Defenestrationism.net

by John Manderino

Francis and the Leper
(publishing December 24th)

Francis and the Rain
(publishing December 25th)

Francis and the Stigmata
(publishing December 26th)

Francis and the Leper

The dashing young playboy from Assisi got down from his father’s white charger and gave the leper begging at the side of the road a kiss on his shriveled lips, thereby demonstrating to the Lord as well as to himself how sincerely he intended to change his ways and become a saint, renowned for loving everything and not just pretty girls. Returning to his horse he resisted the urge to take out his handkerchief and wipe his mouth. 

The leper meanwhile shook his tin bell at him and made gobbling sounds, trying to say, “How about some money?” 

Francis called down to him from the saddle, “I love you too, brother,” and rode off in triumph. 

The leper spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his shriveled hand. 

Francis and the Rain

The brothers were grumbling among themselves about the mud and pouring rain they’d been slogging through all morning in their soaking-wet robes, hoods up. And they were very hungry. They hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon and that was just some rock-hard bread from a loaf an angry baker had thrown at them to make them stop singing and go away.

They felt like nothing better than a pack of miserable tramps. 

At the head of the line Francis was trying to think of something he could possibly say or sing or do to pull the brothers out of their gloomy mood. At last he suddenly stopped walking, the others stopping too. Francis looked at them with profound compassion. Then he suddenly laughed like hell, pulled his robe off over his head, and went cavorting naked in the downpour, his face raised to the silvery fingers of Sister Rain.

Dutifully, the brothers began removing their robes.

Francis and the Stigmata

Kneeling in a cave one evening near the end of his life, holding his scrawny arms out wide, Francis envisioned the suffering of Christ on the cross so vividly and with such compassion he was granted the Stigmata, the wounds of Jesus, in his palms and feet where the nails had been driven, and on his right side just below the ribs where the spear had entered. 

This has never happened to anyone ever before, he thought, then prayed so hard for humility the wounds began to run. “Lord, look!” he cried aloud. “I bleed for Thee!” Then prayed even harder for humility, and bled even more. 

After a while, weak and dizzy from the loss of blood, Francis stretched out on the floor of the cave. Soon, he was fast asleep. And while Brother Spider and Sister Centipede crawled over him, he dreamed about a pretty girl he once knew named Angelina. He used to call her Angie. She used to call him Frankie.   

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By Ann Kammerer

[this is the fourth in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]

Late Lunch

Mr. Lindell was at lunch when his daughter got to the office. He called and asked me

to keep Debbie busy, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, to let her know he’d be there soon, that he had run late in court.

“Yeah sure,” she said. “I’ve heard that before.” Debbie triangled an elbow on the counter. Her purse slipped off her bare shoulder, so she put it on the counter, too. She grabbed a Brach’s peppermint from a dusty candy dish and popped it in her mouth, sliding the candy in and out between her glossy pink lips.

“I knew he wouldn’t show,” she said. “He likes long lunches.” Debbie walked to the window, lifting her hair and sighing, her white heels catching in the worn carpet. She sat down

in the waiting area and crossed her legs, her blue skirt hiking over her tan thighs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back as she looked up and pulled on the ends of her paisley scarf.

“Christ,” she wailed. “Where is he?”

I glanced at the clock, remembering how Mr. Lindell had said she’d be in around 2, that he’d be a tad late, but not by much.

“You know how it goes,” he had said. “That Jensen. He gets to talking.”

I had told him not to worry, that I’d be here, both of us knowing he’d be at Fitzpatrick’s

drinking tonic and gin. I thought about how my dad had done the same, saying he’d be home

but not showing, pulling in late, his tires crunching, his car door creaking, his feet scraping as he mumbled his way to the front door.

“Got any coffee?” Debbie uncrossed her legs. She tapped her feet.

“I can make some,” I said.

She twirled a sparkly bracelet and asked if she could smoke. I said that was fine and pulled a green glass ashtray from my desk.

“My dad,” she said. “He’s such a loser.”

I poured water into the Mr. Coffee, half-listening as she went on about how her dad was always late, that he never did what he said he would, that he’d get mad if she did the same.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He just sounds like a lot of dads.”

Debbie came to the counter. She dug deep into her purse.

“Here you go.” She gave me a Virginia Slim then struck the flint of a silver lighter engraved with her initials. We leaned in, lighting our smokes, our heads nearly touching, the smell of her Charlie perfume mingling with the butane of the gold-blue flame.

“Does he call you his girl?” she asked. 

I nodded. Her eyes fluttered.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said. “I suppose he’s cute, in that old man way, but come on. Working here from some two-bit lawyer is pretty boring don’t you think?”

–END–

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By Ann Kammerer

[this is the third in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]

Quittin’ Time

I thought about Mr. Lindell and his daughter on the bus ride home, how he bought her things, gave her things, did most everything for her only to say he did too much, and she needed to do more for herself.

“Her Mom and me,” he said. “I guess we spoiled her. Don’t you think?”

Slipping on my coat, I said I didn’t know, that Debbie seemed like a lot of girls from my high school, the ones with letter-jacket boyfriends, shiny new cars, and snazzy clothes, their hair perfect, their make-up refined, their parents cheering them on for anything and everything, while my mom and dad yelled and screamed, picking fights after every Stroh’s or Jim Beam on ice.

“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Debbie I mean. You’ll see.”

