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Thirteen Ways This Might Have Gone

1. I’m sitting on an empty beach when my phone rings. A stranger with Puerto Rican accent says: I found your phone. I’m calling for the reward. But I didn’t lose a phone, I say, confused. She takes a picture and sends it to me. I’ve never seen this phone in my life.2. I’m sitting on an empty beach in Puerto Rico, carving our initials in the sand even though we’re not in love. I take a picture and text it to you, the last thing I do before my phone is sucked into a vortex and lost forever. The palm tree is tossing, blocking, then unblocking the sun, as if he knows.3. I’m sitting on an empty beach when a dented pink phone washes up with a message on the home screen: This phone is lost. If found, please call this number. I call the number and a version of myself answers, three days in the future. Back up all your pictures, she says.4. I’m drawing in the sand, but it keeps getting erased by the tide. I’m lost, I finally write, knowing the waves will wash it away. I think to text you a picture, since we’re going to fall in love in three days. But my phone is already displaying a static message: Please call this number. I dial and it rings and rings and rings.5. In another version, a drunk driver crosses the median and crushes my car head on. My phone ricochets like a pinball and is never recovered. I lose all my pictures. We never meet.6. The drunk driver goes flying over the median, airborne like the Dukes of Hazzard. My phone is recovered in the hospital, but there’s a message locked on the cracked screen: If found, please call this number. I call, and a man in Puerto Rico says he found my phone washed up on the beach.7. My new phone has an unfamiliar number programed into it: Home. I call, and it rings 30 years in the future, in a villa in Spain. I’ve been waiting, you say. I’ve been waiting such a long time.8. There’s a version of the story where the car completely misses me; it still sails over the median, fishtailing in a cloud of smoke, but we never collide. In that version you are happily married with other children and a wife who isn’t me. Ever helpful, you drive to my house to return my phone. Thank you, I say, as my wedding ring clinks against your wedding ring.9. In another version the car goes right instead of left and the phone is never lost on a beach in Puerto Rico while I’m texting you for the first time.10. I’m on a beach in Puerto Rico. My replacement burner phone rings. It’s you, calling from our future, the one where we make love and read books and drink tea and dance in the kitchen and weep in each other’s midnight arms. Come home, you say. Forget the phone and come home.11. In 1989, a boy on a skateboard finds an unfamiliar plastic square with a glowing message—if found, call this number. He believes in time travel, he’s just seen Back to the Future, so he calls. He calls and it’s me that answers, the version of me writing this.12. Just for fun, I call my old number with my new phone. It rings in my other hand, and I’m caught in an echo chamber of my own madness.13. I find a phone in the grass outside the hospital. I call the number and a young boy answers: Who’s this? I hear your skateboard scratching the asphalt. What can I say to the 12-year-old version of my love? Become a poet, I say. So I can find you.
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Written by Nancy Stohlman.
Nancy Stohlman is the author of six books including After the Rapture, The Vixen Scream and Other Bible Stories, and Going Short. Website: nancystohlman.com
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All My Wrong Days

Maddy arrived at the California Health Care Facility in Stockton around eight in the morning. Early January, pleasant, but undoubtedly chillier by the time she returned to Los Angeles, later that day—a five-hour journey, provided she drove nonstop. Something she’d not done the previous evening, arriving in the Central Valley around nine, and spent the night at a moderately priced motel with a highly rated breakfast buffet.Fantastic strawberry danishes offset the overcooked hash browns.
She entered the state-run prison medical center’s visiting area and produced her credentials for the amiable sentry, an elderly man who seemed eager to greet new faces.“First time visiting?”“Yes,” Maddy said. “This place opened a few years ago, after that big lawsuit, right?”“Correct,” the guard said. “And it’s filled rather quickly.”“Close to capacity?”“Over ninety percent,” he said. “Just because people make bad choices shouldn’t mean they don’t deserve humane care.”“Even for those on death row?” she said.“Oh, yes. Most especially for those residents,” the man said. “No such thing as too many good examples for people to learn from—be it in this world or the next.”“Suppose so,” Maddy said, signing the visitor’s form and then getting patted down by a husky female guard around her age—mid-twenties—but half-a-head taller, and with a far less jovial disposition compared to the old timer.“No bag?” the woman said, as if struggling to maintain a neutral tone.“Nope,” Maddy said, “just the clothes on my back.”“All right. All clear.”“Thanks,” Maddy said, and advanced to the visiting area, a large space that smelled like Pine-Sol. She moved to her right and sat at a table close to the entrance, near a tall window that looked recently cleaned.
