Loving the Unloveable: Dead Walking

He shot the bullets from his toy-gun and they hit nothing but my chest and neck. I think he was trying to get my attention. There was no need. I was always coming for him; I never would have stopped.

He tripped on his own feet and fell flat on his back and there was surprise in the arch of his brows and something else there, too. I couldn’t determine what. I bent over him to look for the answer in his eyes but he threw them somewhere else, rolling marbles, electric blue.

I caught them afterwards, after we embraced, though they had lost some of their brilliance then–faded blue jeans. But first, the embrace: breaking open the flesh of the overripe apricot under his chin to suck in the hot copper hidden there. He jerked, entranced, wordless in the rhythm of passion. I held him against the path I had beaten in search of him. My mouth told him the secrets of my longing. Long lungfuls of air escaped his lips in amazement at my devotion.

I held my beloved close until he awoke. His eyes fixed upon me then, blue jays returning to the nest. In them, I saw dusk becoming nightfall. In them, I stepped into the coldest pockets of the ocean. In them, I saw reflected the cavernous enclaves of myself.

Dean Hel is a horror writer based in Houston, Texas. They are currently at work on a novel. Contact them at dean.hel.writer@gmail.com.

Loving the Unlovable: Mohawked

The worst part of chemo is losing my hair.

“I want to shave it off,” I say to James as he sits me in the salon chair and wraps me in a shampoo cape. I blink hard.

The night before, I listened to the thud, thud, thud of the rain on the roof, and rubbed the tender crown of my head. And in the morning when I showered, strands curled up in the shampoo suds and loose hairs swirled in the water and disappeared down the drain.

At James’ station, he pulls out a brown towel, silver shears, a paddle brush, a barber comb, and a balding clipper.

He could have just started shaving. But he cradles my scalp in his hands. He washes, then conditions my hair. He clips the ends with the metallic snip, snip of the shears, cupping my chin with his free hand. Fine wisps of brown and gray tangle together on the linoleum floor.

Then he stops. His gray-blue eyes meet mine in the mirror.

“What about a mohawk?” James asks, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

“Seriously?”

“You can always shave it off.”

I feel the buzz of the clipper tickle my neck. It angles up and around, shaving off the hair until all I have left is a small mop down the center of my head.

“You could wear it under a hat or a scarf,” James suggests. “No one would know the difference.”

He applies a thick shellack of gel on either side of that mop, and the mohawk stands straight up.

And then, because I can’t stop laughing at me in a mohawk, I forget to cry when he shaves it off.

Elizabeth Sharpe lives in Seattle where she is a writer and editor. She holds a master’s degree in English Literature and a certificate in Advanced Fiction Writing. Her stories have appeared in To Japan With Love, To Nepal With Love, A Cup of Comfort for a Better World, Seattle Weekly, and Wanderlust. You can find her on Twitter @ebsharpe or online at http://www.elizabethsharpe.com

Product Review: Women's Disposable Razors

Women’s Disposable Razors

5 stars

I don’t know if it was because of these razors or what, but they may have saved my marriage before it began! 

About a year and a half ago, my fiancé and I got engaged. Because of how expensive weddings are, we cut our budget here and there. A few examples include making coffee at home, take-out only once a month, and I switched to men’s disposable razors. Women’s razors are around 11% more expensive than men’s, so each week the switch has saved us a fortune. So much, in fact, that I also started using men’s deodorant, shampoo and conditioner, underwear, socks, you name it. Our wedding is practically paid for because of this. My fiancé has not been thrilled; he claims that I am too manly and emasculate him now. This came to a peak when I out-drank him in a keg stand at our friend’s bonfire. Due to this incident. he bought me a 25-pack of these Women’s Disposable Razors.

Needless to say, I was furious when I saw the floral pink package sitting on the kitchen table. I listened to my fiancé lecture me that I need to be more feminine and that there was nothing wrong with acting like the gender I am. After all, women have it easy. While he droned on, I plotted my revenge. In the middle of the night, I dusted off my makeup kit and hid all the men’s razors, and replaced them with these razors that he got me. In the morning, my fiancé was forced to use the Women’s Disposable Razors to shave his face. He came down to breakfast mad, with cuts all over his face. I told him he looked pretty, gave him his honey-do list, and left for the day

According to my fiancé, the following things happened to him that day and he blames the Women’s Disposable Razors: got catcalled while he was walking to his car, was given unsolicited advice at the gym about his form, and was told to shave his legs because they were disgusting, told he would pretty if he smiled while getting coffee at the coffee shop, had the mechanic try to tell him that his blinker fluid needed to be replaced when he brought the car in for an oil change, and – for me the cherry on top – paid more for all of his shopping products at the store. He came home, threw these razors, told me it didn’t matter what products I used, and hasn’t said another word about it. 

If I could, I would give 10 stars to these crappy razors.  

Caitlyn Sanow graduated from SMSU in 2017 with a B.A. in English. Currently, she is working as a Circulation Supervisor in a university library, and runs a writing group and workshop called Shitty First Draft.

Product Review: G2 Pens - Kill Your Darlings

Kill your darlings. I write these words over and over with my blue ink refillable Pilot G2 pen in a college rule composition notebook. My thesis isn’t gaining any ground but at least I have a great pen. There should be eulogies for favorite pens when they run out of ink, particularly in the crafting of a dystopia scene when survivors in a quest for hope and salvation in a land of scarcity find fear in the effort.

There are worse things to be passionate about, for instance coveting the UPS man when he delivers Pilot G2 pens. Writers need pens - for doodles, inappropriate caricatures and cartoons between flashes of written words. 

The G2 is The Pen Choice of Overachievers. Writer’s might benefit from the cushion to comfortably rest the thumb and first two fingers. Cursive writers will love the even flow, even the ugliest handwriting can be made beautiful with a G2. A clickable button at the top retracts the pen tip. The button discourages chewing. Clicks loudly in the café where writing coincides with coffee. The button also fits well in the hollow of a chin when mindlessly looking out the window when there is not ONE SINGLE WORD FORMING and a page remains blank.

There are occasions when ink smears from overanxious fingers or wrists that drag on the paper. There is no dishonor in the haste to get fleeting words onto the paper, smudges give written passages character. Pen owners should be aware that this is a pen often stolen by writer friends. Friends who have not sold their first novel or their first story. These friends are unable to purchase their own pen because $1.23 per pen is expensive. Sadly, they might not even be writing with a BIC ballpoint pen but something worse - the free pen from the bank. These pens are found on every counter, right next to the teller, imprinted with the bank logo and a teller who cheerily says, “Please, take one with you.”  The bank account balance is still dwindling. Share your G2’s without complaint.

When it is time to kill your darlings, a two pack of red gel ink pens should be sufficient. Ample ink to revise. Again. And again. Finally, a first draft. But red is not the only option, there are a variety of colors, including purple, green, turquoise and orange.

I do have one criticism of the Pilot G2 pens, which I am hesitant to share. The packaging is very clear in its pronouncement of smoothness but that does not mean free from obstruction or difficulty for the writer, only the ease of ink from the conical tip. The G2 is the best pen to jot thoughts on scraps of paper, to fill reams of paper with beautifully written lines and grand penmanship but it fulfills not the dissimulation of well written words on the page. That, unfortunately, is the work of the writer.

Stacy Boone (Mountainview ‘23) mostly writes about water or what humans are doing to the landscape.  Mostly though, she is just trying to find 20 minutes to write.

