curls.

The car behind them honked, and they moved along.

—

After gym, at the mirror, Anjelica came close. She looked paler and even larger than I remembered, in nothing but Doc Martens, a black bra, and boyshorts. I looked away quickly.

“Bran noticed you yesterday,” she said.

“Oh, I … ” I had nothing to say. I wasn’t sure what I was looking at now, just a blur of red in the mirror.

“Don’t worry, I’m not the jealous type,” she said, but then she must have realized how frozen I was. “I’m sorry. I’m just weird.”

“You’re not weird at all,” I said quickly.

She bumped my shoulder with hers. “Just trying to make friends. Anyway, come with me.”

“Come where?”

She pulled on a pink eyelet mini-dress. “Lunch,” she said, tossing her curls over her shoulder on her way out of the locker room. I noticed how short the dress was and how her underwear showed through.

Once she was out the door, I distinctly heard someone say, “Wish I could get away with that.”

—

When Anjelica drove us to lunch, it was in the little convertible she paid for with her job at the ice cream shop. When Bran took us, it was in the Range Rover his parents had bought him. We’d stop by a drive-through on the way to the park, or we’d sit in a restaurant when Anjelica drove us. Bran always took us to his place. He’d have stacks of sandwiches or charcuterie or something else appealing in the fridge, and beer if anyone wanted it. He lived in a poolhouse, no kidding, behind a mansion I never set foot in. We never went to Anjelica’s, but she stopped there once to get a change of clothes. It was in bad shape, smaller and worse than the house Grandma raised me in, which everyone said was so far gone.

Bran did get things for people—drugs and kegs and things like that, though nothing hard. I don’t think he made any money. I think he just did it so people liked him even more.

It was never just the three of us. It sometimes felt that way, but there were several other couples who were around a lot, and a few hangers-on. I felt at times these single ones had crushes on Bran or Anjelica or both. I suppose people thought I did, too.

It was different with me, though. If I got right down to it, I fantasized that they were my parents, or an older brother and sister—or a more ideal uncle and aunt.

My real uncle and aunt were delighted about all the friends I was making and how well I was doing in school. Teachers had never been mean to me—most of them anyway—but now there was a brighter, more delighted way they looked and spoke to me. As though they really did expect great things. My art teacher fawned over me so often and so convincingly I felt vaguely high around her. It felt like I was brilliant in every way. Trustworthy. Good.

I didn’t quite trust that feeling.

One day while we were washing dinner dishes, the aunt said, “That Anjelica dresses in a figure-flattering way, doesn’t she? I wonder if you might like to go shopping and get some things like that.”

I knew by then that she wasn’t joking or being mean. Even if this particular aunt had not been humorless, I’d seen enough to know that to everyone—kids and adults alike—Bran and Angelica were unquestionably, objectively beautiful. I was getting the sense that they saw me the same, but I wasn’t sure yet.

I had been starting to feel less comfortable in the oversized hoodies and sweats I’d always favored. “Maybe you’re right. I wore a swimsuit over at Bran’s,” I said.

“Oh?” said the aunt.

“School was out at noon on Friday, remember? We went to his house, and it turned into a pool party. I didn’t have anything, so Anjelica loaned me a . . . bikini.” I guess I still thought she would frown, advise against it.

Instead, she brightened. “Oh, of course. We’ll get you one, or maybe a few? You don’t want to be seen wearing the same thing every time. I’d love to see you in some little dresses too. I can’t wait.”

I thought of calling Grandma about the shopping trip. I thought of sending her sketches I’d done, too, but instead I just texted my usual: miss you, and a big red heart.

—

My makeover made quite a stir. Anjelica started calling me Kissy because of my new dark lipstick. When we strode through the cafeteria one day, schmoozing on our way out to lunch, I heard someone say, “Branjeli-Krissy.” Another corrected him, “No, Branjelikissy.”

Once, I watched Anjelica work in the ice cream shop when the family stopped in for Allie’s birthday. It seemed as though all the other workers were extensions of her body. They orbited around her, did her bidding. An awkward boy in line ahead of us tried to flirt with her. She flirted back, and again with the next customer, again with the uncle. The plastic cup overflowed with tips, and at a glance from Anjelica, one of the others dumped it out behind the counter.

“Why would such a fine young woman need to work at a place like that?” the uncle said when we were in the car.

“I think it’s admirable,” said the aunt. With a sweeping look at us children, she said, “Her strong work ethic will serve her well.”

And yet there was something missing from our friendship. Some closeness. At the bottom of it was the fact that we did not talk about whatever magic surrounded them. How could we, with these others always around? Try as I did to be the last one at a party, there were always people sleeping over, people offering me a ride home.

I began to fantasize about times with just the three of us. Something would be revealed—a ritual? A séance? Candles on jewel-toned velvet, chalk, thick books of spells. A dark attic with a round stained-glass window. After, Bran would pull me up on his soft lap and stroke my head until I slept. Maybe Anjelica would feed me, pour a bath for me, help me into my new clothes.

I was never any smaller in these fantasies; I was just as big as I was, and still deserving of care, adoration, indulgence.

—

My wish came true with no warning, just before Halloween. I was lying on my bed watching the street and sky, and Bran’s Range Rover crawled up. I glimpsed only the two heads in front. The passenger window rolled down, and there was Anjelica, beckoning.

It was cold for October. In my new clothes, I was always cold. I hurried out and hopped in before the traffic could back up behind them. The inside was warm. I pulled a silky blanket over my bare legs.

“Our sweet Kissy,” said Anjelica.

Bran held my eyes in the rearview. “It’s time we talked,” he said, but then he didn’t say anything else.

Bran was a mystery to me still. The two of them were clearly charmed, but while she beamed and shone, he never seemed quite happy. Maybe it was from living alone in the poolhouse behind the mansion where his parents rarely visited, where his little sisters and their nanny kept house. Maybe–more likely–it was because he never found a way to engage with the world so fully as she did.

I didn't know where we were going. We hadn't been to many places at all, just the strip of restaurants, the high school, the subdivisions. I felt slightly anxious, remembering one time my friend and I got into a car with some boys back home, and they stopped out on a country road. The driver said, "You read the bumper sticker, right? ‘Ass, gas, or grass. Nobody rides for free.’ And I'm not thinking you have any grass.”

“Shut up,’ my friend had said. She’d laughed, kicked the seat.

And I had frozen. I knew, on one level, that they were just joking, that I ought to laugh, but I couldn’t.

I loved Bran and Anjelica. I didn't want to feel like I couldn’t ask things of them, so I asked, "Where are we headed?"

"It's okay," said Anjelica.

"It's fine," said Bran. "We love you. We wouldn't ever hurt you.”

"We’re doing this because we love you and it’s what you need," Anjelica said. She looked back at me, stroked the blanket over my knee, and I believed her. I trusted her.

“You’ve been living in the glow around us, but you need to have something of your own,” Bran said.

“You're going to show me something now, aren't you?” I said, feeling very small and fragile.

“It's time,” said Anjelica.

We drove a long way through smaller, sadder towns, and then we missed most of the sunset as we headed into the mountains. I could barely make out a creek along the left side of the road. I texted Allie, told her I was sleeping over at Anjelica's. Poor Allie, always so jealous now. I texted the heart and the miss you to Grandma.

We drove.

We came to a forest service sign and turned in just as it was getting dark. We drove past an empty campground to a parking lot with two other cars. A trailhead.

“Don’t forget the blanket," Anjelica said. “I brought it for you.” When we got out, she helped me drape it so my head and legs were covered.

As we walked the trail, Bran outpaced us. Anjelica took my hand, leaned in close. “It’s his parents who know about this place and what’s here. That’s why they’re so successful.”

Were they successful, really? Maybe she only meant they were rich. A feeling of anticipation flooded over me.

We stepped aside for a couple with a flashlight, going back to one of the cars no doubt. We did not have anything to light the way, but there was moonlight glinting through trees. The trail was good and solid. I hadn’t pictured Grandma in a while, not really, but it occurred to me that she could take this trail, so smooth and level it was. I imagined her walking slowly beside me, imagined her falling back.

I heard the waterfall before I saw it. Louder and louder grew the sound until the trail opened into a large clearing and the white water loomed, framing Bran who stood before it in his long coat. We joined him. It might have been something to look at in the daytime, but now it was just a shroud shape. The sound was like the white noise the aunt put on for me when she noticed I wasn’t sleeping those first few nights—only louder, with a hint of music behind it. Or was it humming?

Bran and Anjelica were warm presences on either side of me. I could not make out their faces. “What now?” I shouted over the rush of water.

It was Bran who leaned down, Bran’s warm breath in my ear. “All you have to do is ask. Ask the spirit for what you need.”

The waterfall was a spirit. I recognized that as soon as he said it. That’s why its long pale shape reminded me so of a ghost.

In my other ear, Anjelica said, “We both did it. You see how well it works.”

I knew it was true and could guess what they’d asked for: Anjelica had wanted success. That she was considered beautiful was only a part of what she meant by success. Another was her great popularity, another her skill and ease at work. What she’d asked for would take her far. Bran had asked for love. He’d received love from Anjelica and from every other person we knew. From me.

The waterfall hummed. It was clearer and clearer under the rushing, crashing sounds.

I might need success, too, I thought. I might surely need love. For a moment I considered asking for everything to go back to how it was before I moved here. I’d not been popular at school, but I’d had many friends and much to do. I could be living in comfort in Grandma’s house, with the cousins and friends coming in and out at all hours, with the ready comfort food and the TV always on. What would it smell like if I went back there now?

It would smell of sickness and mold.

No. That was not what I needed.

I needed to move toward my own future, but how? I thought of my drawings, how I loved them and yet how frustrated they made me. Should I ask for skill? Or for admiration, regardless of skill? No. These things were related to what I needed, but they weren’t quite right.

“Just try to listen to yourself,” Bran said. “You’ll know what you need when you think of it.” He held my left hand, Anjelica took my right, and this closeness brought to mind a particular drawing I’d done on a rare Sunday when I chose to stroll alone in the park instead of hanging out at Bran’s. A fat couple and their little child walking down the path. The parents each held a hand and they pulled her up, swinging her in the air, and said, “Whee!” I’d felt, sketching them, that I was really seeing them. Without judgments or sentimentality. They weren’t ugly or beautiful. They didn’t make me think of my absent parents, Bran and Anjelica, or anyone else. There was nothing mediating my experience of them.

And the drawing had been good, so good I’d kept it hidden from others, something to take out and look at over and over. It seemed a threshold had been crossed.

I didn’t want to have any more delusions and misconceptions—about myself, about others.

“I need to see clearly,” I called before I could consider it. Bran and Anjelica had let go of my hands and moved aside, and the wind whipped spikes of cold water onto my face. I wasn’t sure I’d been heard, so I cried, “I need to see things as they are. I need to understand . . . everything . . . clearly!”

And that was when I saw the spirit in the waterfall—clearly, fully. An inhuman personality made of watery strands. Like a fall of hair or a beard made conscious and expressive. No eyes, no mouth, but a massive face nonetheless, turning its full attention on me, a speck on the ground.

A chill, a vibration started in my toes and jolted up my spine, coming out in horrible screams.

The nausea followed. It gushed up too fast for anyone to help. It was in my hair, smeared on the blanket. Bran and Anjelica came close again, and I saw their faces.

And that was when I lost my grasp on what people call “consensual reality.”

—

Sometimes Grandma used to drink too much, and she would rant and work herself up something terrible about all the ways she’d been mistreated and misunderstood. She would transform into something bitter and spiteful. Those first few hours were like that. I was like that—screaming and ranting—and the world was like that. The world was transformed. I ran and tried to hide from my friends, from the face of the long, fibrous pale water-spirit.

I ran and hid, and wherever I hid would be something more horrific, so I would run out again. Faces in everything, everything swirling with sinister shapes. Chimerical creatures like those I’d so wanted to imagine, but I was not imagining them. They were not images but were all living, all spirits, ingrained into every part of the land here.

It was lucky I kept shrieking, or they never could have found and caught me. Anjelica, so strong and so adept at every little thing, was the one who neatly tackled me, wrapped her legs around me, pulling my arms back. Bran tied them with something, but she kept lying on me, firm but not crushing. She always knew exactly how much force to apply.

People lie down like that on dogs sometimes, to show them they are helpless. I saw that I was helpless. I submitted, just as a dog would.

She stroked my head and shoulder, and that made it all a little less overwhelming. With my eyes closed, with the pressure on my back, I felt I could speak.

“It’s like the butterfly with the human face,” I said.

Anjelica was panting. “What is?”

“Everything.”

“It’s only what you asked for,” she said.

“I want to take it back,” I said, and she gasped. Bran let out a low defeated moan.

I had thought I’d asked to see in order to draw, as a path toward my future. I saw now that was not the reason. I had needed to see for its own sake, and yet it was intolerable. I wanted to go back.

“To deny a gift is a major affront,” said Bran. He loomed above me. His face was the moon’s. “And you wouldn’t go back to the way you were before.”

I nodded. I understood, but I couldn’t live this way. Bran’s face in the darkness swirled and contorted. Anjelica was easing off of me, and as she did, she pulled and knotted the blanket around me—I’d lost it somewhere in my terror, and she had found it. She was dressing me, swaddling me.

The scent of acid, of vomit lingered, and yet Bran sat down and took me onto his soft lap. He stroked my sweaty, filthy hair. I became aware of scrapes on my knees and leaves and dirt on my hands, a missing shoe. We spent a long time sitting like that, and then he said, “We’ll take her back.”

“No,” said Anjelica. “Please.”

But he stood and lifted the cocoon of me up, over his shoulder. Slowly, we trudged back to the waterfall. They trusted me now, enough to let me stand and let the blanket loosen. They did not untie my hands.

I kept my eyes closed, but the problem wasn’t just the sight. It was the understanding. I understood how it was in Grandma’s home and understood how deep her denial was—about that, about her own health and happiness and mine, about how she had raised me. I loved her still, maybe more than ever, but I saw her clearly. I have blocked all of this understanding; I have filtered it out. I had heard that before, that we filter out so much of what we experience and that dreams are somehow the processing of it. That we couldn’t live sanely without this ability.

I opened my eyes and looked, and though the ropey swaying spirit still terrified me, I thought I could face it now. The visions were not less intense; instead, I was starting to develop a thought-shape to deal with them, to think about how I might use them. I was imagining what I might draw, once home.

“Do you have something to say to it?” said Bran. His voice sounded sad and far away. I barely heard the waterfall or the hum. It sounded now like the white noise on my nightstand.

Take it back, I could say, but we couldn’t go back to before. There would be heavy interest. I saw myself stripped of all understanding, lying on my bed in front of the window, only now it was a hospital bed. I saw a nurse tending me, sponging me, and Grandma in a bedside chair weeping.

I saw everything falling apart: Bran hated, ignored at school, his family ruined and penniless. He and Anjelica quarreling, breaking up or drifting apart. The saddest thing: Anjelica unconfident, incapable, being bawled out at work and stooping in an oversized hoodie, not ashamed of her body so much as of her existence.

“Say what you need to. We won’t stop you,” said Anjelica. Her hand hovered close, like she wanted to touch me but was afraid. I leaned into her, and she put her heavy arm around my shoulders. I was seeing both of them much less idealized than I had before and yet they were not bad; they were only people. We were all three of us just small shivering animals, after all, and the forces around us huge, monumental.

The spirit was rippling but plainly alive. To draw its face, I thought. That’s what I want.

“I wish I could explain what I see now,” I said.

“It deals in needs, not wishes,” said Bran.

I nodded. Making full contact with its impossible eyes, I wondered, Can I keep this gift? Keep it and hold it and act like it’s nothing, act like everyone else?

Or act on my own wishes, act decisively? Can sight and understanding do that for me?

And then it spoke, loud and watery, only to me. “Do you have something to say, child?”

“Yes, I do.” The wind threw icy pins in my face once more. The water roared. I was frozen, speechless, but only for a moment.

THE RED DOTS IN THE WINDOW
by Judith Baron

Chloe Johnson looked at a new text message on her phone while chowing down a meatball sandwich in the school cafeteria. It was from Brenda Lang, a parent for whom Chloe’s nemesis, Evette Lewis, used to babysit, whose number Chloe had contacted for the babysitter job.

“Looks like you’re the new hire,” Chloe’s best friend Ava Cho said, sneaking a peek at Chloe’s message. “I heard the Langs went through quite a few sitters recently.”

“I lucked out, I guess,” Chloe said, responding with a yes to the text, and promised to be at Brenda’s house by 8 p.m. “If this works out, I won’t have to flip burgers anymore.”

“Yo, Johnson,” Evette Lewis hollered at her from three tables over. “Go easy on the meatballs, will ya? Soon you’ll be wearing tents for underwear.”

The two jocks sitting next to Evette laughed; the other students stopped talking and stared at the developing situation.

“The fat shaming is getting really old.” Ava glared at Evette. “As is your fake ass ghetto talk.”

“I’m sorry, four eyes,” Evette said to Ava. “I wasn’t talking to you. You’re not on anyone’s radar.”

Chloe had enough. She stuffed the rest of the sandwich in her mouth, grabbed her chocolate pudding, and walked toward Evette. Towering over her nemesis, Chloe pulled her up by the collar and smeared chocolate pudding all over her bony behind.

The cafeteria erupted in cheers. Ava burst out laughing while the lunch lady looked on.

Evette’s face contorted in rage, and out of her thin, mean lips she unleashed a series of expletives. Though Evette’s clique looked amused, no one intervened. With friends like that, who needed enemies?

As much as she enjoyed this, Chloe started walking away to avoid any further trouble that could land her in the principal’s office. Ava packed up her lunch bag and followed Chloe.

“Be careful,” Ava said to Chloe. “She’s one vindictive bitch.”

“My only regret was not doing this sooner,” Chloe said. “And wasting a good dessert.”

The afternoon went a lot smoother and faster than her regular days after that. When the dismissal bell rang, Chloe packed up and made her way out of her classroom. Ava said goodbye to her at the locker and rushed off to band practice.

Chloe passed by Evette outside the building, who still had a brown stain on the back of her pants as if she’d had stomach violence that left a mark.

Evette’s eyes were full of hate. “You’re dead.”

“Mrs. Lang is expecting me tonight, so I hope not,” Chloe tossed out casually.

Evette didn’t give a vicious riposte. The two-time prom queen simply stared at Chloe with her mouth agape, looking frightened—a description Chloe would not normally associate with the meanest girl of Cloverdale High.

—

When Chloe arrived home, her mother had already left for her night shift at the hospital. Chloe opened the fridge and found a container of jerk chicken, collard greens, and rice and peas with a note from her mom. She smiled. It was her comfort food, though she wished her mother could eat with her for once. She did her homework, ate her dinner, and cleaned up before leaving the house.

It was completely dark out. Some kids were playing outside; a few dogs were walking side by side with their respective owners. The fallen leaves on the ground rustled in the wind like autumn’s last dance.

The houses started to spread apart more as she got closer to Mrs. Lang’s. The streets were quiet; there was no one out and about. She power walked to keep warm. She arrived at Mrs. Lang’s house—a three-story mansion with a four-car garage—shortly before eight.

A strange feeling of being watched came over her. She surveyed the house. All of the windows were closed and the curtains drawn, except one—a darkened room on the second floor that had a few red dots glowing in the window. Three pairs of red dots, to be exact.

When Chloe rubbed her eyes to look again, they were gone. She shrugged. It must’ve been some kind of eye trick, like Ava used to say about stereograms when they were in grade one.

Chloe cut through the circular driveway to the entrance and knocked softly on the door, in case the child was already asleep. A slender East Asian woman opened the door and let her in.

“Hi, Chloe,” the woman greeted her with a smile and extended her hand. “I’m Brenda. Very nice to meet you.”

Chloe shook her new employer’s hand, reciprocating the smile.

While Chloe admired the marbled floors, Brenda took her jacket and hung it inside the closet by the door. Everything in the house looked neat; even the jackets in the closet were meticulously arranged by size and color.