Let the light shine in…Shortly, an orderly wheeled in a gaunt, very pale man, mid-forties, who wore a nasal mask, and parked him on the opposite side of the white plastic table Maddy had claimed.“Thank you,” Maddy said.The orderly nodded and retreated through the same door he’d pushed his infirm charge through. Maddy and the patient now had the room all to themselves.“God, I’d kill for a smoke,” the man said, and, as if on cue, coughed in a manner that Maddy associated with ribs snapping in half.“How are you doing, Dallas?”Dallas spread his thin, bruised arms wide. “This here is Club Fed compared to Pelican Bay.”“Yeah, the lack of cuffs, spacious grounds, mostly friendly people,” Maddy said. “Definitely contrary to a supermax facility.”“Other than crimping my access to vices, I am a definite fan.”“Suppose you and other death row inmates have made jokes about the trouble they go to, keeping you alive until the state can properly end your lives.”Dallas laughed. “It is an ironically beautiful thing, Maddy.”“Well, political winds change. Maybe you’ll get a reprieve.”He shook his head. “Regardless of how it comes, I know I’m on borrowed time, but I do appreciate treatment above and beyond what I deserve.”She leaned forward. “So, what am I here for, Dallas?”“Need a favor,” he said. “There’s personal gain in it for you, should you want it.”“Nothing illegal, obviously,” she said.“Completely above board,” he said.
"This is personal…something I’d much prefer to handle directly.” He chuckled. “If wishes were fishes…”“We’d all swim in riches.”He nodded. “Exactly right.”“And why me?”“I recalled something you told me. This was right before you delivered me to the authorities.” He paused, and inhaled deeply. “You said that I could change the direction my life was heading anytime I wanted to do so.”“Yeah,” Maddy said. “Kinda boilerplate for all skips I catch.”“Sure,” Dallas said. “Corny but true.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, as we both know, rather than change direction, I ran as fast as I could toward my current, dismal destination. When you brought me in, I was looking at, what, two years, maybe? That’s nothing. Now, I will die an incarcerated man, regardless of the circumstances surrounding my last breath.”“You at least responded to my messages,” Maddy said.“I appreciated that you gave a damn,” Dallas said. “Most don’t. Can’t say as I blame them, given the bridges I’ve burned. Honestly, Maddy, if I could just ditch all my wrong days, I’d likely shave two decades off my actual age.”“But you can’t, and here we sit,” Maddy said. “What do you need me to do for you, Dallas?”He pulled the mask away from his face and itched the tip of a nose that looked to have undergone multiple breaks and realignments. “Well…” He resettled the mask, inhaled. “I, uh, need you to retrieve something from a storage locker…” He produced a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her. “Punch code, location, et cetera…”Maddy glanced at the details. “Salinas…well, at least it’s sort of on my way back home.”“I’m just so grateful that you came. Again, I’m all out of folks I can count on, so, thank you.”Maddy tucked the slip of paper in the front left pocket of her jeans. “What’s in the locker?”“A letter I wrote but never sent. I just need you to seal it, put a stamp on it, and then drop it in a postbox.”“Delivery address still valid?”“Yes. Verified as of last week.”“And that’s it?”“Yeah.”“Sure,” Maddy said. “I can do that for you.”“There’s cash in the envelope, as well. You can take half, for your trouble.”“Honestly, Dallas, I’m fine with just doing a kind turn. It’ll help bolster all my do-gooder days.”He smiled. “Wrote the letter for a boy I’ve never met. He’d be about… shoot, nine or ten now. I didn’t send it because I wasn’t sure if I might need the money, and…well, now I most definitely do not.”“Nope,” Maddy said. “You get a taxpayer-funded ride all the way out.”
He nodded. “I hope he takes after you,” he said. “Someone who refuses to take shortcuts. Knows better.”Maddy rose from her chair. “Regrettably, neither of us will likely ever know.”He flinched and then looked up at her. “Thank you, for still giving a damn.”“I can’t help it,” she said. “For better or worse.”“Take care, Maddy.”She nodded, turned, and left the building, thinking about how she’d spend the rest of her day. Salinas was near the ocean. She hadn’t felt waves break around her ankles in a long time. Just imagining it—a spontaneous indulgence like that—made her giddy with excitement.
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Written by Frederick Barrows.
Frederick Barrows has published stories online and in print. He lives in New Orleans. For more information, please visit the author's website: loneargo.com.
