The Dishcloth by Laura Barker

Everyone knows my generation prefers to spend its money on avocado toast and selfie sticks and gluten free bread, than on a down payments for a house. I do know some people of my generation who own their homes, but guess who bought those homes (really bought them, not has their name on the thing)? Mommy and Daddy. Or in some cases, Nana and Granddad, or in rarer cases, Auntie and Uncle, or Godmother and Godfather, or Daddy and Papa. 

But there is another group of people who have easier access to stable housing. People who come out of prison. Not everyone who comes out of prison, ha-ha, obviously, that would make too much sense. We’re talking sex offenders. That’s right. When they first come out, they go to Approved Premises, where there are people around day and night to take care of them, and the whole time they are in there, a key worker is making it their business to secure them a more permanent place, somewhere that’s far enough away from schools or women or wherever the group they like to sexually offend likes to gather. Now, I don’t think this is a bad idea. People do much better in life and commit fewer crimes (or less criminalised harms is what we’re meant to call it in this age of prison abolition, because of course not all harms are crimes and not all crimes are harmful – did you know it’s illegal to use someone else’s Netflix account?) when they’re well supported and they have a team around them. And if anything’s stigmatising and isolating it’s a sexual offence on their records, so it makes sense to pay professionals to be that support network. But my issue is, if you’re not a sex offender, and you don’t have a set of parents who can afford to (or in my case, want to) help you pay for a deposit, you’re fucked.

The first part happens the way it usually happens. I was living with a partner, the relationship broke down, and we, like so many people who used to be couples, continued living together until the end of the contract. She moved back in with her parents. I couldn’t afford to live on my own, so I looked for an apartment to share. Then I lost my job. People always think it’s because I was depressed after the break up and performed badly at work. But the truth is, I’ve been depressed since I was eleven, and I was performing at work like I always performed at work: mediocre. But they were reshuffling or restructuring or whatever they call it and my boss said, “I’m afraid we just don’t have a place for you anymore.” So I went on unemployment, and the apartments that accepted tenants who are on benefits were just going like hotcakes. I was never quick enough. Of course, I went to the local council and put my name on the list for an apartment but the lady said, “Look, I’ll level with you, unless you are about to give birth, this meeting is an absolute waste of your time.” I thought about pretending I was about to give birth – people get very uncomfortable asking fat non-binary people direct questions about pregnancy, and I did have a friend who was pregnant, so maybe I could use her urine to fake my own pregnancy like I’d read in Gone Girl. But then I’d just get found out, so I thought better of it and went to stay on my friend Nav’s sofa.

“You can stay as long as you need to,” says Nav, but Nav’s partner Bev says, “Well, I think it’s best to draw up some boundaries, you know, get something on writing.” She wants to know how many house viewings I’m going to per week and how many job interviews, as well as what I’m going to contribute to food and bills while I’m here. “We do everything communally,” she says, which actually means she makes a comment every time you use olive oil, saying, “It’s a lot more expensive than rapeseed oil, you know,” and likes to make a big deal of how quickly the toilet paper is going down. I start buying all my own things, but Bev says, “We live communally in this house, if that doesn’t work for you, you need to think about going to stay somewhere else.” 

If someone washes something up and Bev thinks it’s not to standard, she takes it out of the drying rack and puts it on a dishcloth and puts a note on the dish cloth saying, “I’d appreciate it if people washed up properly! Thanks, Bev xoxox.” Once this has happened three times, Bev calls a house meeting, just me, Nav, and her, and says, “Look Shalida, before you came to stay on our sofa, we didn’t have any issues with washing dishes. Now I find they’re dirty quite a lot. So, you know, we know that it’s you. I wonder if you’re maybe being a bit passive aggressive here? You know, not washing the dishes properly because you’re angry at your situation, or,” and here she makes a gesture with her hands as if she’s grasping for air, “maybe with me?” She cocks her head to one side and takes a sip of Rooibos tea.

And this is where I lose it. I tell her that if she’s going to appropriate black culture, including our tea, she should be nicer to black people, like me. Nav, who isn’t white, but who isn’t black either, looks confused, and then he buries his head in his hands as if he just can’t handle whatever’s going to come next. And what comes next is that Bev goes around the house collecting everything that’s mine. I don’t have much stuff, it’s just one suitcase, and some toiletries, but she collects them one by one to make it into a bigger performance than it strictly has to be, and she puts it all outside the door. “You’ve really crossed my boundaries,” she says. “And we agreed that if you crossed my boundaries, you would have to leave, didn’t we Nav?”

Nav says nothing. He still has his head buried in his hands.  I know he won’t look at me leaving, even when I say, “Bye Nav,” and put my hand on his shoulder. Bev removes my hand and says, “It’s time to go Shalida,” and I get out of there.

I go to stay at my friend Sara’s. That night when Sara gets home from work, we drink a half bottle of wine and discuss Bev’s antics. Everyone has heard rumours that Nav’s partner, Bev, has no manners, but this is concrete proof and Sara is very entertained. “Tell me the thing about the washing up Post-It again,” she says. I do an impression of Bev writing her little note, and the two of us fall over laughing. Then, after a few more glasses of wine, we start talking about how Bev will die. Sara says that Bev will die a terrible accidental death like getting hit by an asteroid and I say that no, Bev will die from choking on a dishcloth.

The next day Sara comes home from work early. There is no spare room or sofa at Sara’s place; she shares an apartment with two women, sisters, who barely speak English and keep themselves to themselves, and I’m sharing Sara’s room with her. So, when she comes home early, I’m in the bed we’re sharing, in an ancient T-shirt and a pair of stretch cotton boxers, compulsively reading problem pages on the Internet. It’s not a good look for someone who’s supposed to be studiously job and apartment hunting, and when I hear her enter, I slam my laptop shut and scramble around for some clothes. But when she comes through the door, Sara’s face is wet with tears and she clearly has no interest in whatever it is I’ve just been reading or what I happen to be wearing. “Bev’s dead,” she says.

She shows me a post on Facebook. Bev died choking on a dishcloth.