A tall, muscular African man descended the stairs and tiptoed on the plush carpet runner, which absorbed most of the noise. “Hi, Chloe.” He shook her hand when he reached the foyer. “I’m Alan.”

This must be the former athlete Evette once bragged about meeting. Chloe wasn’t into sports, so she didn’t know who he was, but Ava said Evette had a crush on him and it was probably the reason why she got fired.

“Luke is asleep already,” Brenda said, gesturing upstairs. “He usually sleeps through the night, so hopefully he won’t be a bother.”

“If he does come out, just tell him we’ll dock his allowance,” Alan said. “That’ll get him back in bed pronto!”

Chloe felt incredibly lucky. This was an easy gig, and the Langs seemed very nice. She had pictured them with airs because of their wealth and all the talk about how many babysitters they went through, but so far, she didn’t sense any bad vibes from them. If anything, she was more curious about why they chose to live in this small town in Central Ontario.

Alan and Brenda grabbed their coats and put on their shoes.

“Text or call us if you need anything,” Brenda said. “Please help yourself to whatever you like in the fridge and pantry.”

“Thank you,” Chloe said.

With a smile, the Langs left their beautiful house to Chloe for the next two hours. She went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. She then opened the food pantry. There was some healthy food, like freeze-dried kale chips and plain, baked crackers, but there were also numerous bags of potato chips. She took a bag of kettle-cooked chips for herself. Almost three hundred calories per fourteen chips, but she wasn’t counting. She enjoyed food too much to care about dress sizes, and she was far from unhealthy.

She sat down on the leather couch and turned the television on. She opened the bag of chips and started eating.

The lights flickered. She felt a breeze, like someone just sneaked up behind her.

“Hello?” she said, sputtering crumbs out of her mouth.

No answer. She got up and looked around before walking toward the bay window. An angry looking Evette was standing outside.

“Shit!” Chloe regretted that parting shot she gave her nemesis. Now Evette knew about her new gig and came knocking.

Evette gave Chloe the middle finger, before moving toward the door. Chloe had no choice but to race to it. Begrudgingly, she opened it just a slit.

Evette ripped into Chloe right away. “You thought you won, didn’t you, lard ass? Just so you know, if I hadn’t quit, your stupid face wouldn’t be here.”

“Right,” Chloe sneered. “Who would dare fire the prom queen of Cloverdale High?”

“Just you wait, Johnson. You have no idea what you’re in for.”

“I know what you’re in for.” Chloe took the phone out of her pocket, and the lights inside the house flickered again. “I’m going to call the cops.”

Evette turned very pale. She looked behind Chloe, backed away, and ran off in a matter of seconds.

“What a chicken shit.” Chloe laughed before locking the door and moving to the bay window, where she watched Evette’s silhouette disappear around the corner.

Chloe felt a breeze behind her again. She turned around and nearly bumped into a stout biracial boy who looked about seven or eight. She almost screamed, as he had caught her off guard. He must have descended the stairs when she was dealing with Evette.

“Hi Luke,” she regained her composure and introduced herself. “I’m Chloe, your new babysitter.”

“This house is haunted,” the boy said. “You shouldn’t stay here.”

“What?” she asked.

“You should leave now, Chloe.”

Chloe realized the commotion must have awakened him. “I’m sorry about the noise earlier. She’s gone now. I think you might remember Evette, who babysat you before.”

“I know her,” Luke said. “I told you, the house is haunted!”

Maybe Luke liked Evette and was angry that his parents hired a new sitter, or maybe he was just grumpy because the noise woke him up. Either way, he seemed to be a very imaginative kid.

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Chloe implored gently instead of threatening to dock his allowance like his dad had suggested.

“I’m thirsty,” he said.

“Okay. Let me grab you a glass of water. You stay here.”

She went back to the kitchen. When she returned with a glass of water, he was gone. She walked around to look for him and found him watching TV in the living room. Chloe handed him the glass of water, but he didn’t drink it.

She grimaced. She had an hour and a half to put him to bed before his parents came home, and she didn’t want them to find out about her encounter with Evette.

“Let’s go upstairs to your room,” Chloe offered. “I’ll read you a story, but you have to go to sleep. Deal?”

He continued to watch TV unblinkingly.

A shadow flitted across the room. Chloe started. Luke was sitting next to her, so it wasn’t him. She looked around and saw the shadow close to the kitchen pantry. Someone about five foot six, and slim.

Thoughts of Evette popped into her head. That miserable girl had babysat here before, so she might have gotten in from another entrance without Chloe knowing. But how? Chloe was sure she saw Evette leave the property. Evette would have to run very fast to sneak in while Chloe was getting a drink for Luke.

Chloe got up and checked all the doors on the main floor. They were locked. Could Evette have a key to the house? Chloe didn’t think the Langs would give her one in the first place, let alone let her keep it after she got fired (or quit, so she said).

She felt a breeze behind her once more. She whirled around but saw nothing. It felt much colder somehow, the kind of chill that sank down to her bones, as if someone was watching.

A stench wafted into the living room. She took a whiff of Luke, but the smell was not coming from him. The closest thing she could think of was when a bunny sneaked into her garage once and died there before her dad could find it. It reeked for days.

She started hyperventilating, cold sweats beading on her forehead. Was Luke telling the truth about this house being haunted?

“Is someone else here in the house?” Chloe asked.

“Yes,” Luke answered without looking at her. “They want you to leave.”

“Who’s they?”

“The dead people.”

Chloe felt a chill and shuddered.

“I’m serious, Luke,” Chloe said, trying to remain calm. “If there’s an intruder here, I need to call the police.”

“I’m serious too.”

Chloe’s goosebumps hardened all over her body. She felt someone blow on the nape of her neck. She looked behind her and saw a shadow move across the room.

Should she text Mrs. Lang? But if word got out that she was seeing ghosts, nobody would hire her to babysit again. Unless it was a burglar, she couldn’t call the police either. Luke said she should leave, but of course she couldn’t do that. What option did that leave her?

She took out her phone and tried to text Ava. Before she hit send, the door to the adjacent room opened by itself. The TV turned itself off, and for a split second she thought she saw two disfigured, bloodied faces appear on the black screen.

She dropped her phone.

Dark shadows billowed up from the TV like smoke before floating near the ceiling. She could see two sets of red dots in the shadows.

Every framed picture on the wall flipped itself vertically. Her bag of chips flew up in the air and upended itself, spilling the contents all over the floor.

“What is happening?” Chloe cried.

Luke grabbed her by the arm. “Get out now!”

“I can’t leave you here!”

“This isn’t worth getting your fifty bucks.”

She felt guilty because it was true. She supposed she could make up an excuse and text the Langs to come back early, but she cringed at the thought of having to go back to work at the burger joint.

The lights went out. Someone covered her eyes and mouth. She tried to scream, but the same someone squeezed her neck. Chloe struggled to breathe, tears oozing from the corners of her eyes. She tried to pull off whoever was strangling her and felt that one of the hands was missing some fingers.

The lights came back on. Luke grabbed her hand and yanked her off the couch, freeing her from being strangled. What incredible strength this kid had!

“Hurry!” He led her up the stairs.

The lights flickered in the hallway. On, off, on, off.

“What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

Luke didn’t answer. While Chloe was going for the room with his name on the door, he yanked her hand and led her to a room on the opposite end of the hallway. They went in and closed the door, then hid in a closet with double doors. The louvered closet doors didn’t close completely, leaving a small gap.

Luke put a finger to his mouth, gesturing her to be quiet. She tried to breathe quietly and stop shuffling her feet. There were several clothes hanging in there, and she had a hard time squeezing into the tight space with her big stomach pressed against the doors. She sucked it in.

The streetlights from the outside poured through the sheer drapes. It looked like a playroom—there were toys and books and a daybed by the windows. The door to the room opened slowly with a creaking sound.

A small, skinny boy with tanned skin entered the room. Any lingering suspicion that Evette was in on this was completely gone from Chloe’s mind. She squeezed Luke’s hand. It felt frigid. The poor child must be so scared. She couldn’t imagine living with this kind of haunting on a regular basis.

The incoming boy tiptoed towards the closet. Chloe held her breath; she could hear her own heartbeat. The boy touched the closet doors, but did not open them. He backed away and left the room quietly, leaving the door open.

Her grip on Luke’s hand relaxed. She was about to open the doors, but Luke stopped her. Through the gap, she could see two shadows enter the room. Curiously enough, the bottoms of the shadows looked blurry, as if they were floating above the floor.

The figures of a man and a woman appeared on the other side of the closet. Chloe’s heart was pounding now; she hoped they could not hear it. She held her breath for ten seconds at a time, trying not to make any noise at all.

Their faces were covered with blood. The man’s left eye was hanging halfway down his cheek. The woman’s teeth were embedded in her nose, which was crushed and bloodied.

Chloe trembled. The entities inched their disfigured and bloodied faces close to the gap of the closet doors. Their eyes glowed red in the dark. The man stuck his hand in the gap, nearly touching Chloe’s stomach. He was missing two fingers.

The algid air smelled like burned tires. She was shivering from the cold as much as she was trembling with fear. She was not religious, but she was reciting a prayer in her head—a prayer she had learned in Sunday School way back when her dad was around.

The closet doors opened. She shut her eyes and braced for the worst as the stench threatened to gag her. She could hear the entities talk, but she couldn’t understand them. The woman’s speech was strange, probably because her teeth were not in her mouth, and the man spoke in Korean. Chloe could tell because Ava was Korean, and she had heard it enough from her to know what the language sounded like.

The man used some English words here and there, and she could make out the word Luke. Her tears felt like ice on her face, but she didn’t dare wipe them off.

It felt like forever. Luke squeezed her hand in small successions like a coded message. She opened her eyes tentatively. The entities were gone. Relieved, she looked at Luke, nodding towards the door. They should go now, while they could. They got out of the closet, hurried to the door, and peeked into the hallway.

Luke’s room was closed.

They made their way down the stairs as quietly as they could and went into the living room. She knew she should put Luke to bed, but she could not send him to his room, knowing the two entities could be there. She let Luke watch Paw Patrol while she cleaned up the spilled chips and flipped all the picture frames back.

—

Chloe was asleep on the couch when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She jolted and sat upright, terrified that the haunting was happening again. To her immense relief, it was just the Langs returning from their night out.

“I’m sorry we’re a little late,” Brenda said, picking up Chloe’s phone and handing it to her. “I hope Luke was no trouble.”

“He’s no trouble at all,” Chloe said, turning to look at the other end of the couch.

Luke was not there. He must have gone upstairs to his own bedroom. She hoped so, or else she’d be in big trouble. Was he okay? She was afraid to find out.

“Did you scratch yourself?” Alan pointed at her neck. “It looks red.”

“Evette had that too,” Brenda whispered to Alan.

A door opened upstairs, and both Brenda and Alan looked in the direction of the staircase. Down came the small, skinny boy who crept into the playroom earlier. Brenda and Alan took turns to hug him.

Chloe was in shock. She didn’t remember Brenda ever mentioning there was a second child. If this was the kid she was supposed to babysit, who was the other boy?

“What’s up, my little man?” Alan asked the boy, who clung to him for dear life.

“I heard noises, and I was scared,” the boy said, rubbing his eyes. “There’s something in Jack’s closet.”

“There’s no monster in the closet, sweetie,” Brenda said to the boy. “We’ve checked it together many times, haven’t we?”

“You probably just heard Chloe down here,” Alan suggested. “Chloe is your new babysitter.”

“This is Luke,” Brenda smiled and turned to Chloe. “He normally doesn’t wake up like this, but now you get to meet him.”

Chloe felt blood being drained from her face and lips. This was not the Luke who warned her about the house being haunted and eluded the entities with her. She thought back to meeting that boy and realized that he never said he was Luke. She assumed he was Luke.

She froze.

“Are you okay? You look pale,” Brenda said, paying Chloe in cash. “Again, I’m so sorry we’re late. You’re probably tired.”

“No worries,” Chloe managed to say.

“Say goodnight to Chloe,” Alan prompted Luke, who obliged obediently.

“Thank you for coming,” Brenda said to Chloe. “I will text you next week.”

Chloe tried to look calm, but she grimaced just thinking about coming back to this house. She mumbled a thank you before rushing to leave.

The air was crisp outside. She tried to process the night’s events. Did she fall asleep and dream it all up? She thought about Evette’s reaction earlier and her taunts. Was it possible that her nemesis experienced the same thing as she did tonight?

She looked back at the house.

She saw three pairs of glowing red dots from that same spot on the second floor again, except the room was not as dark now. She could make out the faces of the disfigured couple and the boy whom she thought was Luke.

She ran all the way back home.

—

When Chloe entered the cafeteria the next day, Evette was sitting alone. The two guys who were always with her sat with other girls on the opposite end.

Chloe paid for her lunch and sat down at a table adjacent to Evette’s, saving a seat for Ava. She had not told Ava what happened last night; it was late when she got home and she didn’t want to rehash everything, especially when she was alone in the house for the night. She didn’t tell her mom yet either for a variety of reasons. It made Chloe feel alone—but she had a hunch Evette knew something too.

Feeling the weight of Evette’s stare, Chloe turned to face her nemesis, who was looking at her. It wasn’t contempt in Evette’s eyes, which Chloe had expected; it was more like curiosity.

Evette got up and walked toward Chloe. Chloe clenched her fists, her fork at the ready.

“Hey, Johnson,” Evette held up her hands. “May I?”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. Without waiting for an answer, Evette sat down opposite Chloe.

The cafeteria got quiet, save for some whispers. Evette’s friends (or former friends) were eying them from afar.

“What do you want?” Chloe was on guard.

“How did it go last night?” Evette asked, in an uncharacteristically genial tone.

Should she pretend like nothing happened and gloat? For a split second, Chloe was going to do just that, but she was curious about what Evette knew.

“It was…um…” Chloe took a deep breath. “Freaking scary.”

“Which part? The inverted picture frames or being strangled?” Evette burst out laughing.

Despite her initial hesitation, Chloe laughed too. It was so ridiculously scary that there was no logical reaction to it. She went on to share the entirety of what happened last night with her arch enemy. To her surprise, it felt good. Maybe good wasn’t the right word, but not getting into a catfight with Evette while talking was as good as it got.

“So … are you going back?” Evette said, after wiping tears from her eyes. “I’m sure you miss being trapped in the closet by the dead grandparents.”

“That’s who they are?” Chloe’s jaw dropped.

“I looked them up after I quit.” Evette took out her phone and showed it to Chloe. “Check this out.”

It was news from nine years ago. Brenda’s parents and Luke’s brother Jack were killed in a horrific car accident in Toronto. Jack was about the same age as Luke was now when he died.

“Holy shit,” Chloe said. “I’m going back to flipping burgers. I wish I could say otherwise, but this is above my pay grade and my natural sense of wonder.”

“You’re hilarious, Johnson.” Evette snorted. “Claire’s, the handbag place where I’m working on weekends, is hiring in case you’re interested.”

“Everything okay here?” Ava arrived with her tray.

Chloe and Evette looked at each other and burst out laughing again.

“It’s all good,” Chloe said.

FLUFFERS
by Die Booth

“You’re a what now?” The reaction was always the same. Derek’s mate, Toby, looked at Derek for confirmation, and Derek nodded and hid a smirk in a gulp of his pint. “What, like, with men?”

Toby sounded so fascinated and downright envious that Mike couldn’t help but grin, too, saying, “Actually, I’m the only guy on my team. It’s kinda a female dominated profession.”

“You don’t say.” Toby looked at Derek again. “And you don’t mind?” he asked him.

“Well, I’m not ecstatic about him working nights all the time, but a job’s a job, hey. You know what they say–it’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it. And it is a really dirty job.” ‘Dirty’ stretched salaciously on Derek’s tongue and for a moment Mike forgot about the bar and the drinks and the music pounding from the speakers.

“Nah.” Toby’s tone snapped his attention back: the game was very definitely up. “You’re messing with me.”

Derek started to laugh then, and Mike said, “I’m not lying though. It’s all true. I’m a fluffer. Not a porn one, mind, you mucky-minded git.”

“Go on. Enlighten me.”

It wasn’t the first thing Mike wanted to talk about on one of his nights off, but it always seemed to come up, especially with new people. And truth be told, he didn’t hate his job. “You know the people who clean the Tube tunnels?”

“The actual tunnels, not the trains? People clean them?” Toby raised his eyebrows. “Don’t they have machines for that by now?”

Mike shook his head. Resisted making a joke about how the tunnels get cleaned more than the carriages do. “Nope. Just us. Every night, by hand. We come in on the last train and leave on the first.”

“Every night?” Toby sounded horrified.

“Well, not the same team every night. We do shifts. There’s bloody miles of track to cover, there’s loads of us do it.”

“I’ve lived here six years, and I’ve never heard of it before.” The fascination was back in his voice again, but a bit more aghast this time.

“Well. It’s not the sexiest job in the world I guess.” He only realised when Derek nearly spat out a mouthful of beer what he’d just said.

—

“Good break?” Jocelyn asked.

The distant rumble of the last train receded, hollowing out the chatter on the platform, making it sound hushed even though it wasn’t. It used to be weird at first. Now, Mike was accustomed to it. Mostly. “Yeah, not bad.”

“Get up to much?”

He pulled his kit from his work bag, the bright orange of the jumpsuit glaring under the yellow platform lighting. “Nah. Just went out for drinks on Friday.”

“Anywhere nice?”

Gaze fixed on the mosaic tiles of the station wall, he pulled off his hoodie and jeans. “Just Delta.” He managed to get one foot into a leg of his jumpsuit before the predictable wolf-whistle rang out. Mike smiled.

“Look at them thick thighs! If I was thirty years younger.”

“You’re beautiful, Margie, but you’re not my type.” He called over his shoulder, answered by Margie’s wicked cackle. He wiggled his bum in reply as he pulled the suit up over his shorts.

“That young man of yours is a lucky duck. I do like a big, strong boy.”

The familiar banter was enough to distract him from the oddness of the situation on pretty much every night, even if their still having to change on the platform, the lack of proper breaks, the fact that there was nowhere to pee, made him wonder how much of a damn Management really gave about worker welfare. But tonight, after a week off… Sometimes everything about the job was unsettling. From the commuters pouring out of the last train like steam to evaporate into the night, to the clatter and echo deep within the tunnels even after the journeys were done for the night and the power had been switched off.

He zipped up his suit and shrugged into his high vis, pulling down his safety goggles and tipping on his hardhat, finally turning to face Jocelyn. “Do you ever still get, you know.” He indicated around with a gesture of his chin. “Creeped out. By it.” The tunnel entrance yawned cool, damp breath onto the platform. It was obvious without elaboration what ‘it’ meant.

Jocelyn shrugged. She tugged on her gloves. “Just don’t look too hard,” she said, her smile disappearing as she pulled up her dust mask.

—

Looking hard at anything wasn’t much of an option once you got into the tunnel.

It swallowed you, to the point where Mike could see no further than the sweeping circle of his own torch’s illumination, following the steady crunch of Jocelyn’s boots just ahead of him, the distant bobbing spots of light. You could walk miles down the tunnels–the repair guys did, and also the patrolmen who track-walked every night–and it took hours to traipse them underground, but more frequently the fluffers stayed closer to the platforms, as that was where most of the debris built up. “Here we go.” Pearl the team leader’s voice carried back from further down the line, sounding flat and faraway.

Ahead of him, Jocelyn halted, and Mike followed suit. The dark sagged above them, held up only by the chain of torchlight as the crew set up for the night. Mike shook out his first clear plastic sack and hunkered down on the tracks.

