Faith

by Gerald Rivard 

The bomb must have gone off after all, because Rajiv al Fazir came to consciousness in a martyr’s heaven.

He was nestled inside a cocoon of moving flesh.  He could feel the warm touch of soft skin everywhere on his naked body.  Hands and fingers caressed, lips and tongues probed, long hair and a tapestry of breasts draped and dangled.  The room seemed to spin, though there were no walls or ceiling.  Distant stars floated through the dark sky, providing a dim ambient light, and the voices of the virgins as they lauded his courage seemed to swim in circles all around him.  He could not have begun to count the number of hands or lips ministering to his body or the number of voices singing his praises.

“Rajiv, you are my hero,” said one virgin as she kissed along his chest.

“You are so brave and so strong,” said another as she stroked his thigh.

An olive-skinned virgin with the striking green eyes of a Persian cat kissed him on his mouth, her tongue brushing his lips. “We are your reward, Rajiv,” she said as she pressed her face against his left cheek.

A dark-haired virgin brought her face to his right cheek at the same time and whispered in his ear. “You gave your life for Allah,” she said. “And so Allah has given us to you.”

He felt himself being enveloped, then, as another of the virgins straddled him. He ran his hands from her thighs to her waist, then slowly up toward her shoulders as she moved against him. He pulled her toward him, and the other women moved out of their way. A short time later, the girl climbed off of him as another virgin took her place. One after another, the virgins shed their purity to him while others, virgin or not, found untended areas of his body to worship.

Later, satisfied, he lay entangled with them all. Gradually their breathing quieted and movement of flesh against flesh became almost imperceptible, until the silence and stillness was benign enough to be broken.

“Did you know Yasin Khumar?” asked the cat-eyed woman at his side as she stroked his cheek with her finger.

“Yasin? He is here?”

“Yes,” the dark-haired one said, kissing his upper thigh.  “He is a brave jihadist, just like you. All brave jihadists are here.”

He had trained with Yasin at a camp in the Sudan. After the training, Rajiv was sent to the United States to await his assignment. He never saw Yasin, or any of his jihad brothers, again. He had hoped to see their names in the newspapers, to learn how they had died, to understand how his own death would fit into Allah’s great plan. But in all his time of waiting, he had learned nothing.

“Did you know him well?” she asked, her eyes shining in the darkness, her breasts pressed cozily into his arm.

Rajiv said nothing, just stared up at the stars. The women took his cue and remained quiet as well, gently caressing and kissing his body. Their touch was just as erotic as it had been before, but now that he was satisfied, its intensity was no longer sufficient to overshadow his own thoughts.

He had expected to hear the explosion in the instant before it blew through him. He had expected to feel his body being torn apart, just for a brief flicker of time before his death. But when he shouted “Allah Akbar!” and pressed the button, nothing seemed to happen. The last thing he remembered was wondering why the bomb didn’t explode.

But it had gone off, because he was here. Perhaps Allah had spared him the pain of being torn to pieces. Perhaps it was enough that he demonstrated the will to suffer for his faith, so that Allah had brought him straight to heaven before the explosion.

It was Rajiv who broke the silence. “Take me to Yasin,” he said. He sat up, but the room with no walls or ceiling seemed to spin again. The cat-eyed woman who was no longer a virgin gently eased him back down, with help from at least three other hands behind him.

“In time,” she said. “There will be time for everything.” The pulse of the room slowed and its movement stilled until all was calm again.

“Sleep now,” she said as she kissed him again. “There are more rewards for you, and all the time you will need.”

* * *

Rajiv woke up alone in his bed; the women were gone. He wondered why there was a bed, but no walls or ceiling, and no floor that he could see, but before he could give it much thought, the prophet Mohammad appeared in a flash of white light and smoke.

Awestruck, Rajiv scrambled from the bed and dropped to his knees. It turned out that there was a floor, or at least a carpet. He put his face to it and waited for the prophet to speak.

Mohammad’s voice was soft, but clear and commanding. “Yasin speaks highly of you, Rajiv,” he said. “I understand you would like to see him.”

“Yes,” Rajiv answered, “I would very much like to see Yasin. And Khalif, too, and Mahmud. Did they fulfill their assignments for Allah? Are they here?”

“You may see whomever you wish, if they are here. I will arrange for you to see your friends, all of them. But first, I have been asked to let you know that Allah is very pleased with your performance.”

At the thought of having pleased Allah, Rajiv was filled up with a joy that seemed much too big for his heart to hold. Tears flooded his eyes, and he began to sob so heavily he could barely breathe.

Mohammad reached out to Rajiv then, and being comforted by the prophet did not diminish his tears. They flowed more freely, washing away all of his fear, all of his doubt, all of his sin.

Afterwards, when he had been cleansed, Rajiv asked about his brothers in jihad, and learned from the prophet all that he wished to know. Khalif al Rawi blew up a bus in Chicago, killing forty-one infidels. Mahmud Jalil and Mohammad Sayf Mashhadami simultaneously set off bombs in New York subway cars, derailing the train and killing over three hundred infidels between them.  And Latif Hassan crashed a plane into a nuclear power station, killing dozens immediately and thousands over time.

Rajiv also learned that his own bomb, which at first he thought had failed to explode, was responsible for the deaths of eighty-seven. He was but a small cog in Allah’s wheel, but that wheel was turning according to the plan, crushing the infidels and preparing the world for Islam.

Heaven was surely a wonderful, wonderful place.

* * *

Special Agent Wendell Grimes of Homeland Security reviewed the files on the three would-be terrorists who had arrived that morning. Their names had been obtained through Rajiv al Fazir, who had since been sent to Israel for final interrogation and disposal.  The files bore the Operation Blind Faith insignia, a scarf-drawn face with a turban pulled over its eyes.