I think it’s a wild coincidence and honestly sort of funny (why did she have a dishcloth in her mouth in the first place? Does Bev eat dishcloths? That’s hilarious!) but Sara is somehow convinced that we killed her. She says ‘we’ but I know she thinks me because I’m the one who came up with the dishcloth-choking scenario. Sara can’t sleep and she can barely eat and after a few weeks of this Sara loses her job in recruitment and can’t afford her rent or even seem to take care of herself and she ends up moving in with her married sister who has two kids under three and is probably grateful for the free babysitting. The two sisters ask on Google Translate if I want to take Sara’s room, but with no savings and no job, I can’t afford it. They very kindly say I can stay until they find someone else. I mean it’s not that kind, Sara is still paying rent until the end of the month. Sara messages me day and night asking why we did what we did and don’t I feel bad about it, and I am empathetic and sympathetic, until one day I snap and I say, “Sara, this is ridiculous. You can’t kill people by talking about their death.”

“What if you can?” says Sara.

“Fine,” I say. “You’re going to die by choking on a melon.”

The next day, one of the sisters knocks on my door at 6 o'clock in the morning and tells me on Google Translate that Sara is dead. “What?” I say.

The sister tells me, on Google Translate, that she choked on a melon her little niece put in her mouth when she was sleeping. She read about it on Instagram.

I am devastated. Sara and I have been friends for a decade. She was the one who supported me when I finally estranged myself from my parents. She was the one who was there for me when things with my ex first started going down the shitter. And also, I may have killed her.

I cry so loud during the nights, these great wrenching sobs from deep inside my belly, that one of the sisters tells me I have to move out, even though Sara’s still renting the room for four more days. I go to stay with my friend Shanique who lives in another city. She was friends with Sara too. When I tell her how guilty I feel, Shanique says, “Me too. I just wish – I don’t know, that I spent more time with her, I guess. I’m not good at keeping in touch with people. We hadn’t talked in months.”

“No,” I say, “I feel guilty because, well, I think I killed her.”

Shanique nods her head. “I know babe,” she says. “It’s normal to have these feelings.” A few years ago Shanique started training to be a counsellor but she gave it up and became a beekeeper instead. “It’s part of the bargaining stage of grieving. If only I was a better friend, maybe she would be still alive. If only I was more attentive, maybe she’d still be alive. If only.”

“No,” I say, “I mean, I’m literally thinking I may have killed her.”

Shanique nods her head again. “I know babe, I hear you,” she says.

I am so frustrated that I just tell her. I tell her about Bev and I tell her about Sara. Shanique makes a strange expression on her face. Then, after a long few minutes, she says, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay with me.” That’s it. She goes to the hallway and hands me my suitcase and she says, “You need to be around people who can support you and I’m not that person.”

Rumours spread fast. Shanique tells people I killed Sara. Nobody wants me to stay with them. And so I’m at my parents’ house. Yes, my parents. Now, big spoiler: the reason I don’t talk to my father is because he’s a sex offender. Not the kind that went to prison and got out and got given a key worker and a nice apartment. He’s the kind who never went to prison because nobody, least of all my mother, believed me (not that I believe in prisons anyway, but you get my point). And so in order to move back in with them, which they are delighted with, by the way, they’ve always felt very hard done by that neither of their daughters are in touch with them (my baby sister isn’t in touch with me either but that’s for separate, unrelated reasons), I have to handwrite him a letter stating that all the accusations I made about him were fabricated. He takes this letter and he frames it and puts it on the wall. “That’s better,” he says, “Now we can put all that nastiness behind us.” He offers his arms out in a hug and I think I am going to hug him back, I am walking towards him, and then I feel something rising in my throat and very quickly I vomit all over the floor. I can see everything I have eaten that morning: vegan scrambled eggs, avocado toast, rice and beans, a gluten free wrap, fried potatoes, pineapple salsa, a big blow-out breakfast with my rapidly dwindling current account. When my mother is making a big noise cleaning it all up with a dustpan and a bucket of water and a horse brush, I whisper to myself, “My father dies choking on that handwritten letter I wrote him,” and I just wait.

Laura Barker

Laura Barker is a writer, artist, and facilitator, and she co-runs runs a queer black writing group in London, UK. Her writing has appeared in The Guardian, Apparition Lit, midnight & indigo, The Other Stories, Qwerty, Planet Scumm, Middleground, Flame Tree Publishing Gothic Fantasy Anthology Series, Love Letters to Poe, Ongoing, and Cosmic Horror Monthly. Laura guest edited for Apparition Lit and her YA novel Picnics was shortlisted for the Faber Andlyn BAME (FAB) Prize. She was a lead writer at Spread the Word and London Wildlife Trust’s nature writing partnership This Is Our Place. Her favourite crisps are Ready Salted and she’s an Aries rising. Follow her at @LauraHannahBar.

Death Doula by K. Hartless

Lambskin gloves. A fresh pair for each new soul. My gentle fingers have guided many spirits through the bloody canal of death into the afterlife. Souls misaligned, uncertain, and in need of adjustments, assurances, a Death Doula’s gloved hands are the perfect captains.

I stand under neon lights in a five-star kitchen watching a master chef dice his latest delicacy with a sharpened knife. A cobra head opens and closes on the counter. Although it was severed from its body over twenty minutes ago, reflex action means it’s capable of administering a fatal bite. When the chef disposes of it, short, front fangs take their revenge.

Most beings are comfortable in the wombs of their lives, unwilling to transition, and it is my job to love them through it. Neurotoxins are swift. Within minutes, the chef writhes on the kitchen floor, suffocating. Hi snake stew will simmer long after his last breaths are released.

At first, I stand over the soul trapped within its fresh corpse. My gossamer gown tickles the spirit awake. The afterlife is too bright at first, so I lean in close to let the squinting spirit’s questions flow freely towards my silk-framed face.

I am aware that in that first moment, I am as close to a god as I will ever be.

“Am I dead?” Always the first question. 

“Indeed, chef. You are more than dead. You are about to be reborn.” I fan my gown further to create the illusion of a cascade of light. It’s what most souls expect, and I find the sensation soothes them.

“So, is this heaven?” a popular second. 

“No, I’m afraid there is no such place.” I laugh because it is heavenly to see a newborn soul try and grasp the afterlife, like a baby discovering a rattle, and I am the patient mama guiding its fingers.

“Is this hell?” This one is debatable, but I keep this to myself. After all, fledgling spirits can’ be expected to comprehend the nuances of eternal suffering and punishment.

