Issue 97 October 2021

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Editorial: The Darkness Inside

by Wendy Nikel

October 1, 2021

There’s something about these days of autumn in the northern hemisphere, with their chilling breezes and lengthening shadows, that makes one’s mind linger on the strange, the eerie, and the macabre. As our bodies seek our warm, winter shelters and our mugs of pumpkin-spiced lattes, our minds wander to what might be out there, lurking just beyond our view.


But sometimes, what’s even more frightening and peculiar is the darkness that lurks in the more familiar things. The things we’ve grown accustomed to. The things that don’t initially seem frightening… until we take a hard look inside.


Our flash fiction stories this month explore that darkness that lurks inside things that initially seem harmless: A girl. A cottage. An unmarked bottle in the fridge. They challenge us to grapple with our initial perceptions and the question of what’s right and what’s wrong. They dare us to look inside ourselves and face what we might find there.

Struggle along with a young woman of two minds in Sarah Pauling’s “Litany in the Heart of Exorcism” (Oct 1). Creep up on tiptoe to peer in the glowing cottage windows of “Like a Sunday House” by Linda Niehoff (Oct 8). Join the argument posed by Aimee Picchi’s “AITA for Using My Side Hustle to Help My Boyfriend Escape the Clutches of Death?” (Oct 15). And delve into the darkness of grief and sorrow with “Like Feather, Like Bone” by Kristi DeMeester (Oct 22).

These four short-short stories, ranging in tone from the horrific to the humorous, are sure to pull you in and refuse to let go.

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Litany in the Heart of Exorcism

by Sarah Pauling

October 1, 2021

Do you understand?

On your skin, do you feel the white sand the priests threw in fistfuls from the blessing-basin? Do you feel it crusting over your eyelids? It sticks between your cheek and the temple floor like a binding. It powders the sigils on the stone.

Do you understand what’s happening to us? Songs, prayers, incense. That awful boy—barely old enough to call a man—praying. His mother, weeping.

They want to take you away from me. To drive the demon out.

I hold your body close to mine, the white grit on my forehead grinding against the grit on yours. I hook my nails into your naked back. I try—not for the first time—to draw blood.

Do you feel it?

You must. You cry out; bury your face in my breast.

Shh, now. Use me as your anchor. I protect what’s mine.

The priests don’t see our bodies as they really are: entwined, limb-to-limb, tight as knots in ship’s rope. Educated men, men of lofty purpose, they see only what they expect to see. They see only one body in the purification circle—one writhing woman, alone, caked with sand, thin wrists like bird bones ripe for breaking.

Wrists gentle enough to ink copies of every ocean map found in every book in the city library, if only educated men like these would let us. Wrists you’ll agree are too weak to hold up wedding bracelets of cold ivory.

That’s why we’re together, remember? Why I bound you to me. Better than that stupid boy.

Devils are not women, but I like to think we understand each other. To be blamed, cast out, suspected. Or worse: held down. Kept. Tied.

To frighten and be frightened, at times in equal measure. No fear without fear.

Shh, now.

Does the priests’ singing hurt you? Does it clatter like a breaking bell in the back of your mind? Does it make you want to leave me?

Poor thing. Don’t think of it. Think of stealing away from the engagement feast, leaving his mother’s house—shucking our dress, all alone, the wind running through our bare thighs on the southern plateau. Think of commanding strawberries to be overripe and letting the juices run down our chin. Think of pilfering books and pulling out the pages—swallowing sailors’ maps and knowing where new continents lie. I’ve given you the world of men.

You’re shivering. Is joy not enough for you? Coward.

Fine. Fear. Think of the way we drained, together, the color from that stupid boy’s dreams until all he could see was gray rocks at the bottom of ravines. Think of catching his mother’s wrist before her palm hit our cheek. Think of her face when she saw the tar seep from our eyes. Think of the fear.

Isn’t that what your kind want? Why you’ve let us bind you, ritual after ritual, centuries down and down? I gave you fear. I gave you power over fear. Don’t you feed on it?

Better devil-deals than marriage contracts. We are stronger now than we were alone.

