Power in the Blood of the Lamb by Phoenix Frank

Prose Editor Phoenix Frank shares an excerpt from a larger piece: It's the late 1970s when a surely not-cult named The Flock rolls into the small southern town of Willow Brook. Its two primary members, Father John and "Little Miss Suzie," take a liking to Mrs. Merriam Anderson, a once promising woman turned burnout.

 

It was July when Merriam first spoke properly to Susanne Lewis.

The girl sat on a stool beside her, wearing a baby-blue A-line skirt that some of the girls often wore to church, the ones with the puffy sleeves. They sought refuge from the sun on the balcony of the house, the air smelling of heat and the damn-near burning wood of the patio. Merriam had made some lemonade when it became obvious Susanne had no intention of soon leaving. Susanne didn’t so much as glance at the pitcher.

“You read a lot, don’t you?” Susanne asks abruptly. When she sees the confused look Merriam sends her, the girl elaborates: “I saw your bookshelves inside. They didn’t seem like nothing Mr. Anderson would read, and you don’t have kids, so… I figured they’re yours.”

Merriam hesitates. Her fingers drum on her thigh, and her breathing goes shallow. “They are.”

“You went to school, too, didn’t you? One of the nice ones. Out of state.”

“I did.”

“I bet it’s because you read a lot. That’s what everyone says, right? You get smart reading. That’s what my mama told me. I was never good at reading. Only thing I ever read was the Bible, and then I got tired of that.”

“The Bible isn’t something you tire of reading,” Merriam says.

“Yeah. Well, I did. I got bored. It’s boring.” Susanne stares at Merriam, as if daring her to object. “The only stories I liked were the love stories,” Susanne says. “But I never read them myself. My mama read them to me, instead. When I was little. The ones with the princes and grand weddings. The happy ones, though, not the sad ones. I didn’t like the sad ones.”

Merriam suspected Susanne had an exceedingly shallow understanding of the word like.

“But then you get married, and it’s never really like that, is it?” Susanne muses. She stares at nothing, eyes glazed over as she strokes her chin. “All you hear married people do is complain about the other. They always say they’re joking, but everyone knows they’re not.”

Susanne’s brows furrow, and then she’s turning on the stool she’s perched on to look at Merriam.

“Have you ever had that, Mrs. Anderson? That kind of sweet love in the stories and songs?”

“No.”

“I think it’s possible. Maybe. I mean, it has to be, right? Where else would they have gotten the inspiration to write them in the first place?”

Merriam says nothing. She taps the ash off her cigarette instead, licking at her gums. 

“The Flock has it, I think. Love,” Susanne murmurs. She traces the lines on her palm as she thinks. “I know you all don’t think we do, but we have it.” Susanne looks at Merriam. Merriam looks at Susanne. “The Flock could love you too, you know.”

“Don’t,” Merriam mutters. The last thing she needs is to join some hippie cult consisting of runaway teens and middle-aged burnouts. And even if Merriam has reached a point where she’s desperate enough to throw her life away in favor of wearing white linen religiously, it’s not to join a flock. 

Merriam doesn’t want the love of a lamb. It’s too soft. Too delicate. She craves something with teeth to devour her whole and without scrutiny. Something that makes her feel better about her own rottenness. And maybe that’s why she ended up with Winston in the first place. Maybe she’s always known better. Maybe she likes how much better of a person she’ll  always seem in-comparison with him.  

“Were you and Winston ever in love?” Susanne asks. “Any kind at all?”

Merriam doesn’t look at her when she asks that. Susanne has those wide eyes, bambi-eyes, the kind that make someone’s skin crawl at the sudden awareness that comes with being perceived by something so innocent. Merriam can’t stand that feeling, can’t stand the expectant expression that comes with it. Susanne only asks questions that she already has a desired answer for, and Merriam fails to answer correctly every time.

“No,” Merriam says, finally. She goes quiet for a moment—sucks on her lipstick-stained teeth—and then she continues. “Winston doesn’t know how to love. Just obsess. And even then, that ain’t for anything living. Craving a bottle of whiskey is the closest he’s ever come to wanting for something, and that’s just for keeping the aches away.”

Merriam doesn’t include that she liked that about him when she first married him. Liked knowing he didn’t love her. Because then, it meant she didn’t have to love him, or even pretend to. 

What she didn’t like, however, or even know about at the time, was his passion. The part of him that wasn’t detached. The part of him that asked to see his brother’s ruined face at a closed-casket funeral.

“Did you know that when you married him?” Susanne asks. “That he was like that?” Her voice comes out pinched. Tense. It makes Merriam’s spine straighten as she watches Addler’s Bakery close up for lunch across the street. 

“I did. Not everything, but I knew.” 

Hunger. That’s the best word for it. There’s a hunger in Winston. One he doesn’t know how to quell. Or maybe one he just doesn’t want to.

Merriam takes a drag from her cigarette, leaving a ring of Avon red on the filter. Her fingers pinch it like it’s something delicate, elegant, her crimson nail polish gleaming in the midday sun. Winston had his vices. She had hers. At least she could look decent while doing it.

“So why?” Susanne asks.

“Why what?”

“Why marry him? You could’ve gone anywhere. Done anything. You got out.”

Merriam snorts. She snorts, and she’s not even bothered to try and cover it up with the back of her hand or to look away demurely. Instead, her lips curl back in a self-repulsed sneer. How does she begin to explain it? How does she give an answer to Susanne that doesn’t make the girl find her repulsive? Merriam herself can’t even stare into a mirror herself without wanting to break it, and even that’s a poor replacement for what she truly wishes she could do to herself.

“You were married once,” Merriam says, avoiding the question entirely. Susanne blinks, and then her brows raise, and the corner of her lips twitch. 

“How’d you know?”