“No, this is a crossroads. Think of it as a meeting of streams. And your brook is here to meet with the wider stream already in existence. Exciting, no?”
            I’ll admit at this point, some souls shut off. A switch flips, their energy sated. Spirits such as these go limp as dish rags, and I perform the necessary cuts to free their spirits from their bodies so that they drift down the canal, bobbing barrels steering themselves towards their next destination, whatever that might be.

As payment, I rip out an eye out from its socket and gaze into the kaleidoscopic cornea. I follow the maze in each eye to lead me to the next patient.

 Of course, other times such as this, a soul reaches out, grasping, searching for that rattle with both hands.

“Join me in a dance between realms,” I say to the chef, and as I like to start things off casually, I offer a gloved hand. Most take it. Rise from their bodies. They want to be wooed into the afterlife not pushed off its escarpment, and after a few missteps, the chef and I find a rhythm and can proceed.

“Heaven and hell reside within each of us,” I confide. “Come, you’re free of the burden of your body; let us celebrate.” Above simmering pots, the flames of the stove, we are airborne. Moments as precious as first steps. Thoughts as treasured as first words.
            A Death Doula must be intuitive. The recently deceased have endured a special kind of trauma and require a personal touch. In some ways, each passing is akin to a violent abduction.

The chef tests his limits and reaches for a beloved knife mid-waltz.

“No, those tools are of the past.” I tell the grieving soul as he looks with longing at his workstation.

My patients are sick, in their own way. They grasp at doorknobs, try to sit on toilets, and attempt to drive cars. None of these tasks are possible, nor are they necessary.

As the soul’s gemstone eyes adjust to the afterlife, I come into focus. The light of the first moment revealed to be garments of the darkest wine, deeper than the blackness of the most distant universe. I use my gloves to massage the chef into a suggestive state.

I will not leave until I help the spirit to normalize. Even if it means that together we must suffer through each of the stages of grief from anger to sadness to release.

Once we have mingled, I reach into the soul’s memories to extract scents of bliss. Fresh baked bread, cardamom seeds reminiscent of baked apple pie, and the nutty aroma of roasted garlic.

With a wave of my hand, fragrant candles in those fragrances appear, as well as aromatic herbs wrapped in mesh cloth. I pull a rare Bulldog Bat skull from inside my gown and hold it before the chef, swing the sacred animal left to right in a hypnotic rhythm. Once the soul’s in a trance, I make my first request.

“Say your prayers,” I tell it. And when the soul starts in on whatever religious verse they have known in their previous existence, I promptly interrupt.

“No. Not those prayers. Say your naughty prayers. Tell me your darkest secrets.”

My job is simple: listen to the confession of every evil thought as it oozes from the soul in a thick roux.

            “In fourth grade, I stuck peanut butter in my sister’s hair. Mashed it so bad they had to cut most of her locks off.” 
            I admit it. This marinade of misdeeds amuses me, and I reenact scenes to help the soul clear its conscious.

            “Like this? I say and I smush a sticky substance into the spirit’s hair making sure to mess it in good. “What a wicked thing you did. Now, you will never be able to remove this gooey mess from your being. You will wear it forever.”

            Other times, retribution isn’t atonement enough, and I am called on to inflict a higher level of pain to free the soul from their darkest deeds.

            “That’s when I took her. Behind the bar. Sure, she said no, but I just covered her mouth until the screaming stopped.”

            In times like this, I’m partial to my cat-o’-nine-tails, a multi-tasker with bits of glass on its tips. The instrument seems to send most souls screaming and it takes fewer overall strikes to clear their conscious once and for all.

            Dark fantasies must sometimes be fulfilled. Souls will pray for the deeds they didn’t dare to act upon in their physical lives. I bend to whatever positions are needed to make them comfortable with their own deaths. Nothing is taboo; we are spirits, after all. Through the chef’s eye, I spy a new client, a nature lover.  
            Pine tree candles burn around us in an illusion of forestry. I suck mud from the soul’s ten cold toes. Each one completely coated. Foot fetishes are wildly popular, though I must admit the addition of the mud is an unexpected twist.

This client’s love dart swells ready to penetrate and release, better yet it is surprised when I move aside my own gown to reveal a larger love dart of my own. We will chase each other through this forest he’s created in his mind, both hunter and prey, looking to see who will penetrate first. And yet the spirit knows it will be me, and soon it will be stilled into complete ecstasy, ready to be cut free and sent down stream.

Through the emerald maze of his eye, I am left beside a body starved in life. So many souls harbor the heavy guilt of wrongdoings, and it is my job to help them release these burdens. “Give me your naughty prayers.” I command when the petite soul is fully entranced. It’s reply is poetic.

“Now I lay me down to death, I pray for chains, and whips, and sweat.”

 I will make it a rag doll. Wait till its neck is limp from hours of chain. This one unable to let go until it is beaten into peace.

Other souls are stiff. They never relaxed in life, and they’ve never been nurtured. It is my job to soothe them to a release. Positions of ecstasy they never knew among the living, and I have experienced them all. I sprinkle sandalwood dust over these weary souls and start my gloved rub downs. They will need to be grounded to grow into their new lives and when contractions of ecstasy begin, I pause to ride the waves of their tremoring.

Despite centuries of servitude, I am pleased to report that no two releases have been the same. I strive for tranquil transitions, and in return, I get to play a game of hide and seek, as I tuck a snippet of my own soul into each spirit before it floats away.

I can never travel down the river after them, as I was dead before my birth, trapped in an in-between state, and the tiny pieces of my preformed presence I stowaway inside of each of their souls are all of me that will ever escape.

Before I can gaze into the mirror ball of an eye, another soul latches on, and I use its memories to conjure a loved one’s figure to send it to paradise as a final goodbye. My spirit weakens, as I help another soul to simply let go.

K. Hartless

K.Hartless is a persistent poet and eclectic fiction writer who enjoys penning fantasy, science-fiction, and horror while traveling the world. She's recently been published in Luna Station Quarterly, Echoes & Whispers, and HOW. Check out her Yardsale of Thoughts at khartless.com or follow her haiku habit on Twitter @hartless_k.

I Will Keep You in my Heart.

by Jennifer Green

Beth knew a kitchen table wasn’t the best place to hide, but when being chased by two monsters of scale and claw, there was little choice. Beggars should be no choosers, as stated in Proverbs.

One floor above she heard her king-sized bed drag across the room and then— CRASH, it splintered against the wall. There was no way a NoVo Gratz six-place setting could endure that creature’s strength.

