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"A Long-Dead Woman in a Black Dress" Loretta sat at her vanity, carefully applying eyeliner. She was expecting a caller this evening, although she wondered briefly if he might stand her up yet again. Her lids lined to her satisfaction, she capped the tube and set it down to examine herself in the mirror. She turned her head first left, then right, then smiled at herself head-on, pleased with the results of her efforts. She was glad that her body no longer produced sweat, for her face would certainly become a river of pancake, blush, and mascara in this crippling heat. She hoped that her caller might soon arrive, for she was quickly running out of cosmetics, and a trip out anywhere was certainly not something that interested her, not in this state. NOW AVAILABLE in Issue 11 of WHISPERS FROM THE SHATTERED FORUM. "Pirates, Take Your Girls Away" Mary was frowning. Donald first noticed that her grin was descending about two weeks before, and he realized now that the expression had attained the goal. He walked over to her, careful to pick up his feet so as not collect sand in his flip-flops. She lay back in a partially erect chaise lounge, her bikini exposing most of her flesh to the sun. Donald noted that she'd yet to collect anything approximating a tan; rather, her flesh was pasty and dull. She wasn't even sweating. He kneeled beside her and carefully placed his fingers just under her mouth. She didn't stir, and Donald slowly pushed the corners of her mouth up until she was smiling again. Now available in SONGS FROM DEAD SINGERS. "Wallflower" Our Monica spends quite some time lost in the bent reality of the wallpaper before she detects the underlying pattern, one almost completely imperceptible among the larger faux images. Words. There are words on the wallpaper, written in darkest red and one next to the other, marching across the surface left to right. A closer examination of the entire wall floor to ceiling reveals words written the entire length. Our Monica stands and pushes the chair right up against the wall, where she kicks off her heels and stands carefully on the billowy and uncertain seat. She places her hands against the wall and stretches her small frame as tall as it might go. She finds that she is able to read the topmost words with just the right amount of squinting. NOW AVAILABLE in the October 2002 issue of CHAMPAGNE SHIVERS. "In the Garden of Piety" As I began to walk down, something caught my eye. Something glinting casually in the sun, something to my left. I paused, then made my way over to a small plaque that stuck out of the ground. It was not much bigger than an index card, and not much more solid or lasting. Someone had made two small labels on one of those Duro hand labelers that it seems only drug stores sell. The first label read: "Marcia Patricia Coleman." The second simply read "1985-1992." Well below the second label, tucked off in a corner, was the name of a funeral home. I was looking at a grave-- one with a temporary marker, a marker that had been there for six years. I reached out to touch the marker, but then thought better of it, knowing full well that I needed a good night's sleep. I had no desire to invite Danny into my dreams again, not this time. I needed this job, if only for a short while, and I needed to stay sober. Danny would have to wait. Coming June 2003 in the F&B Press anthology BEYOND THE DUST. "Swim in Sediment" He wakes up because he is choking. He takes in a great gulping gasp of air, a reflex, but he only chokes all the more as he realizes that he's sucked in yet more of the tiny particles that try at his life. The crushing weight on his chest doesn't help matters at all. Is someone sitting on my chest? As his lungs demand yet another grab at oxygen, he forces himself to sample only a small part of what passes for air in this tiny place. While the mouthful still tastes mostly of oxide and death, he finds comfort in the fact that the intense burning in his chest has subsided somewhat. He tries to calm himself, so that he might assess this brand new situation. "My name is Chris Conyer." The words are barely more than slight and hollow rasps within his throat, but instinct tells him to first attempt communication, to determine whether he alone faces this predicament. "Can you hear me?" He is not rewarded with even an echo of his own words. He has drawn an involuntary dose of air, and he chokes it out yet again. He seeks out his arms and finds feeling, moves each one about in turn, feeling out his new quarters. He finds that he is mostly enclosed within a few small holes in what he can only think of as earth-- he knows he's planted beneath an awful lot of something, and he next realizes that he will probably suffocate within minutes. Oh, dear God, not suffocation! Never that! Please, please, God. Never that. Sucking air slowly through lips barely parted, he tries desperately to find clean air to soothe his screaming lungs. Am I buried alive? He tries to bring his arms across his chest inside the space he thinks a coffin must allow. When his hands, barely underway, quickly strike the rough ceiling, he realizes that a coffin can be made from many things. Now available in Issue #12 of THE THREE-LOBED BURNING EYE. |
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