Will knew she was getting tired of him, as they usually did—tired of the repetitive, unimaginative movement of his jeans against hers, barely keeping in time with the rap beat bouncing off of the basement’s brick walls; tired of the way his hands hung limply on the front of her hips. She had accepted his invitation to dance with a shrug, and as far as he could tell, her interest hadn’t increased. He wasn’t surprised when, as the beat faded away to a second of interstitial crowd noise, she released herself from his grasp, turned, and said that she was going to go use the bathroom.

“Okay,” Will said.

The relative silence was broken by a new beat, distorted bass and snare over barely audible synths. She squeezed her way through the crowd of dancing couples, heading in the direction of the stairs, away from him. Will watched her go for a second, looked around at nothing in particular, and started making his way over to the bar, apologizing as he pushed dancers up against their partners in an attempt to clear a path.

Will waited behind a cluster of people until the bartender, a muscled guy in a frat T-shirt, handed him a half-empty red cup and turned away to the next customers. Some of Will’s beer sloshed onto his sleeves as he made his way to the wall, where he had a little space to stand.

Will sipped his beer and looked around. A few colored lights flashed intermittently over the makeshift dance floor, turning the dancers’ skin and clothes red, blue, yellow. A few strobe lights were blinking, indistinguishable from the occasional flash of a digital camera. At the far side of the room, it looked like some stragglers were still being let in, two or three at a time. Were Will’s floormates around? He scanned the crowd and spotted Ed from the quad, who was standing on the calmer side of the room talking with a short
girl in a red blouse. Will decided not to bother him.

Will sighed, leaned back against the rough brick, and decided he might as well wait around for—had she told him her name? Whoever. Bathroom girl. There was a chance she might actually return. Will glanced over at the dance floor to see if she had found a new partner yet.

That was when Will saw him: The guy was moderately tall, dressed in crisp off-white khakis and a neon orange polo, the collar popped to his jaw, aviator glasses gleaming beneath his brow. He was grinding authoritatively with a pretty girl who had a tight pink T-shirt, a denim skirt, and long, dark hair. Her eyes remained shut as she danced, her face set serenely into an expression of entranced satisfaction. The guy held a red cup in one hand and bore the hint of an apathetic half-smile.

But he was Will.

His hair was a little longer than Will’s was. He had some beard stubble, more evenly spaced than Will had ever been able to manage. He had some muscle. But he was still, definitely, Will. He had Will’s round face, Will’s lumpy nose—even a mole identical to the one on Will’s left cheek, corresponding to the exact same facial coordinates.

Will stood by the wall, waiting for a change in the light or shift in perspective to break the illusion. But no matter how the dancers turned or how the strobes flashed, the face that looked out from over the dark-haired girl’s shoulder remained basically the same as Will’s own.

Will hesitated a moment, unable to look away, then stepped quickly over to Ed, who was still engaged in conversation.

“Ed.” Will tugged on Ed’s shoulder.

Ed turned away from the short girl to look at Will, controlled annoyance barely visible in the dim light. “Will? What?”

Will pointed at the dance floor. “Doesn’t that guy look like me?”

Ed stared at Will for a second, then flicked his gaze to the dancers.

“What guy?”

“The one dancing with that girl.”

“That’s helpful, Will, thanks.”

“The one in the polo shirt. He’s got, uh…” Will turned and tried to locate the guy.

“The Indian kid? I guess he looks kind of like you.”

“No, not the Indian kid. The guy…” Will’s eyes swept back and forth across the room,
searching unsuccessfully. “I don’t know. He’s gone.”

Ed turned back to Will. “Uh, okay…”

“Sorry.” Will looked around the room once more, then headed off towards the space where the guy had been standing. Behind him he heard Ed say to the girl, “Uh, sorry about that. Anyway—”

Will pushed his way back into the mass of dancers, skipping apologies. Eventually he found himself standing right where the guy had been, right between a man with a shaved head, who was dancing with a girl with curly hair, and a short frat brother entangled with a blonde sorority girl. Will shouted over the music: “Do you know the guy who was dancing here?”

The man with the shaved head looked at Will. “What?”

“I said, do you know the guy who was just dancing right here?”

He shook his head. “I can’t hear you.”

Will turned to the brother: “You know the guy who was dancing here?”

The brother gave Will a glazed smile and turned away.

Will frowned and headed toward the exit. On his way he passed by the girl he had been dancing with before. She saw him, then flicked her eyes away; he brushed past her and climbed the few steps leading up to the basement door.

An ice-water November breeze hit Will as he opened the door and stepped outside. Streetlights reflected off the pavement and cast the run-down suburban neighborhood in an orange murk. Will turned to his right and saw a heavy-set frat bouncer looking at him skeptically, arms crossed.

“Hey,” Will said.

“You want to shut the door, man? You’re letting all the heat out.”

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Will stepped all the way out into the driveway and let the door swing shut behind him, muffling the sound of the stereo. He turned back to the bouncer. “There’s a guy at this party in an orange polo shirt. Kind of looks like me. I think he’s with, uh, a girl in a pink shirt. Do you know him?”

“They just left.”

“Really? Who is the guy, what’s his name?”

The bouncer shrugged. “Search me.”

“Well, where’d they go?”

The bouncer glared. “Why you want to know?”

“He, uh, I…” Will looked down at the wet cement for a second, then made eye contact again. “He left his wallet.” Will grabbed his own wallet out of his pocket and held it up, smiling.

“They took a right on the sidewalk,” the bouncer said, briefly uncrossing his arms to point the direction.

“Thank you!” Will turned and jogged across the driveway.

Once he hit the sidewalk, the neighboring houses no longer cut off his view, and he could see down the street for a few blocks. The night was mostly deserted, but a few houses down, Will spotted the outline of a couple walking hand in hand. The guy was tall, dressed in a dark jacket and khakis; the girl had long, dark hair, and wore a coat and
skirt.

Will set off jogging after the couple, his sneakers kicking up drops of old rainwater as he ran. A few partygoers on a porch across the street shouted something at him and laughed, but Will couldn’t hear what was said. As he got within earshot of the couple, the guy stopped and turned around.

It was the same guy, the one with Will’s face.

At first, the guy looked back with the same satisfied disinterest he had shown earlier. As Will drew nearer, though, the guy’s eyes widened, and his lips unsealed themselves and hung slackly open. The girl stood waiting, glancing back and forth from the guy to Will.

Will started slowing to a walk. “Hey, excuse me—”

The guy bolted, taking off down the sidewalk.

“Hey!” Will shouted, breaking back into a dash, then stopping abruptly where the girl was standing.

“Who was that guy?” Will asked, gasping for breath.

