Is that really the kind of humor you think ladies would find charming?
I will remind you that our campus security is sparse but vigilant nonetheless.
Anasiria, put down the X-Acto. Viviana, stay close to Anasiria.
You will see this kit also includes a bundle of sage to clear his house of negativity and evil spirits. I don’t know why you find that funny, sir. Believe it or not, sage can clear even the dankest of places. Here we also have a prayer card for St. Christopher to protect him on his travels, a horseshoe for good luck, a rosary for his soul . . . Oh, look at this. You also have a small laminated portrait of Sinluz, one of my dearest gatos.
No, sir. You are misinformed.
What they sell in stores is “alleged black cat bone.” The repulsive manufacturing methods and ungainly mathematics of the supply and demand are too risky for any business to invest in that cruel harvest.
No, I will not comment on or condone the practices of less ethical independents, but I will say that my cats are treated with love and respect. They are my friends.
That is a vicious and dangerous accusation.
I protect my cats as each of the ladies in this class protect their lovers or their children.
What’s that smirk supposed to mean?
Sir, you are out of line.
You have offended me and I will give you a chance to leave.
You need to calm down.
Sit down.
What is that in your hand? Is that one of my knives?
Sit down!
Where did you get that hook?
I did not include that in the supply kit!
I did not include that in the supply kit!
Mujeres! The wire, the needles, the rope coiled around each of your chairs. Paola, bring me the toloache and vials of mercury. Viviana, please lock the door.
Now that your tuition has been paid in full, each of you will have guaranteed success in your endeavors. When you light your candles tonight, you may include a prayer for the lost souls in limbo. La Anima Sola now knows your names. Your classmate murmurs them aloud as he waits.
Release your pigeons before sunset. Be sure to truly want what you ask for, you will receive it and be expected to respect and care for it. It will come in doses or in one rush of fortune, those are things I can’t tell you and you can’t expect to know. There are mysteries, there are mysteries.
Feed and care for your santos, listen and speak to your ancestors. Keep a record of your dreams and impulses, take time to find the patterns within. Feed stray animals, take care of your fellow man. I’ll see you all again in the Advanced Class. I will not be the teacher but we will all be students. We are all required to attend.
Marytza K. Rubio
is a writer from santa ana, california.
HEIRLOOM
KENNETH W. CAIN
Sleek leather dizzied him, as he traced the camera’s contours. He shook his head, his own name escaping him, and returned his gaze to the camera. He’d never seen one quite like this, and even with his lightheadedness, his hands were eager. For now all he could do was look—examining it just as it seemed to scrutinize him through its solitary eye.
What an amazing creation.
Recalling his name, Thaddeus Claremont rose from all fours to his knees with some effort. He scanned the grassy knoll, but saw no one else. Whoever had lost this camera hadn’t bothered to stick around. He brushed a light coat of pollen from its side with two gentle fingers, feeling a tingling sensation. The camera hadn’t been here long. So why hadn’t they come back for it?
Maybe the camera wasn’t lost.
Considering this, Thad wondered why anyone would want to intentionally get rid of something so beautiful. He’d used cameras often enough in his line of business, and had come to appreciate photography. The housing on this camera, although worn and aged
like one would expect, wasn’t as boxy as those he’d seen in pictures from the early twentieth century.
Again, Thad explored his surroundings. From his spot in the tall grass he saw nothing but trees and bushes, the road where his Cutlass was still running, its door wide open. But he didn’t recall leaving the door ajar.
He scanned the field from his car to this place in the grass. How he’d spotted the camera was still a mystery. He remembered the row of pine trees, counting them one by one as he passed. He’d seen the old Miller place, long since abandoned. Trevor Miller had lost his job and his family, left everything behind after going bankrupt. Miller had failed to sell the property and the bank foreclosed. That house was the reason Thad had come here.
After the house, there was New Hope Baptist Church and the graveyard adjacent to the property. Thad had buried his mother there and in passing the graveyard, he’d thought of a childhood myth and held his breath until he fully passed. That was when a glimmer caught his eye. Seeing it now, he thought it was a one in a million chance he should spot the small device in such a grassy field.
Glancing back down, he seized the camera. It was heavier than he’d expected, as if something wanted it to stay right where it’d been left. A slight crack in its lens indicated it would no longer function. This would be no more than a showpiece. He opened the back, finding an abundance of cobwebs and dust inside. The mirror was also broken. He blew hard, forcing air into the housing and the dust stirred, causing him to sneeze. Itchy nose and all, he kept staring inside the camera.
This would be a great place to hide something.
Thad closed the camera and held it tight against his chest, feeling dizzy as he reached his feet. He hurried to the car, as if he were thieving this antique and threw himself into the seat. Before closing the door he placed the camera on the passenger seat with care. There she sat, almost seeming to glimmer, his very own antique camera with its special hiding spot. He longed to find something to put inside it.
Before he left, he found himself staring back out across the grassy field. Something about his departure felt wrong. After a few lingering moments, he threw the car into drive and headed back to his office.