Product Review: F.Easy.D Mini Chain Saw

As a busy mom, I have little time to fuck with heavy machinery to tackle projects. Hence, my purchase of the F.Easy.D mini chain saw from Mom Will Do It. Com. It handles all my shit. From trimming branches to slicing town Christmas lights, it works slicker-n- shit. It's convenient, compact size makes it's great for traveling, especially at night where prying eyes can see. It comes with a battery which may or may not be good for the planet and gloves to protect your hands and cover your fingerprints. I was able to cut a six inch branch albeit after it moaned and shook like two sweathogs in the dollar general parking lot. Should a woman find herself alone or with a husband she'd like to be rid of, I can assure this chainsaw is up to the challenge. Five fucking stars.

Submitted by full time mom, part time Gladiator — Donna from Vermont.

The Suitcase

The first time Danny saw her was on a Friday. 

C. D. Oakes grew up in a small village in the Mojave desert. There wasn’t a lot to do, but there was a decent library, and he consumed books constantly from the time he was able to read. He has been an avid reader of every genre, but particularly appreciates horror and speculative fiction with a gritty cast. C. D. Oakes holds a BA in writing from Southern New Hampshire University, and is currently working through the Mountain View MFA program.

He was late for school. Again. Managing his time when his mom wasn’t around didn’t always go the way it should. He flew down the stairway of their apartment building, barely dodging past an old man smoking a cigarette on the bottom step. The man called out as Danny sped past, but Danny didn’t stop to tell him he didn’t have anything. Hitting the push-bar of the exit door, Danny crashed through and out into the heat of a Los Angeles morning.

Outside, he ran through a cluster of four men that were throwing dice on a strip of greasy cardboard. He nearly tripped trying to avoid a man in a dirty Raiders jersey. The man dropped a bottle he’d been holding and looked at Danny with surprise. The other men stood, one of them spilling beer from a can onto a pile of 1 dollar bills in the middle of the cardboard.

“Got DAMN it!”  Danny heard one of them yell, but he was already past them. Dodging through traffic, he crossed and then leaned against the chain-link fence that cordoned off an empty lot. As he caught his breath, something flashed. He shielded his eyes to get a clearer look. He knew that homeless people hung around the lot, but it wasn’t them. It was a girl. What he’d taken for a flash of reflected sunlight was something different. She was wearing a white dress. The clean brightness of it in the middle of the brown dirt lot drew his eye like a light in a dark room.

He heard yelling and spun around to see the guys from the alley waiting for a gap in traffic. Between the pissed off guys and being late for school, Danny knew he needed to get moving. He turned to run, but paused to glance back at the lot. The girl wasn’t there. The lot was as big as the playground at school, but he couldn’t spot her. 

Horns honked in the street, and he ran for it, backpack whacking him in the back with every step. He didn’t stop until he was safely through the school gate.

When he got home that evening, Danny made sure to use the building’s front door. He understood on some level that Friday nights were awesome and heralded the golden weekend ahead, but he was too young and had too few friends to appreciate it fully. While excited to be done with school for the summer, it felt empty. Danny had no plans and less cash. Maybe he’d read his comic books for the hundredth time. 

He opened the fridge and found nothing but empty shelves. Disappointed, he shuffled back to the window of their fourth-story apartment. He pushed the curtain aside and peered down at the street, looking for his mom who hadn’t been home since the night before last. The difference between day-time and night in this city was marked by blazing yellow sunlight or dim orange streetlight pouring through the window. 

A girl standing across the street caught his eye, wearing what he thought was a white dress. He couldn’t be sure it was white because the streetlight she was standing under stained everything orange. The thing he found most strange was not the sleeveless, old-fashioned dress, but that she was just standing there. Nobody stood around in this neighborhood. Even the guys that hung out at the corner paced around. They were constantly moving.

She had long black hair and the swell of her breasts was small but definite. Danny guessed that she must be in high school. She was staring at his building. He wondered if she could see him in the window, and a tingle passed along his scalp as he she tilted her head and looked up. She was looking in his direction!  Was it the same person he’s seen in the lot this morning?

Danny jumped as the door banged open behind him. Something lurched through the door, and he cried out with a noise that was too low to be a scream. His heart hammered and didn’t slow down even when he realized it was his mom. Not till he saw the grocery bag in her arms did he relax. He dropped the curtain and rushed to see what she’d brought. The world outside the window, and the girl in the white dress, fled his mind. 

Summer was off to a decent start. It was dull, but there was no place Danny had to be. He hadn’t thought about the girl for the better part of a week and when he saw her again, it was for much the same reason as the first time. This time, his mom had been gone four nights. Even though he’d rationed them carefully, the groceries had run out. 

The last time she had only been gone a couple of nights. She told him that she had just been hanging out with some old friends, and Danny had an idea of what that meant. They’d had to move back to the city from Grandma’s house because his mom was hanging out with her friends too often, coming home less and less. It made him anxious when his mom and Grandma fought. They had both said that it wasn’t Danny’s fault, but what was he supposed to think when Grandma yelled things like I’m not here just to raise your god-damned kid! or This isn’t a childcare center, Lorraine!

He went to the window and pushed the curtain aside. The girl was there, leaning against the sagging fence across the street. The skin on his arms prickled. She was looking at him. She raised a hand and waved, and Danny jumped. Who was she? Did he know her from somewhere? 

He didn’t know anyone here. He had run across some kids his age when school was in, but the ones that didn’t call him names ignored him completely. He hadn’t met anyone yet that had waved to him or said hello. Could she be a friend of his mom’s?

As he stared, her hand dropped back to her side. She leaned forward, away from the fence. She raised her hands, palms up. The gesture seemed to be asking What? Why are you ignoring me? 

He closed the curtain, separating him and the apartment from the street below. He couldn’t see her, but he knew she was still down there. He looked around the place. There was a short loveseat with the armrests duct-taped to keep the stuffing inside. They had a small TV that showed only static since they didn’t have cable. He had a stack of comics that he’d read till they had started to fall apart. They were mostly DC titles, which were a little boring compared to the stories in the Marvel books.

The microwave in the tiny kitchenette told him that it was 12:20. Time moved strangely in Los Angeles, and altogether differently during the summer, when he had nowhere to be. 

His shoes lay on the linoleum of the apartment’s tiny entry. He hadn’t put them on since the last day of school. He shoved them onto his feet and pulled a hoodie over his head. Ducking into the apartment’s single, small bathroom, Danny checked his appearance in the mirror. His hair was a solid brown wedge. It looked a little greasy. He crinkled his nose. He grabbed his Dodgers cap and forced his unruly hair into it. Hooking a finger into the neckline of the hoodie, he pulled it down and sniffed. Not great, but not immediately offensive. 

He opened the door and scanned the corridor. Even the neighbors that yelled and fought at night tended to calm down after 10 or 11. Danny made his way to the stairs, then into the night. He pushed the door open a crack, peeked out. The alley was empty. He thrust his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt and slipped out.

Danny reached the front corner of his building and looked around. There was a guy leaning against the brick wall. He was staring at his phone and didn’t look up as Danny emerged from the alley. She was still there, standing by the fence.

A few blocks away, Alameda Street was still busy. Even at this hour, the traffic was non-stop. Between the headlights and lighted shop windows, you wouldn’t know it was past midnight, but here around the corner it was dark and quiet as Danny crossed the street.

“Hey!” she said, and laughed as Danny stepped onto the sidewalk on the far side of the street.

Her teeth were perfect and flashed brightly, dazzling Danny. He felt dizzy-headed and warm inside. Her dress was white and embroidered in a light blue floral pattern across her chest. The dress’s hem brushed the tops of her feet. She wore simple leather sandals.