At first there was the usual buzz of chatter, but it soon subdued as the team fell into rhythm. Mike wrinkled his nose against the familiar smell of grease and damp that infiltrated his mask. Sorted through the bigger stones between the rails, pulling up food wrappers and ticket stubs, shovelling them into his big refuse bag. He tugged a torn scrap of cloth from beneath the ballast. Unfolded a dirt-streaked flyer but couldn’t make out the text. Tools clinked against metal, scraping it clean. He pulled out his brush, the swish of bristles almost therapeutic, getting the dust and hair up. That was the worst part. The dust was oily, shiny, and damp and coating the insulators, electric with filings that sheared off from the tracks as the carriages hurtled by. Dust and hair were the biggest fire hazard, worse than the rubbish that the suction of air pulled into the tunnels from the platforms. Friction could light it. Mike pulled a face, dragging a clogged grey clump of something from the floor. He flicked it into the sack. Down-road, Jocelyn picked up and moved to her next section. Mike followed. Repeated the practiced process, until his plastic sack was full and he could fling it onto the hand-cart they dragged along with them to hold the bags. After a while, Margie began to sing. The sound seemed to come from behind and in front of him all at once. He checked his phone. No signal of course, but the illuminated screen lit up 02.13. Strange how time flew down there in the dark once he got into a groove.

“Hard train rolling down the tracks.” The dead air sucked the soul from her rich contralto. “Help me get my baby back.” Mike shivered, even though he was sweating in his heavy hi-vis. The rails clanked. He reached for a hank of hair stuck beneath one and something squirmed.

“Shit the bed!”

“What is it?” Jocelyn was suddenly at his side, too close in the pressing darkness. Mike shut his eyes and remembered how to breathe.

“Nothing. It’s just a mouse.”

“Ew,” Jocelyn said. “Kill it.”

“No!” He stayed her hand, raised, holding her scraper like Thor’s hammer. “It’s only one wee baby.” He panned his torch. Squinted at the black scrap of shadow that darted off into a drainage hole, tail whipping. He’d heard they were often tailless, from close calls on the rails, although he’d never seen one without a tail and the way they all disappeared at the first vibration of an oncoming train made him doubt it. He’d been told they were deaf too, from living constantly around the roar of the stations–that, at least, seemed a little likelier, even if it was probably also urban myth. “I’ve not seen any in ages.” There were apparently half a million, living right there on the tracks, but his sightings had grown fewer and fewer, even at night when they were most active, attracted by the discarded food and litter from the platforms.

“That’s because pest control’ve been putting more poison down.” Jocelyn went back to her section of the tunnel, dragging her rubbish sack and settling down.

“Why don’t we find dead ones?”

“They probably go into the walls to die.”

An unwelcome thought disembarked in his mind: the enclosing walls, curving around them, full of rotting, dead mice–or mummified, turned to desiccated little scraps of fur and bone. Gingerly, he pried another wedge of compacted grease and fluff from the line, trying not to look too closely at its contents. “I like them. They’re plucky.”

“Listen to you.” Jocelyn gave a short laugh that flattened in the stale air. “They ain’t pets! They’re vermin.”

“I know. But anything that struggles that hard to survive…” She didn’t answer. These tunnels harboured the ghosts of those who worked and died on the tracks. Nobody’s from here. Not really, he’d once said to Jocelyn.

“I’m from here!”

“Yeah? Where’s your family from?”

“Barbados. Yours?”

“Northern Ireland.”

Gay and Irish, moving to London, following in the footsteps of all the navvies before him. He’d felt a kind of comradeship when they’d had that chat, but now, thinking about the mice fighting their living out between the trains whilst people tried to poison them out of existence, it just made him feel weirdly unmoored.

Another laugh brought him back to the present. “Somebody’s been having a bit too much fun!” Margie called. Up ahead, torchlight focused on what she was holding up, making it hang disembodied in the dark: a pair of underpants, dirt-streaked and shredded.

Mike shook his head. Said to Jocelyn, “How does this stuff get so far into the tunnels?”

“Trains have got a pretty strong drag.”

“Mmm. Yeah.” It would explain the state of the tattered bits of clothing they found with frequency.

As if to illustrate her point, Jocelyn’s brush uncovered another scrap. Pulling it from the gravel, she shook out a piece of jersey, the ‘Venice’ logo still partially visible, and held it up.

“Snap.” He disentangled a strip of fabric of the same dirtied blue. Beneath it was wedged something else. “OK, so tell me how this got here.”

“Is that a camera?” Jocelyn crouch-walked across to where he was holding it up in his circle of torchlight. “Beats me. It looks ancient.”

“It’s not that old.” He’d had one like it a good few years ago, before he started using his phone for photos, but he knew people who still used them. A little digital one, scuffed and battered, the LCD screen a web of cracks. He pressed the ‘on’ button at the top and, predictably, nothing happened. “It’s dead.”

“Bin it. You can buy them things online for like, a fiver or something nowadays.”

“What if it’s got someone’s holiday photos on it?”

“Oh yeah.” That made Jocelyn pause. “Just take the memory card out. It’s probably wrecked, but you could put a photo online, see if anyone recognises it?”

The thought of losing a camera was annoying. The thought of losing a camera full of irreplaceable snaps was a bit heart-breaking.

Up ahead, in the quiet, echoing distance, Margie sang, “Down that lonesome track again.” Popping the little memory card from its slot, Mike stashed it in his overalls and tossed the broken camera into the rubbish sack.

—

By the time he’d showered and slept, woke and eaten, Mike had forgotten about the SD card. He remembered when he saw it there on the coffee table when he sat down to watch some TV before Derek got home from work.

It was easier than he expected. It fit the slot in his laptop just fine, the contents of the card popping up in a neat list in file view. He scanned the thumbnails, with mixed emotions. The happy faces and tourist shots made him smile, but the thought they were lost to their owner filled him with a homesick sort of sadness. Clicking on one likely shot to open it full-screen, he saw a slim, dark-haired guy who looked around his age, standing on Westminster Bridge, pointing at Big Ben in the background with a laughing smile on his face. The same guy was in a lot of the photos, judging from the thumbnails, along with a blonde woman. Only one thumbnail didn’t display. It was, Mike realised, a video. He hesitated, but the thought that it might contain some more information–maybe a name–outweighed his reservations over privacy and he double clicked.

“We’re on the Tube.” The man’s voice was hushed, but sounded excited, his accent hard to place. The camera panned to the young blonde woman who grinned, put a finger to her lips and pointed. Following her gesture, the camera panned again, across an empty platform. Zoomed, went out of and then back into focus, on the little dark shapes scurrying across the grimy tiles. “And look… aren’t they cute?” He whispered. “We’ve been watching them for a minute. They’re so cute. They’re looking for food. I’m going to try and get a bit closer.” The camera zoomed in more. Shook as he took a step forward. The mice didn’t seem to care.

“Give them some sandwich.” The woman said, off-screen, and the mice momentarily scattered as a corner of bread plopped into their midst.

“You’ve scared them off now!”

But they were already creeping back into the corners of the frame. “No, I haven’t. They’re tame. Look.” More were arriving, pouring from the sidings, scrambling over one another in their effort to reach the bread. The audio spiked with little shrieks.

The woman’s voice shook a little. “There’s a lot of them.”

“They’re hungry.” A hand appeared in frame, the cameraman offering another crust of bread. “Come on, little guys. Suppertime.” Shadows darted and the screen lurched, shaking. “Shit! It’s on me!”

“Get it off!”

The image shook wildly, tiles and legs blurring, streaming with streaks of darkness. Screaming. Two voices, terrified, as the screen whirled in a motion blur, a tide of chittering black scraps surging up from the tracks to drown all in its path. The camera plummeted, the screen blinking to a black square as the clip ended abruptly and the window resized down.

Mike sat silent, staring. He stayed that way for a while until he realised his hands were trembling with adrenalin. Going to re-watch the video, he couldn’t bring himself to press ‘play’. It had to be a hoax. Had to be. Like that Paris Catacombs one that everyone freaked out over. But how? And why? It was surely a gamble that the camera would be found at all, never mind that someone would look at its contents. How long had it lain there, undiscovered, the trains tearing over it?

He’d thought that the video was last in the list because its file name started with MOV instead of IMG, but checking the timestamp he realised with a twist inside that not only was it the last footage captured on the camera, but it had been filmed only four days ago.

When Derek arrived home from work, Mike was still sitting there, staring at the blank, dark square of the movie file, deep in thought. Derek knew instantly that there was something wrong.

“That was… odd,” he said, when Mike finally worked up the nerve to play the clip through again. He leaned back on the sofa, arms folded and eyes narrowed. Casting Mike a glance, Derek wrapped an arm around him, and Mike leaned gratefully against his chest. “Do you think it’s real?”

“It looks real.”

“Yeah,” Derek said. He gave the soft curve of Mike’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “But it’s… mice.” He sounded perplexed.

Mike didn’t feel perplexed. He felt sick. “It was only taken last week. There must be CCTV. I’ll ask at work tonight.”

—

Jocelyn’s eyes were round and wide. “The Hell did I just watch?”

“Right?” Mike confirmed.

“This was on the camera card?” She nodded down to the video on the screen of his phone. “That you found yesterday?” She narrowed her eyes. “You best not be having a laugh with me.”

“Do I look like I think this is funny?” He couldn’t blame her for questioning it. He’d watched the thing far too many times over the past few hours and he was still having trouble wrapping his head around it himself. “We’ve got to tell Pearl, right?”

“Nah, mate. We’ve got to tell the supervisor. And management. And the FBI.” She squinted at the phone screen, flipping between the video and the photographs he’d saved on there to show her too. “Oh, damn, son.”

Mike’s chest iced. “What?”

“Look. Look at his shirt. You seen that before?” She held up the phone.

The young man’s photographed smile pulled him in before he remembered to focus on what he was wearing: a t-shirt the same shade as the blue sky behind him, printed with a palm tree and the words ‘Venice Beach’. The realisation winded him. He didn’t reply–he couldn’t. He jammed a thumbnail between his teeth and gave her a tense nod, taking the phone and sliding it into his pocket. “Pearl!” He called. “Something’s come up. We need to go see the supervisor.”

It was good to be off the platform–he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see that track again. But following Jocelyn through the deserted coil of corridors, all scuffed paintwork and tiled in curving white, interchangeable with their repeated posters for blockbuster shows and the latest bestsellers, wasn’t easing the worry in his belly any. Without the push of commuters, no announcements, no clatter and echo of trains, the station felt hollow. Dead. To head upwards to the offices, they had to take the staircase, the escalators standing dormant, switched off for the night. The lift was too, the shush of the brushed aluminium doors and brash recorded voice silenced. He followed Jocelyn up the claustrophobic screw of stairs, footsteps clanging on the metal treads and emergency lighting buzzing overhead. He’d never felt claustrophobic before that video clip. “I feel sick.”

Jocelyn shot him a grim, sympathetic smile. The silent turnstiles and vibrating fluorescents were no less unsettling, the whiteboards wiped clean of daily notices suddenly deeply eerie. Mike had never really paid attention to how dirty the station was before, despite all the work the cleaning crews put in. In every dingy corner, he imagined movement: little scuttling shapes, following the walls.

It was serious, but Mike still felt stupid, standing in the operations room, about to show the harassed-looking guy behind the desk his nightmare fuel.

“You can sit down, you know.” The guy’s name badge said ‘Peter Donovan’. He nodded without looking to the single chair in front of the desk: Mike and Jocelyn exchanged a glance, before Mike sat, awkwardly.

Why the guy looked so irritated when he was alone in a quiet office, Mike could only guess. Behind him were banks of split screens, showing switching platforms and corridors in pallid green. He offered his phone. “We found something. On the tracks. A camera. It was broken, so we chucked it, but I kept the SD card in case it was someone’s holiday photos.”

The guy’s blank stare asked, and I care why? Clearing his throat, Mike pressed ‘play’, frowning at the too-familiar voices. The screams. Donovan’s expression changed then, his lips pressing together as he sat up properly in his seat and reached for the phone. Some odd instinct made Mike withdraw his hand. He placed the phone on the desk with his palm flat on top of it. “We found other stuff, too. Bits of clothes and stuff. All chewed up. I know it doesn’t make sense, but…” The look on the man’s face really wasn’t encouraging.

“Someone needs to check the CCTV. To see what’s going on,” Jocelyn said.

“Sure. I’ll make sure it’s checked.” He stared at Mike’s hand covering the phone. “It’s just stupid kids messing around, you know. But if there’s anything wrong, we’ll notify the police. You said there’s an SD card. You got it with you?”

“Yeah.”

His gaze flicked up to meet Mike’s, just briefly, before he looked down at the desk again. “You have to hand that over. Anything found on the tracks or premises is Transport property.”

“Sure.” Mike dug into his pocket. Far from settling his anxiety, this encounter was managing to fuel it. Donovan took the card from him, made it disappear inside a desk drawer.

“I’m going to need your phone as well.”

“You’re not having my phone!” He slid it away, across the desk.

“Then I’ll need you to delete that footage.”

Behind him, Jocelyn shifted stance, crossing her arms. Mike looked up at her, then back at Donovan, in his navy blue uniform, with his name badge.

“OK…”

“Show me.”

Dutifully, he held the phone out as he consigned the clip to the trash.

Donovan sniffed. “Any other stuff?”

The guy watched closely as Mike deleted the two images of the tourist in the blue t-shirt, scrolled a short way through his own photos to demonstrate there were no more.

“And from the trash folder.”

Mike could feel Jocelyn watching too, as he complied. The atmosphere in the little room was almost enough to make him wish himself back on the platform. Almost.

“You didn’t send this to anyone, did you? Make any other copies?”

“I didn’t send it to anyone. I didn’t make any copies. It’s only us who saw it,” Mike lied.

Donovan narrowed his eyes. “Because you know that would be illegal? You’d go to prison.”

“I don’t want to keep it. I don’t want to ever see it again. I just want to know that it’s being looked into properly.”

Donovan stared at him, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. “It will be. Is there anything else you wanted?”

“No. That’s it.” The shaky adrenalin feeling returned, weakening his legs as he pushed back the grey plastic chair and stood. He felt Jocelyn’s hand on his arm as they left the office.

—

“I have to.” Jocelyn said. “I can’t afford to lose my job.”

Mike couldn’t either, but there was no way he was going back onto that platform, at least not tonight. Derek would understand. “Tell Pearl I’m sick or something, would you? I just need a bit of time.” He looked around. The concourse was quiet. Too quiet. It made him imagine things.

Jocelyn nodded. “Course, mate. I’ll phone you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah. Cheers.” He watched her go. Called, “Be careful down there.” And she raised a hand in acknowledgment.

He wasn’t looking forward to calling security to ask to be let out, but the prospect of spending a shift sitting alone in the cold until someone came to unlock the shutters in the morning was just as bad. Neither option filled him with as much dread as the thought of what he might find if he went back to cleaning the tracks. He had a copy of the video on his laptop and the sooner he got home and sent it to the police, the better. Or perhaps to the papers? He shivered, looking around. The shadows shifted. Rummaging in his bag, he found the sandwich he’d packed for a breakfast snack. He looked around. Quiet. Safe. Breaking off a bit of crust, he threw it as far away from him as he could, just in case.

LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
by Kay Hanifen

In my experience, the easiest way to steal a museum piece is to take it before it even gets to a museum.

I stood on the edge of a loading dock with a fake ID holding a clipboard while a muscle-bound gentleman carried a crate into the back of my van. The trick to any con is confidence. If you look like you belong there, then people will assume that you do. I’d told him the contents of that collection were being taken to an outside lab for study before joining the collection proper, and with my official looking clipboard, hair in a bun held in place by an almost innumerable number of bobby pins— I liked to keep a couple on me at all times both for disguises and in case I had to pick any locks—and affable demeanor, he believed me.

It didn’t hurt that I look more like an academic than a thief. One of the perks of being a fat woman is that people barely notice you. When it comes to romance and promotions, it sucks, but for a thief, it’s a gift from God.

He finished loading the crate and shut the back door. I gave him a grateful smile and said, “Thank you so much. Sorry for throwing that at you last minute. Do you take tips?”

He grinned. “Yeah, miss.” I handed him a fiver. It wasn’t so much money that he’d remark on it to other people, but enough to buy himself lunch at McDonald’s or something. For that, he’d be grateful and less likely to be suspicious when the museum realizes that some of their special collection is missing. Who ever heard of a thief giving out money? Aside from Robin Hood, obviously.

I hopped into the driver’s seat and waved. “Thank you again. Have a good rest of your day.”

He waved back with a grin. “You too, ma’am.”

Once he was out of sight, the adrenaline wore off, and I let out a giddy laugh. I love a painless con, and that one went off without a hitch. Now that the hard part was done, I could relax, turn on the radio, and drive to the appointed meeting place.

—

I should have known something was squirrely when I arrived at our designated meet up spot. The address my client gave me led to a mansion nestled deep in the woods. The gothic revival monstrosity had clearly seen better days. The paint on the exterior was chipped and faded, and the porch sagged under its own weight. I wondered if it was even safe to walk on as I used my burner phone to text Mr. Green, the client, letting him know that his package had arrived.

Within minutes, he appeared at the front door flanked by two much stronger men. In a lot of ways, Mr. Green reminded me of a shar pei dog. He was more wrinkles than man, with skin drooping and bunching around his face and on his hands. Despite his cane, each step was uncertain as the other two men—we’ll call them Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum—helped him down the short staircase. But his eyes were alight with excitement when I opened the back door, revealing the crate.

“Open it! Open it!” he exclaimed with all the giddiness of a child receiving a bike shaped present under the Christmas tree. It would’ve almost been cute if I hadn’t found Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum so profoundly off-putting.

I should have just left it there, gone on my merry way ten million dollars richer and with a newly purchased Swiss chalet at the top of the alps, but I was curious. What do you get for the eccentric billionaire who has everything? And he was a billionaire. I checked. I always check my clients. So, breaking the number one rule of thieving—get in and get out with the spoils—I lingered, watching him dig through the sawdust and straw like a little star nosed mole, pushing aside priceless artifacts until he reached his true quarry with a triumphant grin.

“Aha!” He held a small stone box aloft.

“Is that a star of David?” I asked, staring at the symbol engraved at the top. At least, the middle looked like one. It was bordered by a circle of lines and had dots between the points of the star, making it look different from any Star of David I’d ever seen.

He shot me a grin, revealing too white teeth that must have been dentures. “Something like that. Would you like to know what’s in the box, my dear?”

I should have left right then and there. It was the smart thing to do, and I wasn’t an idiot. He reminded me of every creepy old man who leered at my Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform as a teenager and told me I’d be so much prettier if I smiled more. There are times when you should quit while you’re ahead. And this was one of those times.

But I, in my infinite stupidity, replied, “I’m curious.”

“Let’s go inside.” He hobbled off like he expected me to just follow. And … well, I did. My burning curiosity outweighed my desire to curl up by the fire at my Swiss chalet, drinking hot cocoa with my wife and watching the snow gently cover the woods around us. Why this specific box of all things? There were dozens of priceless artifacts in that crate: gold and silver and gems made from long dead craftsmen. What made that humble box so special?

I thought of that scene near the end of the third Indiana Jones movie where they must guess which cup is the Holy Grail. A Nazi picks a glamourous-looking one and drinks, aging to dust before their eyes. Then, Indie chooses the humblest cup, which reveals itself to be the grail. Did this box carry a similar treasure?

He led me into the drawing room. Despite the exterior’s run-down appearance, the room was surprisingly cozy. A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the chairs were plush and comfortable. “Bruno, bring us some wine please,” Mr. Green said. “And a hammer.”

“A hammer?” I repeated.

He tapped the side of his nose, a twinkle gleaming in his eyes. “You’ll see, my dear. I have such wonders to show you.”

Yeah, no. I wasn’t drinking anything he was giving me. I preferred my wine without the roofies, thank you very much. Tweedle-Dee returned holding a bottle and two glasses, with Tweedle-Dum behind him carrying the hammer. He poured us each a glass and I took mine, nursing it as I watched Mr. Green set the box on the table. Tweedle-Dum raised the hammer and slammed it down on the box.

“Jesus!” I exclaimed, jumping and spilling wine all over myself and the fancy chair.

Mr. Green tsked. “Language, dear. Bruno, will you bring the lady a change of clothes and the upholstery stain remover?” Tweedle-Dee nodded and disappeared into the house. I watched the old man sift through the dust and box’s rubble until his eyes brightened. He held up a signet ring with the same symbol as the top of the box. “Do you know what this is, Miss Callahan?”