Mr. Lindell tapped the counter and shook his head. He mumbled more about Debbie, about his day, about his clients—how they moaned, how they lied, how they showed up late or poorly-dressed, even when it was time to go to court. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Those clients. And Debbie. They’re all so aimless. Like nothing matters ‘cept what they can get or take, take, take.”

Mr. Lindell rubbed his five-o-clock-shadow. Peering out the window, he watched shopkeepers across the avenue flip door signs from ‘open’ to ‘close.’

“Well, I guess it is ’bout quittin’ time, isn’t it?” he said.

I told him it was, that I had to get going or I’d miss my 5:15 bus at Capital and Grand.

“Well let’s call it a day then.”

His face brightened as he loosened his tie. Clapping his hands, he said I did good work, that he was glad to have a girl like me, that he struck gold the day I walked in looking for a job.

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what to say next, ‘cept I’d see him in the morning, and to not work too late. 

“No chance of that,” he said. “The wife. She doesn’t like it when miss supper.”

He laughed a little, then opened the door, ushering me out with a half-bow, saying again he was grateful for everything I did.

The door locked behind me as I stepped into cool twilight. Turning up my coat collar,

I walked passed his office window, the blinds still open, the lights dimmed, seeing his silhouette as he pulled a bottle of gin and a single glass from the bottom drawer of his scratched wooden desk.

##

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By Ann Kammerer

[this is the second in the four part series–
read Once a Good Girl from the beginning]

Long Face

Mr. Lindell complained a lot about his daughter. He’d emerge from his office and stare out the window, raising up and down on his toes, his wingtips squeaking as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I don’t get it,” he’d say. “She was such a good girl, never any trouble to me and her mom. But now, well, look at her.”

His daughter was tall and slender and had bouncy blonde hair. Her name was Deborah, but he called her Debbie except when he was mad. She drove a sleek silver car and wore tube tops, short skirts, and heels. Her boyfriend Len was slender, too, with a penchant for flared pants, leather vests, and medallions. Neither worked, although Debbie had been a dental assistant for six months, only to quit, saying the dentist was “touchy-feely.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Mr. Lindell would say. “’Cept that Len. He’s a bad influence.”

Debbie called the office at least twice a day, sometimes more.

“It’s Debbie,” she’d say. “Put me through to my Dad.

”I’d tell her he was in a meeting, or in court with a client, even though most times he was there, mouthing the words “take a message,” before changing his mind, grabbing the phone, asking what she wanted.

“Calm down,” he’d say. “Talk slower.”

I could hear Debbie, her voice a blur of sharp to sweet, him saying OK, don’t worry, I’ll fix it, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine.

Hanging up, he’d scurry out, walking to the bank three doors down. When he got back, he’d catch his breath and crack bad jokes, asking if I’d heard the one about a horse walking into a bar, the bartender asking ‘why the long face?,’ me laughing, even though he’d told it a million times.

“You’re a good egg,” he’d say. “Debbie. Well I love her. But she has no drive. No ‘get-up-and-go.’ Not like you.”

He held out a coffee cup. I poured him some, thinking about Debbie and her slim boyfriend, how Mr. Lindell said they ate out a lot and went to bars, buying clothes on credit in between.

“Damn if I shouldn’t make her pay down that Master Card sometime,” he’d say. “Maybe she’d think twice then.”

I looked at my watch. My bus came in 15 minutes. Mr. Lindell paced, his hands in his pockets jangling his change.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I’d say. “Debbie I mean. Some people take a while. You know. To figure things out.”

Mr. Lindell’s hand shook. He pushed in his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched his bottom lip.

“You’re probably right,” he’d say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll close things up.”

##

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By Ann Kammerer

Good Looks
(publishing December 20th)

Long Face
(publishing December 21st)

Quittin’ Time
(publishing December 22nd)

Late Lunch
(publishing December 23rd)

Good Looks

I worked in an antique building with spalling brick and carved stone insets of flowers and fruit. The words “Andrew Lindell Law” arched on the glass door above the ghosted outlines of an ex-partner’s name, the sticky remnants of the press-on letters I had peeled away two months before.

I sat behind a counter that faced a squat window trimmed in dark wood. When I typed or answered phones, I wasn’t quite tall enough to see over the divider, having to rise in my rolling chair every time the door opened, or someone walked by.

Mr. Lindell liked to stand behind the counter before I got there each morning, drinking coffee and eating donut holes while he read the local news

“Good morning,” he’d say, the paper spread flat over the orange Formica. “Ready for another busy day?”

He’d smile and lick powdered sugar from his fingertips, then went back to the box scores and comics. Sometimes, he’d smack his lips.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready.”

I draped my coat on a brass hook shaped like a lion’s head, then squeezed past him, careful not to bump the pastoral landscape his wife painted and hung on the back wall.

“Well, glad to hear it.” Mr. Lindell took off  his narrow plastic glasses. He clicked the bows open and shut.

“Read back my calendar for me, will you please?” he said. “When’s my first appointment?”

I flipped open a large black planner, paperclipped to the day.

“Looks like the Jacobiacks at 10,” I said. “Then you have a luncheon near the Capitol. Something with the Rotary.”

Mr. Lindell slurped coffee. He aligned his pale striped tie over a missing button on his oxford. 

“And the afternoon?”

I sat and swiveled,  tapping a pen.