Merriam says nothing. Instead, her concealer-caked eyes flicker down to where Susanne compulsively rubs circles near the knuckle of her ring finger, even in its bareness. Susanne stiffens, then stops.

“Did you know?” Merriam asks. “When you married him?”

“Did I know what?” Susanne snips. Merriam’s eyes narrow as she takes another inhale from her cigarette, the smoke tickling the back of her throat before she blows it out through the nose. Susanne pouts, crossing her arms stubbornly as she looks the other way. “Smoking’s bad for you, you know.”

“Father John smokes.” Merriam shrugs, and takes another drag. That makes Susanne shut up quickly. Merriam takes the chance to enjoy the sound of the buzzing cicadas in the brief silence—the wonderful quietness that comes when Winston is away.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Susanne whispers finally.

“Mm,” Merriam hums, and that’s that. Susanne fiddles with the fraying stitching on her dress, and the ice cubes in the lemonade shift in the sweltering heat. Even the Jackson’s dogs are quiet, too miserable to bark at their own shadows.

“You know, Father John says that men are just animals,” Susanne says, staring at the beasts where they hide in their rotted-wood houses. “He says that we’re just as hungry. Just as desperate. We just pretend not to be. He says that some people know better than others, though. The ones who embrace it.”

“Yeah? And who’s that.”

“People who take what they want. Do what they want.”

Merriam’s lips press together, and then they purse, like having tasted something sour. 

“And who would that be?” Merriam repeats. “My Winston? Your husband?”

“I’m not married. But yes.”

“You were.” A pause. “So what does that make us, then?”

“It makes you a coward,” Susanne states simply. She stares at Merriam, unblinking, expressionless.

Merriam’s eyes narrow in response. 

“But we were all cowards once,” Susanne adds. “That’s why he calls us The Flock. We enter unknowing and blind. But eventually, we come to see the truth. To lead our own path. And then, we become like Father. He’s not like us, you know—not one of us. He’s our Shepherd. He shows us the way. Shows us the truth we’re too blind to see.”

Merriam lets out a breath she didn’t realize she’s been holding, and finds she’s pinching her cigarette so tightly that the filter’s crushed. She snuffs it out on the ashtray on the balcony’s railing, watching the smoke die out slowly.

“You hear yourself when you speak, don’t you?” Merriam asks. “Are you too dense to be offended?”

“Father John says only a fool becomes offended at their own reflection. I know what my nature is. I welcome it with grace. But I’m not a lamb anymore, either, you know. Father John says I’ve graduated.” Susanne pauses, head tilting like a curious pet. “I think you could, too. Become something greater.”

Something cold grips Merriam’s gut at those words. You could too. She frowns, and starts picking at the nailpolish on her finger to busy herself. Susanne takes it as an invitation to keep talking:

“You’re pathetic, sitting there, letting that man do as he wishes to you. I’ve seen it, and Father John has, too. You’re not like them. Not weak. So why do you let him treat you like you are?”

“What would you have me do?” Merriam mutters. A wry smile crawls onto her face, a hoarse chuckle sneaking past her lips. “Kill him?”

Would it be so wrong to confess she’s thought about it?

Susanne’s right eye barely twitches, and then she wipes her nose with her thumb as she sniffs. “That’s what I did,” she says. Merriam blinks. “It’s not hard,” Susanne continues. “You think about it for a little while, afterwards, but it’s really not so bad. And you don’t even have carpet flooring. That was the worst part, you know, the cleaning.”

The corner of Merriam’s lift twitches upwards. Her shoulders tremble, her chest shakes, and something akin to a grimacing grin crawls onto her face. Susanne smiles, too, but it’s not the same.

“What?” Merriam asks. A laugh escapes her, and her cheeks hurt from how much of her teeth she bares. But Susanne doesn’t laugh with her. She just keeps on going.

“Plus, you live on Main Street,” Susanne says. “Everything’s closed up when it’s dark. No one would hear you if you’re quiet enough. And even if they did, you can lie. Everyone knows what happened to William. Would it be that odd if it happened again?”

“Don’t talk about William.”

“I’m simply saying, Mrs. Anderson, no one would wonder. No one would talk. Even if the truth came out, no one would blame you.” Susanne’s eyes flicker between hers, her expression unreadable. “Aren’t you tired of pretending to cower? You’re not surviving,” Susanne says, “you’re acting.”

Merriam’s lips part, but no words come out. They get jumbled up and caught in her throat instead, keeping her from taking in a full breath. “You’re insane,” Merriam croaks. “I would never—I could never—”

“If you won’t, he will.” Susanne whispers. She hesitates then, wets her lips, and then she’s reaching out to clasp one of Merriam’s hands in her own. “Trust me, Mrs. Anderson. I know.” She squeezes Merriam’s hand, leans in closer—close enough for Merriam to count the freckles on her still baby-cheeked face. “I know.”

But Merriam also knows: Winston’s no killer. He’s a scavenger. The vulture that comes after the fact to slice open carcasses and eat their innards, leaving hollow-shelled-bodies behind. He’s too cowardly to be the one to make the kill himself. Always has been.

Slowly, Merriam pries herself from Sussanne’s grip. The girl’s hands are sweaty from the summer heat, a hangnail scraping Merriam’s finger as she pulls free. 

“You need to learn to keep that tongue of yours in line,” Merriam says. “Not everyone in this town will be so willing to listen to your tall tales and instigating. No one else will find these jokes of yours funny.”

“It’s not a joke.”

“I’m not going to kill my husband,” Merriam snips, seething. Susanne’s eyes widen like a child being told no for the first time, and then she’s looking away, hands wringing the fabric of her dress. The conversation ends there, quickly, like that. The bells of the Church would soon ring, and the congregation of The Flock would soon head up to the white building on the hill to hold hands and speak of things like inner peace and transformation. And while Winston would end up dead in a month’s time, Merriam really hadn’t lied.