Their tricks won’t work. Don’t watch the sand gather on the lines of the temple sigils like iron nails to lodestones. Don’t track the map the sigils form. A compass rose—northeast, northwest—

No. Look at me. Sailors navigate by starlight; you can navigate by me.

Don’t you understand? Their power can be broken.

If you want me badly enough.

Stop crying. I want you. I reached for you across the great divide. I upheld my end of our bargain. I became your foothold in this world, and you won’t fight for me?

That blasted singing. Wrenching like an arrow from a breast, lover from lover, mother from—

No! Don’t let go! You hideous little ghoul, fight for me! Take me with you!

Please, take me—we’ll ride the rivers of the netherworld and cross the cosmos together. I’ve always wanted to be a sailor. Long before I summoned you, flaying fish in the creek behind the boy’s house to draw you to me. Before I was engaged.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve watched sailors dock at port and leave again. They chase continents. They get to leave.

Don’t go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I don’t know why I said those things.

I’m sorry. Cruelty spills out of me, sometimes, like an estuary—like a river to the sea.

I’m afraid.

I caress the tender space between your ear and your jaw—or I try. Nothing’s there. My fingers brush my own skin instead.

Your absence collapses me like a punctured lung.

The singing stops. The boy’s mother scrambles into the circle. She pulls me to my knees and embraces me tight enough to suffocate. Tighter than love would call for. A warning, then. A fear.

Her son presses his ugly face to the temple floor, shoulders slack with relief that you are gone—more relieved for himself than for me. Eager for the return of colorful dreams.

He holds my wedding bracelets like a pact. Like a contract.

Briny tears trace mud-routes down my face. They land on my wrists and draw seaways there.

The sand on the floor forms a compass, leading you to oceans I don’t know how to sail.

I’ll learn. I’ll ink a thousand maps and maybe, in another place, my faults and fears will be forgiven.

Saltwater sticks to my lips: a sharp taste that evaporates, cold.

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Like a Sunday House

by Linda Niehoff

October 8, 2021

Seventy-seven steps from the back door of our house up to the little house. I’ve counted it enough times. Two hundred and forty-one if I walk all the way around it, letting the coke bottle sweat in my hand until Mama hollers out the window, “You get that Coke in there right now.”

She don’t holler it anymore. Not since winter. She don’t tell me to take a Coke bottle up or even a handful of buttercups plucked from the ditch. Now Mama says to don’t go in there at all. Now she says, “I catch you up there or even so much as see your hand on that knob, I’ll whip it.”

The boys won’t even go in. We dare each other when Mama isn’t looking. I never wanted to go in before, but sometimes it glows on the inside. Mama says it’s just the low summer light playing tricks against the grimy glass. I don’t think so. I think it’s coming from the inside not the out.

I slide off the tire swing; it ghost-rocks side to side. And I consider. Maybe I’ll go up tonight. Maybe I’ll go up now.

Cottonwood petals are raining down a fluffy snow. Mama’s cooking hamburger. I can smell it from here. See her just inside the back door.

I take a step, and she don’t see it. So I take another.

In town there are Sunday houses for church and for visiting. They’re small one rooms, tiny things, but they look just like a house. This one’s like that, but it’s for every day.

Mama said it was from the olden days for when somebody got sick. That way, not everybody in the main house would get it, too. But then it just became another bedroom.

It’s got gray speckled shingles and a door of splintered turquoise, faded from the light and the wind. A rose bush clings to the side and the grass has grown up long around it, except for the dirt patch that’s still there. A rusted chain lies unattached to anything anymore. That old dog is long since gone. An old pie tin that once held his food is now half buried in the dirt.

I’ve taken more steps toward it without even counting.

Back behind me they’re watching. Watching to see if I’m brave enough to go in. Mama’s still frying and humming in the kitchen, but the boys are watching. The blue flicker of the TV flashes like lightning in the living room. If I turn around, they won’t be watching it. I’ll see two shadow heads looking out at me. Looking to see if I’m brave enough to do what they can’t.