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An Unforgiving Hunt

The best part of his day was standing at the edge of the woods after hours of sitting in a classroom. The sun hovered above the tree line, casting a harsh, judgmental glare. Even before he felt the first satisfying crunch of leaves beneath his boots, his heart raced with anticipation.Eli loved the woods. The cover of foliage surrounding him was a shield against the world. Here, with his rifle slung over his shoulder and his head tucked underneath his hood, the heavy burden of life felt featherlight on his thirteen years. In the woods, there was no one to bother him. No nagging mother, no crying siblings, and no questions about where the next meal would come from.Being in the woods and the familiar feeling of a trigger snug against his pointer finger didn’t just mean peace. It also meant purpose. Here in the woods, Eli could hunt, provide, and at least for a few hours, pretend like things weren’t falling apart.His mother, Linda, had never filled her role particularly well. Eli had seen what real mothers look like when he watched his classmates interact with theirs. Linda was nothing like them. She was simply a body that lived in the house, drinking the welfare checks away while Eli tried to shield his siblings from her neglect.At thirteen, he wasn’t old enough to get a job, but that didn’t matter. He’d learned how to shoot when he was seven. His father had taught him before succumbing to his own demons. Now, all Eli had was a rifle his father had passed down to him and the knowledge that with great power came great responsibility.The September day felt warm on the back of his neck, but the comfort wouldn’t last. Winter was coming. Cold, unforgiving winters in rural Pennsylvania made hunger impossible to ignore. Linda couldn’t keep the house warm, and the little food she provided was gone before the month ended. That’s why Eli hunted. That’s why Eli poached.He slipped deeper into the woods, his boots sinking into the soft ground. His father always said the best spots were near water. Animals, just like people, needed to drink. Eli made his way to a small stream that cut through the woods like a silver ribbon. He crouched low behind a thicket of brush, his rifle at the ready.Hours passed as Eli waited, his mind drifting to the first deer he’d killed. It was a cold February night, months ago.“Mom, we need food,” he’d said, his voice steady despite the knot of fear tightening in his chest.Linda’s glassy eyes had fixed on him, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “You think I don’t know that?” she slurred, her words venomous and ready to slice him in half. “Why don’t you try providing for this family? If you’re so grown, it should be easy for you.”He’d clenched his fists, biting back the words that would only make things worse. Instead, he’d turned and walked out of the house, grabbing his father’s rifle on the way. That night, with snow crunching under his boots, he’d made his first kill. A doe, slender and wary, had fallen to his bullet near the edge of the woods.The meat had kept them alive through the worst of the winter, but the weight of what he’d done—and the knowledge that he’d have to do it again—never left him.A rustling sound pulled Eli back to the present. His breath hitched as he focused on the source of the noise. His finger grazed the trigger, but then he spotted a chipmunk scampering away. Frustration knotted his stomach. The woods grew darker, and the hunger gnawed at him more fiercely as he pushed himself to his feet.Purple and orange hues dotted the corner of his eyes, but he kept pushing forward. His boot passed the invisible line of posted land, but hunger outweighed the security this false boundary brought landowners.
His chest tightened with each heavy footstep. He’d never ventured this far before. But with each step forward, he tampered down the tension binding in his chest.The light faded quickly now. Shadows stretched long and ominous between the trees, and the cold nipped at the holes of his jeans.Eli knew he was running out of time. He would have to go to bed with an empty stomach if he didn’t kill something. The thought sent a spike of desperation through him.Then he heard it. A faint rustle. Heavier than the chipmunk from earlier. The snap of a twig confirmed his suspicions, and his pulse quickened. He crouched low, scanning the undergrowth.There. A flash of movement, barely perceptible through the trees. Eli raised the rifle, and his hands trembled slightly as he steadied the barrel. Through the scope, he caught the sight of a deer—more specifically a buck.Its antlers branched high. It’s what some hunters would call a trophy, but he didn’t have the luxury of hunting for sport. He hunted for something more valuable than a set of antlers that would hang pointlessly on someone’s wall. He hunted for survival.Eli’s hearing pounded as he lined up his scope. Air filled his lungs as he inhaled deeply and steadied his aim. His finger tightened on the trigger.