The girl turned to look at Will and suddenly stepped back, taking a quick breath.

“What was his name?” Will insisted, glancing up the street.

“He said his name was Will,” she said softly.

Will stared at her for a second—had he met this girl before?—then turned and started running.

Up ahead, the guy took a sharp right and disappeared behind the house on the corner. He had been moving faster than Will, who could already feel a cramp growing in his gut. He ignored it and pumped his legs as hard as he could, until his bangs were swept back off of his forehead and each breath burned his lungs.

Will nearly slipped as he turned the corner, then kept moving forward as he stared ahead, searching. The street stayed suburban for about a block, then opened up as it intersected with a larger road, one lined with restaurants, businesses, apartments. Subway tracks ran up the center of the larger road, and there was a small crowd of people gathered around a stop that lay ahead to Will’s left. The guy was running toward that crowd, his arms jerking up and down in unison with his legs.

Will swerved into the street without looking and heard the sound of tires skidding behind him, followed by the blast of a horn. He tried yelling, “Hey! Come on, stop!”

The guy didn’t stop running, but he did look over his shoulder for a second. For a short moment, he and Will made eye contact. To Will, it felt less like looking into a mirror than like watching himself in a film. The face he saw onscreen, his own face, was stretched into an expression of wide-eyed, gasping fear.

Then the guy faced forward again and kept running. Will grimaced and tried to push his legs to move faster.

The rumble of an engine was getting louder, and a bright, hard light was spreading over the group gathered at the subway stop. Some people standing there turned and stared as the guy dashed along the right side of the crowd, over the platform. The ground around the tracks must have been slippery, though, because the guy’s feet suddenly flew out from under him, and he fell.

The wailing horn and screeching brakes began in unison. The guy tried to get to his feet.

In the next instant the guy was gone, replaced by a blur of metal and glass. Will thought he heard sounds, but couldn’t be sure.

Will came to a stop at the edge of the crowd. People were yelling, holding each other, pulling out cell phones. The train was still screeching along the tracks.

“He looked just like me,” Will whispered, breathing heavily, his eyes vaguely focused on the tracks.

Will blinked a few times, then looked to the left and spoke to a gray-haired, middle-aged man standing on the platform. “Didn’t he look like me?”

The man stared at Will.

The train finally pulled past the edge of the platform. The body lay splayed out on the tracks, blood spreading over the orange polo and khakis.

The guy’s face was beyond recognition.

Matt Hoffman is a recent graduate of Boston University, where he studied Film and International Relations. He grew up in Connecticut and attended the Educational Center for the Arts in New Haven. His fiction has been published in The Battered Suitcase, his film commentary appears frequently on the genre entertainment website Mania.com, and he performs standup at various New York City comedy clubs. He currently lives in Brooklyn.

Gibraltar
By Mark Sutz

Like most identical twins, my brother Oscar and I were indistinguishable from one another to most people. We weren’t the kinds of twins who harbored any unique moles or tics or cowlicks that would, to the discerning eye, separate us one from the other. On every square inch of our bodies, we were exactly alike, two people walking the earth who seemed in every hop, slurp, action or speech, to be the same. Even when we got into trouble, the harsh punishments were meted out in doubled, equal chunks. Our bar mitzvahs were even held in unison, our passage from boys to men held side-by-side, firmly cementing in our minds that we were going to travel through our lives closer to one another than most could imagine or desire.

The only thing different about us was the titanium rod that had been inserted into Oscar’s ankle when we were twelve. He’d sustained a nearly identical injury to me during a particularly vicious skiing accident, an impromptu downhill race we’d engaged in during a ski trip in Zermatt.

Even the scar left visible on his ankle we shared, but when the doctors had gone into my ankle they’d determined I wouldn’t need the permanent assistance of a metal rod to help strengthen my joint. The scar on the insides of our left ankles was shaped like a fingernail moon. Try as we might, we couldn’t ditch our identicalness.

That is, until we were eighteen and Oscar met Luisa.

We’d been apprenticing on a research vessel, the Fathom, to learn the business of what most people call treasure hunting but was known in the trade as deep sea salvage. My father knew the captain, John Angeletti, and convinced him to take Oscar and me along with him one summer. The captain’s daughter, Luisa, had practically grown up on the ship and become a beautiful diversion for us both. We spent as much energy pursuing Luisa as we did learning salvage.

It took Luisa five or six weeks to be able to even tell which one of us had snuck into her cabin and crawled under her sheets. When she was finally able to distinguish Oscar and me — Oliver is my name — from the other, she sat us both down and told us it was Oscar she wanted.

We had both been as smitten as lovesick children, but for the first time in our lives, Oscar and I had one thing different about us. Over the next five years, Oscar and I worked on the vessel, but Oscar was made the heir apparent to its ownership.

Luisa and Oscar were married at sea on our fifth summer on the boat and I became a valued, if not heired, member of the crew.

Captain Angelotti treated us both with equal respect and responsibility—after all, even our boat skills were perfectly comparable—but Luisa’s choice of Oscar as her lover and companion meant his place was far more secure.

Before launching for our sixth summer, Captain Angelotti brought the whole crew together to hear his encouragement. More than once, our salvage operations were conducted in tricky weather and conditions that only people addicted to uncovering history would bother suffering. Captain Angelotti’s boundless energy and enthusiasm was enough to palliate any amount of trepidation we had.

He gave us his usual spiel, but there was always at least one person in the crew who was new and hadn’t heard the captain discuss the vastness of treasures in the waters of the world. According to the UN, there are more than 3 million shipwrecks on the ocean floors of the world. Whenever the Captain repeated this number, it amazed even the most jaded person. At least we knew we’d never be out of work and could always dream we’d find something magical.

“This year,” he said, “is going to be a special year. I was privy to information about what could be the most valuable shipwreck the world has ever had and one which has remained secret.”

I nudged Luisa who was sitting next to me and asked her if she knew what he was talking about.

“He’s kept it secret even from me,” she said.

“Last year,” the captain continued, “some historians discovered papers that have brought to light a very interesting twist in the sinking of the HMS Sussex.”

The Sussex was a known shipwreck, but no more interesting for salvagers than any other of the hundreds which we’d studied. It was simply a Royal Navy ship that had sunk in along the Spanish coast on its way to the Mediterranean in 1694 and one which interested historians more than it did salvagers. The captain’s body had washed up clad only in a nightshirt on the shores of Gibraltar.

“Apparently,” he said, “the Sussex was on a secret mission. Captain Wheeler was carrying 1 million pounds sterling to deliver to the Duke of Savoy, to keep him from falling to French bribes. Today, that booty, all those silver and gold coins are worth more than a billion dollars.”

