Issue 73 October 2019 Flash Fiction Online October 2019

Doused in sugary sunlight, Janie chugs milk straight from the carton. She wipes her sleeve across her pouty fourteen-year-old mouth. “I’m off.”

“To school?” Carol asks, ever hopeful.

Janie’s laughter rings like wind chimes during a storm. “I’m needed elsewhere. Kansas, I think. Dunno where exactly—mornings mess with my intuition.”

“What’s in Kansas?” Carol turns her back to Janie, pours a cup of coffee. She’s learned by now that her daughter clams up if Carol shows too much interest in her life or the lives of her worshippers.

“A man about Grandpa’s age. His name’s Rupert, and he’s sick, so he doesn’t always remember who he is. Right now he’s scared and confused, and he’s calling out to me without realizing it.”

Carol knows where this is going. “Why remind him of his name when he’s going to forget it again the moment you leave?”

“Oh, Carol.”

This is Janie’s response to everything. Oh, Carol, with that long-suffering, world-weary tone. Carol, never Mom.

She watches her daughter tug on combat boots and finger-comb bleached-blond hair. “Will you at least give me a kiss?”

“No way. I’m late enough already.”

One moment Janie is there, the next the air shifts in iridescent ripples, and she’s gone. Carol caps the milk carton and returns it to the fridge.

She marvels at how teenage girls, even deified ones, can be so cruel to their mothers.

* * *

“Where are you going this time?” Carol asks, sorting fresh laundry into piles. Janie had promised she’d help, but she’s been summoned again. Carol doesn’t blame her. She’s proud of her daughter, even though she doesn’t always understand Janie or her deity duties. Names. Always speaking the names people need to hear the most. But Janie still won’t utter the word Carol yearns for.

“There’s this woman in Seattle. She adopted an American identity when she came here. But today, she needs someone to call her by her real name, or else she thinks she’ll go crazy.”

“Okay, honey. Just be careful. Seattle’s a big city,” Carol says and tries to hug Janie, who expertly evades it.

“Not now, Carol. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

The air particles snap and crackle. Just like that, Janie vanishes. Carol lifts Janie’s bedsheets to her nose. She remembers a time when her daughter couldn’t teleport at will, when the top of her baby head smelled like milk and lavender. Carol blames herself for Janie’s powers, though Janie would say they’re a blessing.

Now, beneath the scent of laundry detergent, she inhales Janie’s lingering perfume and the smoke of a hundred cities Carol has never visited.

* * *

“Janie, it’s late. Go to bed.”

Her daughter stares at her: nightgowned, wild-haired, incredulous. “I’m a deity, Carol. When people call, I go.”

You’re a minor deity, Carol wants to snap. Let the Gods and Goddesses deal with the mess of the world. Instead, Carol only sighs. She’s always backtracking and acquiescing to preserve the porcelain peace between them. “Fine, but please take a jacket. New York is cold this time of year.” She forgets to feign disinterest when she adds, “Who called you?”

“A girl born in a male body. She’s at a college party, and she’s drunk. If someone doesn’t speak her true name, I don’t know what she’ll do.”

Carol is about to let it go, but she’s sleep-deprived and has work in the morning and Janie is gone more and more lately.

“Why don’t you ever call me Mom?”

Janie rolls her pretty washed-blue eyes. “’Cause. Your name isn’t Mom.”

Janie disappears like an extinguished flame. Instead of returning to bed, Carol sits at the kitchen table, a desert island in a lightless sea.

Waiting for Janie to return, she drifts off. Carol’s dream is also a memory. In it, they’re in the supermarket, and five-year-old Janie is throwing a tantrum in the frozen-food aisle.

“Stop it,” a young, frazzled Carol hisses, “or I’m leaving without you.”

Janie only wails louder, the sound like a fire alarm. Carol lets go of Janie’s hand and stalks away, rounding a corner.

“Mom!” calls Janie from the distance. “Mom?”

Carol only wants to teach Janie a lesson. But for a terrible moment, she thinks how easy it would be to keep walking until she reached the automatic sliding doors. Guilt bursts citric-sour in her mouth. She sprints back to the frozen-food aisle, to find a woman holding Janie’s hand, leading her away.

