Contributor: Amin Hosseinioun

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Her blanket slipped down as she raised herself from the bed. He was outside again; sitting on a branch on the old oak; staring at her through the window. He was the Crow. She cried out and covered her nakedness. They stared at each other for several minutes. "What of it" she thought, "it is only a crow". Throwing off her blankets she walked from the room naked, under the crow's fixed gaze which she felt even through the walls. Whatever it was, it wasn’t natural.

In the classroom, words on the blackboard were out of focus. She could feel his eyes roaming over her body. Glancing outside she screamed in surprise: he was there again, sitting in an oak tree, staring at her.

From that day on, things grew more different by day. Now she walked with her hair around her neck and her high heels giving her a sexier shape. Finally on a day like any other, as she was removing her blouse to take her shower, she saw him again, his face covering an entire wall, his eyes as big as her head. She backed away, her hands faltering as they reached for the door.

For a while she resisted, finally she shed her blouse with shaking hands, naked legs propelling her under the dashing warmth of falling water, and the crow observing her fingers as they worked her neck and chest.

Without drying herself she made her way to her room, head lowered. He was waiting in the window frame. Opening the window, she knelt down and shut her eyes and kissed his beak. Bones in her fingers stood out, her lips were merging into his black beak. As she pulled back, her lips stretched out. She struck at him in fright, but her arms now were covered with feathers, spreading into wings. Soon she perched in the window frame, a small crow.


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I am a published writer in Farsi, in Iran, I have published two gothic novellas and many essays on literature and other narrative forms. you can read my other publication here: http://www.linguisticerosion.com/2012/04/letter-of-grind.html

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Author: Amin Hosseinioun

Contributor: Alun Williams

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The old man who worked on the fourteenth floor had no name. I guess his mother gave him one, but that was some time ago and no one knew what it was or what he did.
We all had our jobs, our little compartments and we all had name tags too, just so we didn’t forget, except for the old guy. He didn’t have an office of his own, not that we knew about. We couldn’t ever find out where he worked, except that we knew it was on the fourteenth floor. Once, we put a chalk cross on every door on the floor and wrote the names of all the staff who worked there. He didn’t work in any of them but each morning he arrived, disappeared down the corridor and reappeared when it was time for lunch.
Harvey Goldblum followed him one time. He came back and said that the old guy, we called him Arthur, went to the third bench on the Bethesda Terrace, folded his jacket and lay down and slept for thirty four minutes before returning to his non-existent office and his non-existent job. Each of us took turns following him after that. Arthur followed exactly the same routine every lunch break and seemed to sleep through the noise of the city for exactly thirty four minutes. When it was my turn to follow him, I watched him fall asleep and wished that I too could sleep as easily and as well as he did. He seemed to reach a peak of total calm. I hated him for that.
No one at the office wanted to confront him. Administration thought it was the responsibility of human resources, who in turn thought it was payroll’s responsibility. Payroll said security were the ones who should handle it, but they felt that without any evidence to back up any action, they might be sued, so they sent a memo to all departments asking for a list of all employees’ names and security id numbers. They thought that by eliminating names to numbers they could find out who the mysterious old guy was. Unfortunately they found another sixteen members of staff who weren’t supposed to work there and all hell broke loose!
They never did find out his secret. Arthur continued to come in every day and carried on taking a thirty four minute nap on his lunch break. We decided to let him continue. Confrontation is not one of the main attributes of a data processor’s functions and one day we thought, if we live long enough and beat the boredom, we could all sleep like Arthur.


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Alun Williams resides in Wales and is no relation to either Tom or Catherine Zeta Douglas. Writer of Flash fiction and poetry he resides as maxieslim and maxwell allen on sites such as Critters-bar and Scrawl. Published in Yellow Mama, Pure Slush and Palehouse to name but a few. Loves noir and Charles Bukowski.

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Author: Alun Williams

Contributor: Erin Cole

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Claire popped her joints into the corner of the wall and became amber doorframe. Three children charged down the hallway, shrieking with ear-splitting rumpus. The eldest, Sam, tripped over a spot he couldn’t identify. He scratched his head in wonderment, then resumed to the fake beheading of his twin sisters’ by the dull glint of a plastic, pirate sword.