“Oh my god! I didn’t think you’d actually come down here,” she said, shining that bright smile on him. 

Danny grinned and nodded. “Do I, um, do I know you from somewhere?”

She shook her head.

“We haven’t met, but I’ve seen you around. I’m Camilla.” 

She had a Spanish accent, and Danny thought it was cool, exotic.

“Hey, I’m Dan,” he said, consciously leaving off the -ny, not wanting her to think he was a kid. “Er, Daniel. Dan for short,” he said, cringing inside.

“Great to meet you, Daniel. You’re new here?” she asked, but it sounded to him like she already knew that.

“Yeah, we just moved down here from Fresno.” 

“Nice! Welcome to the neighborhood.”

“Do you live near here?” he asked her, more interested in keeping the conversation going than where she actually lived.

She turned toward the fence, looking through it and gesturing across the trash-strewn field. “Over there, not far.”

He followed her gaze, but didn’t see any houses or public housing buildings like his. Nothing but the back of a strip mall, a couple blocks away. 

“Over there?”

Camilla gazed through the fence a few seconds, then nodded slowly. She turned on the bright smile again and looked at Danny.

“Hey, I know you don’t know me or anything.”

“I don’t really know anybody here,” Danny said.

“Right. Look, I know we just met, but I was hoping you could help me with something?” the smile faded a little, and she gazed at him earnestly.

He stared at her and didn’t answer at first. Camilla’s smile slipped, turning to concern. Danny didn’t like the dark look her face had taken on. He wanted to see that smile again.

“I mean, sure, of course! What do you need?” he asked.

She smiled again, but the teeth weren’t on full display any longer. It was a shadow of the radiance she’d displayed before.

“It’s nothing too crazy, it’s just that I’m not able to lift it myself,” she offered.

Danny gave a nervous laugh, painfully aware that he was a pretty scrawny specimen, even for an 8th grader.

“I mean, have you seen the gun show lately?” he asked. He flexed an imperceptible bicep, his face deadpan.

There it was, that smile was back at full wattage, and she had a laugh like the tinkle of silver bells. She walked quickly toward the corner of the fenced lot. There was a bounce in her step, like she was about to start skipping. Another cold frisson washed over his scalp. Was it her laughter? He blinked and a shudder coursed through his neck and shoulders, traveled down through his stomach and legs before it passed.

“Lead the way. My muscles are at your service,” he said.

Reaching the end of the fence, she turned briskly to the right, ducking through a hole that was cut into the chain links. Danny went to follow, but it was a tighter fit than he’d expected. His sleeve snagged on cut ends of fence links as he squeezed through. The street light was behind her, silhouetting her figure through the gauzy dress. They were similar in size, and Danny marveled at the way she’d slipped through with such ease. With a start, he realized he was staring, and quickly looked away. Camilla watched, grinning, as he finished disentangling himself from the fence.

Camilla spun on a sandaled heel and moved into the weedy trash-strewn lot. He trotted to keep up as she picked her way around a tumbleweed. There was a shopping cart on its side with some old blankets in it. Classy hood, he thought to himself. She stopped halfway across the field and looked down. He caught up and stood beside her. The orange light lost much of its strength this far from the street. They stood at the edge of a building’s foundation. It was flush with the dirt, with some rebar jutting up around the far edge. There were some cinder blocks still stacked at two of the corners and others scattered around the field. It had been a pretty big building.

There wasn’t much else in the lot besides debris and garbage. The faint breeze was hot, like a weak hair dryer. Even so, Danny shuddered as though he’d caught a chill. What was he doing out here in this field? Who was this chick? He was feeling foolish when he looked over at the girl, and his thought was interrupted.

She was toeing at something with the edge of her sandal. She had her hands clasped behind her back. She looked up at Danny. 

“It’s in here,” she said, her voice quiet.

“What is it?” Danny asked.

She stared at the ground. He bent over and brushed at the loose dirt. His fingertips found the edge of a board. Uncovering more revealed the long side of a sheet of plywood. Once he saw where the board was, his eye was able to spot out the dimensions of the rest of the sheet, partially hidden in the dust.

His heartbeat sped up as his mind turned over some of the possibilities of what could be beneath the board. Drugs? A gun? Something worse?

“It’s just a suitcase,” she told him, voice hushed, “It’s got some of my things in it.”

“Things?”

Her long black hair had fallen partially over her face as she nodded and looked down. She brought a pale hand to her face, pushing it aside and looking at him. He watched her a moment, then slipped his fingers beneath the board and heaved it over, dumping the covering of grey dirt from the top of it. A haze of dust wafted around, diffusing the dim orange light even further.

Danny waved his hands in front of his face in an attempt to keep from breathing in the dirt cloud. It took a couple of minutes to settle, and neither of them said anything. They both stared into the hole he’d uncovered. An old staircase led down. Danny made out the first three steps, but beyond that, nothing.

Camilla stepped down, onto the top stair. She gazed at him, smile all but gone, settled like so much dust.

“It’s just down here,” she said.

He stared at her.

“It’s totally dark in there,” he said.

She nodded, and looked from him back into the dark. Danny threw a glance over his shoulder to the street. What am I doing in this field? He didn’t know this girl. He didn’t owe her anything. Sure, she had a great smile and she seemed nice, but god damn it was dark in there, and the poor judgement of being out here at all was weighing on him.

“Hey, I think there’s a flashlight back at my place,” he said, “We could grab it and come back, or maybe check it out in the morning?”

“I should get outta here, too. It’s way late,” she said.

The look that had come over her wasn’t sadness as much as it was the complete lack of a smile or the sparkle in her brown eyes that Danny had been drawn to. It made his heart hurt. She headed for the fenced edge of the lot opposite of the one on which they’d met, away from the street in front of his public housing building. He watched her and then turned to go.

“Hey, one sec!” she said to him, before he’d gotten more than a few steps.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“I won’t be around tomorrow,” she said, giving him a hopeful look in the dim light, “I was thinking, maybe, if you have time, you could grab my suitcase?”

He didn’t say anything, just stared. He could not mess with this. This girl and her suitcase were nothing but trouble. He had no doubt about it. It had been a while since he’d hung out with anyone, sure, but knew all too well what getting involved with the wrong type of “friends” looked like. His mom would be unhappy, but grandma would be devastated, he knew.

“I need to get it over to Saint Odilia’s, the Catholic church over on 52nd,” she said, “Ask Father Julio, if he’s still around. If not, tell the priest that the suitcase belongs to Camilla Espinoza, Luis Espinoza’s daughter from over on Mettler Street. He’ll either take it from you or at least show you who to give it to.”

She turned and he lost her outline in the dim orange light almost immediately. All he could think of as he trudged home was that he could not get caught up in something like this.

Danny’s mom came home a little while after he had gotten back to the apartment. He was happy to see her, and he hugged her tight until she brushed him away. 

“I’m tired,” she said.

She was a little wild-eyed and her hair was matted. She was looking rough.  Danny was worried, but didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t gotten this bad at Grandma’s, probably because she knew Grandma wouldn’t have it. She fell onto her bed without taking off her shoes. He was careful not to wake her as he undressed and got into bed himself.

When he woke, it was after noon. He sat up, his mind immediately dwelling on the suitcase. He couldn’t help but think that there might be some money in it, or maybe Camilla’s family would give him a reward or something. 