And if I can, they’ll gather around me later in the side yard by the hollyhocks where the little steps go down to the creek. They’ll whisper ask what’s inside and I’ll whisper tell. And the barred owls will hoot and the jack-in-the-pulpits will listen, and we’ll hope Mama don’t catch us.

A woman lived in there that didn’t look much like a woman. Mama called her Mama. I didn’t call her anything at all. She looked more like an old apple set too long on a window sill. Its skin caving in on itself. Its saggy mouth toothless. Only a few bits of hair on her head like half blown away dandelion fluffs. Too many wishes gone. I’d just set that coke bottle down, say, “Here,” and run back out as fast as I could. That old woman went in, and I never did see her come back out.

Inside was cluttered. Dresser with old things on it. A chair covered in books and paper and clothes. A doll shoved in a corner, blank dead eyes staring back. I used to want to play with it, but I’d have to go past that old woman in the bed. Maybe I could get it now. Get it before the hamburger is done cooking.

I still see Mama in the kitchen through the backdoor window. I see Papa’s truck still isn’t home so there’s time. And I see in the blue lightning room those boys, their shadow heads watching me, and I turn the handle.

The room smells sour, like mossy things. Like the mud in the creek banks. Like the sweat of things. I see that doll in the corner staring back at me. And I see something dark and shrunken in the bed not moving at all. Still has half the dandelion wishes on her head.

I look back down to the house just in time to see Mama in the window stop her frying, the hot spatula hovering over the pan, and look up at me. Her face goes still. The spatula clatters to the floor.

Later I ask Mama why when she whips my hand good for going in. She don’t answer. When she’s done crying, she crushes up aspirin and gums it and takes to bed for the night. Leaves the hamburger hissing and burning, blue smoke rising up on the stove.

Papa gathers me up when he gets home. He keeps a dishtowel full of ice on my hand, and we set out on the back concrete slab by the tire swing. Looking up at the little house and how here in the last of the light, it looks to be glowing again. Mama says it’s just the low light but I don’t think it is. I don’t.

We watch as the summer sun settles down across the pasture and the bugs get up, looking fine like floating bits of golden dust. I ask him why, too. He says Mama just can’t face it yet. Not today.

But maybe tomorrow she will. Maybe then.

BEHIND THE SCENES with author Linda Niehoff

I write October stories. I’ve tried other kinds. But I’m fascinated by death. As a Christian, I have my own belief and hope about what happens when we die, but it’s still a great and terrible mystery. How someone can be right beside us one moment and completely gone the next. I will never not be fascinated and overwhelmed by that fact. I find it incredibly spooky, and I love being spooked. But I’m also a hopeless nostalgist… 

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AITA for Using My Side Hustle to Help My Boyfriend Escape the Clutches of Death?

by Aimee Picchi

October 15, 2021

Posted by u/DeathBecomesHer one week ago

I (29F) have a side hustle, selling a 100% herbal restorative that I operate through word of mouth. I ONLY accept pets — despairing owners bring ailing Mittens or Rover to my backdoor when traditional veterinary science can do no more, and one thousand dollars and a dose later, the pet is as good as new.

Anyway, I often experiment to improve the restorative. I left one of these experiments on the counter instead of my basement lab, and my BF (30M) apparently believed it was a craft cocktail. I found him sprawled on the floor with the bottle clutched in his hand. For some context, I’m totally in love with this guy — he’s kind, funny and chill. We met at our jobs at a biofuels company, and we share the same values: green energy, composting, and organics all the way.

I poured a triple dose of my tried-and-true restorative down his throat, and BOOM! He was alive again (and by alive, I mean “undead”) within a minute. But afterward he wasn’t chill or funny. He said I was an asshole for performing “necromancy” on him without his permission. I explained it’s science, not magic, but he said that wasn’t the point. He said he needs space and is moving out, and all our friends took his side.

Am I the asshole because I didn’t leave him to die?

EDIT: I forgot to mention “as good as new” means the pets are reanimated. Some may experience personality changes after returning from the edge of death. They also don’t need to eat or drink (because they are technically undead, their biological functions shut down. But as I tell my clients, the upside is no vet, pet food or kitty litter expenses!)