The shriek of rage from the other room adds to it. There was a second one with her. She found it when she fled the one that woke her. Beth ran into this silent one as it paced the foyer after she bolted from her bed. Part of her was thankful it cared to leave the furniture alone, but she had been on enough hunting trips to realize that it meant this one was stalking. Beth was the prey. And if her guess was right, it was furious it couldn’t track her. She feared this one more. She knew she had to try harder to avoid it. She wanted to run to the door. She’d be home free if she cut across the Proctor's yard. Prayers filled her heart and chest. Her strength and faith will save her, she reassured herself as she felt the raspy growl of the creature near. There was a constant question in her mind. What did she do to deserve this?

The answer was nothing. This was obvious to anyone unlucky enough to view the scene and lucky to know her. Beth followed the directives of Church and God in that order of importance. She even had a bastard child forced upon her and she accepted care of it without public complaint. Beth was a good woman. This was martyrdom. Jealousy of her works. Above, she heard the shrill cry of the bastard. There would be no surprise if it was sensing her thoughts on it. That... creature is a curse. It was no wonder the mother passed on during childbirth. It tore her to shreds rather than a natural birthing. With its body of claws, scales, and hooves. It had to be kin to the creatures that invaded her home. The things, both upstairs and below, paused in their destructive hunt, distracted by the child’s wail. The Lord allowed them to find a new target in the child. Beth thanked Him for listening to her prayer to shield her from this hell. Once she survives, she will prove worthy of his protection. The Lord plans, she was the daughter of a military family; she knows how to handle combat- or in this case, avoiding it. Though for now, she must painstakingly make her way to the door. Unseen. Unheard. For once, to not be the center of attention. Escape them and whatever their dark plans and desires were of her.

Prayer Journal of Bethany Anne Gallagher: July 20 1:43 pm. Happy Day! Another soul and child saved. If I play my cards right, I should hit the big five-oh in a few weeks! This one, oh, it was awful. I took over an hour to reach her. I even had to buy her a lunch (with my own money!), but it displayed my sympathetic soul. She was shown that we here at the Lincoln Crisis Pregnancy Center care. I sincerely hurt for her and the baby. She didn’t mention drugs, but, truly, when aren’t there drugs involved? Especially with those immigrant girls. They lose their souls in this new country. She even said she didn’t follow the savior. That can change, I’m sure, with enough time and care. She was a sinner, but her strength saved herself and the baby from damnation. I was pretty surprised, but she seemed smart! Very well-spoken. I just wish she knew how to hold her legs closed. I suppose we can sum that up to cultural differences, as usual. We’ll get her to be a True American yet! We will raise her baby in a normal, loving and spiritual house. Lina Gael, I’ll keep you in my heart.

Prayer Journal of Bethany Anne Gallagher: September 25 11:28a. My heart hurts for poor Lina. Her calls continue, despite me telling her my number was for spiritual emergency only. Yet she calls to beg for what is honestly nonsense. Rides (as if I have time for that). Food (I’m sure she wouldn’t like anything I’d have to eat). Money (of course she wants money). Help with the resource line (according to her, they don’t answer the phone! I should check with Ollie about that. I keep telling her to ask baby daddy for this help, but she only ignores the question. Today she started crying when I pushed her to ask someone who is better suited for assistance. Sweetie, I am sorry, but that isn’t me. I have my own children. My own life. She needs to call the resource line I offered her. I will keep her in my heart, but I’ve managed what I could. She got herself into this mess. Oh! And here is the worst of it. She said if I do not help her, she’d have to run back to her church! Like it’s a bad thing?? I told her a church is the best place to help her! They certainly aren’t the best one if they lead her on that path, but at least they can speak her language. REMINDER: Find the Church of the Enochian. Maybe their pastor can help.

Prayer Journal of Bethany Anne Gallagher: September 26 11:19a. Utterly rude! Lina’s sister (Anna? I don’t even know) calls me and starts yelling at me. In Spanish?? How did she expect me to understand a word she said? Anyway, this awful woman tells me I should have to persuaded Lina to murder the child! Can you believe this?! How horrible can someone be?? I would hand over my own life to protect my children and this woman thinks her sister’s child should die?! Lord, give me strength to accept this crusade against me and the churches. She said their family’s church was also demanding Lina keep the baby. They should! I absolutely need to get in touch with them. Let them know what is going on, as we can’t risk Lina losing the baby. I will not have innocent blood on my hands. Satan has a hold on these women and I will deliver them. Lord, thank you for always keeping me in your heart.

Prayer Journal of Bethany Anne Gallagher: October 17 5:06p. Lord, you test me and my words. Is it true I cannot help these women? What am I expected to do? Ollie tells me we don’t have the resources. The line we give the lost souls is a fake number. How was I supposed to know? I am only trying to protect the babies from their mothers. There is no way I can save these women. Jesus, I can barely keep my head above water: financially and with my reputation. They look down on me for being a divorced mother. I have to work twice as hard to be a godly woman in the community. My life’s purpose is to serve your word, yet I receive no respect! I have to prove myself daily, but I go on. Am I supposed to kill my babies too, like these women? Certainly not! I would never and I will not let these women do the same. Side note: Lina keeps calling. Jesus, I need to know what to tell her. I should confirm the name of her church. When I search the Church of the Enochian, it gives me some very un-Christian results.

Prayer Journal of Bethany Anne Gallagher: November 15 10:55a. My poor dear Lina. My heart aches to know the hurt that your family must be suffering. God has gained another angel despite the fact that your life is gone here on earth. Perhaps this is punishment for what you sought to do? I imagine you did not suffer. The doctors did what they could to save you. The nurse said it was a difficult birth, but I bet you were fighting to make sure the child would survive. You tried so hard to live a good life. I am proud of the godly work I am sure you have done. I will never forget you. I will keep you in my heart and I pray for your sweet, sweet baby’s soul. God does not forget those who praise his name. REMINDER: Contact her Ana (one N, evidently) for condolences.

(later that day) What. The. Hell? You gave me custody? HOW am I to deal with a new baby, you whore?! Where is your sister?! Where is your church? How dare you say I deserve to take care of your bastard child! I hope you are in hell where you deserve, slut.

(later that day) You know, I did what I had to, chicana! Someone has to protect all these babies! I am right! You tried to MURDER A BABY, YOU! I. AM. NOT. WRONG.

