Hold On Loosely by Len Kuntz
I would feel them at first, their dangerous vibrations like earth in the throes of aftershocks.
Then came other clues: the box springs snapping, making butcher block chops; floor posts screeching; his girlfriend mewling like a pet store pup.
I imagined love as a fantastic collision, car crashes and concussive head-butting.
It left me confounded and insane.
Often, I’d tiptoe across the black air that separated our basement bedrooms. I’d kneel in front of the door and peer through its slits or the skull-shaped key hole, even though I knew there’d only be a smear of shadows on the other side.
I pictured the busting-up of clouds, sledgehammer through a TV, a fly ball whisking like a sore planet, uncatchable and ugly to those who didn’t know better.
I held my breath and counted for as long as it took.
I pressed my ear.
The silence was deep gusts. Our parents had taken us to the Grand Canyon that summer. The winds there sounded ancient and moody, different from gulley to gulley. The sand had a nicking, razor kiss. Light fell in frail sheets that could not be trusted.
Afterward, she’d say she loved him.
My brother would admit the same.
She’d say, “You don’t get it. I really do. This is forever.”
And to prove it, they’d start again.
Now, all these years later, my brother reaches across the space between our two stools. He places his hot palm on my shoulder, giving me a soft pat.
“Most of my friends are divorced,” he says, “and they’ve all made a new way for themselves.”
I watch the bartender change a tap, efficient and sure, a marksman disassembling a rifle. The beer sign throws a cobalt bruise across his face.
“Remember that girlfriend you had,” I ask, “Wanda something?”
My brother pulls his hand back. His stool strains as he swivels. “Wanda?”
“Thick black hair? Real serious and motivated, but pretty?”
My brother flicks his eyes over mine. “What in the world?”
“I liked her.”
I drain my drink, notice there’s no burn anymore, and hold up the empty until the bartender nods.
My brother does the same, but chinks the glass with his wedding band.
The jukebox kicks on. Waylon. Someone hoots. My brother and I turn in unison. The guy on the floor has a woman by the hips and they’re both holding on tight, moving in stiff sways to the rhythm.
My brother shakes his head. His eyes go flat and glassy, wide open like a lake. He doesn’t say anything. I watch his mouth sort through tumult, his lips needing to smile but knowing better.
Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State with his wife, son, an eagle and three pesky beavers. His writing appears widely in print and online at such places as Staccatto Fiction, Rumble, Juked and also lenkuntz.blogspot.com
An Excerpt from When October Falls by Christopher J. Dwyer
You held my hands with the grip of an angel. Kisses were as soft as the summer wind, your whispers floating into my mind like small droplets of pink rain. Every passing second behind us, you pressed your chin against mine and parted your lips, wide enough that our souls could dance in the fading sunlight. You once told me that rainbows were ladders to the world beyond our own, that anyone could walk far enough to see things that most wouldn’t believe existed.
I kissed your forehead and pulled a small velvet box from my coat pocket. I let the metal and diamonds inside steam for a minute, my heart racing through my chest like a thousand wild horses. Looking to the sky, I quietly repeated your name until it was tattooed on the edge of my lips.
I asked you a question and you didn’t say a word, only smiled and wrapped your arms around me. I could feel the hot sting of your tears on the back of my neck, each droplet of salt and water pelting my skin like rain from heaven.
“The road only starts here,” you said.
We kissed for what felt like days, maybe weeks. Stars invaded the night sky and exploded in single pops of glitter and light. I wrapped a blanket around us, breaths from our weary lungs rising to the air like murmurs from a ghost.
You put your head on my shoulder and told me we’d live forever.
We’d live forever.
Last Angel in Underland by DB Cox
When the word came that God had given up and abandoned His failed creation, a murmur spread through the city until it grew into one deafening noise. But over time, numbness set in and the cries died away. The bewildered citizens, feeling a need for diversion, went back about their daily routines. There would be no Second Coming. No judgment. No afterlife. No paradise.
_____
At the edge of town, where the outbound ends, a shadow dressed in rain walks along an empty, late-night sidewalk. When he reaches the traffic light at the corner, he crosses the street and descends a long flight of stairs. At the bottom, there’s a crumbling walkway. Steam rises from cracks in the concrete, streams of heat flowing beneath the street. The soaked traveler walks to a large break in the pavement, sits down and lowers his body through.
Below the street, in the forgotten reaches of the subway system is Underland—a shantytown inhabited by a population of winos, drug addicts, maniac drifters, early releases from mental hospitals, and a few outsiders who just can’t confront life above ground. They exist apart from the machine—renegades, who belong nowhere. No world. No way of life. No particular time or place.