Only when they were gone, did Claire wring her shoulders from the molding and continue searching Sam’s room, specifically looking for evidence that he had been shifting. A number of peculiar happenings threatened to confirm her hunch: the stereo clicked on by itself, skipping through tunes like a scratched record. The front door slammed on its own, not a breeze in sight, and the lights intermittently. New house, new bulbs.

If he had been shifting, flakes of skin would dust the floor around the objects he had shifted into, one of the side effects of chemical alteration. Claire didn’t think he would be of mind yet to hide it.

But Sam was only eight, much too young to start shifting. Regardless of age, shifters had to sign contracts, be initiated, undergo training … it was a thorough, tedious process with the Others, that if skipped, resulted in fines and/or imprisonment.

Claire rummaged through tubs of ‘boy stuff’ also know as ‘what the hell is this?’ stuff. After an excess of crude discoveries, she sat down on his bed defeated, but still ripe with suspicion. The blanket beneath her moved and transformed into her husband’s groping hand.

“Dammit Jack. Stop that!”

The blanket curled up, becoming his head, torso, and legs. A giggle reddened his shifting face. “Works every time,” he beamed, sitting down human again.

Claire flicked his skin flakes away with the back of her hand and turned pinched brows to him. “This is serious. Sam is only eight, and I think he’s shifting already. Last week, Evette’s daughter, Lynn, you know, the little girl with the hot-pink braces smile?” She paused, if only for a vague nod from Jack before continuing. “Turns out, she shifted into the microphone before her brother’s performance. I heard it was awful and obvious to the Others. They fined the family $1000, and no one has heard from the mother since. She just up and disappeared.”

“She probably shifted into a boat and sailed away.”

“Patty? She’d never do a thing like that.” Claire noticed Jack lift his face aside, in a way that seemed to conceal the expression of a secret thought. “Spill it or by the dark side of the moon, I’ll shift into the unthinkable.” Her eyes drilled him with equal threat.

He stalled, seemingly teetering on a decision, and then pulled a card from his shirt pocket. He handed it to her.

Shape Shifters Anonymous: we bend into objects, so why not rules? “Oh, Jack. Say you didn’t?”

His mouth bent into a smirk, then he slipped into the lamp next to him. The cord tugged on itself and suspended Claire in darkness.

“Aaaagghh!”

She shot up from the bed, made contact with the ceiling, and melted into it like a snake gliding into water. The house shook side to side. It shuddered, knocking pictures from the wall and books off the shelves. The lights flashed, cutting everyone’s movement into a robotic stride.

Jack shifted back into human and followed his children’s hollers into the kitchen.

“Dad!” the twins yelled. “It’s an earthquake!”

“No,” Jack said, shaking his head. “Your mother is … home.”


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Erin Cole is a dark fiction writer from Portland, OR with work published in various electronic and print publications. Last year, her story, “The Wall of Never Doubt,” won 10th place in Writer’s Digest 80th Annual Writing Competition, Genre Short Story.

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Author: Erin Cole

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert

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Everybody is talking about the economy. He knows that’s a big deal. When things are bad, English classes are one of the first things to go. He is underpaid, underworked and will be on a plane to the US soon unless he can find some new friends with children and deep pockets.

He’s not sure if he even cares. He lives in the heart of Madrid, right next to the Plaza Mayor. He knows a lot of people, but he knows few people well. That first conversation, first copa, first kiss is always easy.

He’s looking for something more.

He knows that what happened in Barcelona wasn’t real. He knows that that was part of the deal and yet he wishes there was more to it.

He will finish after lunch tomorrow. From there he will go straight to El Prado. He knows which ones she likes.

Besides, stranger things have happened.


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Taylor Dibbert has been published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Foreign Policy Journal, Foreign Policy in Focus and elsewhere. He is a columnist for International Policy Digest and the author of the book Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth.

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Author: Taylor Dibbert

Contributor: Graham Lowther

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"Nothing is indivisible," said the moldering frail shadow of the antique silent dead clock.

"Well that's very dispiriting," came the reply.

"Not my concern. However, there is this exception." The clock's shadow extended a faint fist which corresponded with nothing of the clock, and uncurled it revealing the Indivisible Exception flickering with inward red light--a Substance in the shape of a miniature unicorn stood solidly on the moldering silhouette palm.