“Stop!” Carol shrieks. Panic chokes her senses.

The woman turns around. She’s tall, with waist-long hair and an expression of vast calmness on her regal face. The woman’s wavering outline shimmers the colors of the Aurora Borealis.

Carol grabs Janie, hugging her close.

“I thought she was alone,” the woman Carol knows is a Goddess says.

“She has a mother.”

The Goddess smiles somberly. She looks right at Carol, who feels like a butterfly on a lepidopterist’s board. “Don’t be afraid,” the Goddess’ melodic voice says before she blinks out of sight.

Frigid fingers touch Carol’s shoulder; the dream-memory dissolves.

“You were right. New York really is cold.”

“Janie?” Carol mumbles. Her neck feels stiff, and her face stings where it rubbed against the tabletop. Dove-pink dawn creeps across the dark sky. It all looks like a gouache painting.

“You called me.”

Carol glances at her phone on the table; the battery died sometime during the night. “No, I didn’t. You’ve told me not to bother you while you’re—”

Janie curls her plum-painted lips. Carol had forgotten how beautiful her daughter’s smile is when it isn’t mocking her.

“No, Mom. You called me.”

Her brain lags at first. Mom. Janie hasn’t used that word since that day at the supermarket, when her powers manifested. Cautiously, Carol opens her arms. Janie kneels down and lets the arms cradle her. Her wind-swept hair smells like lavender and wood-smoke.

Carol marvels at how teenage girls, human or divine, can fill their mothers’ hearts with so much love.

“Cut out her heart and bring it to me,” the queen said, and so the huntsman did.

He brought no deer’s heart in its place, for the huntsman was loyal to his queen. He brought her the heart, and she ate it, and the blood stained her lips like dye. Her wrinkled skin grew pale and smooth, her greying hair blackened, and she laughed as she finished the last bite.

Now, in the cold darkness of the wood, the princess’ mutilated body lies waiting for the wolves. The stench of putrefaction draws scavengers of all kinds. Ants devour the flesh of her lips; birds steal strands of her dark hair; her pale skin grows sickly and bloated. Ravens peck out her dull, dead eyes.

But others find her body before the wolves. They mutter amongst themselves in the shadows of the wood, and argue, and agree, and carry the corpse to their home, trailing blood as they go.

They are master craftsmen. They slaughter ravens for their feathers, and fashion the feathers into hair. From fresh, red meat they cut new lips. Sapphires from the depths of their mines form new eyes, glittering like frost in the lifeless face. They lay the body on a bier, and last they craft a heart and place it in the empty, gaping hole the huntsman cut. No heart of flesh, this; their magic is of a colder sort. The heart they place within her is formed of pure, freshly-fallen snow.

They chant as they work, incantations to the dark powers of the wood. And as they put the heart of snow in place, the flesh closes and knits together. It becomes white as the snow inside, cold as winter’s touch.

Their servant rises to do her work.

Through the long months of winter she works, doing whatever task her craftsmen-masters set for her. She rises at night and rests at dawn, returning to the bier where her body was restored, sleeping in the thin winter sunlight that pierces the leaves of the trees.

They are careful not to feed her.

But rumor spreads of the beauty in the woods, a woman of sculptured perfection. They say she sleeps without waking, for who would come to the dark wood at night? Who would venture close enough to see the empty bier? Some risks, even the most foolhardy of princes would not venture.

Princes are bolder by daylight, though, even the thin, starved light of the winter sun. One comes at last in search of the beauty in the woods, and finds her.

Drunk on the wine of tales, he does not heed the signs of warning. The twisted symbols carved into the sides of the bier escape his notice. The chill of her flesh, he attributes to nothing more than the bitter air. The tales say that the creatures of the forest keep her company, and they are right — but these are no innocent songbirds, making music for the sleeper. The eyes that watch from the trees are yellow and cruel, and their music is laughter, dark whispers, malice.

The prince, seeing none of this, bends to kiss her.