A sharp crack shattered the stillness. The buck bolted into the darkness. Eli’s heart sunk. The sound hadn’t come from his rifle. He froze, ears straining against the silence that followed.Eli scanned the shadows. The dim light made every tree seem like a figure and every shadow a potential threat. His breath came in short, shallow bursts, tangling with the air in front of him.Then, distantly, the sound of footsteps crunched through the leaves. Slow and deliberate. Too heavy to be an animal.Panic twisted in his stomach. He didn’t belong here. Trespassing on posted land with a rifle is a crime. He could already hear the accusations and see the stern faces of adults judging him and deciding his fate.He considered running but quickly dismissed the idea. Eli’s feet wiggled in his father’s hand-me-down hunting boots that were a size too big. His only chance was to stay hidden, wait them out, and hope they moved on.The footsteps grew louder, closer. He pressed his body flat against the ground, the cold dirt seeping through his clothes. Through the thick undergrowth, he glimpsed a figure moving between the trees.The man was tall, broad-shouldered, and carrying a rifle. A flashlight dangled from his hand, the beam swinging in wide arcs across the forest floor.Eli’s breath hitched as the light passed dangerously close to him. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to be invisible.“Who’s out there?”The beam of light now hovered above the patch of ground where the buck had stood moments ago. His heart beat faster when it swept towards the trail of disturbed leaves leading straight to his demise.Eli’s stomach twisted as the man followed the trail. He hadn’t thought about how obvious his path would be. The broken twigs and compressed earth mocked him.The man paused. “You might as well come out,” he called. “I know you’re out here.”He bit his lip to keep the gasp locked deep in his throat. His hands tightened around the rifle, the metal cold and unforgiving against his palms.The man stepped closer, the beam of his flashlight dancing towards his hiding spot. Each step felt like a countdown.Eli’s thoughts raced. He could try to explain and plead for mercy, but the rifle in his hands would make him look guilty before he even spoke. And he knew men like this. They didn’t listen.The flashlight beam swept toward him again, closer this time. He had seconds to decide.His father’s words echoed in his mind: With great power comes great responsibility. It was a phrase that seemed like common sense, but many people never understood the weight of that responsibility when the world felt like it was giving up on you.The man took another step.Eli raised the rifle.He didn’t want to. Every fiber of his being screamed against it, but survival instinct took control of his subconscious.The flashlight paused, illuminating the edge of Eli’s boot. Now there were no other options left. Eli knew what he had to do.The woods, once his sanctuary, now felt suffocating as the weight of the decision settled over him. He shifted the rifle, his finger trembling on the trigger.The sound of his own breath drowned out the quiet surrounding him and the man.And then. A single shot shattered the silence.
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Written by Tyra Lynn McGarvie.
Tyra Lynn is a self-published contemporary romance novelist from Northwestern PA. She enjoys emotionally complex stories that elevate small-town narratives, forgiveness, and self-discovery.
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Audience

Thick crimson sludge poured from between the fingers tightly packed against his gut, but his eyes remained trained on the swaying goliath. With a metal clatter, the twilight-robed monstrosity fell back, gasping in one final breath. As the spiked silver helm of cometary iron slipped away, a shaky gasp of relief escaped his lips. A trail of bodies lay behind him, heaps of robes and hollow corpses pledged to anathema, but no more. Looking up, his eyes stared at step after step, the way between the dark peaks in the mist.Bronze axe in one hand, and oozing pressure against his gut in the other, the forsaken made his final ascent. Cold stone bled through sandals turned to rags. Grunts melted away into the silence, his voice swallowed by the everlasting haze. For a moment he paused, turning back to see the expanse below. The mist merely twisted around him, devouring his battlefield. Quietly he carried on, climbing ever higher, seeking that promised place.At the crest of the passage, the stairs gave way to a field of cracked stone. Mist bled away, revealing a world of snowy peaks and faint lights like stars nestled into earthen cradles. In another life his heart would’ve swelled. In another life he would have been a different man. Now, far from home, far from the rivers, the palatine cities and the kings with their endless wars, he stood at the end of eternity, where no man had ever stood before. An achievement only the gods would notice, and never whisper into the hearts of men.Gods had always been sick fickle creatures. Makers of man by their own admission, but reckless parents of hedonism and horror. Nevertheless, as he pressed the bronze axe against his breast, he found comfort in those twisted lords. His heart called to the lord of high peaks and his endless storms, to his daughter of lust and gore, and to his brother of cunning and wisdom. His heart called to the familiar place where men walked and beasts crawled, where order was rightly set, and the fanged serpents drank only from the stony crevices of the cursed land.Shambling forward he approached an obsidian monolith where the lamma sat in all her sphinxine glory, wearing the occult helm of cometary iron, waited like a gargoyle. As he did, each step became more labored, the stillness above the mist broken by placeless murmurs. He could hear her voice, causing his muscles to lock up in shattered longing. He could hear her, so faint and quiet, though not one word her own. Each step drew her nearer, yet ever further the soul in the voice. The phantom of faint reassurance swelled around him, growing louder with every stride, but he pushed on. So much suffering had amounted to this. So much had been paid with no way to reimburse. At the foot of the statue, he fell to his knees, gasping as his ichor stained the polished ground.Suddenly, the voices stopped. A muted claw wrapped around the peak, smothering it with an exhale. The distant lights like stars nestled against mountain alcoves winked out of existence. Overhead, only the broken moon hung as it always had, watchful now more than ever.Be not afraid.It whispered to him in its twilight tongue.Be not afraid.It clawed at his flesh like cold irons.Be not afraid.It slathered and growled.He turned his gaze upward, to look at the iron-crested sphinx once more, but she was gone. Deep gashes littered the monument’s cap, crawling and creeping down the side and into the empty stone field. Hand held tight around the axe, fatigued eyes scanned the obsidian glaze for anything, searching the darkness for a sign, but there was nothing. Entombed in moonlight, he knelt alone.Be not afraid, for mortal man knows not when his tablet dries.The voice raked over his ears like jagged glass. It tore and mended, hungered and satiated, made and unmade—it crept through his blood and into his flesh. What was meant to walk fell onto its knees, and what was meant to crawl stood in anguish. Yet the stillness did not swallow him. The voice did not capture him.“I’m not afraid of you, beast,” he rasped. “I was never afraid.”