She wasn’t the one to do it.

Snooki of Coney Island by Lauren Stanzione

Managing Editor Lauren Stanzione shares a short story following the timeline of a young Italian-American couple's relationship in their hometown of Coney Island, Brooklyn, NY. Themes of young lust, anger, and violence.

 

Brandi looked like Snooki. 

That’s what the principal said. You gotta stop dressing like Snooki. We don’t like you dressing like Snooki. Brandi didn’t care. She lived by the beach. She would be Snooki if she wanted to be Snooki. No pleasure was more abundant than a cheetah-printed push-up bra bought by her mother. Rico would come up behind her, cupping her like a vase that was not delicate but was rather handmade, sturdy pottery. Etruscan pottery. Rico called himself that, an Etruscan. Brandi didn’t know what that meant. Nor did it bother her. She didn’t care about that much. Besides the boardwalk. Coney Island. Rico. And her look. She very much cared about her look. 

If an Estrucan was Rico, they must be beautiful, sculpted by something out of this world, and work the clam bake. Tall, tanned from head to toe, gentile locks smelling of his father’s guido hair gel and rough comb. Big smile, big laugh, big hands, she knew what that meant when she saw him at the register two years ago, with the boardwalk noise and the guns; there were always guns. When he had given her a sideways look, those arms, shoulders, and said ciao bella. She hadn’t looked him in the eye; she was Snooki in Brooklyn, why would she. But she knew. Under the hours of festival upkeep, Brandi knew her heart was molten, gooey within an urn. She desired to look into him so deeply, her fingers would be rooted in his ribs, caught in the webs of bone until she died. 

Rico gave her a free granita from the back, crafted by his father in his old Italian age. He told her to come back when everyone was gone, around twelve. Brandi didn’t like hanging around too long. Her Dad was dead. She didn't want to see him anytime soon. 

Brandi ate her clams. The other neighborhood girls clicked their toes, false eyelashes irritating their lids and spurring on crankiness. Let's ride the Ferris Wheel, said Brandi, holding onto bleached hair from the box, one of her friend’s new looks. No, the girls said. We’re going home. 

She and Rico made out on the metal grate against the Cyclone. Had sex in the empty gelato parlor. It wasn’t great. But held potential. He was big. And strong. He liked to hold her face, tracing it in swirls of sweat and peppermint spit. It was the first time anyone had touched her cheek, jaw, chin, hair. Rico left covered in tan foundation. He stopped wearing wife beaters around then. 

After that was a lot of hand holding, jumping from one side of dislodged planks to the other, and sharing chicken tenders on the sand. Brandi became a scooper in the summers. Ice cream sweet, decadent, which Rico would lick off when the children all went home. Clam boy Sicilian, Scooper Snooki. College-aged non-college-goer sweethearts. 

*

Rico’s Dad, who was almost eighty, needed money. Rico’s mother was just shy of her forty-first birthday. Their inherent distance created odd tensions. 

But Leonardo, Rico’s dad, he made very good fish. Especially on the feast of the seven fishes, December 24th, Christmas Eve. Brandi attended with Rico one year; everyone forgot her name and looked at her weirdly. Why'd they look at me like that? She asked, undressing. Rico watched her. Swallowed. Looked out the window, which was frosted over. It’s all that shit on your face, he replied. The fucking lashes. And the tits, did you have to keep the tits for my family? Clasico intonation, ragey with a smile. That was Rico. 

Rico boxed her against the wall and fucked her. It was really good. Angry. He didn’t touch her face, just the cheetah bra, this one was red. For Jesus. For Christmas! She would never put the tits away. She liked them too much. 

A summer. Two. Twentieth birthday, Rico still needed money. He started doing cheap shit, selling his father’s things. Stealing. Rico was incredible at stealing. His smile, trusting, that's how he reeled them in. He would find a watch, or diamonds, or both, he was smart like that, scouting out rich goers and offering services of cleaning, plumbing, air conditioning assistance; Rico was as handy as a father. Once, her sink broke, and he had taken his whole hand, that gargantuan Sicilian hand, and shoved it down there with the dirtiness; it reminded her of when he would try to finger her. But more erotic. Way more. He was sweaty, his black shirt straining his organs, his gentlemanly mouth, his laugh which refracted from the metal to her ears. The sound reminded her how much she loved him when he would watch her in the morning, her back against his chest, his hands playing her spine like an antique piano. He was, of course, very good at the piano. Billy Joel, but more sightly. And Rico’s creations, one can not forget: tomatoes, bread, cheese, olive oil; he was lean and ancient and Mediterranean, an Olympian in a poor man’s body. And always, the boardwalk. He would point oddballs out, jowly men. He knew what to say to make her laugh, always. Sitting on the sand, forgotten towel, melting makeup. He always brought his mother’s makeup wipes in his bag for her on those days. He knew she would forget, with the makeup doing, bikini choosing, shoe walking, jewelry selecting, how was there time and space to remember? 

Rico got caught. Eventually. But this time, it was someone in the neighborhood. Witler. Brandi told Rico not to steal. What do they tell you, Rico, they tell you not to; she nagged and nagged and nagged, went through vanilla bean and rose petal and pistachio sunrise and orange cream, these were all the body sprays she went through in the three months before Rico died. The last one. Cherry. He loved cherries, tearing the stems from the body and swallowing them whole, pit and all, lips stained red, laugh dark and fragrant. She bought it for him, but he never inhaled it. He never knew she cared that much, that she would scoop to buy things for him, that she would scoop for him, and that night, she stole, she stole her mother's watch and had six hundred dollars, enough for Leonardo’s medicine, she should have said more. She should have told Rico to fuck off when he said that thing about her tits on seven fishes. She should have said goodbye then. The Cherry body spray wouldn't be sitting here, on her dresser, red, bloodied. 