We could hear the collective gasp and then childlike tittering from the crew. The captain told us all we’d sail in two days.

Oscar, Luisa and I went to the local pub at the marina where we were docked and spent the night reveling in the possibilities of our next adventure.

“You and Luisa are going to be rich beyond your dreams. Beyond mine. Beyond anyone’s,” I said.

Oscar said, “Oliver, whatever’s mine is yours. You know that.”

Luisa, as she usually did, bristled when I brought up the fact that her choice of Oscar had inexorably changed the course of my life. After all, because they were married, Luisa and Oscar became the beneficiaries of anything that Captain Angelotti and the Fathom found at sea.

Oscar squeezed my shoulder, knowing full well how our lives had taken different roads. But I believed in his reassurances and put it to rest.

We drank enough that night to carry us into a reverie about our impending trip that we’d ever had before. The three of us stumbled back to the ship and passed out in our cabins, dreaming of the Sussex’s treasure off the Spanish coast.

The next day, last minute preparations were made with more vigor than I could recall. Broad smiles were on everyone’s faces. Captain Angelotti even treated the entire crew to a gluttonous dinner where pats on the back and hugs were in full sight. We all could taste the possibilities, though we knew full well how difficult this salvage would be.

The sail across the Atlantic was calm, uneventful, and filled with energy. For three weeks, we studied maps of the wreck, made specific plans for the salvage and read more about the history of the Sussex. Our dinner conversations often veered to Admiral Wheeler and his unfortunate voyage three hundred years before. Even Don, the first mate, was excited for old sea voyages as he never was before.

On the 22nd day after we left the eastern coast of the United States, we anchored above what was the site of the HMS Sussex. Captain Angelotti gave us his final pre-salvage pep talk.

“I know this will likely be the most exciting excavation of your lives. It certainly is mine. But we’re going to be working out here for the better part of six months, so whenever anyone needs to take a break and visit Gibraltar via the transit vessel, just let me know. Or First Mate Don, here.” The captain put his arm around Don and said, “To a successful rebirth of the HMS Sussex.”

After the anchoring and initial lowering of our navigation sub, the electronic eyes for the crew, a few of us gathered around the video feed to await the first images of the Sussex. Through the murky water, we spied the ship that had lain under a thousand meters of water for four centuries. We all applauded and then set in to guide the sub around the wreck to see how we’d begin the excavation.

That first day was a day of meticulous planning on how we’d raise the ship, piece by piece, into airtight compartments under the water so the wood wouldn’t disintegrate upon hitting the air. Then, to the surface, and into the transfer ship that would head to our warehouse on land to go through the treasures of the wreck. At the end of the day it felt like we’d already been working for months because of what we knew lay ahead of us, the sweat and hard work we’d endure. We ended the day on the deck, Oscar, Luisa, Captain Angelotti and I sharing two bottles of Spanish wine.

When we were nearly finished with the second bottle, we noticed the sky was darkening and a storm would soon be upon us. Mostly clear weather had been on the horizon all day, so the quick turn to drizzle surprised us all.

Don came up and consulted with Captain Angelotti. After the first mate returned below deck, the captain told us we’d be in for a surprise levanter, the strong easterly wind that in this part of the world could appear in an instant and cause havoc to even the most sturdy of ships. It was a levanter, in fact, that had originally downed the Sussex long ago.

Within minutes the Fathom was in the middle of severe winds and a rainstorm of frightening night. As the four of us were making our way carefully along the rails to find our way below deck, the Fathom lurched heavily and I slid headfirst across the slick deck.

I awoke in my cabin, my vision blurred and my head a knot of pain. Two people were at my bedside – Don and the ship’s medic.

“You’re awake, son,” Don said.

I struggled for words.

“The storm. What happened?” I asked.

The medic had his hand around my wrist to check my pulse. “You were knocked unconscious. You’ve been out for five days.”

“My brother? Luisa? The captain?”

Don motioned for the medic to leave, and waited for the door to close behind him.

“Oscar, this is difficult, but you’ve got to know,” Don said. “The three of them were washed overboard that night. It took us two days to find their bodies.”

My memory was absent. The last thing I recalled was sliding uncontrollably across the wet deck. And why was Don calling me Oscar? In my haze, I was unsure of my own identity.

Don continued, “The Fathom was severely damaged. The storm got so bad they couldn’t even send any boats to assist us.”

“Where is my brother’s body?” I asked.

“Oscar, we lost all power to the refrigeration systems. There was nothing else we could do but cremate them.”

I remembered Captain Angelotti once telling us that in the absolute worst case and in order to spare the rest of the crew the possibility of disease, a person who died at sea might have to be put into the ‘crematorium’ built into the Fathom. Though referred to as the crematorium, it was actually a large oven used to help bake off debris from wrecks we pulled up. The morbid truth was that it was easily big enough for a body.

I began to weep thinking I’d lost the person with whom I’d entered life. The confusion was overwhelming. And then I thought about what would happen to the Fathom.

Don said, “The captain and Luisa, their ashes are where they would want them to be. In the ocean. Your brother’s ashes are in a makeshift urn, secured on the main deck.”

I lifted myself up so I was sitting on the bed.

“Will you please bring the urn to me, Don?”

He left me alone there. It was the loneliest I’ve ever felt since the day Oscar and I were separated for a mere three hours when we were five years old. I had no idea how life would even be possible without him, without that possibility of working with him and Luisa on the Fathom once the captain had retired and passed it onto them. Now I had no claim to it at all.

As I was weeping into my hands, Don brought the urn. My parents would never understand the cremation. Our faith forbade it.

“We saved the titanium pin. We had no idea your brother had one, but the melting point of titanium is higher than the oven. I assumed you’d want to keep it with his ashes. A tug is coming. When we finally are able to dock in Gibraltar, your parents will be there. They’ve been notified and are coming to pick up you and his ashes. I’ll leave you alone now. I’m so terribly sorry, Oscar.”

After a while, I took the urn under my arm and made my way to the deck. The day was so still the water looked like a sheet of blue glass. I said a prayer for the three of them and unscrewed the lid to the urn. I poured my brother’s ashes over the side of the boat and watched, as if in slow motion, the titanium rod implanted in his ankle when we were twelve—the only difference between us—plummet into the ocean with a visible but inaudible splash. It sank, I hoped, to the very bottom of the ocean near the Sussex. I wished as hard as I’ve ever wished for anything in my life that by taking my brother’s place in this life, I was doing the honorable thing.

I buried both of us that day and often think of Oscar’s ashes in the ocean. And me, Oliver, lost to my parents that day too, though they’d never be fully aware of what had really happened. The lie was written in water, and somewhere in the limbo of two lives taken much too early, I wonder some days who I really am.