Behind him a presence lingered. He saw its shadow cast over him, eclipsing him in a phantom twilight. It radiated coolness, a hunger which wheezed and waited with timeless patience. He knew he had it now, the lure had been cast, and an appetite had come.Be not afraid.“There is nothing to be scared of in a shadow,” he growled back as the accursed whisper drew nearer. “This play of yours is over. I’ve put an end to this madness for now. The vessel is gone, and so are these sickly men who worship you. It’s just us now. Just us again.”He turned his head and saw it at last. A mass of sleek grey flesh patched with fur and feather. Monstrosity which towered with a woman’s charm but clad in nightmare’s trappings. Sickly claws rested on either side of him as the abomination peered down through six luminous slots in the helm. Eyeless it stared, mouthless it slathered and breathless it whispered.The weave of fate cannot be denied.“Perhaps not. But that is for the gods to decide, and you are no god. You are a thing which came in the comet. You are a thing of smoke and mirrors. You are a thing which eats.”The creature stared down at him, saying nothing.Looking down at his axe, he twirled it in his hand, and began to undo the bronze cap at the end of the shaft. He tossed the metal away, and tilted the blade, allowing a thin metal rod to slide out. The creature watched him closely, and as he thumbed over the rod, it shivered and shuddered. Six luminous slots seemed to focus on the iron rod, and once more an appetite oppressed his mind.“Do you remember me, beast?”The priestess’s mate.Nodding along, he held the rod tightly, and stared up at the monstrosity again. It paid him no mind, instead focused solely on the iron. It was endlessly cool, its very touch twisting his gut in ghastly knots. It too hungered. It too came from somewhere the gods looked away. Every instinct told him to flee from the rod, to avert his gaze, to cast it into oblivion—but he did not.“I want to make a deal, beast,” he rasped as he stared at the open maw of his gut. “I’ve spent my life trying to atone for what happened that day I lost her. I’ve done my part now in this play. It’s up to the rest. You aren’t getting off this mountain, not yet. You’ll have to stay hungry. But for a moment, I can sate that appetite. Just a moment.”He held up the rod, the axe abandoned for the twisting iron barb. As he did so, the creature rumbled with sultry delight. It leaned in, nearer and nearer, with claws glistening and a mouthless maw smacking.Give…As the creature approached, he removed his hand from his gut, and grasped the rod on either end. With some weight, he threatened to snap the rod, the metal bending in his grip. As he did so, the beast froze and wheezed with anxious pain.Give…“One more step and I’ll snap this rod like a twig. I’ll ruin the marrow and scatter your meal.”The beast said nothing, staring down with statuesque attention.“I want to make a deal.”Deal…“You took her that day, you used her as a vessel. Now I’m here to take her back. Where is she? What did you do with her body?”The beast said nothing, staring down with statuesque attention.“Give me back her body you monster!”The beast said nothing, staring down with statuesque attention.Fatigued and dying, he lowered his hands and pressed one against his gut again. In an instant, the creature seemed to stoop down for the rod. In a heartbeat and a groan, he gripped it again, sneering at the beast which immediately froze. In his mind he could feel the cool jaws of the false-god howling with anger. But it stayed put, towering with all its might, the moon glinting off the cometary helm.“Are you deaf? Give me back my wife! Or I’ll snap this rod and toss the marrow off the mountain!”The beast said nothing, staring down with statuesque attention.Standing, filled with painful fury, he glowered up at the monstrosity. His life had been in shambles since it devoured his heart and home, and now in the end it was as patient as ever. Stoic, quiet, an appetite indeed down to the radiance of hunger. Yet as his rage boiled over, there was a disturbance. Something faintly coughed behind him, gasping and agonized. Cautiously he turned, seeing only the ruined monument. Trepidatious steps carried him forward between glances from monster to mystery, rounding the foundation with the rod held tightly.As he rounded the pillar, his heart stopped. At the edge of the darkness, standing amidst the stones in a disheveled mess, was a woman clad in tattered robes. As he stared, she looked in his direction, and froze but a moment. Then, standing straight, her eyes filled with tears, she opened her mouth to speak but little more than a whimper came out.The rod slipped from his hand. His wound burped and bubbled crimson death, but he didn’t care. Running and half stumbling, he clawed his way toward her, desperate to see the impossible. With outstretched hands he wrapped around her, the rags soaking up his blood as he fell to his knees and hugged her legs. Coughing and guttering with heaves of blood, he laughed and