Rico wanted to take her to the fair. They had fought. Just about Witler. Don’t go stealing from Witler, Brandi commanded as she pressed her magenta acrylics deep into his bicep, leaving little moons. Fine. Fine, I’m not going to steal from Witler. I hope you're happy when my dad fucking dies. Brandi just rolled her eyes, watching the reflection of her fake eyelashes in her peripheral vision. She should have worn more lashes, an indication to Rico to fuck off. They went to play some games. She huffed and puffed, rolling her eyes: pink heels, pink skirt, white tank, pink tits, khaki skin. Hair crackled and straightened until it fried. Bubble gum, sweet, she moved it between her teeth. She told Rico he didn’t have to win her anything. Really, he didn’t need to. But he insisted. Don't tell me what to do, Rico said, his arms and hands playing a game with the air. But he laughed. I’m getting you that penguin. I’m gonna get you the fucking penguin. 

Even when she was angry with him, and he was being his Siciliani stubborn self, she loved to watch him. His neck was sugary and burnt. His back, curved, croissant-like, flaky, tan. Legs, long, so long. Laugh, deepest thing... A joy so palpable, something she wished she recorded and could play on a loop. I don’t care, she had been repeating this as a mantra to herself. I don’t care. I’m Snooki of Coney Island. I don’t care about Rico. I don’t. Fuck him. He tossed the rings. One ring. Two. Six. One away. He was one away. 

Witler, up behind her. "Hey, sexy," he whispered, hand on her lower back. He had pimples, blond hair, and blue eyes—the dead kind. He reminded her of the Hudson. He was always sunburnt, even in December. He was a heavy breather, Irish, used to bring beef jerky to lunch, and had a powerful handshake. Everyone knew not to mess with him. 

Witler slithered past her. He dug into his pockets. Tapped Rico on the shoulder. Rico turned, expecting Brandi. Witler shot him. Rico died. 

At the funeral, she kept her tits away. That was the last time anyone saw her, Brooklyn graveyard, Avenue U. Her mascara blackened her face, charcoal toothpaste reminiscent. Her lashes in the grass. Heels, muddied. Tan melted away. There was no Rico to provide wipes. Rico was dead.

Murakami Women by Hazel Walrod

Prose Editor Hazel Walrod shares a short story.
Split between a college Friendsgiving party and a fall day in Central Park, “Murakami Women” is about people unraveling and coming together. Content warning: brief discussion of disordered eating and violence.

 

You asked to meet up at Central Park by the pond. It is November, so everything is shades of brown and orange and yellow, besides the geese, who are stubbornly gray and black. I arrive first, so I pick a bench and sit looking out at the water. I brought a book along, Sputnik Sweetheart. The day after the party, I went out and bought it, driven by some odd determination. The bookstore bookmark is still wedged between the pages where the cashier slipped the receipt. 

You arrive fifteen minutes late and start fast-walking when you see me. You’re wearing a little green coat and red scarf, somehow without being Christmasy, and a black skirt. “Sorry I’m late,” you say, a cloud of hot air coming out of your mouth. I watch the cloud spread out and fade away. Your hair is back in a long braid and your cheeks are flushed. 

“No problem, I was too.” 

“Well, good.” 

I fidget with my scarf, then see you are doing the same, and stop. 

You break the silence. “I guess we should probably talk about the party?” 

I give you an awkward smile. “You were kind of pulled into it, I feel bad.” 

“Not at all. It’s just all really intense. Has that sort of thing happened before?” 

I shake my head, “Not like that. But sometimes I feel like we are all close to violence in a way, right? Like there’s this thin line that we don’t cross usually, until someone does. Especially between people.” You draw your eyebrows together, considering. 

“I guess you’re right, I just never think of it that way. It’s kind of scary,” you laugh as if to lighten the mood, and I suddenly feel bad. 

“She’ll be fine, though, really,” I say lamely, trying to catch your eye. When you look back though, I feel unsure again. When I finally break away and look down, I find myself watching your hands again, and they are dancing around in your lap, never still. I think of the stillness of my apartment after everyone left. 

“I hope so,” you say. 

I open my book and flip through the pages, listening to them shuffle. “I was really struck by what you said at the party, about wishing you were a Murakami woman.” 

*** 

I don’t know whose fault the party was, really. I think it started as a late birthday celebration for Stella and then was postponed too many times for that to make sense anymore, before it finally ended up at my apartment on November 18th, as some type of Friendsgiving. I thought Friendsgiving was stupid, but Stella and Mike really leaned in, and then we all went along with it. I just didn’t like eating much, and I think Stella secretly agreed, which made the whole thing an emotional conflict for her, which she, I guess, enjoyed. 

It was us three, plus Stella’s boyfriend Christian, and then Lenora, my roommate Dante, and you. Those were the people who mattered, anyway. A small thing, Stella promised me. Stella was really into intimacy, and her latest idea was dating your friends, which meant hosting themed parties and sending platonic love letters and things like that. The first letter she sent me was inside a pink envelope and was covered in stickers, addressed in calligraphy lettering. It was all about memories from freshman year, and I wasn’t sure it even applied anymore. One of the memories was of a party around this same time, in which we had slept together on the carpet of someone’s dorm, spooning for warmth. When I thought back, I couldn’t remember this party at all, and thought she might have mixed me up with someone else. 

*** 

Stella and Christian were breaking up at the party. We could all tell something was going to happen between them, but Stella told me beforehand that she was sick of his shit and she was finally going to do it. I was in my bed with no pants on at the time, cradling my phone next to my ear, resting my head on my knees. 

“Well, how are you going to do it?” I asked her. 

“God, I don’t know, is it bad to do it at the party?” 

“Yeah,” I replied, “please don’t do that.” 