All three of these men—Khalif al Rawi, Latif Hassan, and Mahmud Jalil—had been contacted by undercover field agents and given false suicide bombing assignments. And like Rajiv al Fazir and others before them, they had been given a non-explosive compound fabricated to look like C4 and loaded with a powerful and fast-acting tranquilizer. The carefully chosen locations had been sealed from public access once the subject had entered and filled with agents in plain clothes who provided the expected screams, convincing the bombers that they had successfully completed their missions.

A cocktail of LSD, sodium thiopental, and MDMA had been administered to Mahmud Jalil, and the prostitutes were in position for his awakening in Heaven Room 3.

The other two, Khalif al Rawi and Latif Hassan, had already awakened, and Special Agent Jacob Weinberg, decked out in his flowing robes, was having a conversation with al Rawi in Heaven Room 1. Grimes pushed a button to listen in.

“What about Mullah bin Majid?” al Rawi asked in Arabic. Grimes wrote the name on a pad as Weinberg, posing as Mohammad, informed al Rawi of bin Majid’s success in destroying the Woodrow Wilson Bridge over the Potomac, killing over three hundred including many Washington officials. Grimes chuckled to himself, knowing that Weinberg had blamed heavy traffic on that very bridge for his own lateness that morning.

Enemies speak so much more freely when they believe they are among friends.

* * *

Gerald Rivard began writing before Kindergarten, and his strange tales entertained his classmates throughout most of his school years.  After a long hiatus, he is back in the swivel chair, crafting short stories at a pace he considers far too slow as he prepares for his first novel.  You can learn more about him and his writing at www.geraldrivard.com.

Sunshine and Stones

By Cynthia Wilson

We were on our way to school in Jack Spyder’s truck jammin’ to the tunes when an announcer’s voice broke in the middle of “Blinded by the Light.”

“Late last evening, a Convair 240 carrying the members of the band Lynyrd Skynyrd, crashed in a swamp near Gillsburg, Mississippi.” The announcer had tears in his throat. “Dead are lead singer Ronnie Van Zandt, guitarist and vocalist Steve Gaines, his sister, vocalist Cassie Gaines, assistant road manager Dean Kilpatrick, along with both the pilot and co-pilot.” We sat with our shirts stuck to the back of the seats, a sudden sweat upon us, while the truck slowed down as if from its own shock. We could hear the announcer shuffling papers, attempting to collect himself before going on. “The plane was en route from a concert in Greenville, South Carolina to Baton Rouge, Louisiana when sources say it ran out of gas and went down. Injured are drummer Artimus Pyle, Gary Rossington, and Leslie Hawkins. Guitar player Allen Collins and bassist Leon Wilkeson  are both in serious condition. We will have more details as information comes in. Again, the plane carrying members of southern rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd has crashed in Gillsburg, Mississippi. Ronnie Van Zandt, Steve Gaines, and Cassie Gaines are dead. And now, a moment of silence.”

The truck drifted over to the side of the road. The silence was black. The decision to skip school that day was unspoken, and Jack went off to find dope. Sarah and I went to raid her parents’ liquor cabinet. All we came up with was a bottle of cherry vodka. We met up in the cemetery. It seemed the appropriate place. The headstones were a scattered Stonehenge baked silver by a hot sun. We sat among them, legs crossed Indian style.

It was 1977. Like the sixties without riots about black and white and protests against war. Free love and drugs floated like good incense into the next decade. The kids in the sixties had experimented and we were the receivers of the results. We knew what we liked. Southern Rock and hard partyin’ was the flavor of the time, and Lynyrd Skynyrd was our icon for freedom, southern style.

Jack and Dane were already there when Sarah and I showed up, cherry vodka in hand, Skynyrd shirts on from the last concert tour over hip-hugging angel flairs, and Candies slides. Jack sat on the open bed of his truck, legs swinging, licking the tip of the paper on the joint he had just rolled. Setting it down with the pile he had already rolled, he picked up the bag of yellow-green weed and stuck his nose deep into it as if it were a brandy snifter full of Louis Tres. The doors were open to his truck, the eight track playing “Gimme Back My Bullets.”

“Nothin like it, man. Makes ya high just thinking about it.”

Dane leaned against a headstone, Budweiser longneck in hand, peeling the label off bit by bit, dark bangs covering his face. He looked up.

“I’m tired of thinking. Spark one up.”

Sarah took a seat next to Jack. Stuck the bottle in front of his face.

“Cherry Vodka. The folks keep the good shit locked up.”

Jack smiled and stuck a joint in her mouth. “ ‘salright, Dane brought beer. Couple cases.”

He dug a matchbook out of his pocket, Millie’s Craft and Head Shop it said on the front cover. We’d been there many times. He struck a match and lit the joint. Sarah sucked in the smoke, and coughed while she exhaled. She grinned. The unmistakable smell of pot and sulphur filled the air between us.

“Good shit.”

“Yeah, well pass it over.” Dane reached out his arm, just out of reach from where Sarah sat. I walked the joint from Sarah to Dane, taking my share on the way.

The sun was a juicy peach by the time Dane stuck out his hand, uncurled his fingers, and showed us the tiny orange barrels in his palm.

“Orange Sunshine,” he grinned.

“Holding out on us?” Jack reached his long bony arm across the space between us, his snake tattoo uncoiling its full length. He took a tab and rolled it around in his fingers before popping it in his mouth. He smiled so wide that his cheeks touched the ends of his hair that fell in brown strings around his face.