wept and held her legs tightly. Never in his dreams did he imagine she’d be alive. Yet by her touch, her scent, her softness, she was more than alive. She was plucked out of time, ageless since that day the beast took her away.Raising his head and looking up, his smile gleamed as his hazy vision focused. As smudges sharpened, he looked up at the tilted head of his beloved. Darkness lay over it, a shadow cast impossibly along flesh to form a disk of oblivion. In the darkness of her face, six gleaming holes peered down at him, holding a statuesque stance. Releasing her, he stumbled back and grabbed at his gut, but the weakness overcame him. Falling onto his back, he stared up at the spheres of light staring down, helpless and heaving as tears of joy turned to tears of folly.Her shadow, cast beneath her in a black puddle, began to stretch out. Sliding over blackened stone, it swallowed all it touched, the puddle stretching into a crescent. Realizing the trap, he turned and crawled, half standing and stumbling, trying to escape from the hand which eclipsed him. Looking up, he saw where the iron rod had fallen to the ground, but standing in its place was the beast peering down.Cold chuckles rattled through him. At first he thought it was the beast taunting him, making a mockery of its ploy. But the sound, he realized, was coming from himself. Powerless, tired, and out of time, he stopped struggling and rolled onto his back. Midnight was growing beneath him, he knew it, but it didn’t matter. For so long had he fought for this moment, dreamt of this moment, that in the final step he made an error.With silent thuds, the beast came into vision. It loomed over him, watching as he smiled in misery. The pin of metal, as small as it was, drifted before the cometary helm. In a breath, the metal melded into the helm, warping and twisting into the smooth spike which joined the iron rays. A guttural sound of satisfaction escaped the mouthless thing. It sighed, sated for but a moment, before lowering down to the man’s level.Somewhere from the blackness, thick sludge slopped down. Cool droplets of obsidian dribbled onto his gut, his chest, and slowly grew into a restraining mass. Freezing, gasping and utterly alone, he wheezed and howled, half laughing through the moment, before the coolness spread over his eyes. A suffocating quiet overtook him. He heard nothing. He felt nothing. No sight nor smell, or any sense. Something moved in the murky depths of his mind. Something materialized in the darkness as a coldness swallowed him whole.Join… her…
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Written by Duncan Restrepo.
Duncan is an Assyriology graduate student attending UCLA with an interest in science fiction and fantasy.
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The Serial Sidewalk Pooper

I once had a chunky chocolate lab that loved dumping on sidewalks. Every dog in our household pack was trained to make their deposits in designated zones in the backyard, but this derp could never wrap her tail around the concept. Linguini wasn’t the brightest of the bunch, more along the lines of bark- at-your-own-shadow, woof-yourself- awake-and-arm-your-hackles type. She was a trigger-happy pup, always on edge, waiting for that next horde of invisible intruders. I imagine her mind must’ve been an endless field of land mines, mostly duds.Anyway, every day we’d depart at noon for our neighborhood stroll; two minutes in, she’d stop to squat. She must’ve thought dropping a deuce in someone else’s yard was the problem, not the timing. My main aim was to avoid trashing thousands of debatably decomposable baggies, but how on earth do you explain excessive plastic consumption to some goofy pooch? For years, I escorted her to the backyard, ensuring she relieved herself before we leashed up, but it made no difference. She always saved a stinky mini churro just for me.I picked up her droppings religiously, but the neighbors weren’t having it. Signs started springing up in every mulch bed, demanding Linguini poop elsewhere. Her mess was not welcome here. I was mortified. What was I to do? She had to go somewhere. I tried to get her to drop straight into the bag, but she’d adjust an inch or two at the last second, and it’d plop down onto the cement instead. This she followed with a trickle of urine as if trying to conceal her illicit deposit. The neighborhood’s passive- aggressive response worsened; someone nominated my yard for the communal dumping ground, and everyone began tossing their turd bags on the porch. I let them pile up until I could hardly open the door without squishing through. I’d had my fill. That spring, I decided to return the favor—started smushing all I could cram into Easter eggs and spreading the rainbow mines around the neighborhood like candy. Your move, suburbia!
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Written by Abbie Doll.
Abbie is a Columbus, OH writer with an MFA from Lindenwood University; find her work in places like 3:AM Magazine and The Pinch. Follow @AbbieDollWrites.