Adrian lives here. His beard is white, and his matching mane of hair falls down his back like a small avalanche. He’s in from the storm after another day of hovering on street corners, whispering hopeful words into the ears of a thousand fearful souls. He is relieved to be away from the chaotic thoughts of the forsaken. Read more…
Her Bedside Manner by Tim Beverstock
He sits across the bed from me, long fingers distracted by a cigarette, face flushed with a sombre expression. Nothing has been said by him in the ten minutes since we finished. When he does speak it’s less than six words.
“I’m going to tell her.”
My eyes are avoided when he looks at me.
“Are you referring to what we have been doing?”
He doesn’t answer.
Sighing, I lie back and watch dusk descend over the city through the apartment skylight. I know we are one of many couples who will be doing this in the city tonight.
“I think I’m in love with her.”
His arms are pulled into his chest, like he’s protecting a secret from the world’s judgement.
“Would you say this has been a recent development?”
“It’s been building for a while.”
“And this is something you have been avoiding telling me?”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
A breeze from the air conditioner washes over us in waves. It plucks his cigarette smoke up pushes it round the room.
“Do you think an error of judgement was made by us doing this?”
“This doesn’t feel like a mistake.”
“And your feelings have been given lots of thought?”
“Way too much.”
He drags on the cigarette, inclining his head towards the skylight as he exhales. Another minute passes then I ask “Is there something else you have been keeping from me?”
“I think she’s cheating.”
His eyes are clouded through the cigarette haze.
“What signs have you been given this might be happening?”
“The sex feels different.”
“Would you think this can be explained by something else?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Has she given you any indications who it might be?”
“It’s someone close.”
“Is this the reason you have been holding off telling her about your feelings?”
When he doesn’t answer, I continue “Have you considered you could lose her to the other person, if she feels she is being threatened by your honesty?”
My eyes are met for the first time.
“I’ll take that risk.”
I look at my watch.
“Here will be a good place to end on. I think this has been a productive session.”
Marc watches me dress. I am halfway to the door when he says “I’ll know after Saturday.”
Hangover Cure By Bob Pastorella
Gritty eyelids, left eye won’t open at all. He thinks, am I home? Bryce grabs his glasses. Everything looks familiar. Massive headache erupts when he moves. Gimping to the bathroom, he pisses for ten minutes. Cuervo Gold and Captain Morgan mist the rim.
Ice cold water, down the hatch. Drinking naked in the kitchen, he drains the glass and goes back to bed. It’s 8:30 am. Hangover in full gear.
10:45 am. The puny mutt next door is barking like he’s on fire. Bryce wakes up, wishes the dog dead. Barking confirms God’s not listening to him right now. Wishes again. The Devil is out to lunch. He grabs some boxers and hits the shower. Turns the cold water off and drowns his head in steam to clear his nose. Dried off and hungry. Lunch is chicken strips and tator tots floating in ketchup. The ketchup looks like blood but he keeps gnoshing. Not the best, but hits the spot. Damn dog is still barking.
Headache settles, thud thud, thud thud. Along with the barking dog, it makes a song in his head. Yike york, thud thud, yark yark, thud thud.
Not adding. Feels like stalking. Bryce updates his Facebook with links to his stories online for friend Christina, Christina number 2. The Christina number 1 lives in Houston, unhappily married. Bryce wonders when he’ll see her in porn. She’s a swinger and the only one he’s ever loved. Christina number 3 is a hard nut to crack, but that red hair and nice butt, definitely worth the wait.
Roommate busts in. Time to collect his share, head to the bank and get some groceries. Bryce follows a hot Milf around at store trying to see if he knows her. The rock on her finger tells him no, but he wants to know her. Casual basket bump, she looks up and smiles. She likes to play. Maybe one day.
There’s bleach in the kitchen. He loves dogs, has one of his own. Diablo stays at Moms. Diablo is smaller than Fluffy next door. Diablo can kill Fluffy just for being cute. A piece of ham soaked in bleach equals no more barking. Bryce turns out the light in his room, gathers the trash bag in the kitchen, and hauls the half-filled bag to the dumpster. Fluffy pokes her head out from under the fence. Barking loudly now. That little spot where she’s dug the ground out to poke under the fence would be perfect to place the ham.
Bryce loves dogs.
Bark again.