Dane put his palm before Sarah and me, offering the goods. We each took one and put them in our mouths. I curled the end of my tongue around mine. It felt like a jujube. Dane licked his off his palm like the things he wanted to experience had been written there. Ronnie Van Zandt’s voice came from the truck, “Swamp, swamp swamp, swamp music…”

Jack opened the cooler for another beer. He tossed one to Dane. “So, what do you think they were thinkin’ when they knew the plane was going down?”

“Shit, we’re gonna die.” Dane began peeling the label from his beer.

“No, really, man, like do you think they had the whole life-flash-before-your-eyes thing, or what?”

“I think they probably prayed to whatever they prayed to, I mean God, or whatever.” I said. I took a swig of cherry vodka, and curled up my nose, looking at the label as if I had grabbed the wrong thing.

“Do you think they can see us? Right now?” Sarah’s face was shadowed in the dimming light. A bullfrog squawked somewhere behind her.

“There’s your answer, man!” Jack rolled on his back, holding his stomach, laughing.

Sarah looked behind her as if someone might actually be there. “Don’t be a dick. I mean, do you think there’s anything after we die?”

“You mean like heaven?” Dane peered into the opening of his beer bottle.

“Or ghosts,” Jack got up and skipped between the headstones around us. “Woooooooo,” he jumped on top of one and stretched out his arms, “woooooooooooo.”

Sarah took a long pull from the bottle of vodka and jumped up, throwing her arms in the air in a whiff of cherry and sandalwood.  I could tell by the extra light in her expression that she was starting to get high. She was on her way over the rainbow.

“Woooooooo,” she waved her arms at Jack, chasing him, “wooooooo.”

I turned to Dane, who sat peeling his beer bottle, smiling after them.

“So, it’s like an ending, man, like the end of something. With Skynyrd and all,” I looked at him, pushing a stray bit of hair out of my face. I could feel my skin turning to rubber.

“There’s no ending, just a beginning. All endings are beginnings.”

I looked at Jack dancing on top of a headstone, all golden purple shadows.

“I am the ghost of music past!” He did a little tap dance and fell, laughing.

Sarah came dancing between Dane and me. “We’re all the ghosts of music, man, we carry the music with us. That’s why we have music, man, so we can vibrate with the universe.” She did a sort of pirouette and deposited herself cross-legged next to me.

“Ronnie Van Zandt was the best, man, the best. Every man feels he has to be exceptionally good at something. He’ll keep those closest who both know and admire this thing.”

The peach sky had turned to black velvet with holes in it where the stars should be. Just as I was about to comment about the missing stars a single light began approaching us from across the cemetery illuminating headstones as it came towards us and we all stopped, froze, not sure if it was the drugs or not.

“What the hell you kids doing here?” came the voice behind the light. “This ain’t no place to party, this here’s a cemetery, don’t y’all have any respect at all for the folks resting here? Ever since that goddamn Easy Rider movie, suddenly graveyards are the place for you kids to trip out or whatever it is you do. Not on my watch. Y’all get now, go on home.”

Dane smiled angelically, his dark hair hiding his brilliant eyes, eyes that changed color with his voice, like one of those colored strobe lights that changed with the music. “Dude, we’re not hurting anybody. I mean, c’mon, everyone here is already dead. What could we possibly do to them? Just chill, dude, chill.”

Sarah stepped into the light and made a grand sweeping motion with her hand and said, “The cemetery is a great place to picnic, if you don’t mind aunts.” Then she took a deep bow, turned to us and said, “Haiku.”

“Gesundheit,” Jack shot back.

Everybody laughed, even the man behind the light.

“Well, don’t do no desecrating and take all your trash with you. Don’t let me catch you here again, got me?” the voice said.

“Don’t worry man, we don’t like to desecrate in public, we can use the bathroom at the 7-11 down the road. Thanks for considering our bowels though,” said Jack.

The voice made a hmmmph sound and the light turned away, illuminating the headstones again.

“Watchman for the dead. How cool is that? Think Ronnie and Cassie have a watchman?” Dane looked at me, his eyes flashing purple, pink, orange, then black. “I think it would be cool, I want someone to watch over me when I’m dead.”

I could feel the top of my head buzz like it was a radio receiver. My tongue felt thick. “Geez Dane, don’t you ever get scared of dying? Doesn’t death scare you?”

Dane considered me for a moment, looked out where moments ago dozens of headstones were lit up like monuments.     Suddenly the dark became intense, like it was emanating from Dane’s words. “Sometimes I feel like I’m in a dark hole, falling, and I can’t see where I’m going. Then I get real sad and afraid, and it feels like a million ants with frozen feet are running up and down my skin.”

Sarah held her hands in front of her as if she were looking for ants. She rubbed her arms and shivered. “Bad scene, man.”

Jack jumped off a headstone and landed next to us, pulled a joint out of his shirt pocket and lit it with a Millie’s match.

“I’m learnin there are no absolutes,” he said as he inhaled, his voice strained. “There’s no definites, no solutions,” his words came out in puffs with the smoke. He passed the joint to Dane. “It’s all just how we deal with it, you know?”

Jack was still gold and purple. Suddenly we were our own counsel, an ancient counsel of druids bathed in our own light among the headstones. Our own private Stonehenge. The October night was warm, the moon was cut in half like the day had been.

“Yeah, but it’s still just another entrance to the dark hole of unknowing,” Sarah took the joint, a rainbow trailing her hand, took a long drag, then passed it to me. I looked at it, the fingers of smoke dancing up toward the sky, rainbow-like, like Hindu goddesses. I got up and raised my hands to them, then danced on the nearest grave and said, “Look at me, I’m Kali, the Hindu goddess of Tantric eternal energy. The Goddess of change. She danced on Shiva’s dead body, and he was her lover. But she could never separate herself from him, she is his creative energy.” I danced around and stomped my feet as if I were dancing on someone. “Just like a man to need a woman for creativity and eternal life. Funny thing is, it happens again and again, without end. Shiva always dies and Kali always dances.” I stopped my dancing and fell to the ground, laughing, watching the holes where the stars used to be turn into a kaleidoscope of color.