“Mr. Bennett is coming,” I said. “Around 2. Then you’re taking your daughter to the bank. Around 3.” 

Mr. Lindell yanked at his shirt cuffs bunched in the sleeves of his tweed jacket.

“Oh yes,” he said. “That’s because she can’t figure things out herself. Maybe you could teach her.”

Staring at his wife’s painting, he went on about his daughter, calling her Debbie, then Deborah. His face reddened and his temple pulsed. 

“I’m not sure I could show her much,” I said. “I mean, actually, I think it’s kinda nice you help her. You know, with her finances.”

Mr. Lindell folded the paper. He slapped the counter.

“Well I suppose,” he said. “I always tell her she’s gotta do something, that you can’t make a living on just your good looks.”

##

Long Face

Mr. Lindell complained a lot about his daughter. He’d emerge from his office and stare out the window, raising up and down on his toes, his wingtips squeaking as he wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“I don’t get it,” he’d say. “She was such a good girl, never any trouble to me and her mom. But now, well, look at her.”

His daughter was tall and slender and had bouncy blonde hair. Her name was Deborah, but he called her Debbie except when he was mad. She drove a sleek silver car and wore tube tops, short skirts, and heels. Her boyfriend Len was slender, too, with a penchant for flared pants, leather vests, and medallions. Neither worked, although Debbie had been a dental assistant for six months, only to quit, saying the dentist was “touchy-feely.”

“I don’t know what to think,” Mr. Lindell would say. “’Cept that Len. He’s a bad influence.”

Debbie called the office at least twice a day, sometimes more.

“It’s Debbie,” she’d say. “Put me through to my Dad.

”I’d tell her he was in a meeting, or in court with a client, even though most times he was there, mouthing the words “take a message,” before changing his mind, grabbing the phone, asking what she wanted.

“Calm down,” he’d say. “Talk slower.”

I could hear Debbie, her voice a blur of sharp to sweet, him saying OK, don’t worry, I’ll fix it, I’ll take care of it, it’s fine.

Hanging up, he’d scurry out, walking to the bank three doors down. When he got back, he’d catch his breath and crack bad jokes, asking if I’d heard the one about a horse walking into a bar, the bartender asking ‘why the long face?,’ me laughing, even though he’d told it a million times.

“You’re a good egg,” he’d say. “Debbie. Well I love her. But she has no drive. No ‘get-up-and-go.’ Not like you.”

He held out a coffee cup. I poured him some, thinking about Debbie and her slim boyfriend, how Mr. Lindell said they ate out a lot and went to bars, buying clothes on credit in between.

“Damn if I shouldn’t make her pay down that Master Card sometime,” he’d say. “Maybe she’d think twice then.”

I looked at my watch. My bus came in 15 minutes. Mr. Lindell paced, his hands in his pockets jangling his change.

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I’d say. “Debbie I mean. Some people take a while. You know. To figure things out.”

Mr. Lindell’s hand shook. He pushed in his cheeks with his thumb and forefinger, then pinched his bottom lip.

“You’re probably right,” he’d say. “Go ahead and go. I’ll close things up.”

##

Quittin’ Time

I thought about Mr. Lindell and his daughter on the bus ride home, how he bought her things, gave her things, did most everything for her only to say he did too much, and she needed to do more for herself.

“Her Mom and me,” he said. “I guess we spoiled her. Don’t you think?”

Slipping on my coat, I said I didn’t know, that Debbie seemed like a lot of girls from my high school, the ones with letter-jacket boyfriends, shiny new cars, and snazzy clothes, their hair perfect, their make-up refined, their parents cheering them on for anything and everything, while my mom and dad yelled and screamed, picking fights after every Stroh’s or Jim Beam on ice.

“She’ll be fine,” I said. “Debbie I mean. You’ll see.”

Mr. Lindell tapped the counter and shook his head. He mumbled more about Debbie, about his day, about his clients—how they moaned, how they lied, how they showed up late or poorly-dressed, even when it was time to go to court. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “Those clients. And Debbie. They’re all so aimless. Like nothing matters ‘cept what they can get or take, take, take.”

Mr. Lindell rubbed his five-o-clock-shadow. Peering out the window, he watched shopkeepers across the avenue flip door signs from ‘open’ to ‘close.’

“Well, I guess it is ’bout quittin’ time, isn’t it?” he said.

I told him it was, that I had to get going or I’d miss my 5:15 bus at Capital and Grand.

“Well let’s call it a day then.”

His face brightened as he loosened his tie. Clapping his hands, he said I did good work, that he was glad to have a girl like me, that he struck gold the day I walked in looking for a job.

“Thank you,” I said, not knowing what to say next, ‘cept I’d see him in the morning, and to not work too late. 

“No chance of that,” he said. “The wife. She doesn’t like it when miss supper.”

He laughed a little, then opened the door, ushering me out with a half-bow, saying again he was grateful for everything I did.

The door locked behind me as I stepped into cool twilight. Turning up my coat collar,

I walked passed his office window, the blinds still open, the lights dimmed, seeing his silhouette as he pulled a bottle of gin and a single glass from the bottom drawer of his scratched wooden desk.

##

Late Lunch

Mr. Lindell was at lunch when his daughter got to the office. He called and asked me

to keep Debbie busy, to tell her he hadn’t forgotten, to let her know he’d be there soon, that he had run late in court.