* * *

Mark Sutz is a writer living in Arizona. He contributes regularly to the online culture magazine, The Nervous Breakdown. A list of his publications can be found at www.marksutz.com. You can contact him at his gmail.com address, “masutz”.

Man Murders Wife
by Judy Viertel

I’m running. I stop to retie my shoe, and find myself looking at a young woman’s breasts. She’s walking towards me—I don’t mean to stare, I’m not a lesbian, although my short hair and lack of makeup often confuse people. It’s the way her tight shirt pushes her breasts up that makes them difficult to ignore. They’re oddly rounded, like two cereal bowls propped against her chest. As I finish with my shoelace, she wobbles past on spiked heels. Ankle breakers, my grandmother would have called those boots, and her leather skirt is so tight she can only manage tiny, nibbling steps. The two men she’s walking with have to support her as she steps down into the crosswalk. They look ten years older than her. They outweigh her, each of them, by at least a hundred pounds. It’s none of my business. Even so, I start thinking about something I recently read.

A man murdered his wife. She was a fashion model. Did he use a gun, or was it a knife? I can’t remember. He killed her and dumped the body. But first, he cut off all her fingers. He pulled her teeth. Why? No fingerprints, no dental records. There was no way for the police to identify the body. But those detectives, they were smart. They traced the serial numbers in her breast implants. That’s how they caught the husband.

I wonder: those fingers—how did he get rid of them? They were fingers he’d kissed many times, fingers that had, no doubt, curled themselves tenderly around his penis. Did he drop them into a garbage disposal unit? Did he smile as he flipped the switch?

The woman and her companions sway down the street, laughing. They’ve been drinking, I figure. I decide to follow them. There are many upscale clubs on this street, places with polished wood and carefully composed cocktails. Places where, on a warm evening like this, a young woman might easily drink too much and find herself in trouble.

Those men, I think: they look dangerous. And even if the police are able to identify her body by the numbers bar-coded into her beautiful, artificial bosom, it won’t be any consolation to her. Not when she’s dead. The woman looks a few years younger than me: I’d guess she’s about twenty-two. Given the chance, I’d speak to her like a sister. Be careful, I’d say.

When I was a child, my parents often left me in the care of my older brother. He used to make me watch horror films. I’d cry, and he’d say: don’t be so sensitive. They caused terrible dreams, those movies. Sometimes I still have nightmares: a woman is tied to a chair. She sees a man coming into the room with pliers. She screams. A boy, shackled nearby, blindfolded, hears the screams and wonders, is he next? Horror movies are just stories, but they teach us about human nature. It’s possible for people to hurt each other—not for survival, not for the sake of some ideal, but just because they enjoy inflicting pain.

I watch the three of them enter a restaurant. I lean my face against the window, but I can’t see through the tinted glass. The door swings open and a woman comes out. She’s another young beauty, but of a different type: snake tattoos twist along her muscular arms. She looks at me, checks her clipboard, and asks: are you waiting for someone? May I help you?

I notice her assessing my sweatpants and messy hair. No, I say, but thanks for asking.

Okay, she says. Smiling, she retreats into the restaurant.

I move along, embarrassed to be caught looking in the window, and suddenly feeling silly for thinking I might be of help to a young stranger. Before the door closes, I catch a snippet of music. It’s just a few minimal, tinkling notes, but I find it compelling. I think: I might like it in there. Not wearing skimpy clothing, of course, and not surgically enhanced, but still: enjoying a drink. Chatting with a man, perhaps someone I’d just met.

I’m running again, my powerful legs pushing me through the fading light. I wish I could free myself from my brother’s hand, but I still feel it, pinning my wrist to the couch. All those movies we watched, those broken bodies—how do I make them go away?

* * *

Judy Viertel leads the Drunken Goats, a San Francisco-based group for wine-swilling writers. She wrote Miss Judy Goes to the Yucatan, a journal of her adventures among the Mayan people of Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula. She’s previously been published in Mad Swirl, and two of her stories have recently been selected for publication in Gargoyle Magazine.

The Tale of Rauðúlfr
By Lisa Farrell

Hulda watched the flames dance until her dim eyes saw only light. She listened to the snapping and popping of the twigs, and ignored the sound of women’s voices through the wall. A bird was screeching outside, and she wondered how it could bear to open its beak and call out in such cold.

She had not thought she would survive this winter, but the children told her that the signs of Harpa-month were already here. Well, she could not yet feel it. Her bones still felt like the twigs in the fire, though under siege by ice rather than heat. She could barely move, but spent her hours trying to fold herself up small, keeping her face in the glow, until they teased her that the bristles on her chin would singe. They did not respect her, these young women whose bellies still waxed and waned like the moon. They had continually knocked into her as they prepared the day meal around her, as though she were an unwelcome guest. Yet this was her seat, her place, and she had earned her spot by the hearth-fire, having cooked on it for so many years. At least Rauðúlfr had made the women promise not to let the fire die. He was a good boy; he took care of his mother, as a son should.

Hulda sat up suddenly, and had to readjust her dress to block the chill air again. She sniffed. There was something in the air; sweet, like sheep-dung, but stronger. She stood, and arched her back until it clicked. Then she shuffled to the door in her calf-skin shoes, and through into the hall.

They were both sat there at the loom; her daughter, Saldís, and her son’s wife, Erna, who played at being mother, mistress of the farm. They looked up quickly, then back to their work, but did not speak to her.

Hulda went out into the snow. It turned to slush beneath her feet and she could feel the dampness seeping through. Mountains loomed on either side of the farm and cast great shadows over the valley, so though there was no wind, the air was sharp.

As she approached the animal shed a new smell reached her nostrils; the thick, warm stench of soiled hay and dung. She walked around the shed to the back where, between the wooden slatted wall and a hardy, scraggly bush, lay the body of a sheep. The wool was tangled, and crawling with lice.

“How can the shepherd not miss you, eh?” she asked it, as she pulled away the brittle branches of the bush to get a better look. She did not like to stoop for so long, but took hold of a curved horn and dragged the dead sheep from its hiding place. She stopped when she realised what else lay under the bush. The small, malformed body of a premature lamb lay in what must have been a sticky pink puddle, but had now dried into stiff, dirty spikes on its back.

“Now,” said Hulda, “just look at you!”

The still-born was shrivelled, short black legs wrinkled under its swollen little body. On its neck was not one head, but two. Two identical white faces, with closed eyes and open mouths, below four little stumps of horn.

“I’ve been waiting for you for a long time,” she said, “and at last, transformation… ‘Twas all I lacked.” She looked up to the mountains. “Now I can see you again, Fálki,” she murmured. “At long last.”

She reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a small bundle. Unwrapping her treasure, she fingered the contents carefully; a lock of his blond hair, made delicate by age, a falcon’s feather, like the one he used to carry, and a length of blue thread. She reached down again, and pressed the thread against the twisted body of the lamb, rubbing it hard into the skin of the belly and then the face, until it came away dyed red. She spat into her palm and moistened the thread there, before wrapping up the bundle and knotting the thread tightly at its neck. This took some time, as her fingers were red and bent with cold. Then she moved a little away from the dead sheep, before burying her wish in the snow. Hulda lowered herself slowly and knelt on top, her knees turning numb the moment they sunk onto the frozen ground. She spread her cloak over herself, before she began her chant in the privacy of the darkness there.

#

His body lay inside the belly of the mountain, pinned by blades of ice. He was reflected and fragmented across craggy walls, which captured the pricks of light that infiltrated the cave and so shone even in the dark. His limbs were stiff, splayed, his arms like broken wings. His neck bent back over a rock, split to reveal a ridge of bone in his throat, visible only when the sun was directly overhead and beams of yellow light cascaded through the hole in the roof of the cave. He had not been disturbed; he had lain with his sword useless at his side for what could have been a hundred days or years. His flesh, though cold and brittle, still retained a hint of pink.

As the spirit reached him, crawling into his ear like a familiar voice and squatting there in the dry hollow of his head, his body tried to twitch. Feeble spasms crossed from the tip of one forefinger, to the tip of the other. His toes curled tighter in his boots. The wrinkled fruit that had lain still in his chest for so long, began to warm.

His icy prison lost its glow and faded, as his body began to move. His eyes had remained open, but only now did they become aware of the dark. When he stood, it was as though the ice meant nothing to him. He placed one foot heavily before the other, and passed through the rock in the direction of that voice, that smell that felt like Hulda’s breath upon him.

She said his name, that he had long ago forgotten, and he was drawn on.

#

They lit the long fire in the hall that evening, and she could hear their voices deepen and thicken with drink as the hours passed. That son of hers had more friends than he had workers; she hoped he could afford enough ale for them all. She had needed the latrine for some time, but refused to move from her bench, and her own, more benevolent fire. She could hear his wife cackling and squawking in there, and men stamping their boots. They would be dancing next. She would not pass among them, even for the sake of her bowels.

Then the noise stopped. It took her a moment to realise that this was real silence, not just a trick of her ears. They could not have all left so quickly. She rose, and pulled her shawl tight around her neck before moving to the door.

They sat along the benches in the hall, drinks half-raised, staring across the flames at each other. She hobbled towards the fire. This seemed to rouse them.

“What was that?” whispered Saldís, who should have known better than to keep such company at such an hour.

“What was what?” Hulda asked, peering at the faces, trying to distinguish those she recognised from those she did not.

“A knock,” said Rauðúlfr, “that’s all.”

“A single knock, and after dark,” someone said. “That is no friend outside.”

She was too far from the door. She tried to get out, but the chill had long since stiffened her legs, and Rauðúlfr was there before her to bar her way.

“It’s only superstition,” she told him, “don’t leave the poor soul out in the cold.”

“Sit down, mother.”

She shook her head, but her son was taller and broader besides. He only had to place a heavy hand on her shoulder and she would be rooted there where she stood.

Then they looked up, as they heard a hollow thumping on the roof, and a scrabbling, and then the beams began to shake as if someone were sitting up there, kicking their heels and causing the whole hall to shake. The banging made the children cry, and even Erna, Rauðúlfr’s formidable wife, shrieked in fear.

“No, no, it’s just a storm! That’s all!” Hulda shouted above the din. But dust and cobwebs were filling the air, landing in the fire and on her head, and she allowed her daughter to usher her into the corner with the other women, while the men crouched at the door, in case.

“Will no one go out to him?” she wailed, but no one answered.

#

Few slept well that night. Even once the spirit seemed to have passed, they were afraid to speak or move. She did not tell them who it was, because it would do no good; they still believed Fálki had left her of his own accord, because she nagged him.

As soon as light could be seen through the cracks around the wooden door, Rauðúlfr led some men outside. The rest soon followed, and even Hulda moved to stand in the snow and stare. The gate had been flattened, as though by some giant’s foot, and the animal shed nearest the house had been turned on its side, as though only a toy. Remains of the animals were scattered in scarlet heaps. The snow had already formed veils over the bodies, and would gradually bury them.

Rauðúlfr strode towards the gate, clumps of wool drifting around his ankles as he moved through the destruction.

“Where is the shepherd?” he asked, but the shepherd could not be found.

#

The next night Hulda did not make the same mistake. She left the hall while the women were busy cooking the night meal, and crunched her way across the snow in the dark, heading towards the gate. It still lay on the ground, so she walked over it, her footsteps echoing, and out of the farm. They would miss her, but not for some time yet.

She walked until her knees refused to bend, and then she stood and waited, feeling the chill spread up her legs and into the very core of her. She shivered and cursed, but stayed where she was, staring up at the mountainside in the moonlight.

Until Fálki came.

He came swiftly, silently, though he had swelled to three times the size he had been in life. His eyes were two eggs bulging from his skull, and she almost feared to meet their gaze. But as he stopped before her, one huge hand supporting his head, she readied herself to speak to him at last.

“Away! Away, evil draugr!” shouted Rauðúlfr, running towards them with his sword drawn. Hulda screamed, but as the blade came down the ghost was gone, and a falcon soared away up towards the top of the mountain.

“What have you done?” she asked, grabbing her son’s arm. “Why couldn’t you let me speak to him?”

He shook her free of his arm and sheathed his sword. “I feared it was you that had loosed this ill upon us. When I saw you leave the hall tonight, I knew you went to meet it.”

“It was no ‘ill’, it was your father’s ghost,” she cried. “I wanted only to speak to him, to see him one last-”

“That was not my father,” Rauðúlfr said. “That was trouble caused by your meddling. You should have let my father rest.”

“How can he rest when he is lost in the mountains? You should have sought him out long ago, when he was newly lost. But even you believed that he had left me, that he did not want to be followed, that he did not need your help.”

Her son gripped her by the wrist and led her quickly back towards the hall.

“Just because he is a ghost now, mother, does not mean he did not leave by his own choice.”

#

Rauðúlfr waited until the sun rose again before following the creature. He climbed the mountain, and though he would never admit to such a feminine skill, he followed his nose to the cave.

From outside, it was no more than a hole in the rock, a gap through which snow and rain would travel, and sometimes light. This was a hole that could trap the unwary traveller, but now Rauðúlfr lowered himself through it with a purpose. The fit was tight, but he drew his shoulders in towards his chest and wriggled, rubbing snow into his armpits as he slipped through at last, into the darkness.