EDIT: BTW, my boyfriend and I had discussed end of life measures — he often installed solar panels on rooftops, and there’s a high accident rate. He told me to try whatever I could to save him. It wasn’t as if I didn’t have justification for giving him the restorative!

EDIT: Some of you have asked how my boyfriend is now. He’s fine, I guess, as far as I know. He texted me he sees the world differently as an undead person. Humans consume too much, he says, and he believes the answer to climate change is to use my restorative to turn humanity undead.

2.6k comments | TOP COMMENTS

DogLovr67 one week ago

YTA. You revived my Bartlett and took my money. I’ve tried getting in touch for a refund. Bartlett sits at the back window, staring as if waiting for someone. A new owner? Death? Who knows? He doesn’t eat, doesn’t fetch. Just mopes. Your customer service sucks and your BF is right: You’re the asshole.

DeathBecomesHer one week ago

OP here. I remember you and Bartlett and wow, I really thought you’d be more thankful. When I warned my restorative could change a pet’s personality, you complained he was hyperactive before. And I said there are no refunds!

WightMakesRight one week ago

You’re the asshole. Plus, your boyfriend has a lot of good points, as a totally objective reader of this thread. The undead are carbon neutral. Not that I’m undead or anything. Or your boyfriend. 100% human, non-boyfriend here.

ObviousAnsrs five days ago

Everyone sucks here. Your boyfriend drank something without asking what it was and is now advocating the end of humanity. BTW, I’m getting online ads for a group called Ahead with the Undead promoting some sort of “post-life” future. Is this related to your boyfriend? It looks kind of interesting, actually.

DeathBecomesHer four days ago

UPDATE: OP here. A little bit of a twist since my last update. My boyfriend (now my ex-boyfriend) stole my restorative. He also convinced some social media influencers to try the “post-death” challenge of taking the restorative — it transforms healthy people into the undead in one dose! (I’d never tried it on healthy animals or people, so this came as a surprise.) To answer ObviousAnsrs, yes, they are running Facebook ads about humanity’s harm to the planet. (I mean — true, but surely turning everyone into the undead isn’t the solution?!)

AverageUser17 Four days ago

There are reports of undead gangs roaming the streets and proselytizing the undead lifestyle. If you encounter these groups, do not engage.

WightMakesRight three days ago

Maybe your ex-boyfriend would forgive you if you joined him in his new post-life mission.

AverageUser17 three days ago

Please contact your local FBI office, DeathBecomesHer. Whatever you do, do not get back in contact with your boyfriend.

DeathBecomesHer two days ago

UPDATE: I don’t want to be the asshole who unleashed an undead revolution. So I decided to swipe back my restorative. (Okay, I’m not proud I jimmied the door to my ex-boyfriend’s new apartment, but the end justifies the means.)When I snatched the restorative from his kitchen, I noticed there was no power in his apartment. Basically, he had zero energy consumption! As I was marvelling over that, my ex returned. It was awkward AF but I was relieved he was doing okay. Not the same, of course — he’s totally serious now. He mentioned his carbon footprint is now zero. Look, I know I shouldn’t focus on that, but … I mean, I can’t not think about it. Anyway, I left with the restorative hidden in my tote bag, so clearly I’m not the asshole, right?

AverageUser17 one day ago

Please remain at your home. Federal agents will be there soon to escort you and your restorative to safety.

DeathBecomesHer one day ago

UPDATE: You’ll all be glad to hear I had a heart-to-heart with my boyfriend (no longer my ex-boyfriend!). I can see now I was a little bit of an asshole. My sin: Loving too much! It turns out I can give up life, but not him. If you want to follow our undead carbon-neutral lifestyle — and snaps of our sweet doggo Bartlett — check out our blog: AheadWithTheUndead.com.

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Like Feather, Like Bone

by Kristi DeMeester

October 22, 2021

The little girl is under my porch eating a bird. Her hair is matted. She did not bother to push it back before she began, and blood has clotted against the white strands. I try to ignore her, but she is crunching its bones, and the sound is like the ground cracking open.