The fire of his touch burns her frozen flesh. She awakes with a scream, sees daylight for the first time. It drives her mad with its brilliance. Sapphire eyes blinded, she lashes out with an animal’s instinct, finds sustenance, feeds.

Bones and bloody scraps of cloth are the only sign of the prince, when she is done.

Hot blood seethes through her cold, dead flesh. It flows over the stone of the bier, coats the symbols carved into its sides. In their cavern home, her masters wake and realize what has happened. They hasten to their work, barricading the entrance, chanting spells to keep her from their door.

She does not seek them, though — not yet. Another target draws her thoughts.

Her entourage of creatures follows her through the wood, whispering and laughing to themselves. Ravens, wolves, scavengers of all kinds trail at her heels, while around them the winter vegetation withers into true death at her passing.

At the castle, her approach is felt as a freezing wind, that knifes through even the most tightly-barred window, the warmest cloak.

The fire in the queen’s chamber has been built to a roaring blaze, but even that is not enough. The queen huddles and shivers before it, calling desperately for more wood. Her stolen beauty is haggard in the struggling light, and the fire dies ever downward, flames shrinking to nothingness at the killing pressure of the cold.

The door opens at last, but the visitor is not a servant bringing wood.

The last flicker of flame shrivels into ash.

In the near-darkness of the chamber, the princess shines with an icy light. The queen cannot look away as she approaches. Her beauty has become an unearthly thing, greater than ever it was in life. But cold, so cold . . . .

The princess’ lips curve in a smile, gleaming with the redness of the bloody flesh that forms them. A moment later, the color fades from the queen’s mouth, leaving her blue and shaking. Next the skin, growing wrinkled and spotted once more. Then the hair, withering into brittle greyness. Strands of it drift to the floor like dying leaves.

Then the pain begins.

Her screams echo through the frozen darkness of the castle, where the servants huddle in fear. The huntsman hears his queen, but does not move; his loyalty cannot make him face the horror that has come.

Alone now in the upstairs chamber, with only the shadows and the remnants of what was once the queen for company, the princess raises the bloody heart to her lips. Her sharp teeth tear into it, blood staining her snow-white skin, and then it is gone. She licks her flesh clean, and smiles once more.

No blood, however hot, can remove the coldness from her now. But she hungers for it, and goes in search of more.

Previously published in Talebones #39, October 2009; audio reprint in Pseudopod, December 2010. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

September 2019 marks the twentieth anniversary of Jay’s decision to become a writer. His gift to you all this celebratory year is DO IT – Twelve hard lessons on learning by failing, succeeding by accident, never giving up and saying FXXK WRITING all at the same time. You’re welcome!

 * * *

Compromise is the gateway to mediocrity. The writers you love and the ones who have moved the world did so because they created (consciously and unconsciously) works reflecting their obsessions without pulling punches.  They wrote knowing fear, but not being ruled by it. For writers, fear comes in two major variety packs.

• Fear of failure: I will make art and no one will give a shit, it won’t be good enough, I will fail and everyone will point and laugh;

and

• Fear of external judgment: your real and ugly self will be exposed, you will embarrass yourself and your family, the people at work will laugh at you; the world will judge you a weirdo creep fake and the shame you feel will lead to suicide/mental collapse/loss of marriage/end of the world.

The first is really subsystem of the second, so that’s our focus. Because I believe that fear of what others think is, in many ways, the barrier to work that has meaning or power. It may be the ingredient that separates entertainment from being art. Too much regard for the good manners of society has never made works that matter unless via irony and satire. The art that grips us by the short and curlys and forces us to take notice may be subtle, loud, perverse or elegant, but it rarely gives two-shits about what the neighbors think. And that attitude can help you grow. Example –

It is the dawn of a new century. After a year of writing dozens of shitty but fun short stories about slaughterhouse employees, people with stars in their belly, and Latvian terrorists with grenades for hands, I’d sold one tale for contributors copies and then . . . nothing but rejections.