“Maybe there isn’t an ending or a beginning,” Dane said, “ maybe all we have is feeling. Like when the sky’s so red it feels like the world’s life is bleeding over me. Other times I feel like the world wraps itself around me like a blanket. Pure feeling, man, that’s the wisdom.”

“Merry-go-rounds are my favorite,” Sarah announced, “I mean, you go round and round, and up and down, and you just keep going in circles – never going anywhere and never expecting to. Just comfortable in the ride. Round and round. Yeah, Merry-go-rounds. I like ‘em.”

I looked at Dane through the Goddess-smoke, his black hair hanging over his eyes like he held some ancient mystery there. His eyes were so dark they looked like the ancient springs at Delphi. I thought he was crazy and beautiful.

“Where do you think you’ll go when you die?” I asked Dane.

“Depends on who’s taking me there, maybe I’ll go to Gillsburg and hang out with Ronnie. Yeah, that’d be cool. Free Bird live whenever I want.” Dane turned into a Sphynx.

Jack bounced back between the silver and purple stones, rainbows trailing behind him. He was a jester, a God, a muse.

“We can just go then,” Jack announced.

Sarah looked up at him, eyes wide, her face awash in color. “With Skynyrd? With Ronnie? Now? I mean, don’t we have to die first? I know, it’s a suicide pact, right? Just like the Kool-Aid. I like grape.”

Jack swung Sarah around and sat her atop a stone and told her, “This ain’t no suicide pact girlie. I’m talking driving to Gillsburg, man, see the place where they went down. Talk to ‘em, like maybe there’s messages there that only true Skynyrd fans can get.”

“Yeah, man, like to where they landed. Crashed. It would be so beautiful. To crash,” Sarah mused, still intent on understanding death from first hand experience.

My life came back to me. “To Gillsburg? To the swamp?”

Dane jumped up, animated with purpose, his hair parted over his face. “To the swamp!”

Sarah looked at me, her eyes palettes of color. “I’ll plant some resurrection ferns.”

“No resurrection fern is gonna bring back Skynyrd. Besides, you can’t plant resurrection ferns, they just grow. You know, like when it rains, then after the rainbow comes the resurrection ferns,” Dane explained.

“Hey man,” I said, “Maybe that’s it. Ya know? Like the resurrection ferns. Maybe they’ll come back, you know, if it rains.”

Jack wove back and forth between headstones, leaving a long trail of rainbows behind him. He started singing:

“I’ve been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard, and it’s a hard, it’s a hard, it’s a haaarrrd rain is gonna faaaaallll.”

“Bob Dylan, man, he’s like, Jesus or something, like, he always has the right message.”

“What is it with you and messages anyway, Jack? Dude, there’s a message in everything.” I watched him as he turned from gold to purple to orange, then back to gold again. “Jack, you’re golden, man. I mean really golden.”

Jack immediately pounced on to the top of a large headstone and stretched his arms out wide. “That’s because I’m a God! Didn’t you know all Gods are golden? Ever see a picture of them big ass Buddhas? They’re golden. Golden Gods.”

I got up and walked to where Jack was still perched on his stone, looked straight into his kaleidoscope eyes and said, “If you’re a God, then why did you let that plane crash? Why did you take Ronnie and the Gaines? You’re a shitty God, man.”

Jack crouched down, still atop the headstone, and said in a conspiratorial tone, “We’re all shitty Gods. That’s the secret. That’s what everyone is trying to figure out. That’s the secret of life, man. That’s it right there. We’re all shitty Gods.”

“But what about Ronnie, and Steve and Cassie, they weren’t shitty Gods, they were musicians. The greatest southern rock band to ever live!” I protested.

“Yeah! The greatest band to ever live!” Sarah joined in, twirling in circles; rainbows followed her every move, she became lost in the light.

“You mean to ever die,” said Dane.

* * *

Cynthia Wilson holds and MFA in creative writing from Goddard College. Her work has appeared in such magazines as Hyperbole, The Aquila Review, The Pitkin Review, Fine Flash Fiction, and several small house publications. She is currently working on her novel and lives at home with her life long love and her two dogs.

You can visit Cynthia at her blog, www.cypresswillow.com.

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.

The Man Who Shot Stonewall Jackson

By Gary Beck

It happened once before, when I was a young man. The newspapers clamored for war, self-appointed know-it-alls told us why we had to fight and everyone believed them, especially the youngsters like me who got all fired up to join the army. So now, when those big headlines screamed ‘Remember The Maine,’ there wasn’t any more doubt that there would be war with Spain. And off they went to enlist, just like they were going to a picnic, as irreverent and ignorant as we were back in 1861. My eldest son told me he had to join up and I tried to discourage him. I told him how crazy it was for two groups of men to stand and blaze away at each other, but he wouldn’t listen. All he said was: “War’s not fought that way anymore, Pa.”

So I held my peace and watched him go, like my pa watched me go. When he died of yellow fever, before he even fought in a battle, it was another terrible affliction that I had to accept. But I guess he was right about it being a new kind of war, because it was over pretty quick and we got all these new places; Cuba, Puerto Rico, The Philippines and Guam. I never even heard of Guam. So I kept on farming and doing my chores but I was pretty much empty inside. I had been that way ever since the surrender at Appomattox, which ended my daily suffering, but left me a hollow man. I went through all the motions of the living and tried my best to be a good husband and father, and I never told anyone how I felt. How could anyone who hadn’t been there understand? Sometimes, when I went to town and saw the few old hands who survived the entire war, like me, there was nothing we could say. We just looked at each other for a moment, nodded in recognition that we were still alive and moved on.