It was a tedious drive from the country to the city. He’d made the trip several times, always on business, but it was getting to a point where he considered such trips more of a hassle than they were worth. In the end, he’d gotten the pictures of Harry Edenton with his young mistress, and that would pay the bills for another month, maybe a little longer. This was the reason he made such journeys—for the money. Money always made his problems go away. But sometimes it created new ones. This month’s setback came in the form of scotch. He poured himself a tall snifter, drinking as he browsed the photos.
She’s going to pay extra for these last few.
He spread them out and then slid the three apart from the rest. They were as good as pornography. Thinking this, Thad thumbed to the last, seeing much of the young woman’s pale flesh. He picked it up and lingered on her curves.
She’s something else, all right.
His eyes fell back to the sleek vintage camera. Crossing to his shelves, he stared at it a moment longer before picking it up. He opened the back of the camera, the urge overcoming him, and his desire to put something inside it. In went the photo and he closed the back, holding it for a second before placing the antique back on the bookshelf. He admired the camera with a grin.
A knock at the door startled him. Thad gathered the rest of the photos and shoved them back into the envelope, planting the best two at the end. He turned and found Jane Edenton’s fuzzy silhouette in the window of his door, his name showing backwards across her face.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and stepped inside, pulling it shut behind her. “Thank you. How do you do?”
He lit a cigarette, took a drag, and blew out a fine cloud of smoke. “I do just fine.”
Fidgeting, she looked nervous. “Did you get what I asked for?”
He took another puff and let it out slow. “Of course I did.”
This seemed to make her anxious. And eager
buyers always paid more.
Mrs. Edenton had suspected her husband’s infidelity, but she had no interest in a divorce. She had money and that meant she could buy anything she wanted.
“May I see them?” she asked.
Thad picked up the envelope and tossed it across the desk, observing with interest.
Nearly tearing the envelope open, she took the photos out all at once and pawed through them. She’d see the young Miss Harlow, and her long spill of blonde hair. She’d view the nape of her neck, the young woman’s bare shoulders, the small of her back. There would be photos of them hugging and kissing, and then she’d see the two at the end. One with the young lady on her knees, and the other with her on all fours.
When Mrs. Edenton came to the last two, her already troubled face flushed. She turned away for a moment. When she looked back, Thad could see her comparing herself to this young woman. She glanced at her own chest, confirming his suspicions, and then sighed lightly.
“These . . . these are exactly what I asked for . . . ”
“I aim to please, Ma’am.”
Pained eyes found him. “Do you?”
This he’d also expected. Afterward she’d try to negotiate a lower price, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he’d hit her up for extra and hold her accountable for her actions. She’d pay up, too. They always did.
Jane set the photos aside and threw off her long jacket. She was a good-looking woman. What a shame a man would cheat on a woman like this. She unbuttoned her shirt, revealing a hint of the red bra beneath. She slid off her skirt, lacy red panties capturing his attention.
A flash filled the room, blinding Thad before he could make his move. He thought the bright light had come from the antique camera, but that was impossible. The damned thing didn’t even have a flash. But he was certain it had originated from that very spot.
His hands shot out, finding soft, warm flesh as he took her into his arms. She came willingly, stepping into him and kissing his neck. Running his hands down her sides, it surprised him how voluptuous she was, having thought her of a thicker build. He kissed her, caught in the throes of passion and forgetting the camera, as well as the large white spot hindering his vision.
Her lips were soft, her tongue breeching his mouth, and his moving to meet it in a dance. Her hands were on his back, easing off his jacket and then in front unbuttoning his shirt. A single hand slid inside, rubbing his chest and working its way down.
With the white haze clearing, he opened his eyes and saw the red strap of her bra. His hands worked their way around and undid the clasp. It came away easy, with him drifting back enough to let it fall free to the floor. That was when he saw it, or rather her.
Standing before him, bare-chested and clothed only in her red panties, was young Daisy Harlow. His eyes stole glances up and down her firm body and she smiled.
This can’t be.
He staggered back and her lips formed a pout. She bit one side of her bottom lip, and then moved in on him. Thad backed away until he found himself forced against the wall. She was at him, her hands all over him. It was difficult to resist, trying hard not to think of the woman in his arms. He shook his head.
Her curious eyes searched him. “What is it?”
He held up his palms, hoping she would ease back some. “It’s just that...” How could he put this without hurting Jane? Hell, he was going mad, so if he didn’t just come out and say it, he would be doing her an injustice. “I see Daisy Harlow.”
Her smile waned, her pout seeming to grow. “Well of course you do, silly.”
“I . . . ” Wrinkles formed on his forehead. “I don’t understand.”
“What are you talking about, Harry?”
His eyes widened, feeling strained. “What did you call me?”