He did not want to move away from that pool of light, but there was a glint in the back of the cave that called for his attention. He drew his sword, and carried it before him for those few delicate steps across the slippery floor of the cave.

In the dark, he could barely tell the head from the body, but he waited and listened to his heart pound like an animal beneath his tunic, as his eyes accustomed. He lifted his sword above his head, and swung it down in a practiced arc. It only took one slice to decapitate the ghost, whose neck had been already broken. Rauðúlfr grasped the hair, frail as straw between his thick fingers, and positioned the head between the feet of his enemy. There was no danger of it rising again now.

Rauðúlfr returned to his farm with no trophy but the dull stain on his sword. His mother was waiting at the broken gate to meet him.

“I can smell your father’s blood on your sword,” she said, “and so you have killed your mother too.”

He took her back into the warmth of the hall, telling her to keep her peace and not to frighten the children. Erna was in the hall and she waited, her arms folded, as he led his mother to her accustomed seat. Erna went outside, and though she did not speak, he knew to follow her. The world was frozen but her cheeks were red.

“Why did you leave the farm? Where did you sneak to today?” she asked. “The men are suspicious enough already, and everyone is afraid. Could you not have told us where you were going?”

“I can tell you now that you are safe,” he said. “I followed the ghost, and found my father’s body at long last. I have put him to rest.”

When the day’s work was over and everyone had returned to the hall, the fires were lit and drink was passed around. Rauðúlfr was toasted for his bravery and his skill with a sword.

Erna went to the hearth-fire where lamb was boiling for the night meal. Hulda seemed to her to be sitting very still.

Erna placed a hand on the old woman’s to rouse her, but found the skin cold.

* * *

Lisa Farrell holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia, and her short stories have appeared on pulp.net, Open Magazine, and in Volume magazine, among others.  You can visit Lisa, and read her other online stories, by going to her blog.

Ragnarok

by Patrick Scalisi 

I didn’t mean to cause the end of the world. I suppose it’s just in my nature.

Plus, it wasn’t entirely my fault.

My roommate was such an asshole. If I didn’t need the cash, I would have kicked him out a long time ago. All his friends were always there, lording over the place as if they were gods, smoking, drinking, stinking up my apartment as if it were a crack den.

Bastards.

I got home around two last night after working second shift at the Gladsheim Diner. Odin was already there, half in the bag with his girlfriend Frigg. I think they were incapable of living their lives sober.

 “I asked you not to smoke in here,” I said as I watched the two of them roll a new joint. I tried to make my voice sound as weary as possible: not difficult, considering I had just worked a ten-hour shift.

“Relax, Loki,” Odin said, not looking up from the delicate task of stuffing and rolling, stuffing and rolling. “Have a hit. Have a beer for Christ sakes. You’re too wound up.”

“Too wound up,” Frigg agreed as she took the joint, unrolled it, and began the process again herself.

I ignored them, dumped my bag on the empty end of the couch and went to my room.  I thought about some of my stuff that had gone missing in the last few weeks, and I kept meaning to install a lock.

Who has time for that?

Adding it to my list of priorities, I opened the door and heard manic yowls that came from the chest at the foot of my bed. I threw it open and found Fenrir bound hand and foot with a bit of string, her cries and meows now deafening.

“What the hell—?”

Frigg appeared at the door faster than I would have thought possible, given her lack of brain cells.  “Cat kept climbing over everything,” she said. “Scattered the pot twice. Thing bit Tyr’s hand after you left.”

“Where’s your head?” I shouted. “You can do that to a cat!”

Frigg rolled her eyes and returned to the couch. “You’d think it was your kid or something.”

I stepped back into the living room, Fenrir nuzzled in the crook of my arm. “Odin, come on man.”

Odin was trying to get the joint started now, the end burning like a red star fallen to Earth. Between puffs he said, “It’s just a cat.  It’s fine.”

Talking to them was useless. I headed to bed.

I slept late and spent the following morning in Laugardalur Park. There was a particular tree I liked to read under, provided the weather is warm enough. The sign post said it was a “Yggdrasill Ash.” Never heard of it before, but I never claimed to be a tree expert.

Even here I could find no peace.

Three pages into my book, something began falling on my lap. Seeds and acorns were dropping like hail, missiles lodging in the spine of my book and in my hair. There were giggles from up in the branches, and a boy’s voice admonished, “Be careful!”

“Come down from there,” I said.

No sooner had I given the command than two children — twins from the look of them — dropped to the ground.

“We’re sorry,” the boy said.

“Didn’t mean to bother you,” added the girl.

Seeing how young they were stole some of my anger; they were just kids.

“What are your names?” I asked, brushing the seeds from my book and placing it on the ground.

“I’m Lif,” said the boy, who gave a little bow.

“And I’m Lifthrasir,” said the girl, who curtsied.

“Lif, Lifthrasir, where are your parents?” I asked.

“You’re not going to tell on us?” said the girl with a look of horror on her face.

“We’re sorry,” repeated the boy. “It’s our favorite spot to play.”

“It’s no problem,” I answered. “I’d just like to be alone.”

“As long as you promise not to tell,” said Lifthrasir.

“Of course,” I replied.

Lif winked, then ran from the tree in a wavy line. His sister followed, both shouting in delight and already playing a new game.

I returned to reading the last book I would ever read.

* * *

The party was already in full swing when I got back to my apartment. Odin had taken advantage of my absence to invite all his acquaintances — and everyone he didn’t know — to a spontaneous blow out. It was Wednesday night, after all. Why the hell not?

The floor was already sticky with spilled beer, and the air was filled with a haze of marijuana and cigarette smoke. People were packed against the door; I could barely get inside.

“Odin?” was all I could manage when I saw the assembly.

“Hey,” he said with a certain lack of enthusiasm. “Wanted to have a few people over. That’s cool, right?”

“This isn’t a few people,” I said. “This place isn’t a night club.”

He repeated his mantra that I should “relax,” then ignored me completely. I would have punched him if I could have gotten in three blows before his friends intervened. Instead, I kicked the corner of the couch and stormed into the kitchen. Another man passed me on the way in, grabbed my shoulder and forced something into my hand.

“Hold this for a minute,” he said. “I gotta piss.”

I looked down as he moved off. I was holding a baggie of white powder — cocaine. The realization made me feel as if I was holding a lump of shit, of feces dripping between my fingers and soiling my very being. The rage bubbled in my throat and emerged as a kind of whimper. I walked to the sink with revenge in mind. Expensive stuff? Too bad, ‘cause now it’s down the drain.