I found myself at a Starbucks in Kingston, Ontario with my friend, Weird Ass Neil, an intellectual force of nature who loves horror, SF, and weird fiction and whose catch phrase, said in a low, intense growl while pointing a pointed finger, is-

“THAT . . . WAS FUCKED!”

He asked how my writing was going.

“Shitty. I’m writing about loners, orphans, and people without any kind of family history. It’s . . . dull.”

“Man, no family? Why?”

“I’m worried that if I do, well, my dad will read every father character as a commentary on him, ditto my mom, ditto my sisters. I’m worried about what they will think.”

Neil is about as subtle as a Death Valley Ice Cream Truck in June. “Dude, that gives a lot of power over your creative life to people that aren’t even in the room. You’re compromising to appease them before you even start and they likely will never read this stuff. How are you supposed to write new things if you cut off these important parts of your life? Sounds like a great way to write crap.”

Now that . . . was fucked.

Later, I read a great essay by David Morrell, creator of Rambo and a brilliant work on grief called Fireflies. Fear, Morrell argued, is working to hide the deep mines of important themes and ideas in your work. What you fear speaks to something you care about deeply. But you need to do some digging, you have to follow the fear, and you can do this by asking yourself “why?” and don’t stop until something is unpacked that speaks to you. I don’t have the doc where I did this “interview with yourself” the first time, but here’s a much neater simulacrum:

Why do you fear writing about family?

Because I don’t want to upset them.

Why would you upset them?

Because not everything about our family was super awesome

Why wasn’t it super awesome?

Shit. Where to begin? War trauma, alcoholism, insanity, death and grieving, kids against parents, old school gender roles, the attraction of fake violence and hating the real stuff, feminism vs. Playboy magazine, being the only boy in a house full of girls, being born after a kid’s death, fearing I’d die, too, just because I turned six, being told I was useless by loved ones, finding proof of that attribute at school, being surrounded by brilliant and talented people and having zilch to offer the world except cleaning my plate and maybe making someone laugh

Do you find anything here worth writing about?

… all of it.

Have you written anything about these themes?

No. I mean, some of it leaked out in the Latvian terrorist with grenades for hands story, but not really.

Why?

Everyone will hate me and I’ll be alone, like I was at home, an orphan in my own family.

Why does that scare you?

Because it will make a therapist’s prediction true – I’ll vanish into the streets and die. And that scares the piss out of me.

 * * *

Fear was hiding the stuff that made for my best stories: sex, body image issues, the tyranny of family history, people who live to serve and ignore their own needs, escaping into various forms of denial, the twisted nature of reality in different states of mind.

And when I confronted that truth I realized that fear was a compass whose true-north is being pulled to the sides because of fear of external judgment. Creativity suffers when it is ruled by said judgment of others.  But fear a particular kind of judgment? That can get your compass pointing at the diamonds around the coal in your mind.

William Blake warned that an artist must create their own mythology or become a slave to the influences of other people’s opinions. The samurai turned poet Basho noted that you should not imitate the great artists, but seek what they sought – the great themes inside yourself and write them your way. Be like the Brontes, Austens, Dostoyevskis, and Hemingways. Be like Toni Morrison, Margaret Atwood, Ta-Nehisi Coates, Megan Abbot, Haruki Murakami, Sandra Cisneros, and other artists not ruled by the mythology of others.

Follow the fear. Fuck compromise.

Do it.

The Mothers will walk with you to the edge of Morana Street, where the pavement ends and the woods begin, but no further. Thank them for taking care of you these past few months, and for taking care of your sister. They will want to pray over you. Let them, even if you do not believe anyone is listening. When Mother Oxa gives you your sister’s heart, still wrapped in the remains of her old denim jacket, press it to your forehead and close your eyes, just for a moment.

Now you are ready. Now you may enter.

There is no need to rush your journey. Walk slowly, taking time to observe the trees around you, to listen to their gentle pulsing. In the thickest part of the forest, you will be able to feel them beating in the pit of your chest, as if the trees’ pulsing were your own heartbeat. The trunks of the trees will glow crimson in the night, like molten glass, and you will be able to see their blue-black veins through the bark, expanding and contracting as they draw nutrients from the soil. Their bone-white leaves will cushion your footfalls as you walk. They have a certain smell, these leaves, when crushed underfoot. Earthy, almost metallic, like hot asphalt after a summer storm. Sometimes, when I open the window of my room on particularly hot nights, the wind carries the scent to me, and the memories with it.