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Double-Jointed

I was a nondescript child. I recited the normal nursery rhymes, played the normal board games, ate the normal ham-and-cheese-on-white sandwiches, and watched the normal Saturday morning cartoons. The only thing to recommend me to peers and visiting relatives was my double-jointed thumb—just like my dad’s.It popped back and forth to enhance yo-yo tricks.It gave me a better grip on the jungle gym.It made me a thumb-wars champion at school.But as I aged, being special grew less important and my double-jointed thumb was forgotten.* * *When Sam was born I could hardly wait to show him the world. I wanted to recite nursery rhymes, play board games, pack white bread picnics, and watch Saturday morning cartoons. On Sam’s first afternoon, while Ana dozed, I imagined our future and gently examined each of his perfect fingers.Pinky…Ring…Middle…Index…When I got to his thumb my hand was trembling.I wiggled it back and forth. The joint moved normally. Perhaps it was just stiff from being in the womb. I applied a little pressure. Nothing. Then—There was a tiny snap and Sam screamed.“What happened?” Ana was half out of bed.“Uh—er, nothing. He just started crying.”“What were you doing?” She said, taking Sam and soothing him at her breast.“Just counting his fingers.”Ana gazed blearily down at Sam’s clenching and unclenching hand.“Look,” she smiled, “his thumb is double- jointed—just like his dad’s.”
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Written by Erik Peters.
Erik Peters is a father and avid mediaevalist from Vancouver, Canada. His writing is influenced by late antiquity, his family, and his students. Erik has been featured in Coffin Bell, Zoetic, Beyond Literary Words, and Thirty West. You can check out all Erik's work at erikpeters.ca.
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RE: Service Call - Case 8235

From: David Sherman [email protected]
Date: Tue, Feb 11, 2025, 7:05 AM
Subject: Customer Service Case #8235
To: Sandra Van Hoosier <Thelexlowryservice.com>Good morning, David,Thank you for contacting us, and we’re sorry we missed your call. Our call center hours are between 7:00 am and 5:00 pm.Thankfully, your voice message was very detailed. I’ll go ahead and answer your questions in the order they were received.As of now, we’re unable to do anything about the noise coming from the apartment above yours (6G) because the space is still vacant. If it helps, we can have our maintenance manager, Andy, check on the space one more time. We’ll notify you with what we find.The entity you mentioned occupying the space under the bed in primary bedroom does, in fact, have the right to live there according to squatter’s rights (article 5 subsection 501- 502.) Because the creature has been there for more than 30 days, and “under the bed” is out of direct sunlight, it’s considered a “realm of darkness” thereby falling into his dominion. If you’d like to file an official eviction, I suggest you reach out to the local courts.I’m sorry that your attempt to summon a partner to play Yu-Gi-Oh with backfired so terribly. I know the brochure in the front lobby has the proper incantation, however, the transliteration of the Sanskrit, when spoken in a midwestern accent, has been shown to change the meaning of a few vital words crucial to a successful beckoning. I suggest a clearer pronunciation and perhaps a better choice in card game such as Magic: the Gathering.Not to correct you, but I believe a “dragon” typically refers to a creature with four legs and two wings, while a “wyvern” has two legs and two wings. If you’re trying to remove one from your premises, those subtle differences matter when it comes to the service call. If you’re unsure, we can send Andy to assess which has been breaking in.Your next complaint was unclear, due to some static over the line, but I‘ll do my best to assist. Time loops are uncommon this time of year, but not completely unheard of. From my experience they clear up on their own, like a cold. As opposed to body switching phenomenon, which require direct intervention. Try an internal retrospective in the latter case to see if you can find a remedy to the situation.Lastly, we can send out a replacement refrigerator up to your unit next week between 9:00 am and 4:00 pm. Unfortunately, the complex will not compensate you for food lost during the outage.I hope this was helpful, please reach out if you have any additional questions.Take care,Sandra Van Hoosier
She/Her
Service Desk AssociateThe Lex at Lowry
“Because of you, life happens.”
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Written by Dylan Boxer.
Dylan Boxer is an award-winning journalist and writer with a strong background in media production and storytelling and a graduate of ACC.