“A ring,” I replied, crossing my arms, and doing my best to look unimpressed. He knew my name, my real name. It’s something I’ve kept as closely guarded as the Hope Diamond and King Tut’s treasures. But I needed to play it cool. He was a shark sniffing for blood in the water, and I couldn’t let him see my wounds.

“You went to Catholic school, didn’t you? I’m sure you’re familiar with King Solomon?”

Jesus, how much did he know about me? My mind went to all the people I love that he could hurt with the information that he has. Luckily, I haven’t gotten as far as I have in life without being excellent at bluffing. “The guy who asked God for wisdom, but it mostly amounted to suggesting that two women arguing over who was the mother of a baby should just cut the baby in half. Because obviously only the mother would care if someone cut a baby in half. That guy?”

“That’s one of the stories, yes,” he said, staring at the ring like it held the secrets of the universe. I half expected him to start calling it his ‘precious.’ Straightening up, I saw the fanatical look in his eyes as he continued. “But another, lesser-known story was how he used a ring to force demons to build his temples and great works of architecture. This, I believe, is that ring.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“This mansion didn’t always belong to me. Long before you were born, it belonged to the infamous occultist, Montgomery Keye. They say that he built it over a portal to Hell. Demons would sometimes escape and wreak havoc. I heard one even killed his first wife and son. He spent his life searching for this very ring, believing that with it, he could force the devil himself to do his bidding. I purchased this house on a whim a few years back during my occult phase and found his journal hidden in the basement, where he’d vanished in a cloud of blue smoke, never to be seen again.”

As if on cue, fire in the fireplace extinguished all on its own, and the room chilled at least ten degrees.

I set the wine glass down and said, “It’s been lovely speaking with you, but I really should go. My wife will be wondering where I am, and she gets a bit like Liam Neeson from Taken if I’m late, so—”

His hand shot out as fast as a viper and grabbed my wrist. For an old man, his grip was surprisingly strong. My wrist was going to have finger shaped bruises for a long time. “I’m afraid I must insist you stay. At least, for a little while longer. Your job isn’t done just yet.”

Ah yes, here it was: the catch. The job had been too easy, so of course something had to go wrong. Apparently, that something was being used in a demon summoning ritual. This is what we in the business call ‘the fuckening:’ the rule that when things are going too well, it’s inevitable that it will all come crashing down around your ears in one elegant implosion.

I’ll admit I panicked a bit. And by a bit I mean that I broke the wine glass on the table and pointed the glass shards at him. I’m not a violent person by any stretch of the imagination. I prefer to talk my way out of sticky situations. Usually, I can find a way to deescalate a situation and soothe the savage beasts while getting just what I need. But not this time.

“Let go of me, now! Or you’ll be meeting the devil early.”

He looked at me with all the calm of a man having afternoon tea rather than a man threatened with a broken wineglass. “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. Marko, if you please.”

The next thing I knew, I was enveloped in an impossibly strong grip, holding my breath, and struggling against the damp rag covering my face. It had the familiar sickly-sweet smell of ether. Chloroform. My day just kept getting better and better.

I turned the broken wine glass, plunging it into his side. Tweedle-Dum didn’t even flinch. Eventually, I had to breathe, even though I knew that it was the end of the line if I did. My head spun as my struggling slowed. Tweedle-Dum let me fall to the ground like an unwanted toy. The last thing I saw before passing out was Mr. Green’s face leering at me.

—

Upon awakening, I had been changed from my wine-stained academic’s clothes into a white dress. When I tried to sit up, I felt a tug at my wrist and realized that those fuckers chained me to a stone table like I was Aslan or something. “Hey!” I shouted struggling against my manacles, “What the fuck? Let me go.”

No response.

“You know, if you wanted a virgin sacrifice, you’re a bit late. Male, female, nonbinary, I’ve done them all. I’m about as far from a virgin as you’ll get.”

I closed my mouth, listening for any response, any indication aside from the burning candles around me that someone else was there. That I wasn’t left for dead in the basement of some crazy billionaire’s home. For the first time since my childhood, I began to pray.

God and I were never on the best of terms. Between getting outed, expelled from my Catholic school, and abandoned by my birth family, I doubted that the Holiest of Holies actually cared about me. And why would He? I was nothing in the grand scheme of things. A sinning insect more likely to be crushed under His heel than saved. The nuns at my school all loved to preach that God loved his whole creation equally, then acted like I was unworthy to lick the shit off their holier-than-thou asses.

If God was real and the demons weren’t a part of some ineffable plan, then He’d probably object to a billionaire unleashing hell on earth. Then again, he did let wars and climate change happen in the service of billionaires, so who knows?

I tugged again at the chains, but they were solid metal. With a frustrated huff, I blew a stray lock of hair from my forehead. And then I remembered: my hair was full of bobby pins.

Scooching up so that my right hand could reach the top of my head, I pulled two out and, after fumbling for the keyhole, picked the lock. After a minute, the cuff clicked open, and I repeated the process with my other hand before moving onto my feet.

Sitting up, I took stock of the room. The stone table sat on a dais reminding me of an altar. Strange symbols were etched onto the floor, forming the figure of Baphomet surrounded by a circle of suffering sinners. On the other side of the room sat a massive stone hearth, the mouth yawning open like a dragon ready to swallow me whole. I caught sight of a vent near the far wall. An escape route! I walked over and yanked the grate off the vent’s hinges. Before I could climb inside, I heard footsteps approaching. There wasn’t enough time.

Plan A abandoned, I spotted a small closet underneath the staircase and slipped inside as my kidnappers descended the stairs. Through the keyhole, I watched Mr. Green notice the empty tables and broken grate. He threw down his cane and shouted, “Find her, you idiots! Don’t let her get away!”

Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum turned, and I listened as their lumbering gaits faded away above us. Now was my chance. I could knock out the old man, take the ring, and sneak upstairs to my van. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and his cronies will be too focused on their boss to notice me getting away.

I opened the door a crack, praying that the sound wouldn’t alert him. When he seemed oblivious, I opened it some more before slipping out of the closet. He barely had time to turn around before I kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. I kicked him again, this time in the face, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Yanking the ring from his finger, I hurried up the stairs, careful to step close to the walls because the boards were at their strongest there and less likely to creak.

Another perk of being fat? People underestimate you. They underestimate your speed, your strength, your endurance, even your intelligence. Ninety percent of the time, it sucks, but that other ten percent can be lifesaving. I took the stairs as quickly as I could without making too much noise. The odd step creaked here and there, and every time it happened, I froze, but no one came to investigate.

Finally reaching the door, I stopped, listening for movement and peering through the keyhole. The coast looked clear, so I slowly turned the doorknob. Peeking through, I saw no one, so I slipped out of the murder cult basement. The Tweedles’ footsteps creaked above me, and I let out a slow, soothing breath.

Next step: find my car keys. Having some common sense, they’d removed them when they changed me into this discount Gothic heroine nightgown.

I didn’t recognize the part of the sprawling mansion I was in. When he brought me inside, I only saw the foyer and the drawing room, and now I had to navigate a sprawling maze of a mansion, find my keys, and avoid the Tweedles and whatever else lurked in this stupid cursed place. If I had to, maybe I’d escape through an open window and hotwire the car, but I really didn’t want to if I could help it.

Shutting the door behind me, I headed down the hall, hoping I’d come upon some landmark I could use to orient myself. The further I moved into the mansion, the more confusing it became. As a child, I once got trapped in a mirror maze. Everywhere I turned, I was faced only with the infinite me and no way out. Eventually, I closed my eyes and held out my hands, fumbling through the darkness and feeling my way out of the maze. The carnival employees weren’t at all happy to clean up the child sized fingerprints on the mirror, but better that than having a panic attack.

As I wandered, the layout made less and less sense. The house was big, but there were far too many massive rooms on the first floor. After passing by the third ballroom and realizing that I was no closer to the exit, I decided that since the devil closed the door, it was time to open a window.

I tried the nearest one in a drawing room, but it wouldn’t budge. Honestly, considering my luck thus far, I shouldn’t have been all that surprised. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the nearest heavy object on the table, a candelabra, and slammed it into the glass. Cracks spiderwebbed out with each blow until it finally shattered. Heedless of the broken glass, I stepped through, landing roughly on a hardwood floor.

Staggering to my feet, I looked up and bit back a scream. The window looked as normal as the other one. Fiery autumn trees danced in a gentle breeze, stark against the cerulean blue sky.

“What the fuck?” I whispered before grabbing an identical candelabra and breaking the window once more. When I poked my head through, the peaceful nature scene transformed into the room I had just escaped. The glass began reforming below me and I yanked my head out before the window took it off.

So, the house was magic. Of course it was. And I was trapped in its reality bending halls. My wife is more of the fantasy reader than I am—long stakeouts get mind-numbingly boring without some kind of reading and tomes of fantasy novels are the most convenient books to bring—but I’ve picked up a few things here and there. Step one: figure out if the house was always like this or if the ring was affecting it. Maybe the ring was making it all squirrely because something about the ritual Mr. Green wanted to perform wasn’t completed yet. He said he needed me, probably as a human sacrifice. So, if I stopped the ritual or completed it myself, maybe it would go back to normal. Or I could end the world, I guess. If I destroyed the ring, then that might cause what’s broken in the house to fix itself, like Sauron and the One Ring. Or it could let the demons free and unleash hell on earth. It seemed about fifty-fifty odds either way— and regardless, I was one hundred percent fucked.

The creak of floorboards alerted me to the presence of Tweedles Dee and Dum. I dashed behind the door, watching the hulking goons lumber into the room. They moved in an eerie, inhuman synchronicity as they searched for me. Tweedle-Dum looked through the window while the other approached my hiding spot. Screw it. I’d be found anyway, so it was better to have the element of surprise. Gripping the candelabra tight, I sprinted out of my hiding spot, whacking Tweedle-Dum hard enough to send his head through the window. The glass regrew through him, and he dissolved into a puddle of steaming black goo. Tweedle Dee and I both stared in dumbfounded shock.

He slowly turned his head to me and snarled. I backed towards the door and gave a shrug. “Oops?”

He let out an animalistic howl and charged. There comes a time in your life where you have to choose between standing and fighting or running away like a coward. Well, heroism might immortalize you as a legend, but cowards live longer. I ran.

I learned from twelve years of gym class that running was not my thing. I did the mile runs and the five-minute half miles mostly because I felt like I had something to prove to the kids oinking at me in the hallways. I may be fat but that doesn’t mean I’m not athletic. But that never meant that I enjoyed running. I just learned to go fast out of necessity and spite.

All that necessity paid off. I quickly lost Tweedle-Dee in the maze of ostentatious rooms. Stopping to catch my breath, I groaned. I guess it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the house would lead me back to that stupid basement, but here I was, and I could hear the old man slowly making his way upstairs. Maybe he’d know how to stop this. Taking the steps two at a time, I caught him at the landing, pushing him against the wall. “Let me out of here,” I said.

Blood dripped down his face from a cut in his forehead, but he looked at me with the eyes of a fox that had cornered its prey. “I’m afraid I can’t, my dear. The portal must feed for me to control it and the denizens of Hell.”

“Why are you doing this?” I growled, pushing him harder against the wall.

He grunted. “I’m an old man, and when you’re near the end, you begin to take stock of your life. I’ve done so many great things, but the success that I’ve had comes at a cost. I’ve lied, stolen, exploited, murdered. You name the crime and I’ve probably committed it at some point in my life and escaped justice. But I was raised Catholic. I know I cannot escape Judgement Day, so I decided it was better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven. The ring is the key to that, but to gain its powers, I need to sacrifice a thief and their innocent heart. That, I’m afraid, is you.”

I laughed, high and hysterical. “Believe me, I’m far from innocent.”

He gave me an infuriating smirk that made me want to punch out his remaining teeth. “My dear, I never said you were the innocent. Your heart belongs to someone else, doesn’t it?”

Have you ever leaned too far back in a chair and felt your balance shift, making your stomach plunge as you’re caught between falling and the stability of all four legs on the ground? Putting two and two together felt a lot like that. “It’s not possible.”

“Of course it is.” He raised his left hand, snapping his fingers. Tweedle-Dum had somehow reconstituted himself and he stood at the top of the staircase, holding my wife in a bridal carry and ignoring the way she struggled against her bindings. He leered at me, his eyes so pale grey that the irises were virtually indistinguishable from the whites, leaving two beady black holes of nothing.

“One false move and he throws her down the stairs. She’ll probably survive, but every step will hurt.”

With a frustrated growl, I stepped backwards, releasing my hold on him. “You’re going to regret this,” I said.

“I don’t think I will,” he replied, motioning for Tweedle-Dum to come down the stairs with her. Tweedle-Dee followed close behind and I let them pass without a word.

We followed them back to the basement. The floor ignited flames forming the familiar Seal of Solomon. Tweedle-Dum unceremoniously dropped her to the ground where she laid motionless except for faint wriggling and sobs muffled by a gag.

Tweedle Dum grabbed my hand and yanked off the ring with enough force that I thought he might have dislocated it. With Tweedle-Dum’s assistance, Mr. Green donned the robes and approached the altar.

But Mr. Green had made one fatal mistake. As criminals go, I’m what the literary theorists would call a gentleman thief. I’m affable, polite, not particularly prone to violence—though today was an extraordinary exception—but there is one person you do not mess with if you wanted to live long: my wife.

His ring gleamed on his arthritic hand as he opened a book and began to chant. Every part of me screamed for my wife to get up and fight like I’d seen her do a thousand times before, but she just laid there whimpering. This was a woman who’d run a marathon on a broken foot and got third place. Tweedle-Dee grabbed my shoulder, preventing me from going to her, but the more I stared, the more wrong she looked.

I cleared my throat loudly, interrupting him. “You know, my wife isn’t so innocent.”

He faltered, the spell breaking for just a moment, but I felt the ripples of it through reality.

With a grin, I continued. “She knows six ways to kill a man with her hands behind her back and twelve with her hands and feet bound. She wouldn’t just lie here whimpering. So, I’m beginning to think you lied about the whole sacrificing the innocent heart thing.”

“It got you here, didn’t it?” he sneered. “Marko, Bruno, make sure there are no further interruptions.” He muttered something under his breath and my wife melted into a puddle of black goo.

Tweedle-Dee wrapped a hand around my mouth, pressing me close to him so I couldn’t struggle as Mr. Green resumed his chanting. I struggled against him, but he was too strong, ignoring me as I stomped on his foot, bit his finger, elbowed him in the ribs and guts. These things weren’t human, so I couldn’t fight them like one. But, they also weren’t very smart. Maybe I could trick them. I purposefully slowed my fighting, rolling my eyes to the back of my head and letting myself go limp.

“You’re strangling her, you fool!” Mr. Green exclaimed. But he’d finished the summoning spell. In a cloud of sulfur, a demon appeared. There are a few things I still remembered from Catholic school: Sister Ellen didn’t know what weed smelled like, priests generally frown upon you stealing communion wine and getting drunk off the non-transmogrified blood of Christ, and it was impossible to gaze directly at the true forms of God and the angels. Well, demons were fallen angels once, right? So, I imagined that certain rules still applied and shut my eyes.

“Lucifer the Morning Star, leader of the rebellion against Heaven, with this Ring of Solomon, I bind you to me and my command.” Tweedle-Dee dragged my limp body to the altar and laid me out on top of it.

Through half-lidded eyes, I watched him stand over me with a ceremonial dagger over my heart. My hand shot out, and even with the powers of Hell flowing through him, he was still a very old man. I pried the weapon from his hands, using it to slash wildly at Tweedles Dee and Dum. Lucifer’s laughter echoed in my head like standing next to a ringing church bell.

Ringing. The ring. That was the key to ending this. As the old man crawled away, I leapt onto him, yanking the ring off his hand. I held the dagger to his throat. “Call off your goons,” I said.

I watched them slowly evaporate and felt some of the tension in my muscles relax away. Some.

The Devil cleared his throat. “This has all been rather entertaining, but I’m afraid that it’s time to bring this farce to an end.” He reached out, grabbing Mr. Green. They flickered for a moment, then remained. A couple of the Devil’s eyes blinked in confusion. He flickered again. And again. But he was still stuck on this plane of existence.

I stared at the ring in my hands. It pulsed with a gentle warmth as though it were alive. “I … uh … I think this is keeping you here. Because he’s the sacrifice now and I hold the ring, so I … I guess you go where the ring goes.”

“Are you kidding me?” he growled.

I shrugged. “Hey, I like this as much as you do. I was supposed to be packing my bags to move to Switzerland, the land of chocolate and free healthcare.”

“Well, that can be arranged,” he said, his voice thick and sweet like honey. “I am bound to the ring. But break it and let me free, and I’ll give you anything you desire.”

I chewed my lip thoughtfully. The deal was tempting, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it? There was always a catch. Always a secret clause that sells your soul or your first born or gives you immortality without eternal youth. “I don’t want anyone to have this power ever again.”

“Break it, and you’ll get your wish. No human being will ever have command over demons ever again.”

I stared at the swirling hellmouth below him. “Okay, sure. Go fetch.” I tossed the ring into the portal. Lucifer vanished with a struggling Mr. Green still in his grips. Hopefully, because the ring bound him to this mortal plane of existence, it will keep the Devil stuck in Hell until someone takes it out of there. Either way, no one was using it again. Suck on that wisdom, King Solomon. Bet you feel pretty stupid about the whole cut the baby in half solution now.

I emerged from the basement to find a thankfully direct route out of the stupid magic house. At the foyer, I found the keys to his Cadillac. From my burner phone, I left an anonymous tip about the stolen museum artifacts, got into the Cadillac, and began my long trek home, switching halfway to a less conspicuous stolen car. Between the Cadillac I couldn’t keep, the trauma of being a near human sacrifice, and the ten million dollars I’d never see, today was, as we say in the business, a complete bust. Hopefully, my wife will be waiting at home with a glass of wine and a story about her latest target for assassination. Something has to go right for at least one of us today.

CORPULENCE
by KC Loesener

The Back Bay area of Boston was affluent with old-world historic charm. The rows of brownstone houses, manicured lawns, and meticulously edged shrubs made it quaint and welcoming.

Copley Place Mall served as a local hangout for teens. On a Sunday afternoon, the mall was unusually crowded as high schoolers were preparing for their upcoming Winter Formal Dance.

Bebe groaned as she stood looking at herself in the full-length mirror at the department store. She sulked at her stomach protruding in the dress and scoffed at her recently gained few pounds. A gentle tap at the fitting room door broke her thoughts.

“Hey, what are you doing in there so long? Will you at least let me see what it looks like?” Tamera asked eagerly.

Tamera Brooks and Bianca “Bebe” Washington had been best friends for what seemed like forever. They became fast friends on the playground at age four and had been inseparable since. However, growing up as the only two Black kids in an affluent, predominantly white neighborhood had its moments. Still, despite some setbacks, the two girls were popular in the Mounty Ridge Preparatory School, especially because they were all-stars on their lacrosse team, the Mounty Pythons.

Bebe pushed a piece of her fluffy fro back into her cheetah headband. Her brown skin was slightly damp with perspiration. The faint blue mirrored walls of the fitting room were intrusive and depressing.

Annoyed by the anxiety of trying on dresses, Bebe turned and looked at her friend in defeat.

“I don’t know about this dress. Besides, Winter Formal is a few months away. So, why am I even wasting time? What if I gain more weight?”

“Oh, come on, don’t be silly. You look gorgeous, and that color suits you. I say buy it.”

Bebe clutched the silky blue fabric in her hands and hesitated. She then flashed her BFF a quick smile and headed to the register.

“I’m so happy you got that dress. You looked stunning,” Tamera complimented.

Bebe sighed. Although she knew Tamera was genuine, Bebe struggled with issues about her weight. It seemed whenever her self-esteem rose she would feel knocked down by magazine stand displays, television programs, artists, or petite girls at school living their best life. Bebe's overthinking ruined beautiful moments like shopping for the highly anticipated dance.