Bob Pastorella live in Southeast Texas. He’s published with Troubadour21, Outsider Writers Collective, Thunderdome, and his short story “To Watch Is Madness” is featured in The Zombist: Undead Western Tales. He is currently working on a Vampire/Noir Novel.
Reborn?
Damn it’s dusty in here. We’re shaking out the cobwebs. Nefarious Muse is back. Got something damn good? Hit up the About section and we’ll get this party underway.
Trinity by DB Cox
Trinity
—the Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost
Someone is crying-a lonely sound off in the distance, insistent, and
impossible to ignore. It’s coming from somewhere near the tree line, just
beyond the perimeter wire. Why doesn’t someone go out and check on this guy?
Where’s the medic?
Scared shitless, he tries to get out of his foxhole and investigate, but he
feels as if he’s strapped down, powerless to move. He concentrates with all
of his might, trying to make a connection between his brain and useless
limbs, but it’s impossible. The harder he tries, the more frantic he
becomes.
_____
When Harris comes awake, it happens all at once, as if someone has just
thrown open a door. Sweat pours freely into his eyes and his breath comes in
ragged gasps. The fragments of who he is, and where he is, slowly drift into
place. He turns over on his side to check the time. The red digits on the
clock show 6:00. It’s just beginning to get light out. He slides his legs
over the side of the bed, sits up, and feels around on the bedside table for
his cigarettes and lighter. After fumbling with the lighter, he manages to
get one lit and takes his first drag of the day.
For the third time this week, he’s had this same crazy dream-followed by the
feeling that someone has arrived just in time to save his ass from some
unnamed evil. He considers calling his doctor to ask about cutting back on
some of the drugs, but he knows he’ll get the same old ration of shit. “Mr.
Stone, if you stop taking the medication, you’re going to end up right back
in the hospital-blah, blah, nada, nada…”
“So fucking what”, Harris grumbles, “I could use the rest.”
New Print Work by Chris Deal
Chris Deal has a new collection of flash fiction available from Brown Paper Publishing.
‘Prose haikus, fiction bullets, one-sentence novels, two fingers of story neat, no chaser . . . I don’t know what to call these, really. But I want more.’ –Stephen Graham Jones, author of Demon Theory and Ledfeather
A free PDF version is available as well.
Purchase Cienfuegos here. (goes to PDF and Amazon link.)
All had Been Reclaimed Now by Ryan Sayles
They were reduced to eating each other.
By the waning light of what was left of their dinner fire they absently fed themselves, eyes scanning the surroundings. Shadows could no longer be trusted. The sun was setting and they were on the beach.
The lifeless ocean still made its susurration in the background; but now it was devoid of that white noise no one could ever quite put their finger on that made it sound vital. That made the ocean sound alive. The Earth had been put to an end.
There were only two of them now; whittled down from a larger mass composed of strangers mashed together by the cataclysm. One man. One woman. Their own reverse Adam and Eve. Peering about without real concern. An end was inevitable; only the degree of violence in which it swooped in was in question. There was no life left in their eyes. They were tapped out. Weary. Ruined. In many ways feral.
He took in their scenery and felt agony for what was lost. It was worse knowing what was lost cannot be recouped.
She took in their scenery out of honest curiosity. Oblivious. The shock of their reality turning inside out had erased her.
“Look at how the buildings took the wave’s impact.” She said, nodding toward the remaining husks of the city’s former skyline. Little more existed on the horizon than shattered concrete clinging to warped rebar and I-beams bent so far out of true it was comical. They were all bent westward. The direction in which the Atlantic rose up and kicked. An aquatic titan large enough to bowl over mankind.
Even at this distance he could see petrified tangles of long-dead seaweed dangling from the buildings. It took months for the ocean to recede and unveil the ruined coast again.
New Print Work from NM Writers
Eternal Night: A Vampire Anthology
Blood, fangs, darkness and terror…these are the calling cards of the vampire mythos. Inside this tome are stories that embrace vampire history but seek to introduce a new literary spin on this longstanding fictional monster. Follow a dark journey through cigarette-smoking creatures hunted by rogue angels, vampires that feed off of thoughts instead of blood, immortals presenting the fantastic in a local rock band, to a legendary monster on the far reaches of town. Forget what you know about vampires; this anthology will destroy historical mythos and embrace incredible new twists on this celebrated, fictional character. Welcome to a world of the undead, welcome to the world of Eternal Night.
Featuring stories from Nefarious Muse authors:
Chris Deal
Christopher Dwyer
Nik Korpon
Caleb Ross
Richard Thomas
Buy at Amazon.com