Danny looked in on his mom again. She hadn’t moved at all, and he started to worry. Taking a tentative step into the room, he gazed at his mom’s form in the bed. He relaxed when he saw her back rise and fall. She was breathing, and that was good enough for the time being. He needed a shower, but didn’t want to risk waking his mom. Back in the main room that served as living room, kitchen and breakfast bar, he crossed to the window. He moved the curtain back with his right hand, eyes squeezing shut immediately at the blazing southern California sun he’d allowed entry.

Once his eyes adjusted, he looked down at the street, hoping to see Camilla even though she said she wouldn’t be around. Some cars rolled by on the street. The vacant lot looked washed out, like an overexposed photograph. Movement caught his eye. There were two figures near the concrete foundation he’d been at last night. One was dressed in blue and the other in a light grey shirt with a bright orange hat. Had Camilla asked someone else to get the suitcase? He hadn’t covered the hole before he’d left. Maybe someone else had found it? Danny thought of her smile and realized he wanted to see it again. He couldn’t let someone else get to the suitcase first. He jammed his hat down on his hair, thrust his feet into his shoes and slipped out of the apartment, making sure the door didn’t slam behind him.

He waited for a break in traffic and trotted across the street. He ducked through the hole in the fence, careful not to get snagged on the wire. It was easier when he could see. Straightening, he saw two men sitting in a camp built entirely from refuse. One was sitting on a faded cooler, drinking from a 40-ounce bottle. He crossed to the foundation slab. 

The plywood was where he’d left it, half draped across the forgotten stairwell. Chunks of concrete and dirt had been pushed into the old stairwell, filling it in except for four steps. At the bottom of the hole lay the suitcase. The corners of the green and brown plaid luggage were worn nearly through. It was secured with two thick bands of duct tape running its length and width. 

He stared at it for nearly a minute. It didn’t look all that heavy. He wondered why Camilla couldn’t have taken it home herself. He might have gone on staring longer, but he heard the men talking to each other and shuffling in his direction. Danny knew he’d better get moving. He stepped down, grabbed the handle and lifted the suitcase. Something in it shifted as he climbed out of the hole. The two men had walked over and were staring at Danny as he climbed out again, suitcase in hand.

“What’s in there, man? Is that yours?” the one with the bottle asked.

“It belongs to a friend of mine,” Danny told the man. 

He started back toward the street and the hole in the fence.

“Hey, hold on a second, man. You holding?” the man called after him.

Danny hastened across the lot. When he got to the fence, he looked over his shoulder before ducking through and pulling the suitcase behind him. The men were watching him, but they didn’t follow. He made his way back across the street, and into his building.

“Daniel? Is that you?” his mom called to him as he walked inside the apartment.

He made for his room, not stopping as he passed his mom’s room. He shoved the suitcase against the wall next to his bed and threw a blanket over it. He hustled back through the living room, and leaned into his mom’s doorway.

“Hey Mom!” he said, happy to see her awake. She looked clear-eyed, more or less.

She was out of bed and getting some clothes out of her dresser.

“I went out to see a friend,” Danny said, “But she wasn’t around.”

His mom stopped what she was doing and looked at him.

“A friend? Does this friend of yours have a name?” she eyed him with what felt to Danny like suspicion.

She didn’t give him a chance to respond, immediately launching into a lecture about being careful who he hung around with.

“You don’t want to get mixed up with the wrong crowd, Daniel.” she said.

“I know, Mom,” he answered, resisting the urge to point out the company she kept. He didn’t want a fight.

“And ‘she’ Dan?” she asked him. “Who is this mystery girl?”

“Her name’s Camilla. She lives around the way,” he gestured toward the front of the building and the avenue.

“Oh, Daniel,” she crossed her arms and looked him over, “You’re getting older now. I hope you’re being careful!”

Danny blushed.

“You know what I mean, right? I hope that if you do get mixed up with some girl, you’ll use protection!”

“Mom, it’s not like that!”

“Oh, it never is, trust me. You do not want to become a father at your age. You’re much, much too young!”

He nodded but said nothing. His mom took a handful of clothes, picked up a towel from the bed, and went into the bathroom. Danny heard her turn the shower on. He went back to his room and laid the suitcase on his bed. Someone had used most of a roll of duct tape to make sure it didn’t come open. The zipper had some gravel in it, but looked fine aside from that. It had the letters C. F. scrawled on a corner in black Sharpie. He realized he’d been staring when he heard the shower turn off. His heart beat faster, and he covered the suitcase up again.

Danny’s mom was blow-drying her hair and applying her makeup. 

“Mom, do you know where St. Odilia’s is at? I think it’s a Catholic joint?” he asked.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Is this Camilla Catholic?” she asked. 

“No! I mean, I don’t know. Maybe. I literally just met her yesterday.”

She turned back to the mirror.

“Sorry, no idea,” she said. 

He figured it had been a long shot to begin with. She rummaged in her closet and produced a pair of red heels. 

“Going to meet up with some friends!” her voice bright as she made for the door.

“When will you be back?” he asked. “We need groceries!”

He followed her to the door. She was fished in her purse and produced a clump of money. Her mouth was squeezed in a tight line.

“Here, pick us up something. Don’t waste it!” she said. 

She kissed his cheek and was gone. 

“Bye, mom.” 

He ducked into the kitchen and rummaged in a drawer. He grabbed the scissors and returned to the suitcase. He pushed the blanket aside. Did he want to know what was in there? He set the scissors down. He went to the window in the living room and looked across the street. The sky was transitioning to purple and shadows were deepening on the street below, though the gravel lot was still clear. He didn’t see her down there. The lot was empty. He wondered where Camilla was. What was she mixed up in? Maybe the answer was in his bedroom, lying on his bed.

“Screw it,” he said, picking up the scissors.

He hacked through the tape and unzipped the suitcase. There was a bundle wrapped in heavy black plastic, also bound with duct tape. He cut the tape that bound the black plastic. The scissors hit something hard inside. He pulled the plastic away, revealing gauzy cloth that had once been white but had gone a shade of yellow. 

It had gotten dark outside, and he couldn’t see well. Putting the scissors down on the bed, he stood up from where he’d been kneeling beside the bed and crossed to the light switch next to the doorway. 

“This is not St. Odilia’s,” a quiet voice said.

The white dress was much brighter under the LED light than it had been under the orange street lamp. Danny choked, unable to draw breath. His mouth had gone dry, and his heart was trying to beat its way out of his chest.

“Camilla?” he asked.

Had he left the door open? It always closed and locked automatically. Did someone else let her in?

“Mom?” he called out, his mind racing.

She shook her head, “It’s just you and I. I made sure.”

His mouth was dry. Danny licked his lips and swallowed. He felt like he should be scared, but he was more excited than anything else at that moment.

“I’m so tired, Danny. I just need some rest. Let’s close that up, alright?” her voice was hushed. 

“What’s, what is this? I mean,” he turned and gestured to the suitcase.

“That’s me,” she said, “At least, that’s what’s left.”

Danny’s eyes narrowed as he looked at her. He knelt beside the bed again. Reaching into the open luggage, he spread the hole in the black plastic wide. He saw faded blue embroidery on the old material. He recoiled, drawing his hand back. There were bones inside the dress.

“I trusted someone that I shouldn’t have,” she said. Her head bowed and her black hair spilled over her eyes.

Danny didn’t know much about ghosts, and had never had an opinion on whether or not they existed, but here she was. This couldn’t be a common thing. He didn’t know why she had trusted him, but he couldn’t let her down. Still, maybe she could hang out for a while? He tried to think of something that would make her smile. Something that would take her mind off of St. Odilia’s. Something they could talk about, and maybe hang out for a while. Ghosts were rare. Absolutely they were, he had no doubt. Friends though? People that he could hang out with and talk to? He wondered what she listened to. What music was popular when she had been…well, before.