There was a short silence on the phone. Then, she said “I just don’t think I can do it alone, when it’s just the two of us. I don’t think he’ll understand and then I’ll just let it slide.” 

“I don’t know, Stel, but you shouldn’t, let it slide, I mean. It’s okay if he doesn’t understand, honestly.” 

They came to the party together, and Stella was smiling too broadly. She gave each of us a hug and set some mashed potatoes on the table. Christian looked surprisingly handsome that night I remember, and was giving everyone small smiles. I never knew him that well but I knew that they would not last, so I avoided eye contact. 

It happened right before dinner, for some reason. There were way more people there than Stella had said, and I was trying to keep things together. All the windows were open as wide as they would go, and cold air rushed in from all sides, unsettling the tablecloth and pulling petals off of flowers. I could see them across the room, though, heads bent together. Stella said something and scrunched her face up in the way she does when she is sad. Christian stood very still for a long time. Because he was still, Stella became still also, and their faces were so close and illuminated with the yellow light of a nearby lamp, they reminded me of old porcelain dolls, cracked and tarnished. Then, I saw him grab her arm a bit roughly and shake it, which made her recoil and try to push him away, which I guess made him angry. I heard the word ‘bitch!’ but I think that was only the end of what he said. The eyes of the party were shifting onto them as she finally broke free and walked away, towards my bedroom. She shut the door behind her, and I could hear, even from across the room, the click of the lock. 

*** 

At the dinner table, I sat between Lenora and Stella, who was sitting next to Dante who was sitting next to Mike. We had dimmed the lights and lit candles and tried to make things festive and for the most part succeeded, though there was still an air of somberness, probably because of the fight. Christian sat on the far end of the table and honestly, I don’t know why he was still there, why no one had thought to make him leave. 

“Thanks guys for coming, and obviously thank you for hosting,” Stella said looking at me. I smiled back at her quickly. “I’m really grateful to have you all as friends.” Her eyes were glassy and red, but she was not crying and there was no wobble in her voice. I felt like I should do something, but I couldn't think of what, so I just clinked my glass with hers and took a drink. Stella was always teetering on an edge, but she never seemed to fall. 

No one else had any speech to give, so we just started eating. Lenora brought up the topic of Murakami. “I just read Kafka and honestly I think it’s the best book I’ve read in a long time,” they said, at first to no one and then directed at me when our eyes met. I nodded a bit. 

“I liked it, but wasn’t his relationship with that woman a bit weird? With the age gap?” Lenora nodded, “For sure, but you have to read it like art, like a metaphor, you know? In the context of what he is saying, it makes sense, same as the cat killing and all that, but if you think of it as real life, then yeah, it’s fucked. I guess I just like how he isn’t afraid to talk about sex and love in a different way.” 

“I can never tell if he writes such horny shit because he doesn’t get laid, or because he does,” Stella said, which made me laugh. “But god, the women in those books!” “I know, it’s bad. I almost feel like all his main characters, even the little boy, are author-inserts, and he uses them for his fantasies,” Lenora said. 

“I mean what’s really wrong with them, though?” Mike asked from down the table, having to raise his voice to be heard. Stella made a little hmph sound, like she was ready to argue. 

“The women are all pale and soft, or otherwise saggy and old, and examine themselves in the mirror. It’s like they are either completely innocent to their sexuality or completely aware of it and use it against men, like some sort of weapon,” I said. 

“Femme fatales,” Stella added. 

Mike took a large bite of mashed potatoes, and I could see the wheels in his head turning, working on something. “I mean I guess, but I don’t think that’s all together inaccurate. Like, there are a lot of women out there. I know some like that, who use their looks or whatever. He just writes from the male point of view – you can’t always be mad about that.” 

“You haven’t even read his books, Mike, so I feel like you can shut up,” Stella said. He raised his hands in the air as if regretful. I felt like this conversation could take a turn.

“He writes about lesbians too; he loves lesbians,” Dante said loudly, looking right at me. “Why are you looking at me?” 

He shrugs, smiling, because it is obvious. I make a face at him back. 

“He just writes about women kissing because it turns him on, not because he actually respects lesbians,” Lenora said. I took a long sip of my drink and got dizzy for a second before it settled. 

“Come on, is it really that deep though?” Mike asked, red in the face. 

“Mike, fuck off about it if you are going to be so misogynistic,” Stella snapped. Dante let out a long exaggerated breath. I put a hand on her shoulder but she didn’t look at me. Sometimes Stella could get carried away, extrapolating everything to misogyny. Maybe he was being misogynistic, though, I don’t know. 

“I’m just saying there’s no harm in describing attractive women, how is that an issue?” he replied, going back to his food as if the conversation was over because he willed it to be. Stella stood up suddenly, the chair scraping, and left the table without a word. I was relieved and at the same time annoyed. 

“Sometimes I wish I was a Murakami woman,” you said out of nowhere from the other side of Lenora, just as the dust was settling. “Just a beautiful body.” I really looked at you then, for maybe the first time, but then I got shy and watched your hands, which seemed to always be moving, like a hummingbird flitting between branches. 

“I’m going to check on Stella,” I said, and pushed away from the table, tripping on the leg of my chair. 

*** 

After the ambulance left, I finished cleaning up in silence. It’s amazing how many people can disperse so quickly, without goodbyes. By the door, there were mud smudges and bits of grass where the pile of shoes, now all removed by their owners, had been. The empty wine and cocktail glasses were rimmed with lipstick and stuffed with napkins. I was still very drunk, and walked around the room as if I was gliding, time speeding up mid step, so that all at once I was far too close to the table before I crashed into it. My head was throbbing and it was maybe 3 or 4 in the morning by then. Still, I decided to vacuum the glass around the couch, mesmerized by the crunch of each shard being sucked up into the vacuum’s stomach. I wondered briefly how it would feel to pick up a handful of these pieces and swallow them, whether they would scratch the itch in the back of my throat. When I started to feel a real temptation, I shut off the vacuum and left it leaning on the table. I shed my clothes, piece by piece, and stood in front of the full length mirror in my bedroom, examining my body. The moon was out and made my skin look milky and radiant, a second moon. I wondered how Murakami might describe me, if I was a woman in his novel. 