(two weeks later) ... You were right. This is no child. This is a monster.. He looked normal at first, but now… it is inhuman. There is no skin, only scales... black scales. I think horns are growing on it... and a baby should not have teeth, but this... thing, this thing has fangs. It is no child. Lord, I am sorry for not believing her.

It is time. She awaited the creak that came from the first step, believing the shrieker was going up the stairs. From under the table, Beth launched into the foyer. The door was ahead. Freedom felt in her grasp as her fingers graced the doorknob, but her hand did not grasp it. She felt claws on her shoulders and she gave a shriek of her own as they pulled her back. It knew to trick her. She struggled futilely as it threw her against the wall, bringing her face to face with the demon. A raspy voice spoke, grinning down at her with fangs. Identical to the fangs in the mouth of the bastard babe. “You’ve done well to protect my child... thank you. I’ll keep you in my heart.” The snap was the last thing Beth ever heard.

Jennifer Green

Jennifer Green, your neighborhood asexual author, is up in here providing romance and horror stories, using far bigger words than she is capable of pronouncing. Come see her struggle with her art at WhatDidJenniferWrite.com

My Bloody Valentine

When her blood first comes, staining the cheap underwear and nylon skirt, Shania’s terrified, convinced she has cancer or worse. Mother, drunk and disinterested as always, ignores the tears and fears. Two hours, bottle and a half, into a vodka binge, she’s antiseptic and blurred, zombied to anything but reaching the bottom as quickly as possible.

Kevin takes notice, of course. You’re a woman now, he whispers, breath on her neck, the frightening bulk at his core. He smells metallic, like foil, and Shania recoils. He smiles, canines overly long and bile-colored, winks. Be seeing you, he says.  

It isn’t long before he visits in the night, waiting for Mother to reach the ocean floor, unconscious and drooling on the stained sofa. He whispers shamefully in the darkness, I’ll kill her if you tell. It becomes a sort of comfort in a way, the bulk of him, the contact, until he grows tired of them both and leaves. He’s only the first man to disappoint her. She grows her first rose for him.

She wears red – crimson dress, shoes with killer heels and scarlet soles, nails glossy tomato and hair vivid titian. Her own mother wouldn’t recognize her.

The man has been selected for his ordinariness. He’s neither tall nor short, average looking, earns a median income in middle management for a mid-sized organization. He lives alone, that’s a given, doesn’t seem close to anyone, no friends to speak of, close family dead or emigrated. She has a knack for spotting them, swiping right when she finds them, confident they’ll swipe right too, most men over-estimate their own attractiveness.

She’s doing him a favor really.

Her teenage years are punctuated by promiscuity and violence. It seems there’s no depth Shania won’t mine to find the elixir of love. She’s Eve, falling, falling, falling, giving it all away, only to find it elusive once more as passion transforms to contempt to disgust and she’s cultivating bruises again; her body a hothouse - where spears of self-harm grow alongside burgundy blooms made by this punch or that slap. When she looks in the mirror she sees Mother staring right back – disappointment, despair, wasted and old, old before her time.

It takes an old friend to shift the tides.

One night she wakes and there’s someone in the room with her, she can hear fury, smell alcoholic waves of disgust, desire, dominance. She recognizes the heft of him, the shape of him, when he straddles her, his whispered threats, the thorns he bears pressing into her, skewering her.

The knife she has been using to contour pain onto her skin is close by. She reaches down, slices. It’s sharp, sharp as you like and his fear and pain sound like freedom. She slides from under him and bolts from the room, bolts from her mother, and her reputation, and this squalid, sordid life.

Kevin is her first in so many, many ways.

They meet in an anonymous bar in his anonymous town. He’s already waiting when she arrives, vermillion rose in his fist, bottle of burgundy breathing on the table. He catches his breath as she approaches. She sees the thought bubble rise - she’s breath-taking in the flesh. She thinks this might be easier than anticipated.

She’s a little disappointed; she likes some challenge, some difficulty.

Before long he’s slurring, eyes glazed, only a few drops needed.

As they leave, she is careful to look excited with his arm around her shoulder, she desires him, is reckless, she isn’t propping him up, carrying him out. She’s confident he’ll recall none of this in the morning, he’ll struggle to describe her, will be left with nothing but the regret of what she took from him, no longer a man but not anything else either. She’s sure he’ll learn from this, grow.

Before he wakes, she extinguishes the scarlet woman, disposes of the severed flesh, buy a ticket to the next anonymous town. Her last stop in this one is the tattooist, where she’ll add another red rose to the tally on her back, her garden of bloody valentines.

Maria A. Thomas

Maria Thomas is a middle-aged, apple-shaped mum of two. She has work in EllipsisZine, Funny Pearls, Levatio, Fiery Scribe Review, Paragraph Planet, VirtualZine, Free Flash Fiction, Punk Noir, Roi Faineant Press, Cape Magazine and (upcoming) Punk Monk. Maria won Retreat West’s April 2022 Micro competition. She can be found on Twitter as @AppleWriter.

The Silence by Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Not Close

In every old photo Therese is drenched in shimmering light. My sister is always happy, either tap dancing or popping out of a cartwheel or hugging Grandma. In all images of me, I am looking down, or away, caught in a lack of expression, my lips frozen for time in a straight line.

“Celeste is the quiet one,” our parents said, offering an acknowledgement as a kind of apology. I never knew why my personality had to be excused. I always thought of my silence as solitude, strength. Even my teachers were uncomfortable with me. Good grades. Too quiet, the comments often read. Therese always did the things everyone liked - dance and debate and swim. On weekends, we followed Therese’s activity schedule. I didn’t even know how to swim. I sat sweating on the bleachers at her meets, staring at the water, imagining dolphins popping their noses out of the water.

Therese and I were never close.

Miscarriage

“I-I need you to come,” she said, a desperate sob, hospital noises in the background, beeps and loudspeakers. I turned off my computer and went to my sister.

“There was no-no heartbeat,” she wailed into my shoulder minutes after my arrival.

My mind had to catch up:

1. My sister was pregnant and

2. My sister was pregnant with a not-alive baby.

She caught her breath and attempted to tell me what needed to be done, how this would play out, how she would leave the hospital with no baby inside her.

“Where’s Jim?” I asked, referring to my sister’s mysterious husband. I often joked that the last Jim sighting was at their wedding, not far from the truth.

“He was negotiating a contract. It was too important.”