“Danny,” she said. “Please. I could really use your help.”

He nodded. He knew what it was like to need a friend. Who knew that better than him? He sat on the bed.

“Listen, Camilla. We’ll get this, get you,” he said, “We’ll get you over to St. Odilia’s. But there’s no rush, right?”

He swallowed and watched her face. He really didn’t want to mess this up. He wondered and had to ask. He produced a stack of magazines from his night stand. 

“Do you like comic books?”

Doe

It is dawn when the doe arrives. The clearing is cloaked in a veil of soft mist, cotton edges swirling through dark boughs. The birch trunks are nearly invisible in the low light, masked by dense air, making Thomas' small hunting blind feel both crowded and exposed.

Cassandra Lee Shawver is a recent graduate of the Mountainview MFA program. She resides in New Hampshire with her long-suffering roommate, the resident ghost, and her cat.

Thomas is tapping his knee beside her. It is not a pleasant gesture. She knows that he’s doing his best to restrain himself. They had been in the woods for the better part of a week now, with nothing to show for their efforts. His efforts. Her efforts. Their goals no longer align, she knows. He wants a kill. She wants peace. She hates that hers is the only compromise.

         The rifle bobs in her fiance’s lap. Today was the day, he had said as he shook her awake, the darkness so oppressive she wondered if the earth had opened up and swallowed them. She had smiled daintily at him and repeated the phrase back. It is always best to agree with him. Always best to smile.

         She heaves a clouded breath, soft enough that even Thomas can't be offended by it, watches as it floats out the eye of the hunting blind and joins its fellows in the mist outside. The morning is cold and crisp, as it has been every morning of this trip. She doesn't know why she's here. She can’t stand the sight of blood, can't even bring herself to set mousetraps in Thomas' rotting shed. She suspects Thomas gleans a sort of joy from her discomfort. No, she is certain of it. She remembers the look in his eye when he said "they" were going hunting, how he waited eagerly for some protest, how disappointed he was when offered none. All she wants is that smile. All she wants is peace.

         She takes a sip from the thermos in her lap, savors the bitter coffee as it shocks through her. Thomas holds out his hand. She runs her tongue across her blunt teeth before passing the thermos to him. He drinks deep.

         She wants so much for this trip to be a failure. She wants so much for it to be a success.

         She tries to find peace in the seclusion of the forest. She loves the quiet rustle of leaves, the whisper of wind in her hair. There was a time when she would have loved this trip, when the press of Thomas' body in the dark would have felt safe and secure, when the gun across his lap would have felt like reassurance, not a threat. She doesn't know when that changed.

         The night loses to the dawn by inches and the shrouded trees become easier to see, shafts of deep grey piercing the milky air. She can hear the forest come alive, the trill of birds and squirrels rustling in the undergrowth, gathering, gathering. They know the warmth is fading. They know they are running out of time. Always running out of time.

         A bugle sounds, not far off. Thomas straightens himself, eyes flashing with excitement. Her back straightens with him. His eyes scan the dim tree line, but the sun is not yet strong enough to burn the mist away. Thomas presses a black tube to his lips and a doe's soft grunt crawls across the clearing, a siren's invitation. She thinks it sounds more like a growl.

         Leaves crunch, drawing closer, and Thomas repeats the steady pattern of calls. One hand is iron on the stock of his rifle. He has been denied a kill for too long. Her throat is dry as she watches him, gauges him, eyes on the gun. She doesn't notice when the shape of a deer appears before them. She only knows it's there when Thomas lifts the scope to his eye.

         At last, she follows his gaze. The mist is beginning to deteriorate, allowing shafts of gold morning light to wash through the trees. The green, dewy earth is coated in a layer of red and gold and brown. The rustle of rodents has given way to the sound of something much larger stepping delicately through the forest. She squints and sees it drifting a few hundred feet away, long legs and perked ears bobbing toward them. She does not see any antlers.

         Thomas sighs and lowers his rifle. He doesn't like to harm the females. It's a kindness he extends only to deer.

         The doe is standing on the edge of the clearing now. She is a shadow amongst the trees, unmoving. The mist pulls away at last and reveals the shape of her. She is still as death, strong legs rigid as the birches that flank her. Her eyes, dark and deep as midnight pools, are trained on the blind. There is something coating her gentle mouth, something vibrant and thick and red. Her pink tongue laps at her lips. She does not move.

         Thomas shifts his gun to his other knee and looks away from the deer to look back at her. He shrugs.

         "She's sure to lure something better," he says.

         "What's wrong with her?" She asks, unable to look away from the crimson coating her face, from the intensity of her gaze. It is not the look of prey.

         "Must've found a blackberry patch," he says. "Or a buck got a little rough with her. Happens sometimes during rut."

         He says it like it means nothing, like he is reporting the weather. She does not argue with him. He would know better than she.

         The doe continues her vigil. She doesn't even twitch an ear. Not even the birds and rodents are moving anymore. The stillness is a threat. A breeze blows through the clearing. They are downwind from the doe and the rush carries the scent of copper.

         "Is she watching us?" She asks. Thomas gives her a dark look and she falls silent again. Of course she isn't watching them, she thinks. They are camouflaged, and she is only a deer. Only a doe. She cannot see beyond what her eyes tell her.

         Still, the doe's eyes seem to pin her with predatory focus. They dare her to run, to flee, to give reason to chase. There is no touch of the gentleness she is used to associating with deer.

         She wonders if Thomas can sense it, too. She says nothing.

         She wishes she could reach out to him for comfort. There was a time, in the beginning, when he would have given it, when he would have met her anxious looks with sympathy and held her close, even if it meant missing his shot. Even now, she can't pinpoint the exact moment he stopped, but all that mattered was he did. His only love was for the chase. For the hunt. He held no excitement for what came after the capture.

         She had been captured almost a decade prior. There was nothing left of her to hunger for.

         But there was this hunt. He would be happy for a while after this. A month or two, at least. She can endure the damp and the cold and the unnerving eyes for a while longer.

         The doe is still watching them. Her legs seem...longer than they should. Her body, leaner. Her neck, slimmer. She begins to wonder if her eyes are being deceived, if the rising mist is playing with the light, making her look unlike a deer at all. She swallows thickly. She says nothing.

         A stick cracks and the sound shudders through her. It is the sound at the end of the world. Thomas' eyes leave the doe and scan the tree line. 

         She tries not to cry when she sees the buck approaching them. He is beautiful. Mature, muscled, proud. A rack of jagged antlers sway above his head. She struggles to count the points, but even she knows that he is perfect. A hunter's dream. He moves closer. She wishes he wouldn't. She wishes he would move faster.

         His nostrils flare, and she knows that he smells the doe. The doe smells him, too. She moves for the first time since her arrival, eyes snapping in the buck's direction, tearing herself away from the blind. The tension building in her gut releases, and she huffs a sigh. Thomas does not relax. His scope is trained on the buck. She can hear the insistent "come on, come on" under his breath. He is almost within range. She wonders if it will be quick or if Thomas will kill him slow. She prepares for both outcomes.

         The doe steps toward the male, ears forward, strange hooves delicately crossing the earth, almost unnaturally slow. The buck huffs once, shaking his head, attempting to impress her with his display. The doe stops and allows him to draw closer, closer. A hair's breadth outside of Thomas' scope. His finger is seconds away from squeezing the trigger. The entire forest is silent.