A human hand took the Indivisible Exception. A mouth laughed in triumph. Eyes roved about in jittery, nervous near-terror. Legs carried the whole assembly, the man, away from the clock and, more significantly, its shadow. The shadow of a lamp lay in the path the desiccated shriveled brain had plotted out. "Why do you put my progress in doubt?" said the mouth.

The lamp's shadow was still and silent.

"You should know of my importance: I am the carrier of the Indivisible Exception," said the mouth. A fist extended clutching the Indivisible Exception, and uncurled.

The lamp's shadow rippled and shook. It said, "That is a model of indivisibility in the same way as it is a model of a unicorn."

The ears recoiled, squeezing themselves into the skull, smothering the brain. The other, unpreoccupied hand reached for the lamp's switch. Both outstretched hands trembled. The Indivisible Exception tipped and fell. The lamp clicked on, its shadow-obliterating illumination depicting individual abstract shapes scattered on the floor.


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Graham Lowther lives in Maine, currently five miles from a timeless black planet he sees hovering thirty feet closer to his residence every other week. A flash fiction of his was published in The Thackery T. Lambshead Cabinet of Curiosities.

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Author: Graham Lowther

Contributor: Miles Gough

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“You would be amazed with what monsters talk about when they get together,” the Grand Fiend told me over a meal of take-out falafel (for me) and deep fried human fingers (for him). He leaned back, in that typical expansiveness of his, and smiled fangs. “What do you think monsters talk about?”

“I’m not sure, prime hunting grounds, you know, how to get victims.”

“Not by half,” he said with strong slither of dismissal. “Why would they ask about that in this overpopulated world, this is a global fast food proposition. Do you talk to your friend about grocery shopping?”

“Then I suppose they go on about not getting caught by the authorities or at least, from those monster hunters you’ve mentioned.”

“Sir Edward and his ilk? Why bother? Talking about them just enables the little nuisances, best not mention vermin or every where you go, you will swear you are noticing cockroaches underneath every foot fall, for those who have feet. No. I will stop you from going any further. What do monsters talk about? They talk clothing.”

He paused long enough to realize that I had an expected response and filled my part, “Clothing? What do you mean clothing?”

“I mean, that is what they talk about. Vampires go on about adequate dry cleaning. The kind that truly can remove blood stains from good shirts. They exchange business cards of good ones for every city they might be visiting. They mention the excellent, no questions asked locations. There are endless debates over the worth of one hour cleaning or the two days get it right establishments. They can go on endlessly on a side debate about proper reprisals of those dry cleaners who leave stains in. Should they be killed or perhaps just a well worded critique on Yelp. Then another discussion concerns why get the stains out at all, is it to avoid detection or is it but a deep sense of propriety? Vampires are much about aesthetics, too much if you will take my editorial aside.

“Lycanthropes and all the shape shifters have in depth discussions on leaving and creating clothing caches. These might be the most delightful of arguments, it borders on art because there is no good way to seed the world with proper sweat suit hideaways. One were-bear I had the chance of meeting claimed to have created the entire nudist colony movement back in the fifties just to justify his lack of proper dress. I did not believe him, but a what a lovely hour I spent listening to such rot.

“Other popular topics are about biting through types of clothing. Some shape shifters are allergic to the synthetic material in some apparel. Others cannot stand the feel of gortex on their incisors. And everyone loathes down vests with all those feathers fluttering about their crime scenes. It is all about clothing.”

Perhaps I was too entertained with the topic, and I said, “And mummies go on about what medical supply stores have the best gauze bandages.”

The Grand Fiend sniffed dismissively. “Mummies do not stay in their bandages. They leave that thing behind as soon as they are resurrected. Though that does bring up a difficult and all too common discussion; what clothing style should be worn? Is one trapped in an antiquated style or should one go modern dress? The mummies also want to wear those ancient Egyptian toga schmatas that they were so found of back in the hieroglyphic days. Others in the conversation stress that you should consult the latest issue of GQ. Some vampire tribes live for that new couture, while others, those recently unearthed, are stuck in fedoras and starched shirt collars. Wars have started over such schisms. “

“And what’s the answer,” I said. “Who’s right?”