Anger came first, then shock. Shock that her husband would think a contract was more important than this and, selfishly, shocked she called me, not Mom, not her best friend, me. My bright star sister clung to my shoulder, her tears soaking through my shirt, dampening my skin. Overcoming extreme shyness and discomfort, I reached for her head, moving one sweat-soaked strand from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

Closer

“I’m having coffee with Therese,” I told Noah, pulling a tee shirt over my head. My husband was lingering in bed, his Saturday morning routine.

“What happened to your morose individualism?” he teased.

“She needed me, and, I guess I liked that.”

I did like it. Therese and I found we actually enjoyed one another’s company. We met for coffee and lunch and glasses of wine. We laughed about annoying things our parents did. We complained about our jobs, talked about weight loss and exercise. I never had a girlfriend like this before. I never talked this much before. Drinking cappuccinos on Express-Oh’s sunny patio, my sister shined, and now I shined too. That day, her words brought darkness. She broached the subject gently, her lowered voice hard to hear amongst the car horns and sirens of the street.

“So, how’s the fertility stuff going?” she asked.

I let my guard down, unloaded the depth of my disappointment and grief, how much I wanted this, this baby.

Grudge

I thought I’d been invited to a surprise birthday party for Therese. The cake came out as we all sang off-key. The lights on top sputtered and spat. After each sparkler burned, a curious question mark of a candle still flamed. Therese closed her eyes and blew. Jim shushed us all. “I’m about to cut into this monstrosity. If your slice is pink, we’re having a girl, and if it’s blue, well-”

The room burst into laughter and clapping. Our mother shrieked and ran to Therese’s limp arms. Noah’s hand gripped mine as I swallowed hard holding back the emotions that were coming like a train. Therese pushed our mother away and ran to me. “Celeste, I didn’t know about this. We got the genetic testing and just found out-I was going to tell you - not this way.” She glared at Jim. “This is not-”

She kept talking. I bolted for the door, with Noah close at my heals.

***

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” I began my confession to Fr. Jerry. He sat across from me in jeans and a golf shirt, wearing his purple stole. My father’s brother baptized me, gave me my first communion, confirmed me, and officiated at my wedding. Now he listened to me spill my selfish guts. “I just can’t get over it. I want to, but I can’t,” I told him.

I hadn’t seen Therese for months. I skipped her baby shower. My mother accused me of spoiling her day and I was destroying the family. “You and Noah-you’ll have your own baby soon. I promise.”

He gave me my penance: three Hail Marys, join him for ice cream, and call Therese. “You can fix this, honey.”

I said my Hail Marys and had ice cream with Fr. Jerry, but I didn’t call my sister.

Rescue

Everyone is always celebrating, I thought as I surveyed the bonfire wood piled high in a mound on the beach. People threw sticks and branches on the heap, plunging tiki torches in the sand. I liked running in circles, alone, moving into the trails, the darkness and silence, away from the laughter, the fading light of the beach. I ran until the bright green presence of the second, hidden lake asserted itself. I stopped, as I always did, stood at the tip of the round lake. I walked toward the water, gazing down through its emerald surface, looked for life, seeing only weeds, roots, petrified wood protruding from prehistoric layers. The wind rustled.

I stared as a glow in the water rose and grew, a baby’s face emerged from the water’s depths, a button nose, rosebud lips poked through the surface. It gasped and cried out. What? Was it drowning? Or just born? As if being pulled by a hand somewhere below, the baby jerked from exposure, receded into the water. My hands reached, my breath came in short, sick gulps, my chest heaved. I turned, hoping someone would be there to help.

No. No. No. No. No.

I ran back into the woods, back onto the trail, but of course, of course, no, I was alone in this, in all of this, in everything, always. I stumbled back to the water. The rings from the baby’s appearance still reverberated. Summoning my last bits of dizzy energy, I dove toward the spot of light, the baby, my baby. The shock of the cold water, the depth of the silence, came as a comfort, a cool, bottomless relief.

Maggie Nerz Iribarne

Maggie Nerz Iribarne is 53, living her writing dream in a yellow house in Syracuse, New York. She writes about teenagers, witches, the very old, bats, cats, priests/nuns, cleaning ladies, runaways, struggling teachers, and neighborhood ghosts, among many other things. She keeps a portfolio of her published work at https://www.maggienerziribarne.com.

L’Enchantement de la Fille de Joie

By Keily Blair

Vivienne knew the villagers would blame her when they discovered the boy’s body. She stood over his curled form, trying in vain to remember the ancient words her grandmother once spoke over a dead dog to make it rise. The memory rose to the surface, but in it, her grandmother’s lips moved without sound. Magic dwindled in their blood with each generation, and Vivienne was the first to be unable to weave a spell to reach beyond the world of the living without the aid of a familiar.

With a closer look, the boy belonged to Thomas and Camille Fontaine.  Here was the curve of Thomas’s jaw, there were Camille’s delicate fingers. If Vivienne recalled, the boy was only two years old. The Fontaine brood grew more numerous by the year, Thomas being insatiable according to Vivienne’s first-hand knowledge. He often visited her when Camille neared the end of her pregnancies, much to the wife’s chagrin. In part, Camille’s hatred of Vivienne had less to do with her husband’s dalliances and more to do with Vivienne’s well-respected status, or maybe even the fact Thomas had proposed to Vivienne more than once before settling for poor Camille.

Crouching, Vivienne examined the small body. Blood had congealed in the shriveled, dry grass around it. The dark gash in his throat appeared much too wide and crude to have caused such little bleeding. She rose to her feet, calculating the best course of action. Thomas hunted in the woods with the other men regularly, and it was only a matter of time before someone else found the body.

“Better for him to go missing than for you to be burned.”

Vivienne closed her eyes upon hearing the familiar, breathy voice.

“Please,” she said. “I need to think.”

Hands gripped her, and her eyes opened wide. She looked at the pale hands wrapped around her shoulders.

“You’ve been staring at the boy for an hour, Vivienne. He’s not going to rise and walk. His spirit’s too far for you to reach, even with my help.”

She turned to the pale man, eyes sparking with what little magic she could conjure. His dark eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a sneer as her magic took hold of him.

“Remember, spirit, I don’t answer to you,” she said. “I named you, Amon. You’re mine to command, and you hold form because I bless you with it.”

Amon’s mouth curved into a wicked grin. He pressed his wrists together as though bound, kneeling before her.