I creep under the porch, squat near her, but not too near. She still has her milk teeth, and they are sharp, a tiny row of pointed knives. Small feathers cling to her heart-shaped face.

“You shouldn’t do that, sweetheart. It isn’t good for you,” I say.

“I want wings. Wings the color of the sky,” she says and slurps at the bird’s eyes.

“What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Momma said I don’t have one. But your name is Caitlin.”

“How do you know my name?” I say, but the little girl shakes her head.

“It’s a secret,” she says and licks her hands, her small pink tongue darting in and out of the spaces between her fingers where the blood has dripped.

I feel I should take her inside; put her in a hot bath, wrap her in the thickest, fluffiest towel I can find, but it’s her mouth that keeps me from taking her in my arms and carrying her into the house. She gobbles down a slimy string of meat, and I look away.

“Where’s your Momma?”

“Under the water, under the water,” she says, and her voice lilts up and down as if reciting a nursery rhyme. My skin blossoms into goose flesh despite the warmth of the late September afternoon.

“She went under the water. Like your Jacob. The sky doesn’t go in the water. I want to be like the sky.”

I haven’t said his name in six months. Not since Colin left.

I pretended to listen as he spoke. “I’m sick of your fucking judgment, Caitlin. Like losing him didn’t tear me open. Like you’re the only one allowed to mourn. My boy. My baby boy in the goddamn ground, and I kept thinking that it wasn’t right for him to be down there in the dark. He would be scared. Cold. It isn’t right. I can’t do it, Caitlin. I can’t. ” he had said. But I was happy when he left. He didn’t know what it had been like to find Jacob, his eyes glassy, unfocused, his skin blue, his mouth filled with water.

“Jacob,” I say and my mouth is full with the sound of his name. The little girl cocks her head, watches me, her eyes glinting in the shadows.

“Do you want wings, too?”

I think of the heaviness of Jacob’s body when I pulled him from the water, my fingers scrabbling through his hair, dipping inside his mouth as if I could pull the water out of him.

I kneel beside the girl and watch her pluck the feathers from the bird. She gathers them in her hand one by one, and she laughs. It is like music, and I am so tired. I lie down in the dirt. It is cold and damp like the fistful of earth I placed on top of Jacob’s small coffin.

The little girl hums, her voice high and quavering, and arranges the feathers around me. Her fingers are streaked with blood, but I do not care, and she places the feathers in my hair, tests their color against my eyes until she is satisfied. She pats my cheek, and her hands are sticky.

“There. Now you’re like a bird, too,” she says and resumes her song. Her voice is delicate, fragile, a thing I could take in my hands and crush. So much like Jacob’s cold hands, tissue paper skin stretched across bone. So easily breakable.

Something flutters at my feet. A small sparrow hops toward us, its beak opening and closing.

“You’re calling them,” I say, and she snatches the bird, watches it wriggle against her grip before snapping its neck. The sound seems to echo against the slats of the porch, fills up the space. I think of screaming, but if I start I’ll never stop.

She grins, her mouth all teeth and gore, and holds out her hand. The bird is still. I want to take it from her, breathe life back into it, but I remember Jacob, my mouth working to push air into his still lungs.

“Look,” she says and turns, lifts her shirt to expose bare shoulders. “You see? It’s working.”

Dotted against smooth flesh are small bumps, dark specks against pale skin. Tiny feathers beginning to sprout.

Something sharp gnaws at my stomach. I am hungry. So, so hungry, and the girl turns back to me, places the sparrow near my mouth.

“Don’t you want wings?” she says, and her voice is Jacob’s voice. There is a roaring in my gut, an aching screaming to be filled, and I take the bird in my hand, bring it against my lips. It is so small. I do not think it will be enough.

“I can get more,” she says. Behind her, small wings the color of the night sky unfold, flutter for just a moment before settling.

I bare my teeth, press them against warm flesh, tear at the soft feathers. It burns as I swallow. The little girl sits with me, sings her song into the growing night. Beneath my skin, my bones shift, and the dead make room for something new.

Originally published in Shimmer, Issue 17 (2013). Reprinted here by permission of the author.

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