         The buck's nose touches the female's and instantly he takes a staggering step away as some scent reaches him. He bleats, moves to run, but not before the doe opens her mouth–a mouth that opens far, far too wide with teeth far too jagged and far too numerous–and latches onto his throat.

         The buck screams. He kicks, he flails, he tries shaking the smaller creature off, but she only sinks in further and pulls away, serrated teeth ripping his throat open. The screaming stops. A gurgle, a groan, and the great beast sinks to his knees. His sides are still heaving as she tears into him again, ripping away strips of flesh with her delicate, docile lips.

         The gun trembles in Thomas' hand. Her gloved fingers are clasping her mouth and throat. They do not look at each other.

         "What the fuck," Thomas hisses, blunt teeth clattering. "What the fuck."

         Blinking, he presses the gun to his shoulder again and stares down the scope. He does not hesitate as he fires three rounds into the doe. Puffs of red mist blend with the white vapor in the air. The doe staggers on her feet, strips of steaming meat clinging to her teeth as she once again turns her gaze toward the blind.

         For one horrible moment, she thinks that the doe will attack. She can see the thought churning within those dark depths. Despite his haste, however, Thomas' aim was true, and the doe collapses. She does not make a sound as her life's blood mingles with that of her prey.

         "What the hell was that, Thomas?" She asks, no longer able to keep the rising panic from her voice. She no longer cares about being quiet.

         Thomas doesn't look at her. He never does when he knows he isn't in control.

         "Rabid," he says. "Brain worm, maybe. Fairly common."

         She wants to keep silent. She does. She wants peace. But by God, there was no peace to be found here. She opens her mouth to argue.

         "Come on," Thomas says. "The buck’s still breathing. Let’s put the poor thing out of his misery."

         She closes her mouth, nods. Who was she to delay mercy?

         They step out of the blind. Thomas holds the rifle close. His steps are cautious, despite his confident words. She cups her hands over her face and breathes warmth over her runny nose. She stays close to Thomas but feels no comfort in it. She just wants to stay on the better side of the gun.

         Thomas stops beside the doe. Carefully, he nudges her little hoof with the muzzle of the rifle. She doesn't move. Blood dribbles from her lips and her ribs are still. There is no mist betraying her breath. Thomas grunts and moves toward the buck. His sides heave shallowly. Thomas clicks his tongue in disappointment and raises the gun to his shoulder once more.

         Her eyes are still on the doe. Thomas' back is on them, on doe and on woman, and her curiosity draws her near. She steps close enough to see the sharp points to her teeth, the talon tips of her hooves, the curved slits of her pupils.

         There is nothing pitiful about the sight. She is defeated. She is not prey.

         Her heart hammers in her breast as she turns to Thomas. The shot cracks out at the same moment the doe lunges for her. She doesn't have time to scream before the deer’s teeth sink into her calf. Fire lances through her veins and she waits for the inevitable rip of fangs through muscle, for her fresh blood to spray the oversaturated earth.

         The moment never comes. The doe releases her and shudders out her last breath in the amount of time it takes for the sound of the gunshot to fade. Thomas turns and stares at her quizzically. She realizes that he has no idea what happened. Blood trickles down her leg, but he doesn't notice. He only notices when she speaks.

         Still, she keeps silent. She tests her leg and feels little pain. She tells herself she'll go straight to the doctor when they get back. Thomas would never need to know. 

         Her leg throbs, but the bleeding has already stopped. Her cat has bitten her worse, she decides. Even this sick, tormented thing was gentler than the man she was prepared to promise her life to. She stares at his back as he measures the buck's rack, grumbling with irritation as he inspects the gaping ruin of the creature's throat.

         "Trophy's ruined," he says. "We'll need to head back to camp for the hand saw. We can take the antlers, at least."

         We. Always we. Her blood is buzzing now. He turns again, but not toward her. He is heading back the way they came, toward camp. But camp is a long way away. Everything is a long way away. Their life together feels like a foreign country, as distant and dead as the carcasses cooling at her feet. She doesn't want to head back to camp. She doesn't want to get the hand saw. She doesn't want to go home. She doesn't want to marry him. She doesn't want him.

         She says nothing.

         He pauses when he doesn't hear her footsteps behind him. He glances over his shoulder.

         "Let's go," he says. "We're done."

         She flexes her fingers. The morning air feels delicious on her skin now. She breathes in and tastes the metal on her tongue. It ignites something in her, something she has muzzled for far too long. Something hungry and ancient and waiting.

         Running her tongue across her jagged teeth, she smiles.

Dog Don't Hunt

Wade Junior ducks his head when he walks out through the front door, as he’s been doing since he was fourteen, the same year Momma walked out that door for the last time, ten years ago.

Mark Freeman is a writer and filmmaker who lives in northern Vermont with his wife and two daughters. Mark loves storytelling, be it long or short form fiction or filmmaking. He holds an MFA in Fiction Writing and is a 2017 graduate of the Mountainview Master of Fine Arts program.

The door slams shut behind him. Wade flinches in anticipation of his father’s angry rebuke—but it isn’t coming, Daddy’s gone now, too. He looks back at the house. The siding is worn, the navy paint faded to robin’s egg blue. Woodsmoke settles in the dooryard, the smell masking the stink of the kennels and overflowing trash bins next to the porch. From where Wade stands, the house leans towards him, the way Daddy used to whenever Wade done something wrong.

The beagles stir at the sound of the door. The baying of his hounds reminds Wade why he came outside in the first place. Most days the sound of the door means food or hunting, but today it means something else. 

Wade has already taken the dogs out this morning, run them back along the old Abernathy property down past the state forest. It’s Wade’s favorite spot to hunt hares, especially this time of year. There’s just enough snow to spot fresh tracks and sign, but it isn’t so much that it slows his dogs. 

Today’s hunt wasn’t their best. Emma—the pack’s matriarch—ran like she’s accustomed: hard and fast and at the forefront. Singer and Button were right behind her, quick to take the lead when she overshot the trail. They weren’t what was wrong with the run today, and not the reason Wade’s come back out of his house, leaving half a peanut butter sandwich uneaten on the dinner tray beside his chair. 

Bo had run off again. Wade had to go get Bo, chase him through the scrub, and found him barking up a tree at some dumb bird. No matter what he did, Wade could never get Bo to quit chasing songbirds. Chickadees, sparrows, bluejays, didn’t matter what it was, Bo’d chase it. Wade never once ran them on grouse or pheasant, only putting them on rabbit scent, but that didn’t matter none to Bo.

He’d considered just letting Bo go, leaving him out there chasing damn birds and taking the other three dogs home. Daddy’d done it before to other dogs. Daddy probably would have done it to Bo, but Wade couldn’t leave him out there like that, alone.

“Dog don’t hunt, dog don’t eat,” Wade hears his Daddy say. Daddy used to say it about the dogs, but he’d said it to Wade too. Plenty of nights Wade gone to bed hungry for not getting his chores done, or for making Daddy angry. Once, Wade left the milk on the counter after fixing himself cereal for breakfast. It was the last thing he ate until the next morning. “Dog don’t hunt, dog don’t breathe.”

Wade’s hand stops at the latch to the kennel. It’s old and rusted now, but Wade remembers when it was new.

“Here,” his Daddy had said, tossing a burlap bag at Wade’s feet.

“What do I do with it, sir?” Wade asked.

“Put the pups in it.” Daddy had said matter of fact. “All four.”