“Yeah sure,” she said. “I’ve heard that before.” Debbie triangled an elbow on the counter. Her purse slipped off her bare shoulder, so she put it on the counter, too. She grabbed a Brach’s peppermint from a dusty candy dish and popped it in her mouth, sliding the candy in and out between her glossy pink lips.

“I knew he wouldn’t show,” she said. “He likes long lunches.” Debbie walked to the window, lifting her hair and sighing, her white heels catching in the worn carpet. She sat down

in the waiting area and crossed her legs, her blue skirt hiking over her tan thighs. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back as she looked up and pulled on the ends of her paisley scarf.

“Christ,” she wailed. “Where is he?”

I glanced at the clock, remembering how Mr. Lindell had said she’d be in around 2, that he’d be a tad late, but not by much.

“You know how it goes,” he had said. “That Jensen. He gets to talking.”

I had told him not to worry, that I’d be here, both of us knowing he’d be at Fitzpatrick’s drinking tonic and gin. I thought about how my dad had done the same, saying he’d be home but not showing, pulling in late, his tires crunching, his car door creaking, his feet scraping as he mumbled his way to the front door.

“Got any coffee?” Debbie uncrossed her legs. She tapped her feet.

“I can make some,” I said.

She twirled a sparkly bracelet and asked if she could smoke. I said that was fine and pulled a green glass ashtray from my desk.

“My dad,” she said. “He’s such a loser.”

I poured water into the Mr. Coffee, half-listening as she went on about how her dad was always late, that he never did what he said he would, that he’d get mad if she did the same.

“I don’t know,” I said. “He just sounds like a lot of dads.”

Debbie came to the counter. She dug deep into her purse.

“Here you go.” She gave me a Virginia Slim then struck the flint of a silver lighter engraved with her initials. We leaned in, lighting our smokes, our heads nearly touching, the smell of her Charlie perfume mingling with the butane of the gold-blue flame.

“Does he call you his girl?” she asked. 

I nodded. Her eyes fluttered.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” she said. “I suppose he’s cute, in that old man way, but come on. Working here from some two-bit lawyer is pretty boring don’t you think?”

–END–

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by Jacob Anderson

[this is the third in the three part series–
read The Vanishing of Viera from the beginning]

Upír

Holy hell. I knew Larric was strong, but that bastard did a number on me. I limped through the streets, covering the gash in my ribs hoping the flesh would start to mend soon. Dodging street lights to remain unseen became a challenge in my condition, but I saw a house with its lights off and it looked like the family might be gone. I meandered down the side of the fence until I was hidden from the street and clumsily threw myself over it into the backyard. I hit the ground and tumbled forward, bouncing off a shrub and landing hard onto my back. Definitely not my most graceful landing. As I struggled to catch my breath and composure, unexpected footsteps hustled to the rear door. Oh great. An older woman walked out and when she saw me she hustled over and helped me to my feet, fussing about getting me cleaned up. I tried to break away but she was insistent, and honestly, her determination to help me was refreshing. So, I did as she said and she got me bathed and fed, even going as far as stitching up the gash in my side. Apparently  she had been a seamstress when she was younger, remarking that skin was just the cloth of the body. Very macabre, but I still found it very endearing. 

We got to talking and I explained that I was “jumped by some no good goons.” Not a total lie, Larric and his band of half-breeds certainly ambushed me and are quite goonish. She offered me her couch for the night, or for a few nights if I still wasn’t feeling well tomorrow. Her kindness was warming, it was clear that she was missing company and someone to dote on. From the pain in her eyes she probably lost a child, but it is not my place to ask.

The next day I repaid her kindness by fixing some broken items I saw around the home and cleaned where I could. She had well maintained vinyls of Marvin Gaye, and with those spinning the work was done in no time. She eventually woke up and greeted me and we spoke more, she loved hearing my tales from ages past. We spent hours and hours chatting, reliving our glory days. She was a wonder. Kind and strong, enduring all the hardship life threw at her with a smile. She eventually did mention the passing of her daughter Jackie. She talked about how hard life was after she lost her and she even thought of ending it all, but she decided against it. Deciding that since Jackie didn’t get to live her full life, she would take on a few more years to make up the difference. It was a beautiful sentiment.

I stayed another night and the next day went much the same, I did a few chores and we reminisced and listened to oldies. That night she said goodnight and went to bed, and I sat on the couch thinking. She deserved to live a full life and carry on the legacy that Jackie would’ve wanted. So, as she slept I snuck in her room and gently as I could, as not to wake her, I began to blood her. This would give her the chance to live long enough to fulfill her wish. As I finished the process I could hear some raucous outside, when I peeked I saw that it was Larric and his goons again. I carefully slid out the back door and made my escape, leaving enough clues to drag Larric away from that poor woman’s house.

I spent the next couple months knocking Larric and his brood down a peg and regaining control of my territory. Unfortunately, this whole process kept me away from seeing my new progeny come into her own, but I would make my way to her soon and indoctrinate her properly. Alas, that never came to fruition. I was called to visit a colleague a few states over and during that time I felt a tinge in my heart. That old, familiar feeling of when someone close to you has their chapter closed. My presence was required by my colleague and delayed me from investigating her death.