I was halfway through dumping the bag when something on the stove caught my eye: Mistletoe-brand baking powder.

My plan took a U-turn.

I grabbed the box and refilled the baggie. To the untrained eye, it was a perfect ruse. I couldn’t wait to see the results.

Shouts from the living room interrupted my reverie. The man I had passed earlier returned to the kitchen, buttoning his pants as he did so.

“Gimme the bag,” he said. “Balder’s here. He’ll want a hit.”

I tossed the bag in a gentle arc. The man looked horrified but caught it easily. He shot me a glace that was mixed with terror and sardonic humor, and then turned to the living room.

I stood in the doorway to watch.

Balder sat on the couch next to Odin, the two exchanging handshakes, petty news, bullshit. Balder was the handsome stereotype of a northern man: fair skin that reddened under too much sun; blond hair, parted and combed as if just tended by a stylist; and a heavy build that spoke of either manual labor or many hours spent at the gym. Balder was a man who got what he wanted because he was pretty, because he had just stepped out of some music video into the real world.

The man with the coke was almost done spreading the lines now. He had a mirrored tray and was cutting a slope of white powder into fat, even lines. When one didn’t meet his exacting standards, he would redistribute the drug with a straight razor, tap, tap, tapping the powder into a new arrow of death.

“Would you care to do the honors?” Balder asked, his voice more cultured than the usual rabble that found its way into my apartment.

“Guests first,” Odin replied.

Balder took the proffered straw and leaned over the leftmost line of cocaine. To me, the sound of it entering his nostril was as loud as an earthquake.

The reaction was instantaneous.

Balder howled, threw back his head and began clawing at his nose. Odin and the others stood in concern, watching as blood and foam began to pour from both nostrils.

I thought about coming home late last night, about all the times I had caught Odin smoking in my apartment, about Fenrir tied and bound in my chest.  I let out a snicker that seemingly echoed throughout the room.

Balder was dying now.

Odin whirled, pointed a finger caked with powder and tar in my direction, and said simply, “You.”

The others seemed to understand, as if they all shared some psychic link. The first was upon me faster than I could react, holding my hands behind my back as another charged me from the front. I braced for a blow to my chest or stomach, but something instead collided with my head.

That was all.

* * *

There was blood on my neck, dry, crusted, itchy. I lifted my arm to scratch at it, but my limbs felt like lead. I was afraid to open my eyes. The events of the previous night came rushing back. Was Balder dead? What the hell had I been thinking?

The light coming through the window was gray. I couldn’t tell if it was day or night, or how long I had been asleep. A virulent ache surrounded my skull, emanating from the back of my head and tunneling through my brain to the back of my eyeballs.

I opened my eyes completely.

By some miracle, I was in my room, on my bed. Some of the blood from my head had seeped onto the comforter. How much would it cost to dry clean? I sat up, head throbbing, and waited for my equilibrium to return. I remembered reading somewhere that lacerations to the scalp would appear much worse than they actually were because head wounds tend to bleed a lot. Still, I couldn’t shake the suspicion that I was sporting a mild concussion.

I stood and moved to the door. It was barred from the other side.

I jarred the knob violently, then threw my shoulder against it. The pain in my head was momentarily replaced by fury. I don’t know how many blows it took, but the jamb finally splintered. I fell through the door, my chest striking a chair that had been lodged up against the knob. The anger was gone again, and the pain was back.

I lifted my eyes from the sticky floor. I wish I hadn’t.

The living room looked like a crime scene. Broken glass littered the floor, along with puddles of beer and—

I began retching when I realized that blood stained nearly every surface. There was an especially large spot on the couch where Balder had been sitting. Somehow, the remaining lines of cocaine were undisturbed.

My chest hurt. I needed to get out of there.

I stumbled out the front door and into the hall. There was glass and blood there as well. Whatever had happened was larger than Balder’s overdose. Indeed, it looked as if a battle had taken place while I was still unconscious.

I rushed down the stairs and into the street. It was still impossible to determine the time of day. I say this because the sky was blank — not cloudless or overcast, simply blank. Where the sun would ride its chariot-path across the sky, there was now, nothing — just an emptiness that filled the dome over my head.

The streets were vacant, too. The city’s main thoroughfares never wanted for activity — even in the dead of night. Now, there were no cars or pedestrians, no shouts or even talking people, not even the flutter of pigeons that would nest on the larger buildings.

Frantic, I ran to Laugardalur Park.  The footpaths and bike trails were empty. Thousands of people would gather on the park’s many acres each day when it teemed with life.

I sat at the base of my Yggdrasill Ash to consider what had happened. Every scenario, every possibility escaped me.

Seeds began falling on my head.

They felt like raindrops of hope.

“Hello?” I said, my voice cracking.

“There’s someone down there,” said one voice.

“We should see who it is,” said another.

Two faces poked from among the branches: Lif and Lifthrasir, the twins I had met the previous day.

“It’s the man from yesterday,” said Lif.

“Hello again,” said Lifthrasir. I imagine she would have curtsied again if she were standing on the ground.

“What’s going on?” I demanded. “Are you safe? Were are your parents now?”

“Everyone’s gone,” said Lif. “Ragnarok is here.”

“Where has everyone gone?” I asked, ignoring the second, unintelligible part of the boy’s statement.

“Balder’s dead,” said Lifthrasir. “His death has broken the bonds that hold together the nine worlds.”

“His friends were very upset,” Lif continued. “Everyone was sad, except for you.”

“Odin and his friends can go to hell!” I shouted. “They brought it on themselves!”

“I told you,” said Lifthrasir. “No remorse at all.”

“In any case,” Lif cut in, “everyone has gathered at Vigrid, where the final battle will take place.”

“I don’t understand,” I pleaded.

“We’re hiding here until it’s over,” said Lifthrasir, whose face began to retreat again among the branches. “Maybe we’ll see you again, then.”

She disappeared. Lif looked to where his sister’s face had vanished and began withdrawing himself.

“Thank you for not telling on us,” he said. “If you want to go to Vigrid, the journey is long. Head north until you cross the rainbow bridge, then look for the field that stretches one-hundred-twenty leagues in all directions. Pack enough food for the trip.”

The boy’s face disappeared as well. I shouted for him to return, shouted until my voice was hoarse and my throat burned with thirst. It was no use. I never saw the children again.

* * *

And now I am ready to begin my journey. I don’t know what will happen there; I don’t know what has happened here.

Like I said, I didn’t mean to cause the end of the world.

It’s just in my nature.

* * *

Patrick Scalisi is a young magazine editor and aspiring author from Connecticut. He has published fiction in several magazines, including The Willows, Twisted Dreams and Space Westerns, among others. When he’s not writing, Pat enjoys watching way too many movies than are good for him, reading more books than he has shelves for and listening to music (his tastes range from classical to classic and modern rock).  You can visit Pat at is website, www.patrickscalisi.com. 