“Sir?”

“Put them pups in it and dump it in the creek. Make sure the whole bag’s under.”

Wade looked at the bag at his feet, but didn’t pick it up.

“They’re just pups, sir.”

“Yeah, but whose pups are they? Who left the kennel open? If you hadn’t, that bitch wouldn’t got herself knocked up, would she? Now, either them pups are Buster’s or they ain’t. And, if they ain’t, then they’re Jake’s. If they are Jake’s, can we sell ‘em?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“Cuz they’re brother and sister.”

“Right, and if I can’t sell ‘em, I don’t want to keep ‘em, so what’ve we got to do?”

Wade picked up the sack.

“What’ve we got to do?” Daddy asked again, his voice low and cold.

“Drown ‘em, sir.”

Wade replaced the latch on the kennel after he came back from the hardware store. He’d walked all the way into town to buy it, collecting bottles along the way, and cashed them in at the Price Chopper so he’d have the money for the latch. Wade kept his face downcast, eyes alert for bottles, dirt-streaked face averted from the cars on the road. Scared that if any of the passing drivers saw his face, they’d some how know what he’d done. 

When Wade arrived at the hardware store—change in hand—he was short thirty-seven cents. The plump lady at the counter told him to take the new latch anyway. She was sure she had enough change in the bottom of her purse to cover the difference. Wade thanked her, snatching the latch before she could change her mind, and hurried home.

His Daddy never said nothing about the pups or the new latch. Wade didn’t either; he didn’t ever want to have to talk about what happened down at the creek.

Wade opens the kennel door and slides inside. Emma, Button, Bo, and Singer jump up on his legs, licking at his hands. Muddy paws splatter his faded work pants. Wade brushes the dogs off.

“Stop. C’mon, you’re getting me all dirty.”

Bending over, Wade hooks Bo to the leash. Once hooked, Bo dashes towards the door. The other dogs jump and bark, excited to get out and run, but Wade only takes Bo. Emma blocks them at the gate, and Wade ushers her aside with his boot. The others bay and howl as Wade leads Bo past the truck. Bo lunges for the rig, expecting to climb into the hound box set in the bed of the pickup, but Wade pulls him on. He leads Bo out behind the house, past the garden boxes with spring cabbage, onions, and garlic put to bed for the winter. Past the woodshed, at the back of the yard, a stone sits just before the line of black firs. Daddy’s stone. 

Next to the stone is Wade’s spade stuck into the earth. Beside the shovel is a small mound of freshly dug dirt: rich, dark soil piled on the white snow. 

Through the trees Wade can see the LeBlanc family cemetery. The old stones scattered among the shadows of the forest. Wade wanted to put Daddy with the rest of the family, but the plot was overgrown and too small. He’d gotten him as close to everyone else as best he could. The worn headstones were different than Daddy’s too. They were old, quarried slate slabs, rounded at the top. Wade couldn’t afford a real gravestone like that. He’d found a stone he thought his father would like and hauled it back here. He’d spent a night chiseling the inscription; his penmanship had never been very good. Wade’s teachers always told him he wrote too big, his letters shaky in their placement, but Wade thought Daddy’s stone came out good. Better than Wade hoped. The stone read ‘Wade LeBlanc Seenyor' above the words ‘Keep huntin Daddy.’ Wade often wondered what Daddy would have thought of it.

Wade stops Bo there, makes him sit. The beagle can’t stay still, his whole back end wags along with his tail. He looks at his master, tongue lolling from the side of his mouth, eyes earnest. 

“Stop it, Bo. You know full well what Daddy always said. I ain’t got no choice in the matter.”

Bo swishes his tail in the shallow snow with more fervor, like a wiper on a windshield packing the snow to either side.

Wade reaches into his coat pocket. It’s heavy against his side, weighing down his jacket. Inside, the metal is cold against Wade’s sweaty hand. 

Emma and the other hounds continue their racket. The noise grates on Wade. His hand tightens in his pocket. 

“Quiet, Emma,” Wade’s voice catches and cuts short on the dog’s name. “This don’t concern you.”

Bo is impatient, he lifts his front feet, alternating left and right paws. 

“You know Daddy’s rule.” Wade takes his father’s pistol from his pocket.

Bo closes his mouth, his tongue still stuck out the side. He tips his head, looking at the gun.

“Tell Daddy I say hello,” Wade says and pulls the trigger. 

The shot is loud. Bo cries out before falling to the ground. His head too heavy to hold up, blood trickles from a hole above his eye. He whimpers at Wade’s boot.

The hounds’ barking escalates. They’re eager to run and hunt. Wade’s stomach churns.

Surprised that Bo is still alive, Wade flips Bo over on his side, and fires again. This time into the dog’s heart. Bo goes still beneath Wade’s foot. Small red drops, like high bush cranberries, stain the snow.

Wade unclips the leash and unfastens Bo’s collar. He scoops his hands beneath the small dog; the snow is cold against his hands, but Bo is warm in Wade’s palms. He lifts the dog, but Bo—lifeless—droops, almost slipping back to the ground. Warmth trickles along Wade’s arm, down his sleeve. He places Bo in the hole.

“You weren’t a bad dog.” Wade shovels dirt back into the hole. “But you got to hunt to eat.”

When Wade is done with the hole, he returns to the front of the house. Button and Singer stand on their hind legs, front paws on the kennel fencing, tails wagging. Emma sits at the door and watches Wade, waiting for Bo. The leash and collar feel leaden in Wade’s hand. 

“He ain’t coming back, Em.” 

Inside, Wade hangs the leash and collar on the coat hooks beside the door. He sits down next to the wood-stove, his sandwich on the TV tray beside his chair. At the sight of Daddy’s empty recliner, Wade thinks of the day he brought Daddy home from the hospital. 

Wade had to carry Daddy inside and place him in his chair by the fire. Wade looked away when Daddy watched him, his mouth contorted to the side, his eyes wide and milky. One side of Daddy had shriveled up after, his hand pulled tight and claw-like to his chest, his leg bent. The hospital wanted to put him in a home, but Wade said no. Wade said he would take care of him. The hospital bills were already more than they could afford.

At the thought of money, Wade takes the bill next to his sandwich and feeds it to the fire. He doesn’t bother opening it. The pink final-notice slip inside is visible through the plastic window of the envelope. Wade watches it burn in the wood-stove. The window browns and bends back upon itself contorting into something twisted and unrecognizable.

There’s no money for the electric bill. No money for the taxes. No money for Daddy’s medical bills. They all keep coming anyhow. Don’t matter which bill it is, or which collector trying to collect, they’re all out of luck.

“Can’t get blood from a stone,” Wade remembers Daddy saying.

“No, sir,” Wade says aloud, watching the fire. He grips the armrests of his chair. “Can’t get nothin’ from a stone.”

“God, dammit,” Wade shouts. He hears the dogs outside yip and bark in reply. Wade stops, remembering it was the last thing Daddy ever said, just as the stroke hit him. Wade didn’t know what to do at first. He sat in his chair, not looking, expecting Daddy to cuff him on the back of his head for something he’d done. But the cuff never came. When Wade got up to see what Daddy had shouted about, he found Daddy sprawled out on the kitchen floor, face down, nose broken, a growing puddle of piss seeping out from beneath him. Wade dragged Daddy from the house, strapped him into the truck, and drove him to the hospital. 

The next morning Wade loads Emma, Button, and Singer up in the hound box on the back of the pickup. The dogs are excited again to be let loose from the kennel. Wade thinks any hard feelings Emma may have had yesterday have been forgiven this morning with the prospect of an early morning hunt.