When I finally came back, I was greeted with an estate sale at her home. I had been gone far too long and now I may never be able to avenge her. But, I caught a whiff of someone with an overt garlic odor, and I saw a man walk out of her home with her ragged diary in his hand. I followed him that day and waited for my time. He parked by a lake and sat on the bed of his truck as he read through her journal. I waited as the sun set, and once it dipped below the horizon I made my way to a tree closer to him.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?” He said.

“Nothing gets by you hunters.” I laughed as I stepped out of the shadows. “I assume you’re the one who killed that lovely woman.”

“When I found her she was nothing more than a rabid dog.”

“You will not speak about her that way. You bastards would never know a pure soul like hers.”

“That old bitch was just another pest like all of you.”

I instantly closed the distance, knocking the gun out of his hand and holding him in the air by his throat.

“All you hunters are self-righteous bastards with no sense of morals, and I will not stand for it.” I said as I snapped the bastard’s neck and dropped him to the ground. I looked up at the rising moon.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Viera.”

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by Jacob Anderson

[this is the second in the three part series–
read The Vanishing of Viera from the beginning]

Krvavý

June 23, 2017

It’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these. Ever since I lost Jackie a few years ago it has been a struggle to do anything. A few weeks ago I started seeing Dr. Trenton and she recommended that I start journaling again as a form of therapy, apparently having a routine like this can help me get back into the groove of day to day life but I guess we’ll see how that goes.

July 7, 2017

I’ve started sitting out on the porch in the afternoon and wave at the kids as they walk home. It hurts to know my kiddo won’t be walking through the gate, but seeing them run home all happy and smiley warms my heart.

August 3, 2017

I’ve been having a much better time lately. I started picking up books from the library and have really enjoyed reading my nights away. Sometimes I’ve been hearing some animal noises out in the backyard, hopefully there’s not racoons digging up my flowers.

August 10, 2017

I went and saw Dr. Trenton again today. She says that I’m starting to show signs of Alzheimer’s dementia. I would be lying if I said I was surprised, momma died of it and so did grandma. Well. I’ll just try and enjoy what time I have left.

September 18, 2017

Last night while I was reading I heard some loud noises from the backyard and when I went to check it was a young man! He was very beat up and was bleeding a little bit. I brought him in and helped him get cleaned up. I know I shouldn’t have but I let him rest here for a bit. He has been good company, he may be young but he has an old soul. He loves to listen to my vinyls and he has so many fun stories! I hope he sticks around for a little bit, I could use the company.

September 15, 2016

Unfortunately it seems that my visitor has vanished. He was a great help the last few days helping me clean the house and doing some other chores that I’ve started struggling with. The excitement of having company must have burned through my energy because I am so tired today.

Octobr 1, 2017

I don’t know what it is, but I have just been so hungry the last few weeks. No matter what or how much I eat I just can’t get enough. I should go see Dr. Trenton soon.

October 30, 2018

The Dr says it’s probably nothing, just a side effect of the medication I’ve been taking or maybe I’ve been forgetting meals. She said if I eat a little more red meat it should keep me fuller longer. I guess I’ll try that.

January 12, 2018

I’ve started seeing dead animals in the backyard. It looks like a coyote or something has been dragging stuff in, hopefully it gets run off soon. Also, it looks like the Dr was right, just a change in diet and I haven’t been so hungry lately!

Janary 29

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jackie, and she won’t pick up my calls. I am starting to get worried. It doesn’t help that something has been leaving dead animals in my backyard.

Feb 8

Why is that man always looking at me, it’s like he is planning to break in. I keep trying to tell Jackie about it, but she won’t answer my calls. Hopefully, she’s not mad at me, it looks like I forgot to send a birthday message so I hope she gets my sorry text and reaches out.

It hurts so much, why won’t the hunger stop, I just keep eating and eating and eating. I need to get better before Jackie gets back, it’ll be a shame if she sees me in this condition after coming home from her friends house

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by Jacob Anderson

Lovec
(publishing December 17th)

Krvavý
(publishing December 18th)

Upír
(publishing December 19th)

Lovec

I woke up late in the afternoon as the setting sun’s beams spilled between the motel room curtains. I sat up on the edge of the bed trying to shake off the haziness I felt. Everytime I do one of these late night jobs I always wake up like I just finished binge drinking. I was still wearing the clothes I did the job in last night, the specs of blood crusted over and the sweat made my flannel and jeans stick to my body in odd, uncomfortable ways. I finally reach down and pull off the boots I was too tired to ditch before I collapsed into bed last night, and get ready to get cleaned up before finishing the job. I dragged myself to the bathroom and started the shower and brushed my teeth while looking over my face for any marks. Just a few drops of blood managed to get on my face and were easily removed by some water. My eyes looked tired though. To be fair I have been doing a string of these late night jobs for the past few months, but hopefully that will come to an end soon. I heard of some weird goings on a couple states south, maybe in a couple months I could come back up here and make sure another brood hasn’t moved in. Last night should’ve been the last one, she seemed out of it and more rabid than the others. Oh well, on to the next one I guess.