The plan was to go with her bestie and have a fantastic night, but Bebe had her moments of doubt. She was too busy worrying about what everyone else thought instead of being happy in the moment.

Tamera looked at Bebe in anguish. “Come on, Bebe, we’ve spent all day shopping and I’m starving,” she said. “Want to go and grab something at the food court? I’m in the mood for some spicy Thai food.”

“Sure, that sounds great, but, before we go, there’s a store I’ve meant to check out. We passed it on the way in. You know me and trinkets. I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“Ugh, okay,” Tamera agreed. “But please hurry.”

The girls headed to the second floor, where a peculiar trinket shop was tucked away in a corner. Strange carvings, animal bones, and macabre art were on the shelves. The store had everything from mystical charms and crystals to candles, Wicca books, spells, jewelry, and other totems.

“Weird,” Tamera whispered.

“It’s kind of cool—well, some of it anyway,” Bebe said, inspecting a leather-bound journal.

The shop owner approached the girls. “Hi, I am Marisol. Do you need any help?”

“No,” Bebe responded with a slight attitude. “We’re just looking.”

Slightly embarrassed from her friend’s cold outburst, Tamera nudged her. “Bebe, don’t be like that. She was only trying to help.”

Bebe was often on the defensive. For years, she went to Copley Place Mall and felt out of place. She recalled being followed around stores only to shock retailers by buying something expensive. Bebe enjoyed her financial freedom, but she was considerate. Her mom was a defense attorney, and her father was an investment banker.

“Sorry,” Bebe muttered. She saw an object on the shelf across from her. The hand-carved ivory pendant was of a voluptuous woman with large breasts holding a serpent. Tamera scoffed at the pendant. She considered herself a vegan and animal activist and did not favor items made by killing innocent animals.

“This is pretty cool,” Bebe said. “What is it?”

“Oh, I see you found Lady Bova,” Marisol replied.

Bebe was intrigued. “Who is she?”

“Lady Giselle Bova’s story was quite tragic. Legends say she had an affair and was later murdered. She was a milkmaid who fell in love with the good reverend. However, the reverend’s wife discovered Giselle’s feelings and lured Giselle to her death. She felt that the sin was too great of a devious act and punishable by death. Later, the community found that Giselle was innocent—she had a crush on the reverend, nothing more—but it was far too late for Lady Bova. She now symbolizes strength and courage. Hence, the serpent she holds.”

Bebe stared at the item, almost entranced. Something was calling her to the object.

“I want it,” she said. “How much?”

“For you, $15.”

“Is that a discount?”

“Oh, yes, a significant discount. This piece could run you about $120, but since I see you’re so enthusiastic and interested, I’ll give it to you for $15.”

“Wow. Thank you.”

The cashier wrapped the item in yellow tissue paper and placed it in a small, plain paper bag with handles.

“Before you go, make sure you read the inscription on the back while wearing it around your neck. It says that whoever holds the talisman will be granted whatever is in their mind’s eye.”

Bebe shook her head and left the store as the two made their way to the food court. Tamera watched Bebe as she gazed at the pendant.

“That stuff the woman said back there gave me the creeps,” Tamera said. “Are you sure you want to keep it knowing the horrible history behind it?”

“Of course,” Bebe replied. “I think it’s cool. I also like the carving and detail.”

“Suit yourself,” Tamera mumbled.

—

After lunch, Tamera decided to hang out at Bebe’s house for the evening. She rattled on about Winter Formal, boys, and lacrosse.

Bebe wasn’t very talkative. Instead, she thumbed through a magazine and saw Oni, her favorite pop singer. The photo was of her in a bikini on the beach. The caption read, “Look at Oni’s gorgeous bikini body in Mykonos.”

Bebe sighed and thought about her body changing into something sexy and desirable. She could feel her tummy hanging over her jeans, and although she was used to it, at that moment, it made her feel tearful and uncomfortable.

Bebe excused herself and went to the bathroom. After washing her hands, she pulled the talisman out of her pocket and eagerly read the inscription. “Pinguis, corpus, onitem, galah, ornu jetem.”

After uttering the words, she felt a slight cool breeze in the bathroom; however, there were no opened windows. Bebe went back to her bedroom to join her friend.

“Hey, did you read the article about Oni?” Tamera asked. “Wow, she is too much. She’s living it up in Greece.”

“I just saw the article,” Bebe replied. “Her swimwear is cute.”

Tamera tsked and discarded the magazine. She stood up and gave Bebe a quick hug. “It’s getting late. We have school in the morning. Have a good night, Bebe. I’ll see you in first period.”

Tamera left. Bebe saw that it was a little after ten, and decided to head to bed herself.

—

The following morning was typical, with Bebe’s mom kissing her forehead as she rushed off to work and her father nowhere in sight.

Bebe reached into the fridge and grabbed a bagel and mini orange juice. Her backpack was by the front door, and she slung it over her shoulder.

On her walk to school, she noticed the neighbors viciously tearing open packages and swallowing bright pink capsules. Bebe shook her head and continued her walk. She passed by a few more neighbors doing the same thing.

She wondered for a minute if it was the spell, but the people’s actions made no sense. It wasn’t clear to her why people would be fighting over pills they received in the mail. Besides, Bebe didn’t wish anything directly, so she was convinced it didn’t work.

Rounding the corner for her high school, she noticed students gathered around their phones. Of course, it would be just like any other day, except they were practically drooling. Bebe watched in disbelief as sporadic fights broke out among the groups. Finally, Bebe headed inside the school.

Bebe walked the unusually sparse halls, and noticed there were no high schoolers in the hallways waiting for the bell to ring.

Bebe’s phone chimed as she received an alert from Face Pages. She rummaged through her backpack and retrieved her phone. “What’s everyone carrying on about?” she grumbled.

While scrolling through the internet, she noticed every advertisement, article, news, and video featured plus-sized people. Stunned, she went to her Face Pages and looked at her favorite artist, Oni. Oni’s latest photo featured her happy on the beach—and plump.

“She’s plus-sized now,” Bebe breathed. “But how? How is that possible?” Bebe’s hands began to tremble. She remembered the spell and the totem that she held. She shook her head in disbelief. “No, it couldn’t be.”

Bebe went to the courtyard. Strolling aimlessly, she witnessed people attacking each other. Even her history and English teacher were going at it.

“Give me those pills. I know you have them,” her history teacher said with wild eyes.

“Mr. Yates, Ms. Scott, please stop fighting,” Bebe said as she rushed towards them. “What’s the matter with you?”

The teachers immediately turned towards her. “Do you have any pills?” Mr. Yates asked.

“We want to be like you. Give us those pills now,” Ms. Scott demanded. They lunged forward angrily.

The jarring sound of squealing tires startled Bebe.

“Bebe, get in.” Her friend shouted, pulling up at the curb.

Bebe quickly ran for Tamera’s car and got in. Tamera pressed the gas pedal and sped down the street. They watched in horror as crowds thickened and began to attack each other.

“What the hell is going on? Everyone has gone crazy,” Tamera blurted.

“I don’t know, but I have an idea where to begin.”

Driving to the mall, Tamera maneuvered the streets carefully as pandemonium ensued.

The mall was overrun by crazed shoppers looking for pills. As random fights broke out, it became dangerously chaotic.

“There is no way we are getting in there safely. Maybe we can go back tomorrow or later tonight when things die down,” Tamera cautioned.

Bebe nodded. “Yeah, let’s get somewhere safe. Maybe we can figure this thing out.”

They drove to Bebe’s house and decided to do some online searches to see what might be happening to the citizens of Back Bay.

As she scrolled for answers, Bebe stumbled upon an advertisement for a product she’d never heard of: Corpulence.

“Want to get thick, sexy curves like all of your favorite celebs without the hassle of binging tons of fat and carbs?” the ad asked. “Corpulence is the solution. Get the sexy body you have always dreamed of. Corpulence works with your body’s natural fat deposits and multiplies what it sees until your waistline grows. Then, almost overnight, you will see lasting results. Take just ten capsules to start your weight gain journey today. Side effects may include irritability, and excessive, or uncontrolled hunger.”

“This makes no sense. Why aren’t you affected?” Bebe asked.

“I don’t care about society's beauty standards,” Tamera scoffed. “They’re reckless and foolish.”

“That's it. If you don't care, then the spell only affects those unhappy with their weight. Since I am now the norm, people are killing themselves to look like me. BBW is the beauty standard. This is insane.”

“It should be great—but why are people losing their minds?”

“I don't know. It could have something to do with the pills.” Bebe looked at the time. With all the chaos, she wanted to make sure they were alright. “My mom. My dad.” She unlocked her phone and saw ten missed calls from her parents.

Bebe immediately called her mother. “Mom,” she said tearfully.

“Hi, baby, your father and I are stuck downtown. There’s an outbreak of some sort.”

“We can come and get you,” Bebe cried.

“Honey, no. We don’t know what’s going on, and we don't want you girls to get hurt. We managed to barricade ourselves in a conference room. We should be fine.”

“Mom, please.”

“Listen, you girls lock yourselves in nice and tight and don’t answer the door for anyone. I love you, my Bebe baby.”

Just then, Bebe's mother's tone changed. A crash followed by a thud and deep growling. “Oh God, who’s at the door? What’s happening? Oh God, no!”

“Mom? Mom?”

The phone went dead. Bebe started to tremble violently. Tamera held Bebe as her friend collapsed to her knees on the floor.

After Tamera briefly consoled her, Bebe snapped back and began grabbing anything they could use to block the doors and windows. Then, with pieces of furniture blocking the exits, they quickly pulled the drapes and turned off the lights.

Tamera began to worry about her parents. She tried calling, but there was no answer. Luckily, they’d gone out of town to visit her aunt. She prayed they would be safe.

Tamera tried to dial 9-1-1 with the landline and her cellphone, but it was no use. The lines were dead. They turned on the TV, and all the stations had the emergency broadcast message.

Terrified, the duo sat on the couch, cradling their lacrosse sticks as protection. They could hear screams and cars crashing in the street.

Bebe boldly stood up. “Screw this. People are getting hurt, and it's all my fault. I need to put an end to this. We have to find Marisol to undo the spell.

“Are you crazy?” Tamera said. “Do you want us to go out there? Your mother said to lock up tight and stay put. I was just trying to reassure you earlier about going back to the mall. It's way too dangerous.”

“I have to. Let me borrow your car.”

“Bebe, you don't even know how to drive.”

“Fine, then I'll walk.”

“Wait. I'll go with you.”

“We need weapons. Our lacrosse sticks are good. Let me get a few bottles of liquor, rags, and some more things.”

They packed as much as they could into a duffle bag and their backpacks, then headed to the garage. The girls watched through the glass in the side door at what appeared to be sick people biting others outside. Mrs. Sugarman, Bebe's neighbor across the street, was outside walking her Pomeranian, Huck.

“Oh no, Mrs. Sugarman. Go back inside.” Bebe motioned to her neighbor, but it was too late. The girls watched in horror as poor Mrs. Sugarman and her dog were brutally attacked and devoured by the people in the street. The screams of the older woman and Huck's helpless yelping were something they would never forget.

Tamera's eyes widened. “Zombies. These pills turn people into freaking zombies.”

“What a mess. I know you're scared, Tam, but we have to end this. I am at the point where I'll die trying.”

“I'm terrified, but I'm with you. You're my best friend, and I won't let you do this alone,” Tamera said, squeezing Bebe's hand.

Tamera pulled to the front of the mall. The area was creepy, quiet, and desolate—squad cars on the curb and an ambulance that had collided with a fire hydrant. The lights flashed silently with water shooting from the ground.

The girls walked cautiously through the front entrance and headed upstairs.

The mall was empty. The food court was destroyed— toppled chairs, raided snack machines, crushed food wrappers, overturned tables, and shards of broken glass everywhere.

The girls stood in dismay at the front door of the unusual shop. They discovered the store that used to sit in the corner was no longer there. The outer glass was dirty, and the store appeared vacant and weathered. A sign on the window indicated that it was closed, and another merchant would soon take its place.

Bebe was confused and agitated. “This doesn't make any sense.”

“Um, correction, none of this makes any sense.” Tamera sighed.

Bebe threw her hands up in defeat. “What do we do now?”

Tamera shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know how we can stop this thing. People are turning into zombies, and I don’t want to be on the menu.”

Bebe thought hard for a few moments. Then, she remembered the incantation carved into the ivory talisman. “It’s in my mind's eye. I’m the one that caused this, so, I’m the one that can undo it.”

Bebe began to vividly imagine everything like it was before. She then pulled out the carving and recited the spell. “Pinguis, corpus, onitem, galah, ornu jetem.”

Bebe turned to her friend. “Maybe it will happen overnight like the last time.”

“That sounds promising. We should head back,” Tamera added.

As they prepared to leave, a horde of zombies roamed the halls. Bebe and Tamera spotted them from the other side and ducked down behind a large planter.

“Oh my God. What do we do?” Tamera mouthed.

“Do what I do,” Bebe instructed as she crawled on her belly to the abandoned shop.

Surprisingly the door was open, and they made their way inside without being noticed by the snarling undead.

They crouched and watched as the mass sloshed down the halls. Their faces decayed, with chunks of flesh and muscle dangling, exposing skull bone. Their gnarled fingers shredded, exposing spiny skeletal digits clanked as they shambled.

The friends had their backs turned towards the rear of the store, so they didn't notice a wriggling boa constrictor advancing.

Its iridescent eyes reflected menacingly in the dark. As it scaled towards them, its flickering tongue periodically tasted the air. The snake slithered over Tamera's arm, around her waist, and crept up. Its insidious movements soon overpowered her.

Tamera tried her best not to freak out, or worse, to release a piercing scream that would summon the zombies. Despite shuddering uncontrollably, Tamera maintained her composure.

Bebe sprang into action by desperately trying to pry the reptile off Tamera. But then, a woman appeared behind them, reaching down and grabbing the snake.

“Shh, Titan. You've already eaten,” she said.

“Marisol,” Bebe whispered.

Marisol smiled. “Yes, in the flesh.”

Bebe looked around at the bare shelves and dusty floors. “What are you doing here? We thought the store was closed.”

“Nice to see you too, Bebe. I expected a warmer welcome. I guess I will be going then.”

“No, no, wait. Help us, please. Zombies and insane people have taken over The Bay. Can you help me break the spell?”

Marisol smiled. “The spell, hmm. Don't you like how things are? I think you could get used to it. It is, after all, what you wanted.”

Bebe inspected the ivory carving and then looked back up at Marisol and Titan. “It's you. You are Giselle.” Bebe gasped.

“Well, aren't you a smart cookie.”

“So, you know how to break the curse.”

“I do. The question is, do I want to? I'm having way too much fun. By the way, your parents are dead. So now you can do what you want, if you don't get eaten by zombies that is,” Giselle said, laughing.

“Why would you do this?”

“Because it's people like you that don't respect magic. You always want something extra when you have all you'll ever need. You should see the people that I have encountered. They want to be skinny, or prettier, or taller. Oh, my favorite one, rich and famous. I grant them that, but for giggles, I turn their worlds upside down. They need to be taught a lesson. Usually, they never learn it.”

“Please don't do this. What is the lesson? Tell us,” Tamera begged.

“Aww, you silly girl. Time's up.” Giselle waved her hand, and the front door flew open with a crash. Alerted by the noise, the horde started piling into the room.

Bebe added the rags to the bottles. Lighting them, she began throwing them at the door. The crowd of zombies stepped through, most of them on fire but encroaching relentlessly upon the teen girls.

Bebe and Tamera stood back-to-back, defending themselves against the zombies as they snapped and reached for them. Using their lacrosse sticks, they kept the undead back.

Marisol perched with legs crossed on the dingy counter, kissing and petting Titan while Bebe and Tamera struggled to stay alive.

Tamera's lacrosse stick broke, and a zombie bit into her flesh like a crunchy apple with blood gushing out of the wound.

“Tamera, no,” Bebe screamed.

Bebe's eyes darted to Giselle. “Please do something,” she pleaded.

Tamera shrieked as she succumbed to the creatures. They piled on top of her and began to tear her clothing off and ripped the meat from her bones. The sounds were horrendous. Ripping, crunching, groaning, munching, as they tore through bloodied cartilage, muscle, and fat.

Bebe cried out for her friend. However, she continued to fight until she became weakened. The store was now engulfed in flames, and the smoke was getting to Bebe as she gasped for breath.

Bebe could still see Giselle smiling and playfully mocking her among the fire. She could hear Giselle's voice echoing in her head. ”You always want something extra when you have all you'll ever need.”

Bebe grinned widely. “That's it.”

Bebe cleared her throat and stood up. Her body was rigid and strong, and the rabid zombies paused in her presence.

“Lady Bova. I am Bianca Washington, and I am sixteen years old. I love my curves, and I embrace them. They make me beautiful. I will not live up to any beauty standard because I accept and love myself just as I am. If people stare at or treat me differently, they don't know how much of a badass I am. I love myself today, tomorrow, and forever.”

“Dammit. I knew you were a smart cookie.”

Giselle stood up and beckoned with her hand. A bright flash of light rippled through the store, striking Bebe, knocking her back through a blackened portal that immediately opened behind her.

A light breeze fluttered the curtains in the bedroom as the tv played at a low volume. Bebe jumped up, shouting.

“Oh my God, Bebe. Why are you so dramatic?” Tamera giggled. “You only nodded off for a few minutes.”

“Tamera, it's really you. You're alive.” Bebe gave a hearty bear hug to her best friend.

“Of course it's me, and yes, I’m alive, silly. Are you ok?”

Bebe looked out the window. “Everything is back to the way it is. I hope.”

“What are you girls doing up here?” Bebe's mom said, entering her bedroom.

“Mom.” Bebe dashed across the floor and hugged her mother.

“Honey, are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, I'm great,” Bebe shouted as she started scrolling through her phone. The news feed was the usual, and she checked Oni's Face Page. She was still thin and enjoying her vacation in Mykonos.

“Where's Dad?”

“He's working late, as usual, sweetheart.”

“Bebe, what's gotten into you?” Tamera asked. “Why are you acting so weird?”

Bebe looked at the clock. “What day is it?”

“You're starting to freak me out.”

“Dammit, T, what day is it?”

“It's Sunday. We are supposed to be going shopping for Winter Formal dresses, remember?”

“Yeah, sorry. I guess that dream shook me up a bit. Let's go.”

The mall was the same as Bebe remembered that day. Teens were shopping like mad and clamoring at the food court.

Bebe snagged the dress without doubt or hesitation. Instead, she gleamed with confidence while trying it on, staring at her tummy, arms, and shoulders. She smiled because she had never honestly looked at herself with such splendor and adoration.

“B, you look amazing. We are going to kill formal,” Tamera exclaimed.

Bebe cashed out.

“Bebe, can we go now? I'm starving.”

“How about some Thai food?”

Tamera snickered. “It's like you read my mind.”

After lunch, Bebe went upstairs, but first, she had to see if the store, Giselle, and the pendant were only a nightmare.

Her heart sank when she saw the shop. Again, the shelves were the same, only this time she spotted a teen girl inside talking to Giselle, who was impishly discussing Lady Bova's history.

Bebe forcefully pushed the ornate door open preparing to intervene when Giselle wagged her finger at her. “Don't you dare. Now, run along, girls.”

Bebe and Tamera left the store.

“What was that all about, Bebe?”

“I guess someone has to learn a valuable lesson,” Bebe murmured.

THE FLOOR IS LAVA
by Nikki R. Leigh

Even with the ground as smooth as it is, the falls are still rough.

I can feel the rumbling deep in my bones as the other team’s jammer rounds the bend, a grim look of determination on her face. I’d probably look that way too if I saw my grin, buried under the skeletal face paint I’d carefully applied before the bout.

Sure hope you’re ready for Mothra Teresa.

I reach an arm out, bracing against my teammate, KamTrails. Without a word, we move together, and my big, beautiful ass flew towards their jammer. Me, a meteor. Her, a velociraptor. Appropriate and all, considering the meteor shower later tonight. Coming in early, and coming in hot, I think as I control my glide, position my hips, shift my weight, and devastate her shit.