Then one day, long after Spain surrendered, I saw a soldier who had just come home from the Philippines. I was buying something in Dahlgren’s general store and his pa brought him in. He had that look that I hadn’t seen since the war with the Yankees. His flesh was sagging on his bones and his uniform hung on him like a scarecrow on a hard luck farm. He walked as if it was a great effort to put one foot after the other. Old Mr. Dahlgren kept prodding him to tell us what it was like over there, but he refused to talk, until his pa urged him. Then he looked at everyone for a moment and said coldly: “You want to know what it was like? I’ll tell you. I watched my buddies die in ambushes, or of tropical diseases, or in battles with savages who just kept coming at us, even after we shot them. I watched my friends butcher women and children!” A look of absolute horror ate his face. “All I saw was death and suffering. Is that what you wanted to hear?” Then he turned and walked out. I couldn’t get him out of my mind the rest of the day.

That night I thought about the war with the Yankees, which I had shut out of my life a long time ago. I remembered how I had rushed to join up that spring of 1861. I ignored Pa when he told me not to go, just like my boy ignored me. Then Pa told me how bad it was when he fought the Mexicans in ‘46, but I didn’t believe him. Everyone I knew was hurrying to the colors and I wasn’t about to be last. We were going to whip the Yankees good, then go back home with our chests full of medals. Once I was in uniform it didn’t take long for me to wake up. Almost half the boys I joined up with got killed or wounded in our first battle at Manassas. Maybe the Yankees finally ran off as fast as they could for Washington D.C., but not before they put up a mighty good fight. We fought up and down Virginia for the next two years and got leaner, hungrier, tireder and sicker. The more we ran out of ammunition, food, or shoes, the more the Yankees kept coming. We learned everything about the horror of soldiering the hard way.

One day we were camped somewhere near Chancellorsville, after a tough battle where we whipped the Yankees good. Of course it wasn’t like when the war first started. Then we knew we were better men then the city folk and immigrants they were going to send against us. Before First Manassas, most of us talked about beating them proper, then going home. If anyone thought it would go on and on for years, they didn’t say it where I heard. Anyhow, we had been resting because it had been a long, hard fight and these Yankees weren’t like the rabbits who used to run when they were beaten. When these Yankees lost, they retreated resentfully and we knew they’d be back. Then the word raced through the camp. Stonewall was dead. Rumors, like disease, travel swiftly in an army, especially when it’s bad news. This hit me and the old hands particularly hard, because we were the 31^st Virginia and we were Stonewall’s men from the beginning.

We rushed to Colonel Barstow’s tent, but he didn’t know any more than we did. Messengers kept arriving, each one with different news. The only thing they all agreed on was that Stonewall had been shot. The colonel finally got tired of our pushing and shoving at the messengers and he sent us back to our bivouac area. But he promised to let our company commander, Lieutenant Rambeau, know as soon as he learned anything. We thanked the colonel, who was one of only three officers left in the regiment who had been with us from the start. All the others had been killed or invalided out. Colonel Barstow had started as a young lieutenant, full of fire and noble speeches. Now he was as old and tired as the rest of us. We snickered about Lieutenant Rambeau as we walked. He was a momma’s boy, a blonde-haired string bean with a mushy face that always looked ready to cry. He had reported to the regiment a few days ago, but he disappeared somehow before the fighting started. The joke going around the camp was who would shoot him first, us or them. Soldiers deserted other regiments before a fight, but not in the 31^st Virginia.

We waited for news, but didn’t relax much. A couple of the younger boys babbled about beating the Yankees again, but the old hands quickly shut them up. By now we knew we could beat them and beat them, but they would still keep coming. We were sick, tired, cold and hungry and we didn’t have much hope left. The gossip around the campfire was no longer about victory. A few diehards still kept trying to convince the rest of us that massa Robert and ole Stonewall would find a way to defeat the Yankees. Most of us didn’t buy it. Now Stonewall was dead. One of the kids asked what would happen if General Lee got killed, but an old hand kicked him a few times and the kid slunk off, leaving the rest of us to brood about things. I couldn’t help thinking how lucky that kid was to get off so lightly. We had just lost our father and that dumb kid was talking about losing our grandfather. We didn’t need any more bad luck.

Later that night we found out that Stonewall wasn’t dead, he was just badly wounded. He had been returning from the battlefield in the dark and a nervous sentry, thinking he was a Yankee goblin or something, shot him. After two years of hurry up, then wait, it wasn’t a hardship to wait for news. We lost so many men at Chancellorsville that I guess they forgot about our regiment for a while, so we loafed in our tents. Once we packed up all the dead men’s belongings, they finally remembered us. They even gave us some food, probably pilfered from the Yankees endless supply of everything. Then the word flew around camp faster than wildfire. A new recruit named Billy Rawlins had shot Stonewall. They didn’t rightly know what to do with him, so they sent him home.

After Stonewall died, the war went on and on and the Yankees kept us on the run. When it was finally over, those of us who survived went back to our homes. I was one of the lucky ones. Pa had kept the farm going somehow, despite the voracious armies trampling back and forth across poor, battered Virginia. I had only been home for a couple of months when I heard that the man who shot Stonewall Jackson, Billy Rawlins, had hanged himself. It seems his pa kept telling him that he killed the man who could have won the war for the Confederacy. I guess the damned fool kid must have believed him, because he went into the barn, threw a rope over a beam and ended his life… But that was a long time ago.

