The Monster
CORRIE HALDANE
Mother’s voice forever echoes in my head: When I was your age, I’d already caused eight psychotic breaks and scared three people to death. You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
She never lets me forget she was first in her class at Spooky School, or that she broke every record in the Scare-O-Lympics.
That she’s the best.
I study my reflection in the bathroom mirror, try for a Frightening Face. Fail miserably. Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a Monster.
You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
“You can do this,” I tell my reflection. “Don’t let Mother down. Not this time.”
I melt into the floor, then worm my way through the house. When I reach The Boy’s room, I ooze through a crack in the floorboards and re-form beneath his bed.
Then I wait for him to turn out the light.
The Man stomps into the room, growls, “I told you to get some sleep. You’ve got tryouts tomorrow… Don’t embarrass me. I was state champ three years running. Being the best isn’t optional in this family.”
He flips off the light and exits without even saying goodnight, leaving The Boy alone in the dark.
With me.
The Boy sniffles back tears. My own eyes prickle in sympathy.
You’re an embarrassment, Gary.
They’re Mother’s words, but I hear them spoken in The Man’s voice.
Fire ignites in my chest. A monstrous rage blooms at last. I slip into the floor, creep towards The Man’s room.
Mother will be so proud.
Corrie finds inspiration in nature, bubble baths, and carefully curated playlists. Find her online: www.corriehaldane.com.
Strong Minds Discuss Ideas, Average Minds Discuss Events, and Weak Minds Discuss People
Rachel Rodman
After the Symposium, we recline on the balcony in our togas. Below us, in the shopping district, Athens’ lesser inhabitants bustle. They exchange gossip and sports statistics. They take satisfaction in things.
What limited brains!
What limited lives!
“Weak,” we spit.
“Average,” we sneer.
Our analysis is, however, only preliminary; with our strong minds, we rigorously extend it. Our ideas are immense and intricate, provocative and paradigm-defying, and we are confident that they comprise the rudiments of a new theory.
But our standards our high (we are great philosophers, after all) and we recognize that our work remains at an early stage. Additional—and exquisitely specific—proofs of these contemptible individuals’ behavioral inferiority will be essential in refining it.
See her, doing that?
(Remember her?)
See him, wearing that?
Is he actually wearing that?
We discuss.
Rachel Rodman is the author of three collections of short fiction.
A Story Entirely Inoffensive
KARL EL-KOURA
A person walks down the street. I do not say that they are the protagonist of this story, for why should one person be any more important than any other? I give this non-protagonist (which is not to say there is anything wrong with protagonists) no name, and I do not wish to describe what they look like. I do not say they look like anything in particular.
I say only that this person walks down the street. They arrive at the end of the street and turn in a particular direction. I do not wish to say which direction. The less said, the fewer offended, am I right? Or am I left? I do not say one word should be used over the other.
This walking person (I do not say walking is superior to driving or rollerblading or any other form of transportation, simply that in this particular case the person walked), this walking person arrived a short or a long time later at their destination, which I do not wish to state. This person, as I say, arrived at their destination, and this person was happy to do so. I do not say happiness is better than joy, or even more desirable than a quiet contentment; only that this particular person, who happened to be walking in particular, was happy to arrive at their particular destination.
Karl El-Koura works a regular job by day while writing fiction at night.
Leave-taking
E. FLORIAN GLUDOVACZ
“Where do you think you are going, pray tell?” asked Puck peevishly.
“I’m done and I’m leaving the fairy mound,” the young elf replied.
“You can’t leave! You’re an elf and you belong here, in the world of fairies!”
“I’m done dancing, singing, and cavorting! And I hate magic, too! I don’t want to participate in your antics any longer and there’s nothing you can do about it!”she snapped pugnaciously.
“But, what are you going to do? Where will you go?”
“I will make something of myself! I’ll live in the human world and I’m going to be a barista!
This month...
Contributions from...
E. Florian Gludovacz, Karl El-Koura, Rachel Rodman, Corrie Haldane, E.J. LeRoy, Lee Hammerschmidt, John Grey, Leah Mueller, Asher Bomse, Chris Clemens, Jay Castello, Mike Murphy, Grigory Lukin, Nicholas De Marino, Ken Kakareka, Teesta Roychoudhury, Megan Diedericks, Ben Daggers, Moira Richardson, Cathy de Buitleir, Alethea Paul, Adrienne Rex, Graeme Dixon, Brett Abrahamsen, Karama Neal, Gabrielle Bleu, Mike A. Rhodes, Pamela Love, LindaAnn LoSchiavo, Natalia Plos, Jaina Cipriano
Cover art
featuring photograph from Rolle Pass, Italy by Damiano Baschiera (2018)
PDF and EPUB zines of March’s stories available exclusively to paid subscribers:
Power Prayer
JAINA CIPRIANO
Constants and darkness
T.M. BOONE
You got drunk last night when I took you out for your birthday. It was just you and me out for a drink until you took up talking pilsners with the bartender and ordered pints until pissed.
“Did you know gravity propagates at the speed of light?” you blurted on the drive home. “The constant! The universal speed limit!”
I thought we were more Newtonian. Equals and opposites.
“If the sun disappeared right now, we wouldn’t stop orbiting it for eight some-odd minutes, until everything goes dark.”
Your talk of constants and darkness reminded me of Joni Mitchell, the song you sang in the shower the morning after we first slept together. I reached the second verse in my head before I realized you were still talking.
“Always thought we’d fly off on a tangent line.”
“If something followed a star around for years after the light went out,” I interrupted, “how far apart would that make them?”
“Not sure the example is sound, but light-years, I suppose.”
In bed, you snored the way you always do when you drink too much.
Downstairs before dawn, today, the bathroom mirror reflects the gravity of heavy years: striations across my surface, bulges at the equator, dark rings under the orbits of eyes; while upstairs, the corporeal impression stamped on my side of the mattress performs a bittersweet progression of simple harmonic motion, calculating the residual weight of the forgotten body to derive the exact moment you will know I am gone.
Law and Order: Violent Mimes Unit
BEN DAGGERS
The last thing Laurent Laureaux remembered from the annual Mime Association Gala was a chalky taste in his virgin piña colada. He awoke from the blackout in full costume and makeup with a pounding headache, a sweat-soaked pillow, and a dead stripper in his hotel room.
Now, an hour later, a homicide detective towered above him in the interrogation room.
“You killed her, didn’t you?”
Laurent shook his head.
“Not much of a talker, eh?” The cop glared at the outline of a teardrop on Laurent’s cheek. “And that sob story isn’t fooling anyone, sicko. Tell me what happened.”
Pierre Petit was behind this, no doubt. Laurent would’ve gladly grassed up his jealous mime nemesis, but artistic integrity wouldn’t allow him to make so much as a peep. Trapped, Laurent instinctively pushed his palms against the side of the invisible box.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” The detective cracked his knuckles on the desk. “Are you saying you were trying to cop a feel?”
Laurent leaned against an imaginary pillar while he considered his next move. This Philistine was clearly ignorant of the subtleties of the Decroux school of miming. Laurent descended a non-existent staircase as he prepared to stoop to a more literal level.
The policeman pounced on him. “Trying to make a run for it, are we? This looks like an open and shut case. You’re under arrest for murder.”
The cop paused for dramatic effect. “You have the right to remain silent.”