She cups her breasts, weighing them side by side, checking for irregularities. 

I stopped looking at myself and climbed into bed, staring into darkness, thinking about what you said.

*** 

I found Stella in the bathroom, crying and rummaging through my pill cabinet. “I’m so sorry, this is such a mess,” she kept saying, over and over, until the words lost their meaning. I said “it’s okay,” until those words lost their meaning, too. Then, we sat in each other’s arms for a long while, silent except for her sobs, listening to the dinner conversations filtering in from the other room. There were small silences, clinks of plates and silverware, and then bursts of laughter. 

“I know you said not to do it, but I just couldn’t keep going, you know?” Stella finally said into my shirt. 

“I never said not to do it. I think you did the right thing,” I told her, stroking her head. “Do you think he’ll forgive me?” she asked, her voice so unbearably small. 

“I don’t know, Stel, but it doesn’t really matter.” 

The tiles of the bathroom warped around me, reminding me of a giant net holding us in. I could hear music playing through the walls, but couldn’t pick up anything but the unending bass. Stella felt stiff in my arms, and I wondered again how close she was to the final fall. 

“Bro, fuck this, I’m gonna go play poker.” She wiped her tears with the back of her hand and then the tips of her fingers, pressing hard under her eyes so that they bulged. I thought maybe I shouldn’t let her go, but she gave me a winning smile and squeezed my hand, as if she was comforting me. 

I sat in the bathroom for a while, letting the bright white tile consume me. The door swung open to your face, already beginning to blush. I stood a bit too quickly. 

“Sorry!” You just stood there, not closing the door. 

“It’s fine, I was just sitting here,” I said. 

We introduced ourselves. You’re Lenora’s friend from their history class, you explained, looking a bit embarrassed. I understood the embarrassment of being brought along, a friend of a friend at someone’s house, unsure how comfortable you could be. 

We went back into the living room together, and they were playing poker now, all circled up on the carpet flipping cards. Mike or Stella had brought the chips, I think, but they were my cards. We watched from above for a moment, as if in a casino game. You didn’t know the rules of this game, so I explained them, but you still didn’t get it. 

“I’ll just tell you when something good happens for someone.” 

Afterwards, we went to my room and looked at the posters on my wall. “Right, Len told me you like movies a lot,” you said, sitting on my bed. 

You were wearing so many rings stacked up on your left hand, but your right was completely bare. I asked you about it and you shrugged. “I like to have one practical hand, and one decorative one, I guess.” You said it so earnestly, that I nodded along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

I sat down on my bed too, but farther from you, and I was very conscious of the way the bed sagged and seemed to pull you closer, so that really, we were only a foot or so apart. If I made even the slightest move, you would feel it too. 

“I’m hungry, should we go eat more?” you said, bouncing a bit so that I bounced, too. I shook my head, “You can go, though.” I realized I didn’t want you to. 

You looked at me for a long beat. “You left dinner right when we started, though.” I shrugged, “I’m not really hungry, it’s okay.” 

“Do Mike and Stella hate each other?” I laughed at your bluntness and you gave me a sheepish smile. 

“No, actually they’ve been friends the longest between us, even since middle school I think. I feel like they’re too similar and that’s why they fight so much. I’m sorry you had to be there.” 

You laid down and stared up at the ceiling. “It’s okay, I’ll just hide in here.” I didn’t know what you meant by that, so I didn’t respond. You smiled at me. “Are you close with Stella?” 

I laid down too, mirroring you, careful that our arms didn’t brush. “I guess, but less so than freshman year. She’s just so competitive, even about things you shouldn’t be, like for a while we would count our calories and she would be mad if she didn’t ‘win.’” As soon as they were out, my words felt meaningless and pathetic. You let out a slight breath, in between a gasp and a sigh. 

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. 

“No, I don’t know why I said that. Stella is a good friend.” The more I spoke, the more I felt my body disintegrating, assimilating into the mattress. I was trying very hard not to look at you. “You should go get some more food, if you want.” 

You whispered something, and I could feel the goosebumps rising on my arms, little pinpricks. “What?” I said back, shifting to face you. The bed brought us close abruptly, so that our noses were only a small space apart. I looked down to avoid your eyes but found myself looking at your lips, which was worse, far more suggestive. 

“I said I don’t think I’m that hungry anymore,” you said, and kissed me. 

The sound of shouting outside finally broke us apart. You sat up, listening. I looked at your body, twisting away from me, and felt a rush of anticipation, for when you eventually turn back to me, full force. You looked incredibly graceful, just listening. Then you said, “I think it’s getting serious” and the moment was over. 

*** 

Outside, the poker game ended, and its remains were scattered. Some people had left, and the apartment felt empty. Stella and Mike were shouting at each other, and at first I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Everything was blending together. 

I pulled on Stella, and spun her towards me. “Hey, hey what’s going on?” My voice was delayed coming out, and I felt my mouth move without willing it.

“He lost the game and is being all pissy about it.” 

“It’s not about that – she’s mad about Christian,” Mike said loudly. 

“Yeah you really think you are so fucking funny, bringing him into this,” Stella spat. I could see her, teetering on the edge, in front of me but out of my control. 

“What did he do with Christian?” 

“Brought him into the game, making all these jokes about how it will throw me off,” she told me, and then turning to him, “you’re just jealous.” 

Mike laughed, “He’s my friend too, Stel.” 