“As you command, goddess,” he said.

She scowled and returned her attention to the boy.

“Bury him,” she said. “No one can find him like this.”

Amon’s wary gaze moved to the boy.

“If they find out you hid him—”

“They won’t.”

“Can you be sure?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, eyes closing.

“No, but you have your orders.”

Hours passed before Vivienne saw the familiar again. A client she’d spent hours entertaining slipped into the night, and Amon’s hands were on her nude form, always roaming. She turned to him, gazing up at him with an unspoken question.

“Done,” he said. “As you commanded.”

She tugged his hands, placing them against his sides. Moonlight poured in through a slit in the curtains, illuminating the room with a soft, gray light. Her home rested north of the village, a short walk from the council’s small dwelling. It was an attempt to mark her as an afterthought, a shameful secret.

“Rumors surface,” Amon said.

His eyes glinted, a red, inhuman glimmer in the darkest corner of the room. Vivienne offered a small, rueful smile.

“Who started these rumors?” she asked.

“Camille Fontaine.”

Vivienne frowned.

“So, she noticed his absence,” she said. “I will speak with her.”

She eyed Amon with a curious look, beckoning him to come closer. He hesitated, but his will meant nothing when in opposition to her own. His footsteps dropped hard on the wooden floor, resisting every step of the way. The silvery light shone on a dark wound in his chest.

“You’re hurt,” she said.

“Hunters mistook me for a deer. Possibly because I took the form of one to escape.”

Lesser magic flowed through her blood, but her touch had always restored vitality in the men and women who visited her. Her work was exhausting as all work is, but the renewed strength in her clients warmed her heart. To a familiar, her touch was the only thing standing between life and death. In Amon’s case, it wasn’t love, either, but something primal, a need to heal this extension of herself she’d created the day she named it.

They fit together in a way Vivienne could never replicate with a human man or woman. Amon’s movements, silent yet rough, elicited practiced gasps from her. The spirit healed before her eyes as their coupling wore on, the wound in his chest stitching together with new muscle and flesh. Their shadows danced on the wall, intertwining until she could no longer determine if they were separate.

Whispers followed Vivienne as she walked through the town, cloak wrapped around her. It seemed every eye lingered on her a moment longer, and every word uttered bore some resemblance to her name. Amon had taken the form of a sparrow, and he followed her with subtle grace as she moved, careful not to attract attention.

“Vivienne,” a voice said.

She turned to see the men and women of the council approaching her, Thomas Fontaine among them. He stepped closer, a nervous expression on his face. Villagers lingered nearby, probably eavesdropping on the conversation. Among them, she counted the husbands and wives of several clients.

“It’s come to our attention,” Thomas said, “that one of my children is missing. Hugo.”

“Is there a way I can help?” Vivienne asked.

Thomas looked at the other council members, but none offered any words of encouragement. They eyed her with various looks—fear, lust, a mixture of the two—and stayed several steps behind Thomas. He turned to her once more, sighing.

“Camille thinks you may know something,” he said.

“Casting blame on your spouse?” Vivienne asked. “Pathetic.”

The amusement in her voice appeared to light a fire within him, and he stepped closer. She didn’t back away. Instead, she looked up at him, meeting the challenge head on.

“She thinks you may have done it,” he said. “She thinks you are a witch, and you cast a spell on the child.”

A bark of laughter escaped her.

“You know what I am,” she said. “You’ve all benefited from my touch in one way or another. Your children survived last year’s bout of fever because of my charms. Your elderly are strong because of my ‘spells.’”

She spat the last word at him, and he flinched, flushing a dark red.

“You’ll need to come with us for questioning. There’s nothing I can do.”

Seeing the villagers carried no weapons, Vivienne whistled low and long, summoning Amon to her shoulder. The villagers cowered at the red-eyed sparrow, stepping away. The sparrow flew at them, scattering them. They shouted and swung their arms to swipe at the bird, but it flew out of their reach. When it flew in close, it pecked their faces, careful to avoid their eyes as they screamed.

When the commotion died down, Vivienne was gone.

The large home of the Fontaine family lay at the far end of the village. Vivienne’s last visit had been during the birth of Thomas and Camille’s most recent addition to their family several weeks ago. She’d remained with the family for three days, warding off Thomas’ inappropriate advances while she worked to revive Camille. The woman’s hollow eyes had glared at her, and she hadn’t spoken a word to Vivienne the entire time.

Now, Vivienne knocked on the door with a heavy fist. Camille opened the door a crack, peeking out with the same deadened eyes.

“What do you want?” Camille asked.

Vivienne forced her way in. The tidy home held a quiet, stale air.

“Where are the children?” she asked.

“Away,” Camille asked. “Apprenticeships keep some occupied, some play, and some are old enough to be pining after whomever suits them. I should warn them harlots wait at the border of town to steal their loves away.”

“Most of my clients are married,” Vivienne said. “Most of them thank me for providing their husbands and wives with my touch.”

“Most of them must not love their spouses,” Camille said. “You poison this family with your existence.”

“The harm I may have caused does not give you reason to spread lies,” Vivienne said. “I did nothing to Hugo.”

Camille walked over to a small table, reaching for something Vivienne couldn’t see.

“I know you didn’t,” Camille said.

Vivienne approached her, and Camille spun around, knife in hand. She slashed at Vivienne, who jumped out of reach.

“I did,” Camille said.

Vivienne looked at her, face contorting in horror. The woman’s expressionless face regarded her, and in a monotonous voice, she spoke.

“He wouldn’t stop crying,” Camille said. “I knew you’d come for me. I left my husband a note, you see. To apologize. Our eldest daughter should have found him by now and given him the note. He’ll come for me, to stop me.”

Shadows seeped through the door, morphing into a tiny sparrow on the floor. Its movement caught Camille’s gaze long enough for Vivienne to rush forward and grasp her wrists. The knife hovered above Vivienne, inching closer as Camille screamed in her fury. The shadows moved closer, seeping into Vivienne, imbuing her with the strength of Amon as he possessed her form.

Vivienne snapped Camille’s wrist in her grip. The woman screamed as she stumbled away, knife clattering to the floor. Her hazy eyes rose to Vivienne, void of any emotion.

“All I wanted,” she said, “was for him to stop crying.”

The door burst open, and several men rushed into the small room. Among them was Thomas, who darted past Camille to Vivienne. Camille bowed her head, oily strands of her hair falling into her eyes.