A few months later I circled back to that town. I went back to the neighborhood I found that last pest in and did a few laps looking for any signs of a new brood. As I made my rounds I saw that the final residence I took care of was having an estate sale, I guess the city or someone was trying to make something off of that old bird. Walking through the house in this state was strange, before the place had been trashed with animal carcasses half eaten and strewn across the place. But, now it was spotless. Any evidence to what happened that night washed away and replaced with tables and tables of dusty and outdated knick knacks and sentimental objects. I walked around, dodging the early shoppers as they hunted for secret valuables hidden among the garbage, until I came around to what would have been her bedroom. A few things were set out for display, but nothing enticing enough for the bargain hunters to linger around. I poked around the place, she may have been another head to hunt but at some point she was a normal person and deserved to be remembered as such. I came to the wardrobe, it looked grand but really was just made of laminate and cheap wood. I was about to turn away and leave when out of the corner of my eye I spied something poking out from beneath it, I fished it out of the tight crevice and examined it. It was an old book, the covers worn and corners fraying. I flipped through the pages and realized it was her diary. There were some interesting tidbits I saw as I skimmed over a few pages and maybe this could lead me to whoever turned her in the first place, but I definitely needed to take the time to go over it carefully. I quickly went down to the person running the sale and gave them a few bucks before going on my way. 

I carried the diary with me while I checked for any signs of monsters around town. I don’t want to be back here next year and deal with another brood of vampires just because I got lazy. At the edge of town was a lake that was great for watching the sunset, so once I finished the rounds I pulled along the shoreline, sat in the bed of my truck, and started diving into the diary.

The pages were in good shape, but carried the musk of mothballs with it. It looks like she had been here for a long time, her kids growing up in this town before moving away. The entries were fairly frequent, the dates between were usually two or so weeks apart unless there was a major event she wanted to jot down. Suddenly there was a long break in her entries, almost 3 full years. Apparently, one of her kids had been in a bad accident and died. After that her entries went back to the bi-weekly pattern, and she started focusing on new hobbies to brighten up her life after her loss. Everything just seemed to be the ramblings of a normal old lady. Then I saw it, a few years ago she had been up late reading when she heard rustling in her backyard and when she checked it was a young man who looked like he was attacked. She brought him in and nursed his wounds, she even let him stay the night. He hung around for a few days and then disappeared in the middle of the night. From then on her entries were mostly about feeling hungry all the time. Then she started noticing dead animals in her backyard, assuming a coyote had left them there. As the entries continued they became less and less coherent, with only small glimpses of her real self showing through. That guy she brought in must have been the one to turn her, but it seems like she didn’t even know. Luckily I had gotten to her before she hurt anyone.

Unfortunately there wasn’t anything very descriptive in there about this vampire. I closed the diary and looked over the water as the sun finally disappeared from sight, and on the wind was the scent of cinnamon and incense, with a tinge of iron. I held up the book as I cocked my gun.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?”

Krvavý

June 23, 2017

It’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these. Ever since I lost Jackie a few years ago it has been a struggle to do anything. A few weeks ago I started seeing Dr. Trenton and she recommended that I start journaling again as a form of therapy, apparently having a routine like this can help me get back into the groove of day to day life but I guess we’ll see how that goes.

July 7, 2017

I’ve started sitting out on the porch in the afternoon and wave at the kids as they walk home. It hurts to know my kiddo won’t be walking through the gate, but seeing them run home all happy and smiley warms my heart.

August 3, 2017

I’ve been having a much better time lately. I started picking up books from the library and have really enjoyed reading my nights away. Sometimes I’ve been hearing some animal noises out in the backyard, hopefully there’s not racoons digging up my flowers.

August 10, 2017

I went and saw Dr. Trenton again today. She says that I’m starting to show signs of Alzheimer’s dementia. I would be lying if I said I was surprised, momma died of it and so did grandma. Well. I’ll just try and enjoy what time I have left.

September 18, 2017

Last night while I was reading I heard some loud noises from the backyard and when I went to check it was a young man! He was very beat up and was bleeding a little bit. I brought him in and helped him get cleaned up. I know I shouldn’t have but I let him rest here for a bit. He has been good company, he may be young but he has an old soul. He loves to listen to my vinyls and he has so many fun stories! I hope he sticks around for a little bit, I could use the company.

September 15, 2016

Unfortunately it seems that my visitor has vanished. He was a great help the last few days helping me clean the house and doing some other chores that I’ve started struggling with. The excitement of having company must have burned through my energy because I am so tired today.

Octobr 1, 2017

I don’t know what it is, but I have just been so hungry the last few weeks. No matter what or how much I eat I just can’t get enough. I should go see Dr. Trenton soon.

October 30, 2018

The Dr says it’s probably nothing, just a side effect of the medication I’ve been taking or maybe I’ve been forgetting meals. She said if I eat a little more red meat it should keep me fuller longer. I guess I’ll try that.

January 12, 2018

I’ve started seeing dead animals in the backyard. It looks like a coyote or something has been dragging stuff in, hopefully it gets run off soon. Also, it looks like the Dr was right, just a change in diet and I haven’t been so hungry lately!

Janary 29

It’s been a long time since I’ve seen Jackie, and she won’t pick up my calls. I am starting to get worried. It doesn’t help that something has been leaving dead animals in my backyard.

Feb 8

Why is that man always looking at me, it’s like he is planning to break in. I keep trying to tell Jackie about it, but she won’t answer my calls. Hopefully, she’s not mad at me, it looks like I forgot to send a birthday message so I hope she gets my sorry text and reaches out.