“Neither are completely wrong. I think the skeletal parasite demons have it right when they wear the skin of their victims. It doesn’t matter the style or skin color, it is how you swagger in it. If you believe in yourself and your right to be seen, then you are wearing your environment like a fine beau brommel. You have to feel good in your own skin, whether it is yours or just something you’ve borrowed for a spell. But, it is best to change with the age, to shed your skin for the time. Like this.”

And the Grand Fiend demonstrated how that change should be done.


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Author: Miles Gough

Contributor: John Laneri

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A September moon was just beginning to appear when Jarvis Thornton, a quiet, little man, stepped away from the food table and started across the town square. In the air, a hint of fall made the night perfect for an old-fashioned election rally.

Smiling broadly, he worked his way through a crowd of people, acknowledging friends and acquaintances. In just two short months, he hoped to be the next mayor of Baxterville, a small community near Waco.

From all indications, his candidacy was pulling ahead, especially after the town council had refused to endorse Big Al Slocum, the current mayor and local Chevrolet Dealer.

“Howdy folks. How y’all tonight,” he said comfortably, his voice inspired with power.

“You’re lookin’ good,” a voice screamed from the crowd.

Once on the grass away from the crowd, Jarvis relaxed, glad to be away from the scrutiny of voters, and lifted his dinner plate close to his nose. To him, the aroma of fried chicken was hard to resist.

“Hi Jarvis.”

Startled, he lowered the plate, his pulse quickening.

The voice of Miss Suzy Blaze, one of several young girls that worked the motel row along the highway, started the bells of disaster to ringing.

“Would you like to dance with me tonight?” she asked merrily, as she hurried to his side.

“I don’t dance,” he replied, as he moved quickly away. “Now, get going. Folks might see us talking.”

“But, you promised.”

“I only said I’d think about asking you to dance and that was a long time ago – too long to remember.” He continued on, forcing a smile with each step.

“I’ve been practicing the two-step.”

“I’m not interested in dancing. I’m here to eat fried chicken. And besides, my little lady might see us talking – not to mention what the voters might think. They’re already looking in our direction.”

“But, you told me you liked to dance.”

“Forget I ever said that. I was sippin’ whiskey at the time.”

She lifted her skirt. “Can I show you what I’ve learned? I’m getting’ good at slow dancing.”

Jarvis stopped and forced another smile. “Go ahead and show me, but be quick about it. I’ve got serious campaigning to do.”

She inched her skirt higher and began slowly dancing in place.

“Your legs sure are pretty,” Jarvis said. “But with the mayor’s election, I need to maintain discretion.”

“What’s discretion?”

“It means you have to act like you don’t know me.”

“I don’t understand. On Wednesdays, you say you love me.”

“Wednesdays are different. That’s when….”

Suddenly, he gasped. “There’s Margaret, my little lady. Oh my God, she’s moving in our direction. You need to go. She’s worse than Big Al. She always brings trouble.”

“Who’s that girl?” the wife growled, when she arrived beside him.

“Oh her... she’s some young kid trying to dance. I was tellin’ her how to vote.” He loosened his collar and looked about. “The fried chicken sure smells good. Where’re we sittin’?”

The wife looked away to watch Suzy twirl in circles, her attention going to shapely legs and a colorful skirt flowing to the sounds of fiddle music. “Have you been admiring at that girl’s legs?”

Jarvis took a deep breath, his lips quivering. “The only legs I see are the drumsticks on my plate.”

Suzy stopped dancing. “My legs are pretty. They’re not drumsticks!”

Shaken, he turned to her. “I’m not calling your legs, drumsticks. I’m talking to my wife – if you don’t mind. So, please keep quiet.”

“But, you always say my legs are pretty. Now, you’re calling them, drumsticks. That’s rude.”

“I was only talking about the chicken legs on my plate,” he replied, his shoulders beginning to slump.

Margaret looked from Jarvis to Suzy, her eyes narrowed. “Tell me something mister, how would you know what her legs look like?”

Cautiously, Jarvis glanced about. “I'm a people watcher and sometimes I see legs. Right now,I see people watching so keep your voice down. We could be living in the Governor’s mansion next year.”

Margaret considered the situation, then grabbed his ear. “You come with me Mr. Thornton. We need to have a serious talk.”

Suzy watched Jarvis stumble away, his candidacy ended.

A short time later, as she was making her way around the crowd, Big Al Slocum stepped from the shadows.