I feel her bounce off my hip and out of play. Hear her skates squeal across the cement floor, the crash of her padded elbow and knees hit the ground and hit it damn hard.

Meteor, velociraptor. Extinction.

The crowd hollers as my team bridges her back, putting her even further behind our jammer, scoring points.

My big, beautiful ass stealing the show once again.

Roller derby has never felt so good. I mean, it always feels good, but tonight, our team coming back from a terrible first half, rooting each other on, it feels good. We’ve taken a lot of heavy hits over the last few months. Skilled players moving away, the nine-month injury leave for two of our team, pregnant and happier than ever, and the actual injuries of broken ankles and concussions.

But even hurt or down for the count until the little rascals were born, our teammates were still there, cheering from the crowd.

Derby is a family. Always. And our squad, the Oak Hills Hells Belles, are no different.

The rest of the match is a blur of a fight. People always expect roller derby to look how it did in the eighties and nineties—clotheslines, skimpy outfits, fistfights. And not that I have anything against those things, really, but derby has changed. A professional sport that’s worked damn hard to become respectable. Rules that spotlight skill and safety instead of roughhousing.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s still a dangerous sport. Just look at Mads Missilesen and her leg busted in three places. And Hurtz Donut over there with her third concussion.

So yeah, a blur of a fight that went by in the blink of an eye, wincing through blood and sweat—lots and lots of the latter.

But we came out, victorious in the end. Sweaty, stinky, winners. You don’t come out saying it was a boring bout.

You don’t fuck with the Hells Belles.

—

“Hey, Mothra, you’re coming to the after party, right?” Bitch Ass Betty, the other team’s captain, shouts as we help dismantle the rink.

“And miss a chance to have you all bask in my glory? Hell no! We’ll be there!” I reply, a ball of blue painter’s tape which had previously lined the track in my hands. “Where’s it at again?”

“First stop, we drink at Wild Tim’s on 4th Street. It’s on the flyer.”

“There’s a second stop?” I’m intrigued. Usually, the home team hosts an after party at a bar or restaurant to get our grub and drink on in the loudest way possible. Then, straight back to the hotel or back home, nursing an early hangover.

“Second stop, we drink with the dead.” Betty winks. What the fuck? Derby girls are delightfully weird, so that could mean literally anything.

She skates back towards her family and friends who are also helping to clean up. Derby is a community sport, DIY through-and-through in most small towns. Harkensville is no different. “We’ll give you dudes the location after we’ve knocked a few back at Wild Tim’s!” Her voice fades as she skates away.

Just another day on the road.

—

Wild Tim’s is everything I wanted in a night after a rough bout: cold beers, warm friends, loud music, and greasy, steaming food. If you thought derby players were vicious on the rink floor, they’re even more of a terror when a basket of chicken fingers and ranch dressing, nachos piled high with jalapenos and cheese, and tater tots are at the center of the table.

I think I might have elbowed Jurassica a little too hard when she reaches for the piece of breaded chicken I had my sights set on, because she sends daggers my way. I try to give her a sweaty hug, the ripe scent of my jersey making her nose crinkle.

“Mothra! Put your stink wings away,” she mumbles through a laugh. I know I’ve won her back from the brink of her anger. No one can resist a hug from me.

“Aw, come on. You know you like my breast pillows.”

She sighs. “I do.”

The rest of the night moves quickly, punctuated by these tender moments. I look around the bar. My family. No one at all like another on the outside, but every person equipped with a heart as big as my skates.

In derby, every type of body is valued, especially if you can use it to wreck the living daylights out of the other team or slip through their defenses and score some points. Every person is accepted, as long as they aren’t complete asshats. Everybody just tries to love everybody.

Except…

My eyes rest on Eva. Great skater, but the most aloof of us all. Always the glory hound. Her full derby name, Does She Eva Go Here?, is as long as her ego is tall. She joined the team a few months ago, and it seems the ice still hasn’t quite broken.

Maybe I just needed to kick the ice in its crack. “Good bout tonight,” I say.

She throws a forced smile at me, and I wonder what I’ve done to offend her.

“Really appreciated the way you made that hole for me in their pack when I was jamming,” I continue.

“Tall order,” she says, looking me up and down, and for a moment, I’m confused.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” she says, eyes darting away. “Just not used to seeing girls like you jamming, is all.”

And there it is. The ice, it seems, is bolstered by an attitude very not welcome in this community.

“I mean, I like to think of myself as a versatile player. No one ever knows what hits them,” I say, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.

“Sure, whatever.” Eva attempts to end the conversation.

“No, no. Tell it how it is.” I stare her down, knowing my eyes are just begging her to finish her thoughts. I don’t want to get in a fight tonight. I catch Bitch Ass Betty from the corner of my eye moving towards us.

Apparently liquid courage has made Eva bolder and shittier. “You’re just so—”

“Fuckin’ glorious!” Betty yells, clapping my shoulder with her hands, still reeking of her unwashed wrist guard. “My ass still hurts from hitting the rink. When you came around that corner and hip-checked me, I think my pussy saw stars and wept. I probably still smell like piss, actually.”

I laugh, my chest moving freely, relieved to have this virtual stranger from the other team cutting through the mounting tension.

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I say. “A big glass of ‘I’m sorry I broke your ass’ sound good?”

“The best.”

I buy her drink, feeling the bonds of a new friendship worm their way into my chest. The rest of the night is a happy blur. As the evening creeps closer to midnight, I find myself stealing glances at Betty, noticing just how much of my type of girl she is, attracted to her easy-going and exciting personality. If I drink anymore tonight, I’m doomed.

A couple of hours later, Betty rallies all of us together. We get our last bathroom breaks in, take our final swigs of beer, and head outside into the strangely warm January night.

“Where we headed?” Jurassica slurs out.

The two teams, nearly thirty of us, await Betty’s answer. She points dramatically to a hill in the distance, the full moon hanging over its peak.

“Bring your skates,” she says, a devilish gleam in her eye. “Drunken races lay ahead on the smoothest sidewalks you’ll ever touch.”

At least ten skaters tap out, heading back to the hotel, but after a few minutes a dozen of us follow Betty to a trail behind the bar, skates slung over our shoulders.

We hike up the steep terrain, winding along the sidewalk so we don’t have to stumble across the rocks and broken dirt that lines the hillside. I look back from my place in the middle of the pack, seeing Eva huffing and puffing towards the back of the group. I can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at my pace amongst us, barely breaking a sweat.

“Almost there,” Betty calls out, her hands full of clanking beer bottles.

We crest the hill, and Betty’s earlier statement of drinking with the dead finally makes sense.

A hilltop graveyard, lit by the full moon overhead.

A group of drunk, raucous derby skaters, ready to rule the night.

We place our skates in a heap on top of an elaborate crypt, trying to save them from getting wet from the grass. Grabbing beers from Betty and the coolers some other girls had dragged up the hill, the sounds of popping tops and clinking glass fills the graveyard.

“Meteor shower should start any minute,” KamTrails says, looking at her phone.

“Hey, put that away,” I say, making a show of playfully swatting at her phone. “No texting your ex when you’re drunk.”

“I wasn’t going to text them,” Kam pouts.

“That’s what they all say,” Betty says, swiping her phone. “What’s this? An open text message to a ‘Bex-bay’? Is that your stud?”

Kam’s cheeks flush. “Okay, okay, just let me tell them goodnight.”

Betty hands the phone back, a smile lighting her dimpled cheeks. Not for the first time tonight, I find my heart in my throat, noting her kind and daring grin, her warm personality. Ugh, why do derby girls have to be so hot? Betty throws her head back, chugging her beer. My loins quiver at the sight of her pale skin in the moonlight. And why do I have to be so gay? She arches her back dramatically sucking down the last drops, her long brown hair almost kissing her ass, and for the first time ever I wished I was a ponytail.

Times like this, I don’t know if it’s the beer talking, or leftover battle lust from the bout, or if anything I do is a good idea. But I’ve learned over time you can’t break what doesn’t exist, so I opt to keep my distance from Betty—for now at least.

“So, isn’t this like, a little disrespectful?” I ask, gesturing to the girls leaning against tombstones, eyes toward the sky, knocking back drinks and laughing loudly.

Betty shakes her head, her stretched ears flopping back and forth. “Nah, they like to be included. All of Harkensville’s early elites are buried up here. Looking down at us peons, forevermore. We figure every once and while, we can toast them for founding this godforsaken town.”

“You lived here your whole life?”

“All twenty-five years of it. Every last miserable moment. Until we finally started up a derby team and made use of the decrepit roller rink. Fixed it up, made it a home.”

I nod, the story striking a nerve. “Funny how this sport has a way of telling that same story all over the world.”

“The best game there is.” Betty glances over at the pile of skates. “There’s a reason people always come back to it, even after broken bones.”

We sit in silence, staring at the clear sky for a few moments longer.

“I think these guys have the right idea,” I say. “This view in sight 24/7? Pays to be rich, I guess.”

Betty points at a streak across the sky. “And it’s about to get better.”

Her hand is splayed on the grass next to mine, our heads propped up by our bent arms. My hand is inches from hers when another blur races across the sky.

A loud happy shriek sounds behind us as the meteor shower starts. I can hear the people around us oohing and ahhing at the display, the meteors flashing across the sky. Straight lines of fire in the dark night, creating an etch-a-sketch of the cloudless sky.

I chance a glance at Betty, see her nose pointing skywards, a beautiful smile plastered across her face, her eyes brighter with each passing meteor. She turns, and our eyes meet.

I want to focus on her, battling the emotions I feel inside at this gravity she exudes, pulling me closer to her. I want to get lost in her free spirit. She looks like she wants it, too.

She starts to grin again, just for me, when all of a sudden her eyes widen sharply and she jerks upright.

“Holy shit,” she breathes out. “You see that?”

“No, I was a little distracted.”

“There! Jesus fuckin’ Christ, that’s a close meteor.”

I follow her gaze back to the sky, and my face prickles in fear. “God, those look close enough to—”

The ground rumbles as a meteor strikes the side of the hill. The graveyard erupts into a chorus of screams and thunderous crashes as meteor after meteor hits the ground.

I try to rise, but my knees wobble under as the ground sways, broken apart by the rocks falling to Earth. I offer my hand to Betty, who grabs it immediately, and despite the sweat on her palms, I yank her to her feet.

“Get to cover!” I yell out, watching my teammates scatter. I catch sight of Eva running in my direction towards the crypt over my shoulder. I reach out to her.

She explodes as a meteor hits her. Bits of her spray my face. I scream at her obliteration.

I try to run—to where I don’t really know as there’s no shelter on this hill—but feel my feet sucking into the ground.

“What the fuck?” Betty shouts. I look down. A bright orange liquid spreads over the ground, moving like a tide of ants. The ground chows down on our sneakers, the grass and dirt transformed into a pit of quicksand.

“Don’t move!” I yell at her. A tombstone, uprooted and face down in the grass, catches my sight. “Let yourself fall towards that marker.” Betty obeys, shifting her weight more evenly towards the tombstone. With the marker under her stomach, she pulls her submerged feet from the ground, then reaches towards me.

I carefully let her pull me to the tombstone and get my feet onto its surface. We hug each other tight, the small space made even smaller by my width. Betty doesn’t even bat an eye though, letting her body fold into mine.

I look around, feeling my face fall as I take in the destruction. Betty does the same, her body trembling as meteors continue to hit the ground, though fewer than before.

Nothing makes sense. The ground, previously hardpacked and solid, has turned to a glowing liquid, bright orange. There’s no heat, but it looks like lava.

I follow the path of a meteor, watching it plummet to the ground in front of us. I gasp as it doesn’t just hit the grass and dig in, but explodes like an egg thrown against the side of a house. The brown outer shell cracks open, holding the orange liquid inside, coating everything in its path. Within the liquid, hundreds of tiny legs moving. I can barely discern if the goo itself is alive, or if something is swimming within it. Either way, my mind is a treadmill of repeated what the fucks?

I pull my gaze from the mutating landscape, trying to assess my teammate’s situations. I sigh in relief when I see most of my teammates have made their way on top of various items—gravestones, beer coolers, taller crypts.

I cry when I see the ones who didn’t.

An arm floats by, reaching up from the liquid ground, and I let out a sob when I recognize the tattoo. Jurassica.

“No, no!” I reach out, trying to hold Betty close as I bend over, grabbing for Jurassica’s hand.

“Tess, careful!” I hear Betty shout. The use of my legal name barely registers over the panic. My hand clasps Jurassica’s, and I pull, hard. I nearly careen off the overturned grave marker as her arm is freed from the ground.

I stare at the disembodied limb, blinking back shock. My stomach rolls as I realize her arm is absolutely trashed at the shoulder joint, looking ragged, ripped from the rest of her body.

“How in the hell…” Betty whispers.

It’s only when I really consider what I’m holding that the arm tumbles from my grasp as my hands begin to shake. As the limb disappears into the orange mud that the ground has become, I see the arm changing shape, breaking apart into smaller pieces. I swear my eyes must be deceiving me as the small chunks of arm sprout tiny hairs that move, wiggling about, burrowing into the mud.

“Mothra!” I hear from behind me. I see Kam on top of a mausoleum with a few of Betty’s teammates. “Get higher!”

I frantically look around for something taller, realizing that the grave marker is starting to dip further into the ground. I see the crypt where our skates are still piled on the roof ten yards away, a few more toppled graves in the path.

I nudge Betty forward, and her long legs step across the stones like she’s been doing it her whole life.

I don’t waste any time, thundering after her, my heavier steps pushing the stones deeper into the strangely viscous earth. I see her leap in front of me, gripping the roof of the crypt and swinging herself upwards.

My own feet make the leap across what feels like a chasm of the dangerous liquid before I feel Betty’s hands grab my own. I dig my shoes into the stone, scrabbling against the hard surface before pulling myself to the top.

On our backs, we stare at the sky, now clear of any movement.

The night is oddly silent, nothing but quiet panting from the survivors strewn about the graveyard atop crypts, and the bubbling orange ground beneath us all.

I sit up, trying to figure out who we’ve lost, dreading the answer. I scan the faces, noting that besides Jurassica and Eva, another of my teammates is gone. A tear snakes down my face, and I see sadness mirrored in Betty’s eyes as she makes a headcount of her own.

“Dammit,” I choke out.

“Who’s missing?” Betty asks, hesitation evident in her voice.

“Jurassica. Eva. Blaze.” I can barely speak over the lump in my throat, remembering Blaze’s lopsided smile and love for the sport, despite her early retirement after too many concussions. “You?”

“Rush and Tea. I think I see Nessa with your mate on the mausoleum and three more on that crypt over there.” She points to a distant shape, figures huddled together on top. “Guess it’s a good thing more didn’t come to the after-after party.”

I nod in agreement. “What did this? What is this?”

“I’m no expert in meteor shit, but I’d say whatever hit the ground transformed it.”

I swallow loudly, trying to make sense of it all. “Her arm. It…it just fell apart. And then it crawled away in like a hundred pieces. You saw it too, right?”

Her head bobs up and down. “It was like it burst into a group of bugs. You think it was that orange stuff?”

“It was on her arm. Near the separation.” I panic remembering I had been holding her arm, but I didn’t see any orange flecks on me. “But it’s on our shoes…” We both check our shoes, covered in the orange mud, beginning to dry in the open air.

Nothing out of the ordinary. No dissolution into otherworldly bugs.

Our inspection stops abruptly when we hear the scream.

To our left, atop the mausoleum, one of Betty’s teammates is shrieking and grasping her leg.

“Oh God, it’s Loch Nessa,” Betty says, tears swimming in her eyes.

It’s a sight we’ve all witnessed multiple times, no doubt, as part of our derby careers. The groans and shouts when a tibia is broken, the near tearing at the skin to get the pain to stop.

But this…this is worse. As Nessa grips her leg, I watch as the limb begins to dissolve. Her exposed skin sports a wad of the orange liquid that had been on the ground. In moments, a crescent shaped hole widens and deepens in her leg as her skin and muscle and bone melts away before turning into a cascade of skittering insect-like creatures.

Kam, who had been trying to help Nessa stay still, jumps to her feet and starts to smash the bugs under her shoes, their bodies exploding as they scream a high pitch shriek that nearly makes our ears bleed.

I can’t quite make out their form, too distant and dark to see properly, but they were at least an inch in length, fat, and juicy. I can hear the squelching under Kam’s feet as Nessa’s leg continues to melt and birth the horrific creatures.

Up and up it climbs, her hands unable to stop the spread. The night is filled with sobbing and screams as the girls on the mausoleum witness the utter destruction of the writhing skater.

I hold Betty tight, trying to shield her view from the torturously slow death of her teammate, her friend. Her body heaves in my arms, and I do my best to muffle the death-sounds from her ears, enveloping her with as much of me as I can.

It takes minutes as the liquid climbs and the bug stream flows. The substance finally eats her throat, her head, down to her toes. Every last bit of her transforms into insects. Whatever wasn’t smashed beneath Kam’s feet leapt into the orange ground below, the earth swallowing them back to her hive.

Those meteors impregnated the soil, made its ground a nectar, trapped us within. Hosts for these ungodly things from the sky.

We have to get away.

—

When Nessa finally passes, the hilltop grows silent for a moment, before filling with the sounds of chittering from within the ground.

Nobody says anything.

Then whispers, turning to shouts, as everyone tries not to panic, tries to figure out how to get out of this mess, tries to curse the hillside and plead with God all at the same time.

Betty looks at me, a hollowness in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she says. “For keeping me safe.”

“Plenty of me to go around,” I say, trying to smile at her with my eyes, trying to offer her warmth. “You’re trapped up here with my big ass. Least I could do.”

She grabs my hand, squeezes it, then squints her eyes as she attempts to look beyond the hill, down at the bar and town below.

“It looks like a lot of open space down there. The orange is spottier, I think. Hasn’t reached as far.”

I follow her gaze. “It’s spreading though,” I say, pointing to a nearby pool of orange. “Expanding through the ground from where the meteors struck.”

“You’re right. We’ve got to move fast, before there aren’t any open patches left.”

The two of us try to plan a route off the crypt, and in the distance, I see the other group of skaters do the same, pointing and waving.

I try to wave back, test my voice to shout directions to them, let them know that there was possibly safety ahead.

I try to get them to move.

I try to help.

But as loud as my voice might be, even I can’t stop the trees that begin to waver around the crypt they’re standing on top off. I can’t stop the trees from wobbling, from tipping forward, from creating a surge of orange as a giant oak falls into the ground. Can’t stop the wave that rushes towards the crypt and covers them all in in the toxic sludge.

I plug my ears stopping the only thing I can: stopping myself from hearing the screams of our friends as they dissolve into insects, slowly, painfully.

When it’s over, I feel numb inside. Nothing like watching your teammates get killed to shut off everything happy within. From the dead stare in Betty’s eyes, I know she feels the same.

It isn’t until Kam’s voice cracks across the dead night that I’m snapped from my despair.

“Organic,” she says. “It only turns organic, living cells into the bugs.” She pauses as we all turn to look at her. “It’s why it doesn’t turn our shoes, or the graves. But the grass and the … people. It eats material that’s alive.”

“Okay, okay. We can work with this,” Betty says. Her eyes dart to the skates.

“Extra protection?”

“Good thing we’re all damn good skaters.”

There are two pairs of skates on top of the crypt we’re on.

Three skaters left.

We look at each other, a triangle of fear.

I make the decision.

I toss a pair of skates to Kam. I hand the other to Betty.

“We run first,” I say, pointing to the path of barely surfaced grave markers. “Then, we skate.” I point towards the open road, pockmarked with orange lakes where the meteors hit the ground and unleashed their terror before. “Got it, Kam? We’re going to have to move fast. You first, then Betty, then me. You two are lighter and won’t push the stones as far in.”

Kam’s eyebrows knit together. “But what about the skates?”

I grin. “Oh, I’m skating.”

Realization sets into Betty’s features. She returns my smile. “And I’m hitching a ride on this beautiful woman.”

I blush, somehow finding a spot of embarrassment in this bleak night.