I hadn’t thought about Billy Rawlins for many years. Seeing that soldier in Dahlgren’s store reminded me about what had eaten so much of my soul away. It all came back to me from a distance, like hearing a voice on that new telephone invention: the useless waste of young men, the suffering that devastated so many lives, the ease with which we forgot the dead. All I could think of was that if I knew then what I knew now, I could have gone to see Billy. I could have told him that what he did was just one more crazy mistake in a succession of terrible events. That Stonewall couldn’t have won the war. Hell, it was lost way before that. Only fools believed that we could win after the first year or so. The Yankees had everything. We only had pride and courage. Once they wore out our pride, courage just wasn’t enough. But my understanding of things came much too late to help poor Billy. I couldn’t help that trooper who lost his soul in the jungle. And I sure couldn’t help any of the other innocents who don’t start wars, only rush to fight them.

* * *

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when he couldn’t earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage diver. His chapbook ‘Remembrance’ was published by Origami Condom Press, ‘The Conquest of Somalia’ was published by Cervena Barva Press and ‘The Dance of Hate’ was published by Calliope Nerve Media in 2009. A collection of his poetry ‘Days of Destruction’ has been published in 2009 by Skive Press. Another collection ‘Expectations’ is being published by Rogue Scholars Press. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway and toured colleges and outdoor performance venues. He currently lives in New York City, where he’s busy writing.  His poetry and short stories have appeared in numerous literary magazines.

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. 

A Christmas Eve Story

by Milan Smith

Thank you, thank you, if I can just sit here a few minutes, I’ll feel much better. Yes, please, the more light the better.

“Do you want a drink?”

Yes, please. Something to calm me down. Whiskey if you have it. Thank you. I’m sorry to barge in on you like this, David, on Christmas Eve, but I was sure it was over for me if I stayed home. I hope I didn’t disturb your family?

“They’re sleeping soundly. ‘Becca always sleeps hard, and the kids won’t be up before morning. Of course, it’s Christmas, so morning may be four o’clock. But maybe I’ll get lucky and they’ll let me sleep in ‘til five.”

Well, it’s good of you to see me like this, this late at night. But, you’ve always been good to me. You and my wife are – were – the two closest to me in the world. I miss her, even after all this time. It’s been a year now. It’s hard to be alone, especially on Christmas.

“I know, Phil. So tell me, does this have anything to do with the ‘feelings’ you’ve gotten over the last two weeks?”

It’s all about that. But there’s more I haven’t told you, or anyone else. Mostly because I know how people think of me. You know, this here. I admit I drink too much, my wife tells me – used to tell me – every day. But I’ve never seen things before, so I don’t know why I would now.

“So tell me what happened. All of it.”

I don’t want to end up in the funny house, David.

“You won’t. Tell me what happened, then you can stay on the couch tonight.”

Well, if you really want to hear it? Well alright, it started a few weeks ago, when I put up the Christmas lights. Have you seen them yet? Oh. Well, it took me about a week, I spent days just stringing up the trees out front. Then I bought one of those lighted Santa Clauses with a sled and reindeer, and I even put up lights around the house and windows, all reds and greens everywhere. It’s my big project for the year. Been doing it since the kids were small, you know.

“I know.”

Hell, I must’ve spent $10,000 on decorations over the years. Kept at it even after the kids left. Habit, I suppose. Or an old man’s obsession.

Anyway, when it was all done, I found a string of lights lying around the kitchen. Now that wasn’t so odd, except that I always put away my spare lights in the garage. And I remember doing that this year. But three days later, there they were, under the table. Well, I thought, maybe I’d just forgotten them and not noticed. You know, with this stuff, the whiskey, even I wonder sometimes. But forgetting things isn’t the same as seeing them. Keep that in mind.

“Alright.”

Well, the next night, I got home from shopping – you know how cold it got last week, don’t you? Dropped 40 degrees in one day. Instead of sweating, I’m freezing. It’s so cold, I’ve got goose bumps all up and down my back. So I run in the house to get warm, carrying a buncha packages, when I fell down just inside the door. I cussed a little, got up and looked to see what I’d tripped over. Thought the weather stripping had got loose, but I found another string of those damn Christmas lights. It was odd, because I knew I’d gotten them all up. But I didn’t think too hard on it, I just put them away and went about wrapping the presents. That gave me something to do, it gets lonely when you’re all alone, especially when you’ve lived with someone for 35 years. I’d never been away from Doris more than a day or two since we were married, but it wasn’t so bad when I had something to do.

“I understand.”

Well, I’d pretty much forgotten the whole thing by the next day. I figured I’d dropped the lights, and in the rush of things, I simply didn’t notice. Not very odd, is it? Happens to a lot of people.

Then that night I started hearing things, like little rustling sounds. It was hard to tell what it was, but lying there in the dark, in the quiet, I thought I heard it coming from the kitchen. But I was tired, so I ignored it and went to sleep. I woke up the next morning, and just to be sure, I checked out the kitchen, looking inside the cabinets to see if anything was chewed on, like a mouse woulda done. Didn’t find nothing, even checked the stack of newspapers by the couch. But not a thing.

“Maybe you have a squirrel between the walls. It’s an old house.”

Yeah, could be. Anyway, I forgot about it and did my errands for the day. But every day after that it was the same, a string of lights showed up in a closet or under a chair, and even under the bed, though I never once took the lights to my bedroom. And of course, every night I’d hear things moving. Sometimes I got up and looked around, but couldn’t ever find anything.