“My daughter brought Camille’s confession,” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Vivienne said.

She watched as the men helped Camille to her feet, guiding her out of the house.

“Where will they take her?” Vivienne asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Thomas said. “Somewhere she can’t cause any harm. You can relax.”

His hand clasped her shoulder, and she bowed her head.

No, she thought. I have work to do.

To his credit, Thomas didn’t visit her for a week. The particular tincture she brewed for him normally took eight weeks to perfect. With Amon’s help, it took three days. As Thomas waited in bed for her, she poured his cup of tea, adding a bit of honey to overpower the bitter herbs. A quick look over her shoulder confirmed the man hadn’t left the room, and she poured a thimbleful of tincture into the cup. She took the cup to him.

“Tea?” Thomas asked.

“An aphrodisiac,” Vivienne said.

“I don’t need your potions to desire you.”

“Humor me, my love.”

The words tasted acrid on her tongue, but they appeared to please Thomas, who took the cup and drank the warm contents in a few large gulps. He set the cup aside and reached for her. She avoided his touch, counting the seconds until he froze beside her.

Dark, intricate magic possesses the target with a quickness, and Thomas was no exception. He turned to Vivienne, not meeting her gaze.

“I forgot a meeting was to take place tonight,” he said.

“What meeting?” Vivienne asked.

He shook his head, moving his body to conceal the softness between his legs. After a few awkward, shuffling movements, he dressed, bid her goodnight, and left.

Amon came to her side, pulling her into his arms.

“Impotence,” he said. “You’ve cursed him with magical castration for his wife’s sins?”

His amused tone tickled her ears. She smiled, a soft, patient smile.

“The man has sins of his own,” she said. “Who else will punish him?”

Amon grinned his wicked grin, dark eyes raking over her form.

“Would a goddess such as you wish to punish one more before the evening ends? I possessed you without permission.”

Vivienne turned to him, the candlelight flickering across her face. With a crooked smile, she blew out the flame, thrusting them into the dark.

Keily Blair

Keily Blair (they/them) is an autistic, queer writer, as well as Managing Editor of the Signal Mountain Review. They hold a BA in English: Creative Writing from UT Chattanooga, where their nonfiction won the Creative Nonfiction Award. Their fiction has appeared in publications such as The Dread Machine, Dream of Shadows, Cosmic Horror Monthly, Good Southern Witches, and The Vanishing Point. They are currently at work on a dark fantasy novel. You can find more details about their work at www.keilyblair.com or follow them on Twitter (@keily_blair). They live in Tennessee with their husband, dog, cat, and four guinea pigs.

Community Service by Jay Sykes

Image from Canva

“Thank you,” Grace murmured as Freya emerged from under the blankets.

“Thank you for the new boots,” Freya replied, kissing her softly, “You really are very sweet, but you know damn well this arrangement doesn’t require such things!”

“I guess I see this as practice for when I’m ready to get back out there… And besides, can one friend who pays another friend for sex not also buy gifts for that friend?”

“I guess she can! Really I’m a fool to question it!”

“Oh!” Grace started, looking at the time, “I should get out of your hair, I’m sure you want some you-time before your next appointment.”

“Relax, sweetheart,” Freya stopped her with a look as they gathered an outfit together, “Have a doze if you feel like it! It’s my night off, going to do some ‘community service’”

A wicked grin made an uncomfortable home on Grace’s cherubic face. “You really are the hero our city deserves, and the one it needs right now...”

“Damn straight!”

“Hell gay!”

Freya chuckled their way into the shower. As the hot steam enveloped them, the gentle but insistent sound of Grace’s post-orgasmic snores tapped on their eardrums. They clung hard to the companionable persona they knew she needed throughout washing, drying and dressing themselves (with the new boots as a final touch), gently waking her and coaxing her out the door with a passionate farewell. As they watched their friend get safely into a cab they allowed the coquettish smile to fall off of their face. To work, they thought to themselves.

Walking everywhere was one of the central principles that guided Freya’s life. Taxis and ride share apps were a luxury they could afford, but never really got used to. A number of people they’d worked with expressed utter disbelief that they were comfortable walking the streets at night, but they always had been and always would be. Theoretically.

Tonight, they pulled the hem of her skirt down a little, self consciously, as they strode down the road they sought. It was new, and definitely felt too short for public, especially with very little underneath. Their other hand nervously twirled the last couple of inches of a platinum strand of hair. At least they weren’t wearing heels this time.

Freya’s anxiety was manifested in the form of a whistle from somewhere behind and to their left. Their pace quickened as they tried to make sure the soft clomp of their New Rocks was slightly more frequent than the thudding of sneakers behind them. Soon they were almost running.

They needed a change of direction. And more light, which they saw down a path to their left. They turned down it and ran almost headfirst into the truck that was parked there, headlights glowing.

They turned around to face their pursuer, a picture of total terror. His face warped into an ugly grin as he took a few steps forward.

In one smooth movement, they drew a blade from the garter of their skirt and across his throat.

A small figure jumped out of the driver’s side of the truck.

“Lucky number seven! Our operation has expanded nicely,” She said casually, tossing a pair of track pants at her co-conspirator. They flopped to the ground.

“Yeah, I guess.” Freya replied, pulling off the wig and scuffling their shaved head. They stared at the body, lost in thought. The driver picked up the trousers and handed them to them, face slightly pinched with concern.

“This one was personal, wasn’t it? That client of yours?”

“A client and a friend of Grace’s. She hasn’t been the same since this fuck got his hands on her.”

“Well, he won’t be changing any more lives now!”

Freya nodded and made a non-committal noise.

The driver pulled a coin out of her jeans.

“Call it.”

“Heads.”

“Tails I’m afraid!”

“Uuuuugh I hate cleaning up,” Freya groaned, suddenly animated once more. They swapped their skirt and wig for a bottle of industrial bleach and a pile of rags.

“You’re the one who likes to watch the blood spray. There are less messy ways of doing this. Now help me get him in the back with his new friends,” said the driver,

Jay Sykes is a non-binary creative and academic from Tasmania, Australia. They delight in writing, painting and performing works that disturb whilst maintaining a sense of wonder and beauty. So far, they have had work accepted by Black Hare Press, Dead Sea Press, The Creatives Journal, Sirens Call ezine and The Last Girls Club. They hope to continue spreading a vague sense of unease far and wide!