Right place, Wrong time

Man comes home to find his house empty. I mean empty. Nothing, not a scrap of furniture, zip zilch nada. Appliances, curtains, clothes all of it gone. He stands in the middle of his empty living room; right where his Dino Barchetta sofa once sat, and ponders the possibilities.

He assumes robbery. He goes into the kitchen and watches his sink disappear, then the countertops and cupboards. All that's left is the intestinal wreckage of plumbing, and faded black and white linoleum tile. He returns the living room to find his wife sprawled out, nearly naked on the floor, lazing in her stockings and bra. She is smiling at him. He doesn't know what to think. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. His wife laughs at him. He knows now that he too will soon be naked, and that the disappearance of the entire house will soon follow. He doesn't know why he knows this, but he knows that he knows it, like he knows that the wind is at the door ready to blow it open. He looks for a weapon. There are none.

By Shad Daniel Marsh, Asheville writer and poet
http://www.shadmarsh.blogspot.com/

Henry Pike, Know-it-all

Somewhere deep behind her eyes lay the seed of miracle.

I knew it the moment she said she saw Huxley burst into flames. That was two whole weeks before he rammed his Pinto up under a lumber truck and set his ashes floating, red and greasy, toward the radio tower lights.

I know that’s why she took a straightened coat hanger to ‘em, trying to poke little holes in ‘em so they don’t work any more, but I know you can’t bleed out miracles. They’s trapped in the meat, all firm and determined. I know she’s seen me coming to take those eyes from her and maybe she’s seen me eating ‘em and perhaps she’s seen all the things that I’m going to see, but it ain’t gonna do her no good.

I’m sure she’s seen that. I knew it the moment she said she saw crows on my shoulders and that they coveted her sacrificial eyes.

Her momma was a tight jeans gal with her hair puffed up and her ass poked out and I was the orphan of a preacher man and a momma that had gone arcane. Daddy went first, green and knotted, and momma followed two weeks later when the serpents found her wanting. This put the shadows in my eyes and drew her to me like wheat to the scythe.

We holed up at Lake Blackshear just before winter set, back as far as we could get with four goats and a handful of chickens. I give her tea and a pinch of momma’s powder every evening and now that spring is threatening, she’s taken sick and I promise her it’ll be alright, that I’ll take care of her little girl.

Right before sunrise, I’m roused by screams coming from Little One’s room. I run in and she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me, head down and wailing, her fine golden hair slick with red. Her hands are stretched out before her and in the center of each blood puddled palm is the shriveled remains of her magic eyes. I knew she knew.

I take ‘em, still warm, and give ‘em a voracious chewin’. Gagging and shaking I head to the barn to slash a goat at the sunrise, in praise of this mighty gift, no sniveling coat hangers here, no sir, I’m about to see with the eyes of God.

At the door of the barn lay a queer sight. A goat, head twisted and eyeless. My stomach knots and I race the sun across the back yard to the porch. Half way, my knees tackle the dirt and I am seized by wracking spasms and visions. Visions!

The sun sets its glow about the world, a perfect halo, and I see it all. I see an angel sacrificing a goat and stuffing its eyes with ma’s poison powder. I see her offering this to God. I lay on my back, too weak to laugh, and watch the crows circle over head.

By Jason Herring. Herring lives in Asheville and writes it all down.

The Birthday Present by Vanessa Orlando

Every time Annabel caught the seven o'clock bus at the corner of Lake and Eldorado, Rufus gently lifted, then gently replaced his standard-issue blue uniform cap. He never did that to anyone else. She knew. She’d watched.

Annabel paused on the top step before turning down the aisle. How many love songs had been written about a love like this, she wondered. How many dreams had young girls and old men conjured up about that sense of certainty that comes with that one look that lets you know, as surely as you know your name and birthday and social security number, that magicians and angels and Santa's elves placed this person on your planet, just for you?

Annabel sat behind him and studied the way his hair swept toward the back of his head, the way it waved behind his ears and straightened out in the middle. She wondered if it was soft, like corn silk, or if it was dry, like straw. She wondered how many women had clutched it in desire, grabbed handfuls of it to pull him close.

Rufus looked at her in the mirror above him at every red light and touched the visor of his cap, a gesture so intimate it made the skin between her breasts turn red. The redness traveled upward, against gravity, overtaking her white neck, fanning up into her chin and cheeks until her scalp turned raw. She hadn’t expected love to arrive so abruptly, so full blown, but love comes when it comes, she thought. And here it is.

She hoped he didn’t notice that she stayed on two stops longer than usual and ran into Bells Department Store. Tomorrow was his birthday and if he tried to find out what she planned for the big day, she would explode with excitement and tell him.

“It’s my boyfriend’s birthday,” she told the saleswoman, “He deserves the best. The very best!”


Annabel stared at her watch and looked toward the exit of the Seaside Restaurant. Maria got off at nine o'clock, and she would -- as Annabel had watched her do for weeks now -- walk down Row F, to parking space 13. See that was the problem. Maria never thought anything would change. She never even noticed her own husband falling in love with someone else. Rufus deserved to be with someone who noticed things. That’s why Annabel had chosen a Rosewood Laguiole made with Damascus steel and a Yatagan blade, and because it was his birthday, she included the red bubinga box. She would give it to him on the bus tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, Maria began walking toward Row F. Annabel followed, stroking the Damascus steel under her jacket. Happy birthday, Rufus, my love. Happy birthday.


From Vanessa: I am a past recipient of the Maryland Writers Association Short Fiction Prize. My award winning story, “When Sara Looks Up” was made into a short film by Columbia College Chicago.