It hurts so much, why won’t the hunger stop, I just keep eating and eating and eating. I need to get better before Jackie gets back, it’ll be a shame if she sees me in this condition after coming home from her friends house

Upír

Holy hell. I knew Larric was strong, but that bastard did a number on me. I limped through the streets, covering the gash in my ribs hoping the flesh would start to mend soon. Dodging street lights to remain unseen became a challenge in my condition, but I saw a house with its lights off and it looked like the family might be gone. I meandered down the side of the fence until I was hidden from the street and clumsily threw myself over it into the backyard. I hit the ground and tumbled forward, bouncing off a shrub and landing hard onto my back. Definitely not my most graceful landing. As I struggled to catch my breath and composure, unexpected footsteps hustled to the rear door. Oh great. An older woman walked out and when she saw me she hustled over and helped me to my feet, fussing about getting me cleaned up. I tried to break away but she was insistent, and honestly, her determination to help me was refreshing. So, I did as she said and she got me bathed and fed, even going as far as stitching up the gash in my side. Apparently  she had been a seamstress when she was younger, remarking that skin was just the cloth of the body. Very macabre, but I still found it very endearing. 

We got to talking and I explained that I was “jumped by some no good goons.” Not a total lie, Larric and his band of half-breeds certainly ambushed me and are quite goonish. She offered me her couch for the night, or for a few nights if I still wasn’t feeling well tomorrow. Her kindness was warming, it was clear that she was missing company and someone to dote on. From the pain in her eyes she probably lost a child, but it is not my place to ask.

The next day I repaid her kindness by fixing some broken items I saw around the home and cleaned where I could. She had well maintained vinyls of Marvin Gaye, and with those spinning the work was done in no time. She eventually woke up and greeted me and we spoke more, she loved hearing my tales from ages past. We spent hours and hours chatting, reliving our glory days. She was a wonder. Kind and strong, enduring all the hardship life threw at her with a smile. She eventually did mention the passing of her daughter Jackie. She talked about how hard life was after she lost her and she even thought of ending it all, but she decided against it. Deciding that since Jackie didn’t get to live her full life, she would take on a few more years to make up the difference. It was a beautiful sentiment.

I stayed another night and the next day went much the same, I did a few chores and we reminisced and listened to oldies. That night she said goodnight and went to bed, and I sat on the couch thinking. She deserved to live a full life and carry on the legacy that Jackie would’ve wanted. So, as she slept I snuck in her room and gently as I could, as not to wake her, I began to blood her. This would give her the chance to live long enough to fulfill her wish. As I finished the process I could hear some raucous outside, when I peeked I saw that it was Larric and his goons again. I carefully slid out the back door and made my escape, leaving enough clues to drag Larric away from that poor woman’s house.

I spent the next couple months knocking Larric and his brood down a peg and regaining control of my territory. Unfortunately, this whole process kept me away from seeing my new progeny come into her own, but I would make my way to her soon and indoctrinate her properly. Alas, that never came to fruition. I was called to visit a colleague a few states over and during that time I felt a tinge in my heart. That old, familiar feeling of when someone close to you has their chapter closed. My presence was required by my colleague and delayed me from investigating her death.

When I finally came back, I was greeted with an estate sale at her home. I had been gone far too long and now I may never be able to avenge her. But, I caught a whiff of someone with an overt garlic odor, and I saw a man walk out of her home with her ragged diary in his hand. I followed him that day and waited for my time. He parked by a lake and sat on the bed of his truck as he read through her journal. I waited as the sun set, and once it dipped below the horizon I made my way to a tree closer to him.

“I know you’re there. I assume you did this?” He said.

“Nothing gets by you hunters.” I laughed as I stepped out of the shadows. “I assume you’re the one who killed that lovely woman.”

“When I found her she was nothing more than a rabid dog.”

“You will not speak about her that way. You bastards would never know a pure soul like hers.”

“That old bitch was just another pest like all of you.”

I instantly closed the distance, knocking the gun out of his hand and holding him in the air by his throat.

“All you hunters are self-righteous bastards with no sense of morals, and I will not stand for it.” I said as I snapped the bastard’s neck and dropped him to the ground. I looked up at the rising moon.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you, Viera.”

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by Tracie Adams

[this is the third in the three part series–
read A Life in Seasons from the beginning]

Ghosts of Autumns Past

I woke up this morning with the sensation of falling. Not a startling jolt, but a gentle drifting down, down, down. Like the yellowed leaves of tulip poplars outside my window, weightless and free to wander without limits, landing softly without a sound. I have not always felt this way. But things have changed. It has been over a decade since I flew into a rage, even longer since I have smashed anything. I can ride in elevators and stand in the crowded subway without having a panic attack. My kids can wreck the living room, building forts with pillows and blankets, and I just breathe through the tightness in my chest at the sight of chaos. I step over the wreckage on my way to the kitchen to scramble the eggs, calling out spelling words to my youngest while I pack everyone’s favorite sandwiches for lunch.

The nightmares are gone, not replaced with dreams of poppy fields or soaring birds, more like nothingness, an absence that doesn’t crush me. When I hear a marching band or smell Brunswick stew cooking over a fire, I don’t feel like crying like I used to. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like nothing, nothing at all. I don’t waste my thoughts on all the regrets, the deficits and losses, the not-enoughs. I barely remember the screams, the crashes, the bruises, the pleading. There’s no haunting of ghostly memories of a life teetering on the edge of danger. Now I just keep moving forward, taking the next safe step, doing the next right thing. And breathing. Lots of breathing.