“Did I do good?” she asked, turning to him.

“You did very good, Little Lady. We’ll have to take another ride in one of my Chevrolet's.”

He looked her over, his eyes running her length. “From what I see, I’m thinkin’ real soon.” He handed her a hundred dollar bill and started away. “But now, I have some serious politicking to do, so I’ll get back to you later.”

She took the money and followed after him. “Can I ask you one question?”

Big Al looked around uncertain. “You can ask, but be quick about it. The voters are always watching.”

Suzy raised her skirt. “Do my legs look like drumsticks? That other gentleman made some derogatory remarks that hurt my feelings.” She raised the skirt higher. “You always say my legs are pretty when we're in the backseat of your new cars.”

Big Al again glanced about, hearing those same bells of disaster. He started to speak. By then, the crowd around him was already applauding in laughter.

Still thinking about pretty legs, Suzy Blaze drifted away, unaware that she had left behind two fellows – fried chickens so to speak – cooked to a sizzling, well done.


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit have appeared in several scientific journals as well as a number of internet blogs and short story print editions.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Taylor Dibbert

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String hoppers, chili paste, dahl, gravy, chicken, a fried egg, greens, an array of curries, a bit of arrack and copy of Boomerang by Michael Lewis. If Lewis is not doing the trick I will switch to fiction; I have been meaning to get to Sons and Lovers for months. Maybe tonight will be the night. Why would my phone be ringing? Nobody ever calls me after 9PM. (Nobody ever calls me before 9PM either).

“Hello. Is this Siva?”

“No, this is not Siva.”

“Okay, thanks.”

My phone is ringing again.

“Hello, Siva…”

“Sorry, I am still not Siva. You have the wrong number. This is Mr. Mark.”

“Are you Sri Lankan?”

“Do I sound like I’m Sri Lankan?”

“No.”

“You would be correct.”

“Well, are you alone then?”

“Yes. I’m alone.”

“What do you do for fun? Aren’t you lonely?”

“I read. I write. I walk. But, most of all, I wonder what I am doing here. I wonder why I don’t just move to a beach town in Mexico and look for my wife because she certainly is not here.”

“I like the sound of your voice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No. It’s nice, different and soothing. Are you really alone?”

“Always,” I tell her.

“I was being serious.”

“So was I.”

Even though it’s only a phone call, now I am wishing that I’d had a bit more to drink.

*

I’m at Lemon, a rooftop bar in Cinnamon Gardens. I haven’t been here since the time Sonali was in Colombo. It’s a good spot, but I’ve come entirely too early. I’m already working on my third drink by the time she shows up.

“Hi there. Mark…right?”

“Tania. You are on time. Are you sure you are Sri Lankan?”

“Pretty sure.”

I was planning on grabbing something to eat; I quickly forgot about dinner and a lot of other things.

*

I wake up with a splitting headache and in need of more sleep. Evidently that is not an option.

“You need to get out of there. He will be coming back soon.”

“Alright, I heard you the tenth time.”

“Also, don’t call my phone today. You can text me if you want.”

I can’t find my other sandal. Vodka is still on my breath. There are all kinds of stains on my pants. I have no idea what that stuff could be; they don’t appear to be bodily fluids. (I hope.)

*

I’m now onto Duplication Road. No taxis are available. I’d rather walk back to Bambalipitiya. I need some lunch, an IV and a nap. I’ve got to go back to Delhi tomorrow morning. I will be riding the L train into Manhattan before I know it.
I burned a lot of money last night and I don’t care. Again I woke up to a wad of crumpled bills and a general sense of uneasiness, yet for once I wasn’t alone.

After all, even the loners long for the touch of a woman.


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Taylor Dibbert has been published in Slow Trains Literary Journal, Foreign Policy Journal, Foreign Policy in Focus and elsewhere. He is a columnist for International Policy Digest and the author of the book Fiesta of Sunset: The Peace Corps, Guatemala and a Search for Truth.

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Author: Taylor Dibbert

Contributor: John Laneri

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Sheriff Matt Carson first noticed the bicycle when he saw it roll past the town square and turn down a dirt road toward the church.

Continuing on, he made his way past storefronts and along quiet tree lined streets. Morning walks were a part of his routine, the activity just another of the many duties that kept him familiar with the happenings in Neverton, a small community along the cattle trail to Fort Worth.