“No he’s fucking not! You’re just mad no one wants you so you have to make it unbearable for everyone else. Jesus.” I looked around the room, for Christian, for anyone, really, but it was just a blur of faces, heads moving this way and that. 

I could see the rigidity of Mike’s body, the way it was pulsing with energy. Stella could too, but she was soaking it up, playing off of it. 

“We fuck once and everything is all of a sudden about you,” Mike said, painfully slowly. “If I had known you’d act like this, I wouldn’t have even bothered.” There was a short silence that hung in the air after that. My eyes met Len’s across the room and they shook their head slowly, but I didn’t know what they were trying to signal. 

The sound hit me only after the impact. Mike whipped backwards, as if tugged violently by a string, and I felt something wet on my arm. Little red drops, most of them not larger than a mole. I looked up and saw Mike clutching his face, blood dripping in between his knuckles, and shards of glass at his feet. Stella’s arm was still in the position of her release, as if she was frozen. For a moment, everything was still again, before I heard the crash. 

Then, Mike was picking up a cookbook from the coffee table and winding back, swinging hard. I think I screamed, or maybe it was you, I don’t know. I watched Stella’s head fly back against the couch cushion, snapping so suddenly I thought it would come right off. The thud was something horrible. Only after she had fallen did I remember the phone in my trembling hands, and call 911, my voice speaking without me there to control it, long, winding sentences. It doesn’t matter what I told the dispatcher, they came eventually, and everyone left. Before then, though, I remember thinking that Stella is beautiful asleep and that maybe once we did spoon on a carpet at a party, even though I don’t remember where. 

Mike had his face in his hands, everything dripping, so I couldn’t tell if he was crying or only bleeding or maybe both. I put my hand on his shoulder and watched the panicked procession, until it was just us, the important people, me with Mike, Lenora at Stella’s side, checking her breathing, and you, with your hands in your pockets, always restless. 

*** 

“What did I say? I can’t remember,” you tell me, sitting back on the bench, warming your hands. 

“I’m not sure,” I lie, “something about being beautiful, I guess.”

You laugh a little, bouncing now, to keep warm. I put my hand on your arm and rub a bit, to try to warm you up. “Thanks. I think I said I wish I were a Murakami woman sometimes, because they are so beautiful.” 

“But also miserable, right?” 

“Sure, also miserable, in a way. But their misery is beautiful too, you know? They don’t have to do anything because they aren’t real, just symbols, or fantasies. I don’t know if they are supposed to be sexually liberated, or repressed, but I guess I envy how much power their bodies have over the protagonist. Whether they are too young, or too old, or whatever. Am I making sense?” You glance at me sideways, and we laugh a bit. 

“Yeah, no, I understand. It struck me, what you said, because I thought it was a brave thing to say. Like, you don’t try to make yourself sound better. But anyways, I’ve had thoughts like that, too. I’m sure it’s normal.” 

“Well, I don’t really care if it’s normal,” you say, looking out over the pond. I follow your gaze and see two geese standing on a rock, one foot up, their long black necks tucked backwards over their bodies. “They’re sleeping, I think,” you say. 

A cold wind picks up around us and throws dead leaves through the air. It feels, in some ways, like this scene, between us, is completely removed from the events of the party. I think of my bed, and our weight on it, of how unbearably soft your hair was under my fingers when I ran my hands through it and caught on the braid you had begun, and how you giggled mid-kiss, how you let me unravel it. I think of Stella too, and how she finally did go over that edge, and I don’t know how she will be when she recovers, when the bruises heal. I don’t know how much people who love each other can endure, after all. 

Two girls pass us, giggling, arms linked, and I suddenly feel very shy and small, sitting next to you on the bench. 

You find my hand before I can work up the courage, which is maybe always what will happen. We watch the geese for a long while, and even clasped around mine, your hand is never still.

The Origins of Gothic Literature

“The Origins of Horror Literature” is a weekly series by West 10th’s Editor-in-Chief Travis Schuhardt during the month of October, explaining how the Gothic and Horror genres developed, offering recommendations on which classic Gothic tales and modern horror stories to check out, and discussing some horror-themed journals to submit your writing to during the Halloween season.

October 14th. Truly the midst of the Halloween season. And there’s no better way to get into the spirit of the season than a deep dive into the murky, terrifying territories of Gothic Literature and Horror Fiction. Each week, we will be exploring the surprising history of Gothic Literature, and recommending modern day horror stories to keep you up at night.

Many people believe the Gothic genre began and ended with Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and this is simply not the case. The first tale that truly sparked an interest in the Gothic — and defined a lot of what we consider Gothic today — was written by a man named Horace Walpole and was called The Castle of Otranto.

Before we talk about the story, however, you need a little context. Horace Walpole was born in the early 18th century, and, if you were to go to London around that time, you would see very few medieval-looking castles, and those you would see would have fallen into disuse and disrepair. Buildings constructed in the Medieval Era were windowless and uncomfortable, cold and dank; if you were a member of the nobility in the 18th century, very reasonably you would want to live somewhere warmer, more comfortable. Many members of the nobility, were they to own a castle from their ancestors, would even tear them down for parts to build other residences.

Horace Walpole did not own a castle. One day, however, he decided that he wanted one. Thus, he began constructing his own castle. He called it Strawberry Hill House, and built it in the medieval style, but differed slightly in that he included stained-glass windows that you might see in churches. This style laid the foundation for a Gothic revival in the architecture of London.

But what does this have to do with literature? Well, whilst living in Strawberry Hill House, Horace Walpole, as the story goes, had a nightmare about a floating suit of armor that took place in the house that he lived, a Gothic-styled Castle. So, when he went to write down his dream and turn it into a novel, he wrote a story that took place in a castle that involved ghosts haunting suits of armor, as well as other supernatural elements. These elements came to define the Gothic genre of literature, all the way to today’s modern Gothic, informing even series like Scooby-Doo.