Anyway, a whole week goes by like that, then last night, things went south. I was getting ready for bed, and went to take a shower. And when I was done, I turned off the water, and as I pulled back the curtain, I saw a string of lights dangling over the side of the tub, as if someone had put them there. Nothing special about them, they were just lying there like they’d been dropped. I picked them up and followed the string with my eyes, and I saw it was plugged in the outlet by the mirror. I tell ya David, I was shaking as the last of the water ran down the drain with that long sucking sound. I knew if that string a lights had hit water, I woulda been fried like a catfish.

Well after I got out, I sat and spent a lot of time trying to figure what to do. I know I hadn’t put the lights there. Something had happened, or someone was playing games. But what could I tell people? They’d just laugh and ignore me. So I carried the lights out to the garage and dumped them off.

I was still shook up, so I went to the kitchen to, um, get something to settle myself. Well, I reached up to open the cabinet and get my spare bottle when, can you believe it, dozens of them lights just fell on me! I screamed and hollered and tore at them, and they were blinking red and green and white, and they had me like a net. I clawed at them screaming and yelling and rolling around in my long johns, and it took me ten minutes to get away from them. Then I sat there on the floor, staring at them. The lights had gone out by then, and they lay there like a bunch of dead snakes. It was strange.

The first thing I thought was that maybe the drinking had gotten to me more than I knew. I’d hate to think I was hallucinating, but what else would you think? Spooks? I never believed much in them, but unless I’m crazy – Do I seem crazy to you David?

“No, no you don’t.”

Good, good. That’s something. Well, I was shaking again and my teeth were rattling, and I figured I needed to sleep off whatever was going on with me. I mean, maybe something with this, the drinking, had gotten to me. So I went right to bed and left the lights on in the living room. The overhead lights, I mean. I pulled the plug on the Christmas tree too, just to be safe. I mean, you know, I was shook up, David.

“I understand.”

Well, I went to bed, pulled up the covers, and lay there kinda stiff, listening for sounds, movements, anything. I heard the wind outside, it’d picked up and was whistling kinda long and slow, but that was it. I just lay there, trying not to move, looking around every few minutes, and at some point I fell off asleep.

When I did, I had a dream I was in a box, somewhere dark, all alone, and little bugs were crawling all over me. I tried to slap them away, but they kept coming. Then I felt like someone was trying to burn me with a cigarette, all over my arms and legs. Then I felt it, the strangling feeling, like someone had their hands around my neck and was squeezing. I woke up and screamed.

They were there, those damn lights! They were around my neck David, strangling me, I gagged and wheezed and tried to pull them off, but I couldn’t get them loose. They were humming and vibrating and the bulbs were burning my skin. I swear I couldn’t get the damn things off me, and I thought I’d die right there in my own bed, when I remembered my hunting knife in the drawer of the whatcha call it – the night stand. I reached over, choking, my hands slapping though the drawer until I found it, and I pulled it loose from the sheath somehow and I began to cut and cut until they were off me.

But I didn’t stop there, I cut up all the damn lights on the bed too, I cut them two or three dozen times, taking a handful and slicing through them. That’s a damn good knife, I tell you. And after I stopped, I sat there on the bed, huffing and puffing and my heart thumping like it was ready to blow.

When I could think again, I got dressed and headed for the front door. When I ran through the living room, I could hear them, the lights from the tree, they were humming. Now, Christmas lights don’t hum, so I ran faster, then I tripped right in front of the door. I looked down, and they were wrapped around my legs! I screamed David, I screamed like a little girl until I crawled out that front door, feeling those things pulling on my leg even as I yanked the door shut and stumbled away. Then I drove here as fast as I could, all shook up, wondering if I’m nuts or what.

“That’s one hell of a story.”

Well, there you go. I don’t blame you for not believing me. You probably think I’m three sheets to the wind, and I’m seeing little pink elephants. But look at my neck. It’s all red, like someone wrapped wire around it, right?

“Yes.”

Well, I don’t know what else to say. I’m scared to go home, not knowing what to expect. Maybe with Doris gone, maybe I’m not all there anymore.

“Well, sleep here tonight, Phil, and in the morning, after the kids are done with the presents, we’ll drive over and take a look.”

Yeah, but then everything will be back to normal. It’s always late in the evenings that things seem to happen. I hate to ask you this, David, on Christmas Eve and all, but could you drive over and take a look? Just look around, see if everything’s as it should be? See if there’s cut-up lights in my bedroom. Just look?

“Tonight?”

I know it’s a hassle, David, but it’s only a couple miles away. You’ll be back in 20 minutes. If it’s me, I’ll quit this, the whiskey, I’ll go to rehab and get it out of me. But I can’t go back without knowing. Just see if there’s anything funny going on. Or if it’s me.

“Oh, Phil.”

I know, I’m sorry, but I need to know.

“Give me your keys, Phil.”

Alright. Now when you go in the front door, my room is straight back, on the left.

“I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Thank you, David. Thank you.

“Lay off the liquor until I get back.”

Sure, David, this’ll be it for tonight. And thanks.

#

“Hello?”

Hello? Oh, hi Rebecca.

“Is David gone?”

Just left. I see his tail lights. He stopped at the corner, now he’s turning, and yeah, he’s gone. I hope I didn’t wake the kids.

“No, they both sleep well.”

Good, good.

“So tell me what you’re up to. It seems this little joke is more involved than you let on. And on Christmas Eve, too.”

Well, did you hear my little story to David?

“Most of it. You have a wild imagination, Phil. I never knew.”

Yeah, well, I’ve been holding back all these years, and I decided to let it all out.

“So, what’d you do? What’s the joke?”

Well, I put up all the Christmas lights on the inside of the house, in the living room. I set up the elves and the Santa Claus and the reindeer, and made the place look like Santa’s workshop sorta.