Near the church, he spotted the Reverend Armsworth walking aimlessly about the churchyard, reading from a Bible.

“I see you’ve got a new protegee,” the Sheriff said, as he stepped in the minister’s direction.

The good Reverend adjusted his glasses and looked up. “I hope the boy isn’t causing trouble.”

“No, No” the Sheriff replied. “I noticed a young man on a bicycle near the town square. I figured he belonged to you.”

“It was probably him. He takes a fancy to that contraption.”

To the Sheriff’s eye, the Reverend Armsworth was stately man, wearing a starched clerical collar and black coat – customary attire for devout Texas Ministers.

The Reverend looked about, his eyes peering over his glasses. “I’d like to have you meet him. I saw him peddling by a short while ago.”

The Sheriff looked back and forth along the road, his eyes squinting against the sun.

Suddenly, he spotted a bicycle parked in the shadows directly across the road at Aunt Jillie’s Boarding House, the finest establishment along the Brazos River – definitely, not a place for the Reverend's new protegee.

Realizing the consequences, he quickly turned about and pointed in the opposite direction. “Maybe, the boy is still peddling about the town square.”

The preacher followed his lead, his neck craning to look. “He could be at the candy store. He does like sweets.”

Nodding, the Sheriff replied. “That’s a likely possibility. Most boys his age like to indulge a piece of candy from time to time.”

“Some boys do get a lust for candy.”

The two men agreed. And, for some time, they remained in the churchyard gazing toward town, that is, until the Reverend’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Candy, you say.”

Quickly, he turned to look toward the boarding house. “Hell fire, the boy’s already sinning.” He pointed across the street. “His bicycle’s parked at Aunt Jillie's.”

The Sheriff turned to follow his direction. “Maybe, he’s converting the girls to religion.”

“He’s a mite too young to convert Aunt Jillie and her girls over to much of anything.” Turning away, the Reverend began pacing back and forth. Finally, he stopped and said, “But then again, he’s not too young to be taught the wild side of living.

“What do you want me to do?”

The Reverend walked to the edge of the churchyard where he remained for some time quietly studying the house, his bible tucked under an arm. “I don’t see much activity about the place. Most of the curtains are drawn tight.”

“The window curtains stay closed on the second floor. That's where the girls work. He’s probably sitting in the kitchen, preaching the good book and having a bite to eat. I understand Aunt Jillie keeps plenty of food about … helps fellows keep their energy up.”

“I hear her apple pie is mighty tasty too,” the Reverend said, turning to him, grinning.

“It’s the best in these parts.”

“That’s good to know,” the preacher said. “But still, his mother insisted that I keep him pure while he’s under my tutelage. You need to do something to get him out of that place.”

The Sheriff cleared his throat. “He probably won’t leave without puttin’ up a commotion.”

“That’s what worries me,” the Reverend replied. “Maybe, we should walk over and sample some of her apple pie. Then, you can snoop around while I try converting those girls to the ways of the Lord.”

The Sheriff looked at the preacher, his eyes expressing doubt. “Jillie might not be too happy if I poke my head into each her rooms.”

“How so?” the Reverend asked, turning to him.

“Cause, you're talking sacred ground. Even the Good Lord would think twice. In fact, I’m not sure He’d consider it – being the practical man that He is.”

“You do have a point,” the preacher said quietly.

In the distance, the Sheriff spotted a bicycle moving in their direction. He nudged the preacher and pointed toward the end of the road. “Is that your boy peddling our way?”

The Reverend again adjusted his glasses then let out a sigh of relief. “Thank the Lord… That’s him. I recognize the cowlick on top his head. Now, I’m a mite disappointed.”

“Disappointed?” the Sheriff asked.

“Of course,” the good Reverend replied. “I keep needing a reason to visit her house. I've been hankering’ to sample that apple pie for years.”


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John is a native born Texan living near Houston. His writing focuses on short stories and flash. Publications to his credit can be found on the internet and in several print edition periodicals.

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Author: John Laneri

Contributor: Gary Hewitt

- -
There is no possibility of return. A hypnotic refulgent light dances ever closer.

‘Keep looking ahead.’