His tone sounded panicked, as he noticed for the first time that it wasn’t his voice at all. Not only that, but this wasn’t his office. Shaken, he fell back, surprised when he landed on something soft. She was on him, rubbing him, and he was giving in. She kissed him, and then was at his jeans, prying and freeing. She gasped as he entered her. Thad forgot himself, where he was and what might have happened, surrendering to passion.
When the door opened, they were too caught up in the throes of lovemaking to notice. Her blonde hair tinged with red, but only on one side. Her face, angled up, now nodded down to him. One side of her face remained intact, but the side farthest from the door no longer looked anything like her. A gaping red hole stared down at him.
She collapsed on his chest, with him still inside of her. Her blood-soaked hair flayed across his face. He pawed at his eyes and pushed her aside, seeing a broad-chested man standing near the door, reloading his gun.
Thad ran, a loud crack frightening him as the hot sting of a bullet found his thigh. Stumbling, he hopped on one foot, still trying to escape. Heading for the back door, he was losing blood fast and wasn’t sure if he would make it. The click of a gun chamber came again, followed by another explosion. His vision blurred and then cleared, everything going red all at once. He stared at the door, through the window, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. He began to fall, hearing words, something about revenge, but unable to discern whose words they were.
He blinked his eyes and for a moment he was himself again. But then that part of him was gone, forever lost in the dark and never coming back. He tried to open his eyes, but they would no longer respond. He yielded to the sensation, letting it wash over him and chose to doze instead. The sleep was good, never-ending, and all encompassing.
Harry woke in a haze, not feeling quite himself. With some effort he stood, the room spinning around him.
Where am I? Who am I?
He thought long and hard, but only one name came to him, “Thaddeus Claremont?”
That sounded right.
He tried to focus on something, anything, and discovered the aged camera. He staggered toward it, his legs struggling, but carrying him there.
Leaning hard against the shelving, he took the camera and held it tight against his chest. There was something that felt so wrong about it, but another part of him wanted the camera more than anything, whether it worked or not. It would make a good keepsake, but he found himself longing to put something inside of the antique.
kenneth w. cain
is the author of the saga of i trilogy (these trespasses, grave revelations, and reckoning), the united states of the dead, and two acclaimed short story collections: these old tales and fresh cut tales. his short stories have been published, or are forthcoming, in several anthologies and publications. he lives in chester county, pennsylvania with his wife and two children.
http://kennethwcain.com
THE OWL
AND THE
CIGARETTE
AMANDA GOWIN
Her favorite part of the old house had been the screen door facing the river. She’d stand late at night against the frame and smoke hand-rolled cigarettes, tracing his initials on the window screen with her free hand, faded ink under her fingers with her eyes on the lights of town. All the screens held some trace of his hand, each frame labeled neatly for storage in the outbuilding. With her skin against his mark she didn’t ache so much, picking out the light of the White Woman’s porch in the distance and knowing that the windows and doors of the Other Woman’s were not so carefully claimed, cataloged, possessed. In the Other’s house he was a guest, a visitor, and the shape of his body made no welcome mold in that bed, spoke not the word Home in his mind nor on his lips. The dark was a comfort, quiet as it was, with the smoke pulled toward the moon like a drafty white hole in the sky—a tear that needed mending with a little spackle or some thread, nothing that couldn’t be patched.
That was before The Fire. After, she stood in the door to the new trailer in the old spot with her hand on an unmarked frame, watching the same distant porch light—and the moon was larger, brighter, and she had no thread strong enough, or mud thick enough to blot that wound in the sky. An owl called and
she never had an answer, just the surety that his body rested in a now familiar groove in that bed not a mile away. There was no home to come to, no comfort or reminder of anything holding him to her. Her skin shone in the moonlight, slick ivory and unfamiliar, and she knitted the eyebrows she no longer had at her alien self. A scarf around her head, body against the doorway in posture too familiar to ever change, the cigarette and light of the Other’s house were the only things she recognized. The hand that brought the paper to her lips was not her own.
Just the children looked right at her—the daughters of her daughters and sons of her sons. Where her own brood found her hard to look upon, the tiny ones lifted their eyes in wonder. They rubbed her hands and said she was made of silk, white silk, and that her face looked like the moon. Brown fingers entwined in her own and asked her for stories of magic and animals, of the spirits in the trees and the water. She helped them put the beads on string with her legs folded on the vinyl floor while her own children shifted under the weight of memory, more comfortable now on the couch of the Other than in this new plastic house with this new plastic mother. The night the children left she stood in the door and dripped tears, her eyes trained after the taillights, the porch light forgotten, and when the owl asked Who? she pitched her cigarette onto the ground in distaste for the dirt itself and retreated into the trailer. There was nothing to return to, no rocking chair’s decades-old song, no blankets of her mother.
The night the Other’s porch light did not blink to life, the moon itself was gone, and she wrapped in a coat and crossed the dark. The owl was silent and spoke not a word as she passed; they looked into each other. It swung its head to follow her steps from the dead branch of the half-blackened tree. She crossed the rope bridge on uncertain legs, over the narrow river that hissed and gurgled beneath her.
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