I look out at the hillside, the winding path down its face, the way the orange yolk was beginning to agitate and froth. It had made its way through most of the grassy areas, churning the plant life into thousands of insects, growing larger and swimming about. The liquid climbs further, splashing like waves against rocks, a beach of skittering limbs shit to Earth from outer space.

“Give me your jackets,” I say to Betty and Kam. They take off their outer layers, and I wrap the clothing around my exposed limbs. “Just like derby,” I say, grinning. “Put up a shield so we can get some points on the board.”

The ground continues to churn, growing angry as it runs out of living material to turn into more of itself.

And like a nightmare made more hellish, I realize the insects are beginning to rise more prominently from the ground—bigger, noticeable fangs, and goddammit all to shit—with wings.

“Now. It has to be now,” Kam says. I see her survey the path once more. She takes a deep breath, grips the roller skates tight to her chest, and dangles off the side of the mausoleum. I watch her lithe form spring from grave marker to tombstone.

“Go, go!” I shout, pushing Betty to the side. She gives me a look back, like she isn’t ready to leave my circle of protection, as she makes her way to the first stone. “I’ll be right behind you. Promise.”

Her lanky body follows Kam’s path.

I look at the ground, the graves rising barely an inch above the deadly orange liquid. I’ve never cursed my size. In roller derby, you use your body no matter what it looks like as if it’s the best gift you’ve ever been given.

But I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t look at that bug-infested molten infestation of the hillside and say a little prayer to the cosmic scales that my weight wouldn’t tip a stone too far.

I imagine little wings on my feet, take a breath that fills my lungs with false bravado, and lower my body to the first marker.

It sinks but holds just enough, and I move faster than I ever have without wheels under my feet, following Kam and Betty into the distance.

The ground slurps and sputters beneath me as I leap along the makeshift path. I feel the weight of orange liquid chunks dropping onto my jacket and pants. I don’t stop.

I remember being six, playing a game of the floor is lava with my brother, leaping from couch to chair to tiny square of rug. I was already a bit big for my age, and my older brother laughed as I squirmed my round belly along the arm of the couch. He stopped laughing when I leapt from the stiff back like a wrestler off the top rope and crushed the wind out of his rude lungs.

He didn’t make fun of me again, and I became the best at that game.

I didn’t stop. I don’t stop.

Now that the floor really is lava, I’ll die if I stop.

I see Betty and Kam have reached the gravel parking lot, the orange tide unable to make it past the lack of organic material. They wave me over, cheering as I rocket from foothold to foothold and finally reach the destination. My momentum carries me forward and I almost fall to my knees as I catch my breath, but Betty grabs me in a tight hug, and the circle is soon closed by Kam embracing me from behind.

“Thank God that was the easy part,” I joke.

We’re still on top of the hillside, lagoons of broken meteor eggs around us, the winding path of the descent before us. At the bottom of the hill, I see the merciful flashing of emergency services posting up in the town.

Just have to make it there.

And from the sounds of the liquid sloshing around us, the wings of the alien insects beating louder as they grow stronger, having consumed all the grass and trees in the orange slush, we have to make it fast.

Kam’s eyes widen as a massive shadow falls over us. Their bodies coalesce into a single unit, a beast of buzzing and epic size, reaching a chitinous hand towards us. The orange embryonic fluid of the meteor eggs coats its body, providing a hazardous shell around the beast. The insects rise with a singular purpose: feed.

“Get your goddamn skates on, NOW.”

As if it needed to be said. As if that monster wasn’t getting closer.

I pull the skates on, unbothered by their too small size. No time to worry about toes crunched too close to the top. I see Kam lacing her skates up, a fire under her ass I’ve never seen before. I guess a big fuckin’ bitch of a bug will do that to you.

We surely break a record with how fast we tie those knots and climb to our feet. Kam takes off down the path, and I hear her horrified screams begin as she turns the first bend, going what looks like a hundred miles per hour down the precarious terrain.

I feel the wind of a thousand wings beating against my back.

“Ready?” I ask Betty, offering her my arms.

“Is ‘duh’ too strong of an answer?”

She hops into my arms, swings her legs around my back, hanging from me like a baby koala. I can barely make out the thumping of our hammering hearts, beating so close together as I rise from my knees and carefully push off, skating down the mountain.

Thankfully, Betty’s weight pulls me forward, knowing that if I fell it wouldn’t be backwards. No need to crush my skull trying to escape this beast from the sky.

We wind down the path and I will my feet not to stumble on the cracks. I pray there are no loose rocks creeping up in the dark.

The orange sea lurches around us, and I can feel the liquid hitting me with more force than before. The extra layers of clothes repel the encroaching substance, and it takes all my might not to let it knock me off balance.

Insects the size of my fist begin to descend on my retreating form. I let them hit me, hoping their teeth don’t extend too far mid-flight. Betty shouts as they strike her exposed legs.

Down and down we go, moving so fast we’re almost flying like the bugs around us.

I see Kam in front, her hands cupped around her mouth.

“Watch the crack!” she screams, and I see it coming up fast.

Before I process what is happening, I’m pushing with my back leg into the air, my front lifting to the sky. The back leg follows and I’m flying, jumping the crack like the apex of the derby track, trying to cut past groups of skaters.

I land on the less treacherous ground of the parking lot below.

This time though, my momentum is a bit too much, and I send Betty and I tumbling onto the ground.

Just like the floor of the roller rink in the middle of a bout, with the ground as smooth as it is, the falls are still rough.

Something snaps in my arm, and Betty tucks her head to avoid smashing it into the concrete, getting her own bruises in the process.

We stop. Finally.

Assessing our injuries, the white-hot pain of my broken wrist radiating upwards, we’re hurt, but alive.

Betty leans into me, whispers a soft thank you in my ear for the second time tonight. Our foreheads touch and she gently kisses my cheek.

I look at the hill we just careened down, the giant creature still buzzing forward. The orange fluid that the ground has become still violently surges. The blue and red lights are at least a mile up the road. The journey isn’t over quite yet.

I hold my broken arm to my chest. Without a word Betty climbs onto my back.

Kam’s feet start moving, and I’m soon rolling behind her, ragged breaths ripping from my lungs as I push my body past its limits. I tell myself we just need to make it to a car or shelter so we can run faster or hide from the creature. I wonder if that will be what the rest of our life looks like.

I hope that these meteors don’t mean extinction. I hope we aren’t the velociraptors.

I hope and I do the thing my body is best at.

I skate.

EASY BAKE
by Sonora Taylor

Crystal stood with her hands clasped behind her back. Bethany stood next to her. Neither looked at the other. Their eyes were only on the judges in front of them.

“Bethany,” said the host, Michael. He had dark eyes, white hair, prominent cheekbones, and a strong chin. In any other setting, Crystal would’ve thought him handsome. “Your shortbread cookies in the first round had the right amount of crumble and the perfect amount of butter. Let no one tell you that only fat chefs use butter.”

Bethany snickered, as did two of the three judges at the table. Crystal felt her cheeks burn. She knew that remark wasn’t about an abstract chef. She wouldn’t feel so bad if Bethany was deemed the loser. Crystal immediately felt sorry for the thought, in spite of herself.

“However,” Michael continued. “Your poke cake in the final round was so underbaked, the judges couldn’t eat it—not without being poisoned.”

If we should be so lucky, Crystal thought.

“Crystal.” Crystal looked Michael in the eye. Whether or not she was deemed the loser, she wanted him to know she wouldn’t cower in his presence, not even when he or her fellow contestants made jokes about her weight. She’d proven herself to be a good baker the past two weeks, had seen two contestants fall and yet kept baking well even under pressure. If she fell this week, she at least wouldn’t cower in shame.

“Your twist on crème-filled cookie sandwiches made us realize the value of the saying, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Michael continued.

Crystal couldn’t believe she’d fucked that up. She’d used the regular cocoa powder instead of Dutch-processed, regular cane sugar instead of caster, and mistakenly thought lemon crème would go well in place of vanilla. Maybe the stress of the competition was indeed catching up with her. However, she refused to show it. She simply gave Michael a curt nod to acknowledge she knew she made a mistake and accepted his criticism. He and the judges were in charge.

“But your passionfruit ice box cake—” Michael closed his eyes, as did the three judges, all with the memory of their bites—“was divine.”

Crystal smiled. She’d tried extra hard to make an amazing cake, and she’d delivered.

“And because of that cake,” Michael continued, “you won’t be put on ice this week.”

“No!” Bethany cried out. The other two contestants, Jesse and Ming, looked at Bethany with wide eyes. The judges kept their eyes on Crystal. Crystal kept her eyes on Michael, even as the wave of relief coursing through her body threatened to break her composure.

“Bethany,” Michael said. “You’ve been eliminated.”

“No! Please, just give me another chance!” Bethany crumpled to the ground and choked out a sob. Crystal stayed staring ahead as she heard the familiar sound of two people shuffling towards the contestants.

“I’ll make another cake!” Bethany screamed. “You bitch!”

Crystal looked at Bethany. She pointed at Crystal with an accusing glare as two security guards—Crystal didn’t know their names, but she called them Scott and Zelda in her mind—lifted Bethany from the ground. “You turned off my oven, I know it!”

“She was nowhere near your station,” Michael said.

“Someone turned it off! I’m a great baker, I don’t deserve this!”

“Your time here is finished, Bethany.”

“Please don’t—” Bethany’s pleas were replaced by a gasp as Scott yanked her head back by her ponytail. She then let out a gurgled scream as Zelda slashed a large knife across her throat. Scott dropped her, and he and Zelda stood at command on either side of Bethany, who bled out onto the floor.

Crystal watched Bethany in wide-eyed shock. Normally Scott and Zelda used guns.

—

Crystal sat in her dorm with a notepad on her lap and a pencil with the eraser chewed to the nub. She was trying to brainstorm recipes for the next day’s challenge—the final one, the one where the winner took all—but all she could think about was how she’d gotten here in the first place.

She should’ve ignored the random message in her Instagram DMs. She normally ignored them, since they were usually bots, trolls, or horny men. But sometimes she missed something important, like when a social media intern for Food Network messaged her in praise of her posts and asked if she wanted to be on Cupcake Wars. She’d thought for sure it was a scam, but when she saw the intern’s name on a later episode of Cupcake Wars—as the new host—she realized she shouldn’t have assumed. She vowed she wouldn’t do so again.

And as luck would have it, she heard from another producer from a new show, Easy Bake, set to debut on a streaming service called Simple+. She didn’t hesitate, even though she’d never heard of the streaming service. A quick Google search showed her the network existed—“Reality programming, plain and simple, with a little something more”—and produced content that people watched. They advertised a lot of reality TV and game shows, but the woman who’d messaged Crystal said they were looking to start a baking competition. The winner would receive $100,000 to use as they wished to further their baking careers. That was even more than Food Network offered. Crystal felt little twinges of doubt as she wrote back, but she ignored them. Those doubts had cost her the Food Network. She wouldn’t miss out on this chance.

Now, though, she wished she had missed out. She’d wished it several times over, starting as early as when she walked into a grey and eerie-looking room devoid of cameras—“They’re up there,” Michael explained as he pointed to various spots up above, “so they won’t get in your way”—and especially when the first contestant, a home baker named Bobby, was shot upon being eliminated. The reaction was far from the stoic resignation that she, Jesse, and Ming displayed when Bethany had been killed. There were shouted curses and crying. Crystal herself had moved towards the exit when she was promptly stopped by the guard she’d later name Zelda. Crystal knew better than to disobey someone with a gun.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jesse shouted. He kept his distance from the guards, Michael, and the judges; but Crystal watched in fear as the guard she’d name Scott pointed his gun in Jesse’s direction.

“This is a Simple+ baking competition,” Michael explained as calmly as he’d told Bobby that he’d been eliminated. “Haven’t you watched our programming?”

“I’ve never even heard of this goddamn network before. I just—”

“Wanted to compete for money. So do your fellow contestants. So did Bobby.” Michael smiled. His smile was a rare occurrence in the weeks that followed, but whenever it happened, Crystal wished it hadn’t. That first moment was no different.

“Our viewers like high-stakes competition,” Michael continued. “Actual high stakes, not tears over a cake not rising or people hanging their heads low because their pie crust burned. They want something more.”

“They want people dead?” Rose, the winner that week, shrieked. Rose was eliminated the next week. Crystal missed her.

“They want something other networks don’t offer,” Michael said. “They pay good money for our programs, and we deliver.”

“I want out,” Ming demanded. “I signed up to bake and maybe win some money, not get fucking killed like a horse with a broken leg if my damn cookies don’t turn out right.”

“Fine.”

All the contestants, including Ming, raised their eyebrows. Bobby lay between them, blood from his head trickling into a drain in the center of the floor.

“What’s the catch?” Crystal asked. “There’s no way we can just leave.”

“If you want out—” Michael nodded towards Scott and Zelda, who each cocked their guns—“we’re more than happy to accommodate you.”

The five remaining bakers—Crystal, Jesse, Ming, Rose, and Bethany—stood in silence.

Michael smiled. “That’s what I thought.”

—

A gentle knock startled Crystal from her memories. She set her pencil down and called, “Come in!” out of habit. She knew who it was.

The door opened and Jesse slid inside, closing the door behind him in one fluid motion. They’d become close since Crystal heard him crying in his room after the first episode was filmed. Crystal had slid a note under his door saying he could come and talk to her—she was a friend. She’d hoped that all the remaining contestants would’ve felt that way in the face of death. But Rose had spent the next episode withdrawn, and Bethany upped her nastiness towards the other contestants. Ming was aloof, silently in her own world except for when she’d drop and break something, which was almost twice an episode. Crystal wondered how such a clumsy baker could keep it together every week, especially with the circumstances surrounding them; but her dishes were regularly winners and she’d never been in the bottom two. Trust the process, Crystal supposed.

What Crystal wished she could process was how to get out of this show and not be in a body bag. “How are you feeling?” Crystal asked as Jesse slumped onto her bed.

He shrugged. “Same as the other day. Angry. Defeated. Numb.”

Crystal nodded. “Relieved to be alive, then guilty for that relief.”

“How do you think they’ll do the finale?”

Crystal sighed as she leaned back in her chair. “Probably something extra hard for the signature. Maybe they’ll hide ingredients on us.”

“I’ll give them that: they never try to sabotage our bakes.”

“Well yeah, they want to eat.”

Jesse breathed out a quiet laugh. “Anything of note in the pantry?”

Ever since episode two, Crystal had taken time to explore the pantry to see if something, anything, could be used to poison the judges. She used the precious opportunities she had to search every nook and cranny for something she could slip into her baked goods, like rat poison. But the showrunners had done their homework ahead of trapping their contestants into a bake to the death. Everything in the pantry was edible, delicious, and high-quality. During her searches, Crystal had to stop herself from oohing and aahing over the French butter, the organic cane sugar, the finely-milled flours and premium-grade chocolate that she could only stare at in the specialty food store she worked the cash register at. If she made it out alive, she’d never curse that job again. Well, maybe not as much.

“Nope,” Crystal said. “Best I could do is trap the guards in there and steal their guns.”

“I may try that tomorrow.”

“You’d get killed so fast—”

“One of us will no matter what.” Jesse swallowed, and Crystal felt a chill run through her as she remembered what tomorrow’s finale would bring. There was only one winner, and three of them left. Crystal wanted to make it, wanted to get out alive; but she didn’t know if she could live with herself if Jesse didn’t make it out with her.

“Maybe if I get the gun,” Jesse continued, “you wouldn’t have to die.”

“No.”

“Crystal—”

“We all have to try and make it. We all have to do our best bake, maybe come up with something—”

“Ming won’t talk to us. We’ve tried. She wants to get out on her own. Hell, she probably still wants to win the prize money.”

Crystal remembered how Ming had said she didn’t sign up for the show’s deadly risks. She’d also said she wanted to bake and maybe win some money. Her performance the past two weeks showed she was definitely aiming to win. If she wasn’t, she was incredibly lucky. Maybe her misfortune was all reserved for her clumsiness.

“You know I was a cop before this,” Jesse continued. “I could knock out the guards and get plenty of shots in before they get me. You and Ming would stand a chance.”

“Jesse, please don’t. I—I don’t know how we’re going to get out alive tomorrow. Maybe I won’t. Maybe none of us will. But … but as silly as it sounds, I feel like we need to see the last episode through. We need to play their game a little longer.”

Jesse’s shoulders fell, but his expression showed assent. Crystal sighed as well.

“We need to bake,” she said.

—

“Welcome back, contestants.”

Michael stood at the front of the room with his hands clasped and that same unpleasant smile on his face. Crystal, Jesse, and Ming stood at attention, Crystal trying her best to keep her eyes on Michael. She already felt sick, and she knew if she looked at her fellow contestants, especially Jesse, she’d burst into tears.

“For our first challenge, we’re going to ask you to do something a little different. Our judges have spent the last three weeks satisfying their sweet tooth.”

The judges smiled. Crystal imagined blood trickling through their perfect rows of shiny teeth.

“But today, we’re going to ask you to prepare a savory meat pie.”

Crystal scrunched her nose. She hated meat pies.

Scott and Zelda appeared, rolling out a silver table with three platters on top. Each held a pile of raw pink meat, all a different cut.

“Ming,” Michael continued. “Since you won our last challenge, you get to pick your cut before Crystal and Jesse.”

Ming nodded, and Michael beckoned toward the table. She marched over, then skidded to a stop. Crystal couldn’t see her expression, but she swore she could sense a word bubble over her head with “What the fuck” in bold letters. It seemed to be the theme each week.

If Michael noticed, he didn’t care. “Ming, you have a choice between thighs, cheek—"

“These are human!” Ming cried. Crystal’s jaw dropped and Jesse gasped. Michael smiled.

“—And breasts. All donated from last week’s loser.”

Crystal thought she would vomit. Ming turned to face Michael, her face a mixture of fear and disbelief.

Michael tutted with sympathy. “I know, there wasn’t a lot of meat on those bones. Maybe we chose the wrong person to be eliminated.”

Crystal felt her neck burn, and saw Jesse set his jaw. To her surprise, Ming also narrowed her eyes. She grabbed a plate with two flaps of meat, what Crystal presumed were the cheeks and which still had bits of human skin left on them.

“On the contrary, lean meat is excellent to cook with,” Ming said. “Especially if you’ve got butter.”

Michael straightened, and Crystal could see from his expression he wasn’t pleased. Ming hurried past Crystal and Jesse with her plate, eyes forward. As much as she wanted to thank Ming, she knew not to push her luck, not when they were this close to finishing.

“Crystal and Jesse, pick your cuts,” Michael said. “And then bakers? Start baking.”

The countdown clock started. Crystal sped to the table and grabbed the thighs. She hated to leave Jesse with the breasts, the part with almost all the skin and signs of being human intact; but she knew she’d puke into her pie crust if she took them herself.

All three contestants worked in silence. The only sounds that filled the room were knives chopping, pots and pans shuffling, and oven doors opening and closing. Crystal finished her pie and placed it in the oven as fast as she could, doing her best to forget what was in it.

She looked up at the judges. They watched the contestants with varying levels of interest. Two women, one man. She’d never learned their names. Probably anonymous for their protection. Was Michael’s name even real? Like Scott and Zelda though, Crystal named them in her head. The tall blonde woman was Betty, the man was Archie, and the woman with the short black hair was Veronica.

Crystal checked her pie, then looked at the other contestants. Ming stared solemnly at her skillet as she heated up some butter. Jesse stood still at his station. The breasts sat unused on the counter.

“Jesse,” Michael said as he walked towards Jesse’s station. “Are you having trouble feeling inspired?”

Jesse didn’t say a word. He kept his gaze away from Michael. Michael narrowed his eyes. Crystal knew he hated disrespect. When Rose had been declared the loser, she’d spat in his face. Michael had taken the gun from Scott and shot her himself.

“The clock’s ticking,” Michael continued. “And the cameras are rolling.”

Jesse turned to face Michael, but stayed silent. Michael crossed his arms. “If you don’t have something ready for the judges, you’ll face early elimination.”