You will not find these trees beautiful now, but you will never forget them as long as you live. That is a promise.

The chattering will begin softly at first. If this were an ordinary forest, perhaps you would mistake it for crickets. Then they will appear, rotting faces emerging from behind the trees, one by one.

My hope is that the Lost Ones who come to watch you will be decayed beyond recognition, but perhaps you will still be able to recognize some of them. Perhaps you will see Esther, Doctor Lawal’s youngest daughter, whose own mother could not bring herself to complete her planting. Or maybe you will see Mr. Kirk, the old mechanic who used to fix your mother’s truck, the torn, empty flesh of his throat now curled and brittle as autumn leaves. Poor, poor Mr. Kirk, who could not resist embracing his beloved dead wife one last time, and paid dearly for his mistake. Do not be afraid; the power of the trees will prevent the Lost Ones from touching you, so long as you do not touch them first. They will reach out their fleshless limbs towards you, rattle their loose teeth and naked jawbones, but that is all they will do.

When you reach the newest part of the forest, where the trees are still slender and short, you will see your sister. She will be seven days dead and still standing, the loam still clinging to her burial dress and encrusting the gaping hole where Oxa plunged her knife and carved her heart away.

Oh, how I wish I could carry this burden for you. I was every day of twenty when I planted my mother’s heart, and even then I barely succeeded.

But there is nothing to be done.

Your sister’s skin will still be pewter-gray from the sickness, the white veins still splintered across it like cracks in the ice of a melting stream. Her fingernails will be splintered from clawing her way out of the grave, if there are any of them left at all.

She will be hungry.

Her voice will still be her own, as familiar to you as a lullaby.  She will smile at you with her broken teeth and hold out her arms, asking if you have come for your poor sister at last. She will tell you that the Mothers have lied to you, that she will find no peace until you join her. She will tell you how lonely she has been without you.

Pay her no mind. Her soul depends on it.

Take the spade from your belt and dig a hole before her feet, just large enough for the heart to fit. Cover it with dirt, gently, as if you were tucking a child into bed. She will beg you to stop. When that fails, she will become as a wild animal, gnashing her teeth and clawing at the air above your head.

You know the planting prayer, my love. It is the first thing your mother whispered into your ear when the midwife handed you to her. It is the final thing your sister will say to you, when the Mothers allow you to visit her bedside for the very last time.

Sing. Or don’t. Speak the words, if that is all you can do. Scream them, if you must. Grit the prayer out between tears and clenched teeth, as I once did. When your sister falls to the ground, when she tears at the dead flesh of her face and shrieks as if you are flaying her alive, you will know that it is working. When at last she lies still, say the prayer one last time and press your ear to the earth.

You will hear it there, just beneath your fingertips: a heartbeat.

Run home, my precious one. Run back to Morana Street, back to town, into the arms of the Mothers who wait and watch for you. Run as fast as your legs will carry you, and do not look back.

“Taylor, did you get your toys packed?”

Mom was coming up the stairs. Taylor carefully fitted the last pack of Legos into the moving box. Next to him sat another box labeled “DONATE.” He avoided looking inside that one.

Mom reached into it and pulled out a dirty stuffed dog with no tail.  “You decided to leave Mr. Buttons after all, huh?” She stroked the patchy fur, faded from vibrant brown-and-white to a dull grey. “That’s probably for the best. You’ve had him for a long time.”

“Yeah.” He smoothed the tape down over the cardboard, trying to get all the wrinkles out.

“Let’s get you some new toys in Connecticut,” she said, putting the dog back. Mr Button’s eyes were so bright they looked wet.

“I don’t want to go,” he said for like the hundredth time. What was in Connecticut? Even the word was sharp and unfriendly. Con, like a trick. Cut, like a knife.

“I know, baby.”