Wade slides Daddy’s 20 gauge onto the gun rack along the back window of the truck before getting in. The truck stutter-starts and settles into a loud idle. Even with the windows closed, Wade can hear the barking of the hounds. Their excitement doesn’t sound quite right. There’s something missing today.

Wade finds his favorite spot at the Abernathy property. A small pull off, just before the state forest, where the Gihon River switches back upon itself. He steps from the truck, buttoning up his wool jacket before retrieving the shotgun.

The dogs pick up the scent of a hare almost as soon as they’re let loose from the truck. Button finds the scent first, baying loud and taking off into the forest. Singer follows right after, but Emma lags behind. Wade follows the dogs, listening for their barks, changing his course accordingly. He’s lost sight of Singer and Button, but he catches glimpses of Emma through the trees. 

Wade finds an opening in the forest. He knows hares like to run in an oblong pattern. He raises his shotgun to his shoulder. The baying grows louder as the dogs begin working the hare back. 

Then there’s a different bark. Far off, deeper in tone, morose. The baying is still there, louder and closer. Then the screams. A dog in pain, whimpering. Wade sets off at a run in the direction of the cries. He pushes through dense cover. Snow falls from the fir branches as he pushes towards the screams. The forest around him smells of balsam, like Christmas. He’s almost there when the cover clears. Wade stands on the bank of the Gihon. In his rush, he’s lost track of where he was in the woods. The river runs loud, even from beneath its frozen sheath. On the far side is Emma. Wade sees her tracks cutting across the ice. She’s caught in a foothold trap on the far bank. Emma pulls and yanks on the chain, but the trap holds fast. She yowls and cries. Wade notes the sound of panic amid her pain. As Wade pushes through the last of the trees, Emma sees him and becomes frantic, desperate to pull away.

Wade looks down the embankment, but it’s a sheer drop to the river below. He scans the tree line looking for a place to get across when the bank beneath him reveals itself to be nothing more than a snow drift blown along the river and gives way. He falls head first and drops his gun. Wade worries it might discharge. He extends his hands to break his fall, but the ice shatters like glass. Wade’s hands thrust into the frigid water and don’t slow his fall. His face crashes through ice, slams against rock.

Wade scrambles to stand up from the cold water. He can’t discern if the ache in his hands is from the cold or the impact. There’s a sharp pain along his forehead, just above his right eye, and a warmth spreads across his face. Wade sloshes across the river, intermittently breaking through the ice and staying atop of it. His wool trousers, heavy with water, pull him down. 

When Wade reaches the far bank of the stream, he collapses to the ground. He can hear Emma’s cries again. She’s just up the stream from where he’s collapsed. She sounds even more distraught, but it sounds as if she’s moving farther and farther away. Wade tries to spot her along the bank, but his vision blurs. It grows black in his periphery, as if he’s looking down a long tunnel. The pain of his forehead gets worse and he wonders if he’ll vomit before he passes out. 

The day he brought Daddy home, the hospital warned Wade he wouldn’t be able to care for his father. That his needs were too many. They suggested scheduling a visiting nurse to come by and help, but Wade never set one up. Daddy wasn’t able to talk after the stroke, but he could still point with his good hand. He could still grunt pretty loud, and mean, too. After Wade sat Daddy in his chair, Daddy looked at the gun rack up on the wall.

Wade followed Daddy’s gaze to the guns. Daddy whined, his mouth frothing, his eyes watery. The look in them was one Wade had never seen before from Daddy. His eyelid—the one that drooped now after the stroke—twitched.

Daddy’d whimpered, thrashing in his chair, but Wade didn’t move or say anything. Wade recognized the look in Daddy’s eye then. It was the same look the dogs got whenever Daddy hollered at them, the same way Wade felt when Daddy raised a hand to Wade. Wade knew fear when he saw it.

“Dog don’t hunt,” Wade had said.

Wade’s eyes flutter open, snowflakes cling to his lashes. It takes him a moment to realize where he is, what’s happened. Pushing himself up, his stomach churns. Wade vomits his breakfast, staining the snow with his morning’s coffee and toast. He shakes his head to dislodge the cobwebs, but his brain flashes white hot as if electrified. Taking hold of his head, he squeezes it to stop the ache.

Wade looks upstream for Emma, but she’s no longer there. He tries to gauge the time, but the light is flat against the snow. He stumbles towards where he last saw her and finds the trap sprung, chain outstretched, but still anchored to the ground. Emma gone. Wade thinks he sees boot prints around the trap, around where Emma had been, but can’t tell for sure.  

Wade is all alone.

Downstream a tree lies across the creek. Wade thinks he can use it to negotiate the stream and make his way back to his truck. He stumbles towards it, slips free from his coat, dropping it on the bank of the river onto broken ice slabs. The footing is precarious, each misstep jars his head again, sending shockwaves through his skull.

“Emma!” Wade pauses, to catch his breath against the stabbing in his forehead, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s worried about his dogs, so he shouts again. “Emma, come!” Wade’s voice echoes down the stream bed.

Barks, faint in the wind, carry back towards Wade. He’s not sure at first, as if the woods are playing tricks on him. He holds still, tries to be quiet. Another wave of it reaches Wade, but this time from behind him. Wade smiles. He doesn’t care where the dogs are coming from, just as long as they come. Good ol’ Emma.

“Here, Emma,” Wade shouts, relief cracks his voice.

The baying grows louder. It’s excited, the sound of hounds on scent. Wade starts in the direction of the dogs, he’ll meet them halfway. Wade passes his coat heading back along the bank. 

“Emma. Here, Emma!”

Over-heated, Wade slips out of his work shirt and lets it fall, landing next to Wade’s imprint in the snow where he’d passed out.

The baying grows louder. The dogs sound like they’re right on top of him now, but behind him again. Wade turns and sees Emma break from the trees along the bank. She races towards him, tongue lolling from the side of her mouth.

Four more dogs race from the forest, noses raised, voices excited. Wade pauses. Too many, he thinks. Emma is almost on top of him.

Not Emma.

Bo.

“No,” Wade says. “No, no, no, no.”

Wade knows it’s impossible, that it can’t be, but he sees the hole above the dog’s eye. 

A shadow stumbles from the trees behind the dogs, clawed hand bent into its chest. The figure shambles towards Wade.

Wade steps onto the ice. The rush of water beneath drowns out the barking of the hounds. The ice vibrates under his feet from the thundering water. The far bank is close, the river narrower here, but the ice uneven. Wade rushes to cross, to distance himself from the dogs and thing, even though he can’t hear them anymore. He chances a look back. The first dog has stopped along the shore of the river. The others jump and scratch along the bank behind him, mouths open and close in silent barks. 

Wade slips, his ankle rolls on the jagged ice. He falls to one knee, tries to catch himself, but his knee breaks through the ice. Wade loses his balance, careens to the side. Frantic to grab hold of anything, he pinwheels his arms, reaching, before he crashes backwards. He sinks ass first into the river. Wade claws at the ice on the edge of the hole, his fingers scratch the surface, scrape troughs of white flakes.

The dark water pulls Wade down. Rapids thunder into him as he sinks, flowing over the top of him, pushing and pulling now. He gasps for air, but water fills his mouth. The pain in his head expands. Wade thinks of hot summers and the rush to eat his ice cream before it melts. The water laps against his face.

His lungs burn, the only warmth left in him. He opens his eyes to the rush of water, but the hole in the ice looks far away, the light dim.