I’m no longer caught between two worlds, trapped in time, wrestling with myself. I am a mother, so it is their world now, not mine, and that’s all that really matters. I fold the laundry, I cook the meals, I check the homework and sign the permission slips, I read the bedtime stories, and I say the prayers. If it hurts, I do not feel it. If it’s sad, I do not grieve it. Apathy is the new depression. I just keep falling, floating, flying through the days, the years.

“Mommy, did you see me? I did a cartwheel!” My daughter’s face is full of hope.

“Yes, I see you. Mommy sees you,” I tell her as I watch her tumble over and over. 

When the carousel at the state fair carries my giggling daughters round and round, I do not mourn dreams I never dreamed or thoughts that never grew up into actions. I just watch them ride. And if I find myself wandering the desolate hallways in my mind, I just grab hold of that thread of thought, following it out of the labyrinth. And there I am, right back where I started, right where I left off.

Autumn’s show of muted colors and cooler temperatures speak of a job well done, a soft place to land after a long, hot summer. The sun is a cracked yolk spreading across the horizon, a golden center flipped and suspended in clouds. I reach out to touch it, to hold it, but it slips through the fingers of my outstretched hands. Amber, copper, and honey melt in the distance. My oldest son comes to take my hand, and together we watch, and we listen to the squeals of laughter as the girls go around. When he sees me twirling my hair, he asks me why I am sad. I tell him I’m not sad, but he doesn’t look convinced. I stand completely still as everything rotates, always returning to me. 

I don’t think about the words I never spoke, the friends I never made, the dreams I never dreamed. And it does not hurt to smell the cotton candy, to hear the marching band, or watch the sunset. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. As the pink and purple horses go up and down, I smile and wave at the girls, and they wave back on each rotation like it is the first time.

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by Tracie Adams

[this is the second in the three part series–
read A Life in Seasons from the beginning]

Sunshine Daydream

The child has become a woman, wild and overgrown like summer branches reaching for light, reaching for the mother vine. She lashes out, grabbing hold of anything, everything, nothing at all. Night after night, she searches for something to stop the throbbing in her chest. The men numb her pain. They are all the same, but she is different. They need her, at least for the moment, but she doesn’t need anyone or anything. She has discovered her superpower. It was still dark outside this morning when she collected her clothes from the floor and tiptoed away from another sleeping stranger. The deep breaths were helping the rush linger, so she could savor it for as long as possible. The high was even better than the cocaine she binged last night.

On the drive to her apartment, she sings along with the radio, speakers rumbling with the bass, and memories begin to rise with the sun, looming straight ahead with blinding light. Pressing the gas pedal with bare feet, she watches the world go by at eighty miles per hour, trees blurring into the sides of buildings and yellow cabs melting like butter. Everything is in motion. Gripping the steering wheel, she blinks away an image of her mother singing karaoke to an audience of disinterested drunks. 

“Did you hear them laughing?” Her mother’s tears had left bare streaks through her impeccably applied makeup. 

“They weren’t laughing at you, mom. They’re just drunk,” she had offered, trying to console her mother.

“You don’t think I know when I’m being mocked? Humiliated? You’re twelve. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”  

Her mother had been wrong. She did know what she was talking about. Still, her mother’s accusations always cut deep. While her entire world had shifted like sand beneath her feet over the past decade, her mother refused to evolve. She didn’t see the need for it, especially when there was nothing in it for her. She turns up the volume and sings louder, drawing up breath from deep in her diaphragm. 

When her stomach growls, she relishes the feeling of emptiness. Starving herself empowers her, assuring her she is good at something. The sun continues to climb high in the atmosphere, the earth tilting toward its warmth. But she clings to the lesser light that lives inside, the only thing she trusts. She doesn’t even try to bridle the energy anymore. She is in control, and it feels good. 

After dark, she applies the red lipstick without looking in a mirror. Slipping bare feet into her favorite heels left by the door, she grabs keys from the cluttered coffee table. As she slips her phone into her purse, it buzzes. It’s her mother. The familiar ache tugs at her but she cannot bring herself to answer it. The road between them is littered with obstacles, words left unspoken too hard to hear. They try to meet in the middle, but words stick in their throats so they swallow them instead. There are hills too steep to climb in this kind of heat, pregnant pauses and breath held, silence hanging in the thick air. 

She wants to love her mother and to be loved, but spaces fill with disappointments, disillusionment, delusions. She remembers the sound of her mother crying alone in her room every night, mumbling the same mantra of regret behind a closed door. As a child, she would stand outside that door night after night, her hand resting on the paneled wood, reaching for something she could not name. Sadness is a language they both understand but cannot speak.

She turned twenty-six this year, and now the panic attacks were coming at a steady pace. Her mother once asked her why. “Because of the trauma,” shesays. “What trauma,” her mother asks. The distance between them is measured in unfulfilled dreams and countless unforgiven sins. “It is just too far from you to me, me to you,” she whispers to the ringing phone. 

As she steps out into the humid night air, she crushes the cigarette with a stiletto heel. She lifts her head toward stars partially covered by clouds, moving swiftly with the warm wind. She adjusts her skirt with one hand and flips her hair with the other. She would sing that song tonight, the one her mother taught her, the one that always got the crowd going. They would ask for one more, and she would give them what they wanted. The applause would linger while she walked out holding tight to the arm of another stranger with vodka on his breath.

It is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

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