“How many lights?”

All of them. $10,000 worth of lights in my living room. The walls are nothing but lights, floor to ceiling. I strung the tables and the chair legs and the couch and everything else. I saved a few for the special touch, of course.

“What special touch?”

I set a pressure plate in the middle of the living room – those are hard to find – and when David steps on it, every single light comes on at once! Oh, I’d love to see him then, love to see his face, while he’s surrounded by tens of thousands of lights and all of Santa’s elves and reindeer. But the best part is the lights that’ll fall from the ceiling like a fishnet. That’s the extra, just to give him a chill. It took three months to think it all up, and to make it work. It’s not so easy as you’d think, to get all those lights to come on at one time.

“And the story you told him was just to make him nervous, to make it easier to scare him?”

Yep, exactly. I know he don’t believe me, but back of his mind he can’t help but be a little scared, and that’s all I need.

“I see. And why exactly did you do all this? Why all that work for a ten-second scare?”

Well, to be honest, I’m plain sick of Christmas. With Doris gone, I’m now in the Halloween business. I only kept it up for her, you know, after the kids moved out. And I thought I should get some use outta those lights before I tossed them. But from now on, all my time goes into Halloween. By the way, I lied, I still have some lights left. I thought you might want to know.

“Why? What’d you do?”

Well, you know that present I got David?

“The tool box? Or that’s what you hinted.”

Yeah, but the toolbox is in my truck, under a blanket. What’s under the tree is the other lights, and when he opens it up, well, think of the world’s biggest jack-in-the-box.

“I see.”

I can’t wait to see him jump. First tonight, then tomorrow morning, still half-asleep, a thousand lights exploding in his face – God, what a Halloween this’ll be.

“Christmas, you mean.”

Yeah, that too.

* * *

Milan Smith has published 34 short stories in various magazines, including Pear Noir, Everyday Fiction, Jersey Devil Press, and Big Pulp. After he got his B.S. degree in business from the University of Florida, he worked in the business world for two years, and hated it. Then he got job as a reporter for a year, and hated that. Finally, he decided to try writing, and now works part-time at night and writes during the mornings, and he loves it.

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.

Hippie Market
by Tom Mahony

The hippie market is next door to my office. I buy a sandwich there almost every day. There’s no other place nearby to get food, and I’m too lazy to make my own lunch. The deli at the market is excellent. The people are friendly, and though they prepare the sandwiches with a plodding slowness characteristic of devout stoners, they also maintain a stoner’s freakish attention to culinary detail. The tomato slices are works of art.

There’s only one problem: the granola woman who works the register is always inviting me to one rally or another. She’s really into rallies. She’s really pumped up on “causes.” I’m neither for nor against her causes. I just want to pay for my sandwich.

Today I stand in line behind several people. Today I will ask her to please refrain from soliciting me for future political rallies.

The line moves forward. I’m up next. I don’t want to alienate this woman—she seems nice enough, and sincere in her beliefs—but I have to say something, as the situation has become untenable. I dread purchasing my daily sandwich. But I must be careful in my technique. If things go wrong, I’ll have to face an even more awkward exchange on future sandwich runs.

I reach the register, preparing for the confrontation. But she doesn’t invite me to a rally. She seems subdued, just mutters a greeting and rings up my purchase. I wonder what happened. Has someone else complained about her pamphleteering? Has she become cynical and apathetic overnight?

“Everything okay?” I ask.

She shrugs. “I got laid off today. They’re cutting back on staff.”

I’m struck by the news. I feel bad for her, and tell her so. Though I can’t deny a certain relief, I regret my past irritation with her. She’s a thoroughly decent person. I almost feel nostalgic for her proselytizing.

“I hear they’re looking to hire a receptionist next door,” she says. “You work there, right?”

I hesitate. We are in fact hiring. “I’m not sure.”

“Not sure that you work there?”

“That we’re hiring.”

“There’s a big sign on the window advertising the position. I saw your name listed as the contact. I recognize it from your debit card.”

“Oh. Right.”

“What do you think? Do I have a chance at the job? I could really use the money.”

I clear my throat. “What are your skills?”

“I can do it all. I was a receptionist for five years before I started here.”

This is getting bad. “It’s dull work.”

She points at the cash register. “You think this is exciting?”

I start to panic. My mind races. I can’t think straight.

“We get along, right?” she says. “Other customers are so rude when I talk politics. You always seem interested, like we’re on the same wavelength.”

Same wavelength? I should’ve spoken up long ago, as apparently every other customer has. At least this woman is firm in her beliefs. I’m always weaseling out of confrontation and stand-taking. Who’s the kook here?

I have to come clean. I could not possibly work with her. Avoidance and apathy have cost me dearly throughout life. I either take a stand now or I never will.

The line stacks up behind me. I glance at the irritated faces. Everyone’s watching me. They know the score. One by one they’ve made peace with the woman by politely telling her to shut up. I envy them. As they glare at me, I can read the look on their faces: what kind of man are you?

What kind of man, indeed.

I turn back to the woman. “When can you start?”

* * *

Tom Mahony is a biological consultant in California with an M.S. degree from Humboldt State University. His fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and has appeared in dozens of online and print publications, including Surfer Magazine, Flashquake, The Rose & Thorn, Pindeldyboz, In Posse Review, Boston Literary Magazine, 34^th Parallel, Diddledog, Foliate Oak, and Decomp. His short fiction collection, Slow Entropy, was published by Thumbscrews Press in 2009. He is looking for a publisher for several novels. Visit him at www.tommahony.net.

“Hippie Market” originally appeared in Bartleby Snopes and in Slow Entropy.

Stock image credit: Pioi

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