A burning flavour escapes nearby. The head remains still and eyes are wide open. Several clicking sounds begin and white fire pulses into the line of sight. Hands tighten. No sense of pain, yet nausea rises.

‘You’re doing well. Just keep staring ahead.’

Liquid is dashed into the eyeball. Blinking is impossible. The eyelids are fastened. A figure in a green mask peers inside. A swab follows and scrapes across the pupil.

‘Try not to look away.’

The Arabic voice reassures. A black bulkhead is removed and jettisoned to the left side of the face.

‘We’re half way through the first procedure. Now just like before, keep looking ahead.’

Teeth clench. Star Wars begins again. The same words mirror those of moments before. Everything is aflame.

‘Fantastic. You’ve done ever so well. All we need to do now is to seal up the flaps.’

The paid victim swivels to the right and gazes into an orange glow. He can smell a foul aroma and the flashing continues.

‘Don’t look away.’

The voice is insistent. The mind drifts to the three hour wait before. Those hours seem much shorter than the ten minutes inside the theatre.

‘Right, we’re on the last stretch now. A few moments and it’ll be over.’

The vision is blurred by the unpleasant pressure of saline and swabs. Dr Hussein nods whilst inspecting his work.

‘Marvellous, I do believe we’re finished.’

Slender female fingers prise off a hairnet. Eye clamps are eased away.

‘Well done Mr Case. We’ll take you through to the dark room. You may find yourself feeling rather strange for a short while.’

The client blunders to his feet. He reaches for his redundant glasses and tucks them into a jacket pocket. The sterile world appears bright yet blurry. Disorientated, he follows the young woman into a cell with no light. His vision is dazzling.

‘You can relax now, Mr Case. Here, take these drops. There are clear instructions for you to follow but you will certainly need the anaesthetic ones in a while.’

The patient reclines and tilts his head back. He is seized by panic. Ahead, a poster promotes the advantages of the laser yet he cannot focus.

‘Hi, how did you find the operation?’

He glances left and a raven haired woman stares back with a tissue implanted beneath her eyes.

‘Weird, I’m a bit worried though. I paid all this money and everything seems blurry.’

‘I know exactly what you mean. They told me these effects are quite normal. By the way I’m Karen.’

Mr Case relaxes.

‘I’m Ray. I imagined it’d be more painful.’

Karen nods.

‘Trust me it is. My eye’s are on fire and these tears never stop. Believe me; you’ll need your tissue and those drop soon enough.’

‘I thought for a moment I got away with it. What procedure did you have done? My one was the expensive one.’

‘Me too, I can’t get used to being without wearing glasses though. Did you travel far to get here?’

Ray straightens his back and inspects his unexpected acquaintance. She warms to his happy eyes.

‘Oh, twenty minute drive down the motorway. My brother took me. How about you?’

‘I’m a local girl, but a friend helped.’

‘You mean your boyfriend?’

Karen leans her head forward. She catches the scent of cologne.

‘No, I’m single; I’m still waiting for Prince Charming to carry me away.’

Ray flushes. His skull begins to blaze with growing pain.

‘I’m not Prince Charming, Karen. However, I’d be delighted to help a beautiful woman escape from the eye doctors.’

‘Careful Ray, you might get more than you bargained for. Oh, I think you need your tissue.’

Ray stems a deluge of tears and cranes his head back.

‘Typical, here I am happy as I can be and I’m crying.’

He stabs eyeballs with cold liquid. Relief soon follows.

‘This is for you.’

Ray’s palm is filled with a small note. Delicate fingers linger for the tiniest moment on the top of his hand.

‘I can’t read just now. What have you wrote down?’

‘I’m sure you can work out the words and numbers.’

The chamber bursts with amber light.

‘You ready to go, Karen.’

‘I think so, Helen. Good luck, Ray. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you.’

‘And you Karen. See you.’

‘You can count on that. Bye.’

He hears the door close and dabs away the tears before opening his eyes. He glances towards Karen’s empty seat before inspecting the small piece of paper. He finds his mobile and adds a new contact. He’s sure his brother won’t mind being a minicab for a week or two.


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Gary Hewitt is a writer from a small village in Kent, England. He has a unique style and has had several stories published including Morpheus Tales, M-Brane to name but a few. He is also a member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers' Group.

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Author: Gary Hewitt