Handy Man

by David Landrum

“Hey, baby, I’m your handy man.” — From the song, “Handy Man” by Otis Blackwell

I’ve always liked the song “Handy Man.”  I like the original version by Jimmy Jones and the cover by Del Shannon.  My favorite, though, is the recording James Taylor made of it in 1977.  I like Taylor’s version because he sings it in an easy, sweet, gentle voice, and this reflects how I am.  Of course, I like the song most of all because I do the thing the guy in the song says he can do.  I fix broken hearts.  I’ve done it now at least two times.

The first one I fixed belonged to a girl name Linda Seales.  I got to know her when I worked at a McDonalds in Indianapolis.

Linda was not a pretty girl.  She had red hair and blue eyes but her teeth all had spaces between them and she was a little chubby.  She came from a poor home.  As a senior in high school she started working at Mickey-D’s to earn spending money.

Linda didn’t open up much at first, but after a while she started talking about a kid named Tom Hefner, who was giving her a hard time at school.

Hefner came from a wealthy home.  Religious, good-looking, popular, clean and wholesome, he tormented Linda without let-up—and to the great amusement of the other students. Every day he launched some kind of barb at her.  She insulted back, but he had popularity on his side and good looks.  “Suck my nose,” she would say, but her insults had no effect because he, and the other students, knew he rated higher on the social ladder than she.  Linda patiently endured it and confided to me, the Handy Man.

Hefner was breaking her heart.

I did research on him. He played football and sang in the school choir.  I studied his picture in her high school yearbook so I knew what he looked like, found out what church he attended, and went there a couple of times myself.  He always attended a 9:00 P.M. service with his family but stayed afterwards for something—a catechism class, I think—until after ten and then walked home alone.  I waited for the right night, and when it came I got my shotgun, and cornered him on the empty church parking lot.

Rain poured down.  He came walking, wearing a poncho with a hood.  I got out of the car, shoved the shotgun in his face, and told him to get in.  Terror flooded his face.  His eyes darted both ways and I saw from the way he placed his feet and shrank back that he meant to run.  I let him have it, putting a deer slug right in his heart.  The shot flipped him completely over and he landed facedown, blood streaming into the falling rain.  The loud sound of rain and the church bells muffled the shot. I hopped back in my car and drove away.

Bess, our supervisor, told us the next day that Linda would not be at work because one of her friends had been murdered yesterday.  I tried not to smile when Bess described Hefner as Linda’s “friend.”  The newspapers and the local TV news reported on the tragedy.  No clues and no suspects.

I knew it would be foolish to leave town.  Linda formed a link between me and Hefner.  This might arouse suspicion.  I had left no clues as far as I could see.  The police said robbery had not been a motive.

I worked at the MacDonald’s there another nine months.  Nothing linked me to the killing.  When Linda returned to work she was subdued.  She told me she felt guilty, even though she knew it was silly to feel that way.  After a couple of months, though, her smile returned, her blues eyes shone, and her red hair looked brighter.  Without Hefner’s constant badgering and bullying, things were better for her at school.  She had met a guy and the relationship was going well.  Everyone around Linda commented on how much happier she seemed.

I smiled to myself. I had fixed it. I had fixed her broken heart.

When I felt it was safe, I left town.  I made sure I closed out my bank account, got my apartment deposit back, and said good-bye to friends, including Linda.  I did not want anyone to suspect I had left town because I had something to hide.

I moved to a place in Arkansas and got a job at Walmart.  I worked there a year, moved in with a girl named Luann, and worked.  I began to wonder if anyone with a broken heart would come along for me to help.   Finally, in the middle of winter, someone did.  Her name was Tiffany Bledsoe.  She went by the nickname Tiff.

Again, a pretty girl, but a girl with a broken heart. This time, though, the guy she had married was the source of her heartache.

Tiff was slow to open to me, but I’ve learned over the years how to win confidence from girls I think might need my skill as a handyman.  In the break room she would talk about her husband, Jimmy.  I would listen, respect her silences, and not push her to open up.  Patience is the key in such matters.  Finally, she began to share the truth.  He beat her. She made me promise I would not tell anyone else.  I promised and intended to keep the promise—but also to make things right.

Here I encountered a problem. If I got rid of Jimmy she would be even more heartbroken.

She would feel guilty and blame herself.  Her heartbreak would get worse.  I thought and thought about it and concluded there could be only way to fix her broken heart. I would not kill him.  I would kill her.

This fixing would be trickier because I lived with Luann and our apartment was only a short distance from her house. But I’m handy with love and I’m no fool.  Soon I got an idea that would provide me with an alibi.

I bought some grass, and Luann and I smoked it after supper. I had set the digits on the clock by our bed up one hour. After smoking, we jumped in the sack and went to it.  I made sure I smoked a lot less than she did. After we were done, she fell asleep.

I got up out of bed as stealthily as I could and left the house quietly.  Jimmy worked nights. I climbed in Tiff’s back window, sneaked into her room, and put a pillow over her face.  I’m sure it didn’t cause her a whole lot of pain.  She shook and raised her arms for a few seconds but then got still. I held the pillow there for a long while to make certain she was dead and then left.  I walked back home and climbed in bed with Luann.  The whole thing had taken me only twenty minutes. I woke her up and told her I wanted her again.  Killing Tiff got me aroused and Luann and I did it then both of us fell asleep.

When the news broke, I was a “potential suspect,” as the police put it.  They questioned me.  I told them I was at home with my girlfriend. They questioned her, asking if I had been with her that evening. She said I was. What time did they go to sleep? She said we watched TV, had sex, and went to sleep around 8:00 (Luann always looked at the clock as she dozed off).  The police concluded I was no longer a suspect.  The coroners had put the time of Tiff’s death between seven and seven-thirty.

I lived there another two years. Jimmy, Tiff’s ex, got married again not even a year after I cured Tiff’s heartache for her. I wondered if he would treat this new girl with equal contempt. But this wasn’t my job. I had done my work.  I had fixed a broken heart. I had done what I came to earth to do.

Luann and I eventually split. I moved on, this time to Oregon. I’ve found a job. There is a girl who seems forlorn. I’m getting to know her and she is beginning to confide to me.

I fix broken hearts. I know I really can.

* * *

David W. Landrum teaches Literature at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan.  His horror/supernatural fiction has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Horror Through the Ages, Dark Distortions, The Cynic OnLine, The Horror Zine and Ensorcelled. He edits the on-line poetry journal, Lucid Rhythms, www.lucidrhythms.com.

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