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The Parallax of Orion

Luke squinted into the darkness and identified his old friend, Orion. There was the hunter’s belt, his broad shoulders, his knees. There were his club and shield, though to Luke, the armaments appeared more like a bow just after release. As his eyes repeatedly traced the points of light—what the ancients believed were pinholes in the firmament—he saw more details: Orion’s matted hair; the sinews of his taut, lean arms; the creases and furs of his pelt; his cruel, heartbroken eyes, as clear and sharp as glass. Luke could see his life, too: Orion the bastard prince, who walked across the Aegean Sea; Orion the libidinous drunk, who raped Princess Merope; Orion the blind, his eyes gouged out by Merope’s father.Reflexively, Luke turned, trying to find Perseus, but of course, Orion followed him. Lost in these myths, he had forgotten his own kind of blindness. No matter which way he turned his head, there would be nothing but darkness and Orion at its center, forever watching the course of his arrow flying ever deeper into oblivion.Lowering the little plastic canister, Luke blinked and readjusted his eyes to Earth. Incandescent white smog hid the sky and chewed the tall buildings. Skeletal, gray grass pried open cracks in the asphalt schoolyard. Luke’s cart of stars, his universe on wheels, stood glumly to his left, its plastic rack arrayed with little plastic caps labeled Sagittarius, Scorpius, Ursa Major (and separately, Big Dipper), and the black plastic canisters to which they attached. His young students, enjoying a class outside in spite of their clumsy respirator masks, stood with their heads craned back, looking up into the cylinders. Two or three giggled and prodded each other, bored now with gazing at fake stars.The instruments, gayly dubbed “Can- Stellations,” were simple viewing devices perforated on either end: one hole at the bottom of the canister, through which one could look, and several more holes in the replaceable cap, perforated in the pattern of an asterism or constellation. By pointing the device into a source of light, one could observe a simulacrum of the celestial bodies. The Can-Stellations had been an essential tool for Astronomy classes for almost twenty years now, since even before the last direct observation of Sirius from the Earth’s surface. Luke had spent his year’s savings to attend the sighting on an auspicious day when unseasonal winds blown inland by converging hurricanes had cleared the smog long enough to see, as if through a screen, the ruins of the night sky. Only Sirius and Venus were visible. The emotional atmosphere, like the physical one, was contaminated with residue. Luke experienced none of the excitement he had at the eclipse parties and shuttle launches to which his mother brought him long ago. What he felt upon his last glimpse of Sirius—from Earth, the second-brightest star after our own Sun— reminded him more of her funeral.Luke removed the Orion lens from his viewfinder, and returned it to the cart so the children could use it. Who was he to be sniffling about the fall of the stars? At least he had seen them with his own eyes. His young pupils never would. Even so, they didn’t seem to suffer for it. A world without a sky was as natural to them as a world without glaciers had been to himself. Stars and telescopes, like sextants and sailboats, like campfires, lawnmowers, convertibles, and outdoor swimming pools, were history. It was a simple matter of perspective. Luke and his students saw the same dying world from distinct vantages. The children, who could not even see the top of their school building through the haze enveloping them, had never had to mourn the Earth’s lost treasures. Their unlucky teacher, however, was part of the generation which had seen the universe go up in smoke. An astronomer in an age without stars, he coveted his students’ ignorance.Parallax: Luke projected the ancient word on the classroom wall once they had returned. This was a difficult lesson for them, but one upon which he insisted teaching. To demonstrate, he hung a model Earth from the classroom ceiling. It was green and blue: an ostentatious antique.“Look at me,” he said, standing against the wall and ignoring the glare of the projector in his eyes. “I am standing on one side of the Earth. Now go to the other corner of the room.” The children wove around their desks as they migrated from one side of the classroom to the other. “You’ll see me on its other side, even though I haven’t moved.”Parallax: It was the theory by which the ancients had first measured the Earth’s distance to the stars and to other planets. The stars, Luke explained before the yawning, furrowing faces of his disciples, were not only used for determining one’s place in the world. Once, they had taught us the location of the world itself within the unbounded reaches of the universe. Without them, the Earth itself was lost like a ship in fog—like Orion, staggering over the stubborn Aegean waves, blinded for his rapacity.But perhaps Luke had read the story wrong. Led to the horizon by the demigod Cedalion, Orion had begged Helios, the Sun god, to restore his vision. Incorrigible Orion sought revenge and found death. But all the same, he was laid to rest in the heavens, the very stars a tribute to his strength, insufficient though it was. Luke considered that this might be the fate and legacy of his own world: to disappear and be reborn amongst the stars. He had no reason to envy his students, after all. His eyes had drunk the light of Polaris, Mars, the hazy mane of Leo. The light of the gods had reached across the universe to touch his face. They called to him as they had called to his own mother, who had believed that our species’ legacy was not here on Earth, where dust comes to life effortlessly, carelessly—but amongst distant stars burning in a vacuum. She had been among those who designed the only escape craft, and though it had crashed in the Acropolis of derelict satellites and space stations crowning the Earthly kingdoms, the optimism of her endeavor continued to assure Luke even now that something more than refuse would outlive humanity. It touched him to recall how she had cheered as her colleagues fired the rockets like arrows into space, seeking the heart of the immortal abyss, where they were destined, Luke was sure, to pierce holes in the firmament.
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Written by Jonathan Howard Sonnenberg.
Jonathan Howard Sonnenberg is an American writer whose work explores contemporary mythology.
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