I am not a baby. He didn’t say it aloud because Mom was trying to be kind. Only babies talked to stuffed animals. Growing up meant he had to let Mr. Buttons go.

“It’ll be fun meeting new kids, right? A fresh start for all of us.”

What if Connecticut kids were bullies? How could Mom help? She was always at work. Mr. Buttons would know what to do. He always did. He’d been right about Taylor’s dad, who had a new family now. And about Liam, his best friend who wouldn’t talk to him anymore.

Mom ruffled his hair. “Let’s go, Tay. Leave the boxes for the movers, they’ll take care of them. Sibyl’s already in the car.”

“Don’t go,” said Mr. Buttons in a voice that sounded just like the whine of a puppy.

Heart racing, Taylor followed Mom down the stairs. Their house was narrow, with only two bedrooms. They had to downsize after Taylor’s dad left. Mom promised the house in Connecticut would be bigger. Mr. Buttons was going to stay in the box this time.

The station wagon was packed with clothes and supplies for the cross-country road trip. Mom pretended it would be fun. It was going to take five days. Five days in a crowded car stuffed with junk with Mom and Sibyl. It sounded like the opposite of fun. And when it was over he’d be stuck in Connecticut, alone. What would happen to Mr. Buttons? Mom said another kid would love him, but Mr. Buttons was so old.

Sibyl was big enough to sit in the front seat now and she was already there, on her phone.

His booster seat was in the back and he climbed in. Was Mr. Buttons right about the kids in Connecticut? What if they were all like Liam? The last time they’d talked, Liam rolled his eyes and scoffed. “You need to grow up.” It still ached in his stomach, a dull pain that was always there.

What if the movers threw Mr. Buttons away? What if Mr. Buttons got angry at him?

“Wait,” he said, undoing his seat belt, almost in a panic. “I’m getting Mr. Buttons.”

Mom sighed. “Hurry. I want to hit the road before traffic starts.”

He raced up the stairs and grabbed Mr. Buttons.

“I knew you’d come back for me, kid.” His voice was rough and warm and grateful. “I knew you wouldn’t leave me. I love you, kid, you know that?”

He hugged Mr. Buttons, tucking the familiar head under his chin the way he had when he was three years old. “I don’t want to move. I wish we could stay here.”

“Is that what you want, kid? For real?”

He knew it was childish but he couldn’t help it. “Yeah. But we can’t.”

“Sure we can. I’ll take care of it.”

The confidence in his voice comforted Taylor. “How?”

“Look out the window, kid.”

Taylor pulled the blinds up. The station wagon rested in the driveway, back door open like an afterthought. Mom stood by the driver’s side, hand on hip, staring down at her phone. Maybe checking the directions to Phoenix, their first stop, to visit Grandma.

Taylor sucked in his breath as a boy bounced out of the shade of the porch onto the driveway. The boy had sandy hair that shone in the sun and wore Taylor’s favorite orange-and-yellow striped shirt. He held up a Mr. Buttons.

Taylor looked down at the real Mr. Buttons, who winked. “See?”

“Wait,” Taylor said.

The fake Taylor got into the car. Mom came around to close the door. How could she believe that other kid was him?

He banged on the window. “Hey! That’s not me!”

“I thought this is what you wanted,” said Mr. Buttons, sounding hurt. “Isn’t it?”

Mom paused, hand on the door handle, and cocked her head, listening. Taylor smashed his palms on the window pane. “I’m still here!”

Mom peered up, shading her eyes from the sun. Then Sibyl said something and Mom got into the car. The door shut.

He ran to the stairs. “Careful, kid,” said Mr. Buttons from behind him. “Watch your step!”

He stumbled on the top stair and barely caught himself on the bannister. His breath wheezed and his eyes were full of tears so he couldn’t see. He ran to the front door. It was locked. He hammered on it with his fists. He screamed.

Outside, the car’s engine started and it pulled out of the driveway. He heard it go down the street. Turn the corner.

From upstairs, Mr. Button’s voice floated down to him, like dead leaves falling. “Aw, kid. It’s just you and me now. It’s going to be great. I promise.”