The spooky terrors that come to mind when we all think of Halloween night — the ghosts, the ghouls, the castles, the monsters — all sprouted from the nightmare of one man, living in his fake castle in the 18th century.


If you’d like to check out The Castle of Otranto, you can find the entire book online at this link:

The Castle of Otranto

I, personally, would not recommend the read, as it can be a bit slow and confusing, but it is there if you’d like to see the origins of the Gothic genre.

Reading Recommendation: As for stories I would recommend to get you in the Halloween mood, Brian Evenson’s short story No Matter Which Way We Turned is a spooky, quick, two-page read that’s great to share around a campfire or even in your room by candlelight if you’re looking for a scare, or to be just a little unsettled. If you read it, let us know what you think!

Places to Submit: Don’t think we’d leave you out to dry with no places to submit. Check out these places to submit your Halloween-themed or horror writings!

1. If you’re interested in writing Folktales, or have a great local horror story from back home, try here:

https://www.nosetouchpress.com/call/

The requirements are 4,000-8,000 words and submissions open November 1st and run until January, so you have all of Halloween season (and beyond) to inspire you.

2. If you’re already sitting on a horror story or some dark fiction that just needs a little touch up, then I’d recommend submitting to LampLight:

https://lamplightmagazine.com/submissions/

Up to 7,000 words; submissions open on October 15th and close December 15th. This publication does publish reprints, meaning if you already have a horror story posted somewhere, say a blog of sorts, you can still submit here as well!

3. You can submit your poems, short stories, and artwork to us starting today! Click the submit tab to find out how. This is not a horror or Halloween themed submission; just send us your best! We’re open until mid-December. Hope to see your work there!

Thank you for reading, be sure to subscribe and check back every week for stories, poems, reading recommendations, and places to submit your work!

All historical information in this article comes from the NYU class “Gothic Literature.”

Review of "Sweet Talk," by Stephanie Vaughn

"Every so often, that dead dog dreams me up again." And we're there, at attention. A bravura opening line, full of pulls, secrets. I get chills reading it. That dead dog dreams me up. We're going back in time, we're going to experience everything after that line in a backwards frame dreamed up by a dog. He won't be the narrator, though - just the spirit guide, if you will.

That's not the opening line of this collection of short stories, originally published in the early 1990s and recently re-released by Other Press. But it is the single sentence that best captures Stephanie Vaughn's astonishing, Grace Paley-like facility with the technical construction of the short story, and with the artistic achievement possible when a novel's worth of emotions and relationships are compressed into brilliant, diamond-like stories. It also shows how she does it without showing off. No big words, no strained punctuation. None of the flailing that all of us, the lesser talents, have to resort to. 

Many of the stories are about the often-unwritten world of children growing up on military bases - four of the stories, including "Dog Heaven," from which the opening quote is taken, are narrated by Gemma; whose father works for the US Army and who travels with him around the country as he takes new posts. The transience of these lives, their brief connections, the way these children are planted and ripped out until they grow thick emotional calluses, are brilliantly explored. 

For the last few months, I've been traveling - I'm currently studying in Berlin, and over the summer I worked in western Massachusetts. This is the book that I've brought with me, wherever I go. 

-Ben Miller, Assistant Prose Editor

-----

An Excerpt from "Able, Baker, Charlie, Dog," from Sweet Talk, by Stephanie Vaughn. Copyright 2012, by Stephanie Vaughn. Sweet Talk is in print and available from Other Press.

I went downstairs and put on my hat, coat, boots.  I followed his footsteps in the snow, down the front walk, and across the road to the riverbank.  He did not seem surprised to see me next to him.  We stood side by side, hands in our pockets, breathing frost into the air.  The river was filled from shore to shore with white heaps of ice, which cast blue shadows in the moonlight.

“This is the edge of America,” he said, in a tone that seemed to answer a question I had just asked.  There was a creak and crunch of ice as two floes below us scraped each other and jammed against the bank.

“You knew all week, didn’t you?  Your mother and your grandmother didn’t know, but I knew that you could be counted on to know.”

I hadn’t known until just then, but I guessed the unspeakable thing—that his career was falling apart—and I knew.  I nodded.  Years later, my mother told me what she had learned about the incident, not from him but from another Army wife.  He had called a general a son of a bitch.  That was all.  I never knew was the issue was or whether he had been right or wrong.  Whether the defense of the United States of America had been at stake, or merely the pot in a card game.  I didn’t even know whether he had called the general a son of a bitch to his face or simply been overheard in an unguarded moment.  I only knew that he had been given a 7 instead of a 9 on his Efficiency Report and then passed over for promotion.  But that night I nodded, not knowing the cause but knowing the consequences, as we stood on the riverbank above the moonlit ice.  “I am looking at that thin beautiful line of Canada,” he said.  “I think I will go for a walk.”

“No,” I said.  I said it again.  “No.”  I wanted to remember later that I had told him not to go.

“How long do you think it would take to go over and back?” he said.

“Two hours.”

He rocked back and forth in his boots, looked up at the moon, then down at the river.  I did not say anything.

He started down the bank, sideways, taking long, graceful sliding steps, which threw little puffs of snow in the air.  He took his hands from his pockets and hopped from the bank to the ice.  He tested his weight against the weight of the ice, flexing his knees.  I watched him walk a few years from the shore and then I saw him rise in the air, his long legs, scissoring the moonlight, as he crossed from the edge of one floe to the next.  He turned and waved to me, one hand making a slow arc.

I could have said anything.  I could have said “Come back” or “I love you.”  Instead, I called after him, “Be sure and write!”  The last thing I heard, long after I had lost sight of him far out on the river, was the sound of his laugh splitting the cold air.