Scott and Zelda appeared from the shadows. Crystal held her breath. Jesse, please, just cook something, she thought, hoping that he’d suddenly develop telepathy.

But neither Crystal’s thoughts nor Michael’s words seemed to have any effect on Jesse. He stayed quiet and still, glaring at Michael.

Michael folded his arms. “So you forfeit?”

Scott and Zelda reached Jesse’s station. Crystal’s mouth dropped.

Jesse finally moved. He cracked Scott’s jaw with his elbow and disarmed him as he stumbled back. He swept Zelda’s leg before she could aim and shot Scott in the head. Blood splattered against the wall and Michael leapt back to avoid the spray. Jesse kicked Zelda’s gun from her hand and shot her next.

A loud crack sounded across the floor. Crystal jumped, thinking it was another gun; but Ming had dropped something again. She’d spun from her skillet at the sound of the first gunshot and sent the ceramic dish the cheeks had rested on to the floor. Shards flew in every direction.

Both she and Crystal watched in terrified awe as Jesse grabbed both guns from the floor. He pointed them both at Michael, who raised his hands.

“The only question I have,” Jesse growled, “is whether I should kill you first, or the judges.”

A gun shot off. To Crystal’s dismay, it wasn’t Jesse’s. Judge Betty marched towards Jesse’s station as he crumpled to the ground. She shot him once in each knee, then in the head before placing a small pistol back into her clutch purse. “Get better guards next time,” she said crisply to Michael, who acquiesced like a guilty dog.

Crystal watched Jesse bleed onto the floor with a hand over her mouth. Ming stared in silence. Michael regained his composure and glared at them. “Get back to cooking,” he said. “Or you’ll be eliminated before the judging.”

Crystal and Ming swiveled back to their stations. Ming resumed stirring the meat in her skillet while Crystal busied herself with checking on her pie yet again. Michael walked past her, and she saw Scott and Zelda’s guns in his hand. He caught her gaze and nodded brusquely. “Don’t get any ideas,” he said as he moved on.

Crystal looked back down, then noticed something at her feet: one of the pieces of the ceramic dish Ming had dropped. It was a long, jagged shard.

Crystal glanced up and saw Michael continuing past. She stooped down and opened her oven door to make it look like she was taking a peek, then tucked the shard into her apron pocket.

—

“Time’s up!”

Crystal stepped away from her pot pie. She glanced over at Ming’s station. She saw individual puff pastries topped with browned meat. She couldn’t bring herself to call them cheeks.

Michael stood at the front of the judges’ table, trying to look calm and collected, as if his life hadn’t just been threatened by a contestant earlier. “Ming, please come forward with your dish.”

Ming walked forward with her plate. Crystal stood with her hands in her apron pockets. She fiddled with the shard she’d found earlier. Would she be able to use it? Could she? Betty was the only judge with a clutch, but surely Archie and Veronica were carrying. Then again, Michael was left unarmed when he didn’t have Scott or Zelda’s gun to steal.

“And what do you have for us today?” Michael asked.

“I’ve created a variation on pork cheek tacos,” Ming said. “I browned the cheeks and placed them on individual puff pastries.”

“They’re certainly fragrant,” Archie said as he took a sniff. Betty and Veronica nodded in agreement as they began to eat.

“Yes, I wanted to add plenty of fragrant spices,” Ming replied. “Cinnamon, clove—”

“Lots of clove,” Betty said through a cough.

“Oh, that’s probably the nutmeg. I added a lot.”

“How much?” Veronica asked. Archie began to cough as well.

“Oh, about one to two teaspoons per taco.” Ming shrugged, but a small smile crept across her face. “About the right amount to poison someone.”

Crystal’s eyes widened. All her searches for poisonous ingredients, and she hadn’t thought to use what was right there in the kitchen.

“You’re joking,” Veronica sputtered.

“You tell me,” Ming said. “You’re the one tasting it.”

“That’s a myth, you bitch,” Betty spat, though she gagged as she said it. She began to reach for her clutch.

Crystal cast aside all doubts and all thoughts. She didn’t have time to think it over. She sped towards the judge’s table, shard in hand. With Betty’s attention on Ming, Crystal was able to grab her by her horrendous teased hair and jam the shard into her jugular.

“Help!” Michael called towards the walls where the camera crew purportedly hid. For all Crystal knew, bullets would rain from the sky and she and Ming would be dead on the floor within minutes. If that happened, then she at least wanted the judges in a bloody heap with them. She stabbed Betty one more time, then grabbed Archie before he could run away. She slashed at his neck and his chest, blood splattering all over her apron.

She was pulled back with such force, Crystal expected to see Michael when she was spun around. Instead, it was Veronica. “You think you’re slick with that shard,” she hissed. “But we’ve got—”

Her words were cut off by a gurgle as blood spurted out of her mouth. She crumpled to the ground, revealing Ming behind her with a chef’s knife.

“I always hated her,” Ming said. “She said my food was too exotic.”

“And that mine was too buttery,” Crystal added.

“Both of you need to take criticism better.”

They turned and saw Michael advancing towards them. Ming rushed at him with the knife and plunged it into his stomach. It was enough to wound him, but Crystal knew he needed something extra to go down just right. She dashed to Ming’s station and grabbed the cast-iron skillet from the stove. It still held some heat, which would only add to the pleasure of striking him with it.

Michael lay on the ground as Crystal approached him. “Don’t,” he said weakly as he held up his hand. “You both made it this far. You’re both excellent cooks.”

“I’m so sorry,” Crystal said as she raised the skillet above her head. “Your time here is finished, Michael.”

She swung it over Michael’s face with all her might. It was a strong enough blow to knock him out and possibly knock him dead, but Crystal didn’t take any chances. She beat him over and over until his face was smashed into a pulp. When she was satisfied she’d never have to see his smirk again, she stood up tall and dropped the skillet to the side.

“Think we can salvage the cheeks for tacos?” Ming asked.

Crystal turned to face her and saw her smiling. Crystal gave a small smile back.

“What made you think of the nutmeg?” Crystal asked.

“End of the first episode. I’d grind some and save it while I was cooking.” Ming shrugged. “What made you think of the shard?”

“That it was there. Thanks for dropping that plate.”

Ming chuckled. “Glad my klutziness was of some use.”

“Bravo, ladies!”

Crystal jumped at the sound of another voice and loud applause. She spun and saw a lanky man walking towards them, clapping as he walked. She bent for the skillet, and he held up his hands.

“Please ladies, don’t. I have no weapons on me.”

Crystal straightened. She and Ming both narrowed their eyes in disgusted surprise. “Have you been here the whole time?” Ming asked.

“More or less. I’ve been watching from the screening room. You ladies put on quite a finale!”

“How come you didn’t do anything about Michael, or the judges?” Crystal cried. “I thought your show was about killing us all off.”

“Judges and hosts are as expendable as contestants. All we want is a good show for our subscribers.” He grinned. “And you put on a great one.”

“Fuck you!” Crystal felt her eyes sting with angry tears. “We wanted to survive, not give you ratings.”

“And you wanted prize money.”

“Not for this,” Ming spat. “We were trapped!”

“You could’ve left whenever you wanted.”

“Yeah,” Ming scoffed. “With a bullet in our heads.”

“Never. You simply would’ve forfeited your chance at the prize money.”

“Michael said we’d be shot,” Crystal said, remembering Scott and Zelda coming to his side when Ming first threatened to leave.

“No, he said you’d be accommodated. Our guards would’ve escorted you every step out of the building—you know, to make sure you didn’t try anything funny.”

Ming and Crystal stood with open mouths. Could they have left? No, the man had to be lying.

“And every week, you baked your hearts out, hoping for that prize money. That’s why you stayed, and that’s why you cooperated.”

“We wanted to live,” Crystal said.

“And you wanted to make a living doing what you love—and we’re going to make that happen.”

Ming stepped back, and Crystal bent down for the skillet again. “I’m done playing games,” she said as she stood back up with the skillet in hand. “I don’t want to compete anymore. Fuck the money.”

“You’re not competing anymore,” the man said. “You’re both winners.”

“What?” Ming asked. “How?”

“Like I said, you both put on the best finale of any show we’ve had in years. You both get the prize money—in fact, you’ll both get it in full.”

“We’ll each get $100,000?” Crystal asked.

“Yes. We’ve had some very generous fans donate to the jackpot.” His smile turned greasy, in a way that reminded Crystal of Michael. She wasn’t so sad that he was gone, nor the judges or guards.

But all she could see was the blood from the previous contestants’ heads running down the floor. Even Bethany’s slit throat made her feel sick. And Jesse …

She blinked back tears. “It’s blood money,” Crystal said.

The man shrugged. “It’s money.”

“It’s hush money,” Ming said. “You want us to keep quiet and think paying us off will do that.”

“You think we don’t have other ways to make sure you don’t talk? You don’t run a network like ours with clients like we have and not have every bit of hushing in place that doesn’t involve money.” The man lost his smile and unclasped his hands. “Look: whether you take it or not, your friends will still be dead. And if you refuse the prize money, you’ll be able to leave, unharmed, and go on with your lives—but with nothing to show for your time here, either. I advise you to make that time worthwhile.”

Ming looked at Crystal. Crystal looked back at Ming. Crystal remembered how her hesitation had cost her the Food Network, and how her lack of hesitation got her here. Now she was somewhere in the middle. It looked like Ming was in the same position. She wasn’t sure what the right thing to do would be. She didn’t trust the man one bit. But she also knew he could’ve easily killed them then and there if he’d wanted to. In his own slimy way, he seemed true to his word.

But was it a word she wanted to take?

—

“Can I get two chocolate cupcakes, please?”

Crystal smiled. “Certainly.” She glanced to the side, and saw that Ming was already placing both cupcakes in a yellow to-go box. She turned back to the customer and said, “That’ll be $8, please.”

Crystal and Ming had been in business together for the past six months. When they were dropped off by the production crew with checks in hand, they’d looked at each other the way people do when they know they’ll be intertwined by shared trauma every day going forward.

“You know,” Ming said. “We made a pretty good team in the last episode, if you think about it.”

Crystal chuckled sadly. “Yeah. I wouldn’t have won without your help.”

“Same.” They’d stood in silence for a few moments, when Ming held up her check. “Want to go into business together? Make this all worthwhile?”

Nothing would make the lives lost and fear buried deep into Crystal’s marrow forever fully worthwhile, but at least with a shared bakery, she’d be working with someone who knew what she went though, and on something that could maybe make the pain a little more bearable.

“Thank you so much!” the woman who’d ordered the chocolate cupcakes said. Crystal waved back. Even though they’d won based on quick thinking and a willingness to spill blood, Crystal knew that she and Ming were excellent bakers. Their customers did too, as business grew steadily each week.

The next person in line stepped forward. He glanced from side-to-side, like he was looking for someone.

“Hi,” Crystal said. “What can I get you today?”

The man looked at her, but didn’t say a word. He grinned as he leaned in closer. Crystal hoped to God he wasn’t going to start hitting on her.

“You’re Crystal, right? From Easy Bake?”

Crystal did her best to keep her smile as her heartbeat sped up. “You’re familiar with Easy Bake?”

“Watched it every week. You and Ming were amazing.”

The man wasn’t the first fan to come in. Crystal should’ve figured they’d find her and Ming, especially if they were local. Still, it never failed to churn her stomach when they made themselves known, praising them as if they’d acted the whole thing and everyone on the show was alive and well in the outside world. But then the fans of Simple+ wouldn’t be so happy, would they?

“Thank you so much,” Crystal said. “We actually have a little treat for fans of the show.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” She turned to Ming, who sped into the kitchen and returned with a blue box. “A gratitude cupcake, for coming to say hi. On the house, too.”

“Huh. Thanks.” The man took the box, then looked up and grinned. “No nutmeg, right?”

“Nope. Just vanilla.” And a healthy dose of rat poison, something Crystal and Ming both agreed on after the first fan had come in and said hi.

“Well, thank you ladies.” The man lifted the box and nodded his head. “I’ll be back for sure.”

“See you soon!” Crystal called, even though she knew she wouldn’t unless his death made the news.

The producer of Easy Bake was right: if Crystal or Ming had refused the money, their friends would still be dead and Simple+ would go on. They could be effectively hushed. But in return, Crystal and Ming could use their winnings to hush the network’s subscribers—hopefully enough to shut them down for good. And even if each fan who took a cupcake was one small drop, it was enough sweetness to make Crystal smile.

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS

The following is a list of content/trigger warnings for each story. They may be considered spoilers.

Anthology as a whole: Each story deals with fatness and body image to varying degrees. Some stories include characters being mocked for their fatness (not prolonged).

Cinderella and Her Demon Godmother: Blood, throat slitting

A Curious Garden: Fat camp/dieting, child harm (not bloody, mostly off-page), child death (off-page)

Blue Hair: None

The Lake House: None

Neon Afterglow: HIV/AIDS (death from, infection), homophobic slur

Waterfall: None

The Red Dots in the Window: fatal car accident (off-page), child death (off-page), dead child

Fluffers: Animal death (off-page)

Like a Thief in the Night: Quick mention of child death

Corpulence: Teen death

The Floor is Lava: None

Easy Bake: Blood, throat-slitting, shooting/guns, cannibalism

ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS

Stephanie Rabig is the author of Playing Possum, the Cryptids & Cauldrons series, and the upcoming horror western On Stolen Land. When she's not writing, she's reading, homeschooling her kids, or taking care of the family's ever-growing flock of chickens. You can find her on Twitter @stephrabig or visit stephanierabig.weebly.com to find available books and upcoming release dates.

Marsheila (Marcy) Rockwell is an award-nominated tie-in writer and poet. Her novels include SF/H thriller 7 SYKOS, as well as The Shard Axe series, set in the world of Dungeons & Dragons Online. She has published two collections, and has written dozens of short stories, poems, and comic book scripts. She is also a disabled pediatric cancer and mental health awareness advocate and a reconnecting Chippewa/Métis. She currently lives in the desert with her family, buried under books. You can find out more here: www.marsheilarockwell.com or follow her on Twitter here: @MarcyRockwell.

Christi Nogle is the author of the novel Beulah (Cemetery Gates, 2022). You can find more of her short fiction in publications including PseudoPod, Escape Pod, Vastarien, Fusion Fragment, and Dark Matter Magazine and in anthologies such as American Gothic and Chilling Crime from Flame Tree Press, What One Wouldn't Do from Scott J. Moses, Humans Are the Problem from Weird Little Worlds, and C.M Muller’s Nightscript and Synth. Christi is an active member of the HWA, SFWA, and Codex Writers’ Group. Follow her at christinogle.com or on Twitter @christinogle.

Kay Hanifen was born on a Friday the 13th and once lived for three months in a haunted castle. So, obviously, she had to become a horror writer. Her articles have appeared in Ghouls Magazine, Screen Rant, The Borgen Project, and Leatherneck magazine; and her short stories have appeared in Strangely Funny VIII, Crunchy With Ketchup, Midnight From Beyond the Stars, Dark Shadows: The Gay Nineties, Wicked Newsletters, Fearful Fun, Death of a Bad Neighbor, Enchanted Entrapments, and Slice of Paradise. When she's not consuming pop culture with the voraciousness of a vampire at a 24-hour blood bank, you can usually find her with her two black cats or on Twitter @TheUnicornComi1.

Roxie Voorhees (she/he/they) is a fat, disabled, queer in a tangled threesome of Gag me with a Spoon, Welcome to the Darkside, and Catch me Outside. When she isn’t reading, she is writing, and when she isn’t writing, she is creating something with her hands while binge-watching Buffy, again.

Originally from Central California, he now resides with his service dog, a mastador named Bellatrix, in NE Indiana, where he refuses to use the word pop, is hella progressive, and dreams of a proper taco. They are currently working on their debut novel, BENEATH THE TULE OF THE VALLEY.

Nikki R. Leigh is a queer, forever-90s-kid wallowing in all things horror. When not writing horror fiction and poetry, she can be found creating custom horror-inspired toys, making comics, and hunting vintage paperbacks. She reads her stories to her partner and her cat, one of which gets scared very easily.

Die Booth is from Chester, England and likes making monsters and exploring dark places. When not writing wild lies, he DJs at the city’s best (and only!) goth club. You can read his prize-winning stories in places like LampLight Magazine, Shoreline of Infinity and anthologies from Flame Tree Press and Neon Hemlock, among many others. His collections ‘My Glass is Runn’, ‘365 Lies’ (profits go to the MNDA) and ‘Making Friends (and other fictions)’ and novel ‘Spirit Houses’ are available online and he is currently working on his first horror novella. You can find out more about his writing at http://diebooth.wordpress.com/ or say hi on Twitter @diebooth.

Canadian author Judith Baron's short stories have been published in over fourteen horror anthologies and magazines. She is also a realistic portrait and mixed media artist. Her favorite authors are Margaret Atwood, Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy. She enjoys many k-dramas and is an avid fan of horror movies.

KC Loesener is the creator of The Eve of Darkness trilogy. She is an introvert, a bird lover, and a huge horror fan. Besides writing and being a writing coach, she enjoys a good ghost story. The paranormal, vampires, and werewolves exhilarate her. She loves punk and grunge, and she desperately misses the 90s. Superhero movies and comics are a necessity. DC and Marvel stories have her heart. She enjoys creating complex, multifaceted characters that rise to discover themselves and what they are capable of. She resides with her husband, Wally, who is her greatest supporter.

E.E.W. Christman is a horror and fantasy writer working in the Seattle area. Their work has appeared in a number of anthologies and magazines, including The NoSleep Podcast, Lavender Bones, Limeoncello Magazine, Uncanny Magazine, PULP Magazine, Exploits, American Gothic Horror (Flame Tree Press), Supernatural Horror Stories (Flame Tree Press), It Calls From the Forest Volume 1 (Eerie River) and others. Their full publication history can be found on their website: www.eewchristman.com. They are an active HWA member.

ABOUT THE EDITORS

Nico Bell is the author of Beyond the Creek and Food Fright. She is also the editor of Shiver: A Chilling Horror Anthology. She earned her MFA in Writing from Lindenwood University and has had several short stories published in various outlets such as Burial Day Press and Ghost Orchid Press. Readers can learn more about her and her work by visiting her website www.nicobellfiction.com or checking out her social media on TikTok, Twitter, or Instagram @nicobellfiction.

Sonora Taylor is the author of several novels and short story collections, including Little Paranoias: Stories, Seeing Things, and Without Condition. In 2020, she won the Ladies of Horror Fiction Award for Best Collection (Little Paranoias) and Best Novel (Without Condition). Her work has been published by Cemetery Gates Media, Burial Day Press, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, Sirens Call Publications, and others. She is an active member of the Horror Writers Association and serves on the board of directors of Scares That Care. Her latest short story collection, Someone to Share My Nightmares, is now available. She lives in Arlington, Virginia, with her husband and a rescue dog. Diet Riot: A Fatterpunk Anthology is her first anthology.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Nico: Thank you to Chris and Charlie who always supply me with a wealth of support and encouragement.

Sonora: Thanks to my husband Will, an endless source of love and support.

Nico and Sonora: Thanks to Tori Celeste for illustrating the amazing cover. Thanks to Tiffany Michelle Brown for laying out the ebook and paperback.

Thank you to everyone who submitted to our call–there were so many great stories! We hope that you’ll continue writing stories with fat protagonists. We need more in horror and in general.

Thanks to all the contributors to this anthology for their amazing work.

Above all, thank you to the readers who have taken the time to check out this anthology. We hope you enjoyed it!

Table of Contents

- INTRODUCTION
- CINDERELLA AND HER DEMON GODMOTHER
- A CURIOUS GARDEN
- BLUE HAIR
- THE LAKE HOUSE
- NEON AFTERGLOW
- WATERFALL
- THE RED DOTS IN THE WINDOW
- FLUFFERS
- LIKE A THIEF IN THE NIGHT
- CORPULENCE
- THE FLOOR IS LAVA
- EASY BAKE
- CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS
- ABOUT THE CONTRIBUTORS
- ABOUT THE EDITORS
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS