Portia's Suitor

We made love with the taste of wine and olives on our tongues. We made love the way new couples do, pretending to be something we no longer were. It was careful and pretty, untainted by the ugly laziness that comes from years of togetherness. I liked to be on top, hair cascading across my breasts; he held me with his arms flexed, hands massaging me. He teased that I could only cum with a pillow over my face, and I laughed from behind my cotton fortress until my giggles turned to moans, then shivers.

Three weeks we had in Italy. Three weeks to save our relationship. Three weeks of romance and adventure, to spice things up.

Three of the longest weeks of my life.

It wasn't that he was always ogling the Italian women. That was understandable, I couldn't stop gawking myself. They danced across cobblestone streets in stiletto heels, impervious to the heat, navigating heart stopping traffic circles with graceful aggression. I fumbled my way around, tripping over my own blistered feet.

I also wasn't surprised by his behavior in the museums. I knew he wouldn't appreciate the treasures of antiquity. He would stand in front of a Botticelli just long enough to read the title, checking it off a mental list of things he had seen, without bothering to actually look.

I knew he would be a jerk to the locals, so I was prepared for his arguments. I hid my face behind my map while he hollered about the fact that the Italian economy depended on tourism and they should value him and his money. It always came back to money.

I expected all of those things. What surprised me, what murdered our dying relationship, was his drinking.

I learned quickly not to suggest guided tours; those all lingered too much for his tastes, delaying his reunion with the bottle. He flew through the Coliseum in a mad dash, suggesting we sit down for a "bevi" the second we made it to the exit. Who the fuck says bevi anyway? He always used cutesy words like that, trying to make it seem like no big deal.

“Time for a drinky-poo babe?” I was in the land of Chianti, Grappa, Sambuca, and it all tasted like vinegar sitting across from an alcoholic. I suffered through the vacation committed to a silent strike of sobriety. I realized that this relationship would end the instant our tires touched tarmac back home.

As the trip drew to a close, we descended on Venice. We had three nights in the city before catching a train back to Rome for our flight home. On our last night, with our bags stowed safely in a locker at the train station, we travelled to the island of Burano. There wasn't much there--handwoven lace and fishing boats against a backdrop of brightly painted buildings. He sat sipping cocktails in the warm August sun while I watched.

“How great has this been, babe?”

“Italy is beautiful.”

“I know how to take care of my girl.”

He said it with such swagger in his voice, forgetting I had paid my own way. The desperate need to distract myself coupled with the lure of the electric orange Campari coaxing me, I leaned full tilt into the bender I knew he wanted.

We eventually stumbled down to a restaurant, ripe with smells of garlic and anchovies. We ate a feast of clams and pasta, port and parmesan, and of course, buckets full of red wine. When we were done the restaurant manager rented us a room upstairs. It wasn't much--an ancient bed, a miniature sink, and a toilet.

In the quiet of our shabby hideaway, our bodies collided. I knew it was our last time together, a pleasure usually reserved for firsts. I put him to work, giving myself over to him with uncommon laziness. I let him smear me across the well-used mattress, his tongue pushed through my petal folds. It stroked, smooth and methodical, like a mother cat cleansing the fur of a kitten. I wanted him to have the tongue of a snake; quick stabs, tasting me, smelling me, and deciding to swallow me whole. When I came, it was without my usual pillow shield, and he followed soon after, before collapsing in a heap on top of me.

We lay like that, in a hot, tangled mess, watching Italian phone sex commercials until we fell asleep. I woke up hours later in the dark room, bile rising thick and bitter in the back of my throat. The darkness was complete, my head was pounding, and the unfamiliar room made my poles spin. Naked and drunk, I stumbled around in a useless panic before suddenly and violently vomiting on the floor.

It was a spectacular puke. A heroic puke. When I had finally purged the contents of my stomach, I searched for a light. I flicked the switch and as my eyes adjusted to the glow, relief gave way to fresh horror. With all the empty floor space in our spartan room, my vomit had landed squarely on my own clothing. I tried, unsuccessfully, to wash them in the tiny sink, peeling red-wine-soaked clams off the fabric, and rinsing the Campari orange noodles down the drain. None of it was salvageable, not my clothing, socks, or underwear. I threw the whole pile in the trash and cried in bed till morning.

In the morning, I remained useless in bed while he scoured the town for supplies, returning hours later with a very tight, very short, green lace gown. Clad in my skimpy lace disaster, we made it to the ferry in time. We sat waiting to leave, when I realized I’d forgotten my passport. If this ferry left without us, we might miss our flight home. The idea that I could be stuck here, for even one extra day in relationship purgatory, horrified me. With the end in sight, I ran through the tourist-clogged streets like I have never run before or since. I cut through carefully posed photo shoots, I knocked over chubby-cheeked German children, I hurdled a man in a wheelchair. I ran in all my puke-breathed, bare-bottomed, green-laced glory and somehow, with passport in hand, I made it back to the ferry and out of Italy.

I've never been back, and likely never will, but if you ever make it to Burano, I recommend you try the fettuccine alla vongole.

Written by: Sarah Scott

Photograph by: Sophie Stuart

Sunday Grease

On Sunday she goes to Aunt Ida’s house, a sagging, brick-crumbling relic in a neighborhood once forgotten. Brighter lights and clean, modern lines encroach, gentrification threatening in the guise of “off the beaten path” Segway tours, microbreweries, and hot yoga studios where everyone pronounces bikram differently.

Winnie vomits in the bathroom of an artisan bakery that charges too much for soft, pillowy croissants and crumbling scones with dried fruit (even though they’re delicious). That’ll show ‘em, she thinks as she uses the back of her hand to wipe her mouth. A smear of dark berry lipstick leaves a stain she manages to scrub off, with a layer or two of skin. When the counter hipster asks if she wants anything, she gives a terse smile and politely declines as she stumbles out into the cold gray morning.

Its light is unforgiving, and the truths illuminated are harsh. Winnie barely made it; had she been a block closer to Aunt Ida’s she would have been puking in someone’s meager square of yard. Dewy grass mocks her, the frosted sheen perfect and undisturbed. There’s no place to hide.

Winnie cuts through the alley and climbs the narrow staircase to the back door. She wiggles the knob and presses her hip, a careful combination of moves that she’s mastered over years of refusing to come in through the front door like she’s company. Aunt Ida’s warm smile greets Winnie and she throws her black peacoat over a chair.

The soft orange light of the kitchen feels welcoming. Winnie lets her shoulders droop a little, feels the tension of warring self-doubt and self-pity roll off her in waves. This is home, and she doesn’t have to hide.

“Bacon or sausage, Winnie?” Aunt Ida asks. Pork fat sizzles and pops on the stove. Winnie smells hot buttered toast and strong, black coffee. Sticky syrup droplets trail from the kitchen into the dining room, and a cacophony of voices alert her to the fact that she is the last one to arrive. Aunt Ida does her domestic dance from stove to oven to toaster, the stained apron swirling around her like a redneck ballgown. Kiss my grits.

“Bacon, please,” Winnie says, “I’m craving bacon this morning. Can I take anything?”

Aunt Ida glances over Winnie, her eyes sizing up the burgundy skinny jeans and beige sweater. She grimaces at the exposed bra strap and nods to a plate of pancakes. Winnie avoids the syrup spills as she takes the plate into the dining room, her cousins cheerful and already busy eating.

Winnie still looks peaked, but she blames it on residual food poisoning and declares she needs a good home-cooked meal. Never mind that when she actually had food poisoning, she couldn’t look at anything other than a box of saltines without throwing up a little in her mouth. This morning she eats two short stacks of pancakes and half a dozen slices of bacon, the grease collecting in nooks like warm tidal pools. Fat and satiated, she sips her lukewarm, bitter coffee. Conversation flows around her.

Ida corners her when she slips upstairs to use her bathroom. She swings the door open, her niece yelping in surprise.

“Are you pregnant?”

Winnie stares at her.

“Your mother got the same cravings when she was pregnant,” Ida sighs. “Bacon so oily it’d slip through your fingers.”

“I’m not pregnant,” Winnie says.

“You sure, honey?” Ida says. “You can tell me. Everything’ll be fine, Win.”

“Yes, Aunt Ida.”

“Positive?”

“I’m not pregnant. I wasn’t pregnant when you came in here, I haven’t gotten pregnant in the last thirty seconds, and you’re really freaking me out right now. Can I please pee?”

Ida stares at Winnie’s plump figure. The waistband of her niece’s skinny jeans have stretched out, and her calves look deflated. Ida nods and pulls the door closed so Winnie can finish up in peace. Ida sits on her bed. With John in it, it felt too small. Without him, it feels too big.

Winnie emerges and Ida opens her mouth to ask more questions.

“I’m hungover, okay? Jesus.” Winnie snaps before Ida can speak.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” Ida shakes her head and pinches the girl’s waist. Her fingers are farther apart than they used to be, when she would do this as a joke and not as a test. She looks at the woman in front of her: smudged lipstick and concealer caked into wrinkles, dark circles peeking out from underneath. Her round, full cheeks are peppered with tiny freckles and fine flakes of dried mascara, detritus from a Saturday night out on the town.

Winnie will not look at her, so Ida inhales. She’s prepared to give advice when she smells the excess. Winnie’s perfume is strong, floral and fruity. It’s the too much of it that gives Winnie away; she wears more than she needs to and somehow it still isn’t enough, because Ida recognizes the smell her once-favorite niece is trying to cover.

This moment is so familiar. Ida lived it dozens of times, when her John would drag himself out of bed stinking of booze, his eyes bloodshot and his skin tinged gray. He’d spray his cologne before church but Ida could tell. The excess, the too much, would give him away.

It always does.

They say nothing to each other. Winnie cries, and Ida holds her in her arms. Ida tells the girl to take a nap, tucks her into bed, and makes her way back downstairs. Ida notices small drips of syrup, raised dots against the hardwood floors like Braille. She walks into the kitchen where towers of dishes have formed a metropolis on her counter. A tilted plate with a half-eaten stack of soggy pancakes threatens a slow, viscous slide.

Ida sighs and grabs a sponge.


Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Jaemin Riley

Comeuppance

“When life hands you lemons…” the old man says, offering me a smile as sweet and sugary as the pale yellow liquid he poured into two glasses. He slides one across the table and I notice his eyes crawl across my body, savoring every angle and curve.

Lemons indeed, you sick old perv.

While he mentally undresses me, I glance around the house, taking stock. Obviously a bachelor pad, the place hasn’t seen a woman’s touch in years, if ever. The kitchen is tidy, though outdated. A battered and stained plaid couch dominates the small living room. The only decorative touches are a few pieces of rudimentary taxidermy that hang upon the wood paneled walls. A dim hallway leads to the back of the house. High up in the Hollywood hills, sitting on a piece of land worth millions, it is not what I expected.

“Ahem.” My little cough grabs his attention. Red-faced, his gaze jumps from my tits back to my face.

“Thank you again, for saving me,” I say.

“You’re welcome. It’s a lucky thing I came along when I did. You could have been stuck out there all night. You really should have a spare tire.”

He may be talking about my car, but I can tell that he’s thinking about my ass. These pigs are all the same, let me save this little damsel in distress and I’ll get some.

Well trust me pal, no one is getting lucky here tonight.

I take a sip of the lemonade and put my hand in the pocket of my jacket, feeling reassured by the cool touch of the Walther 9mm that I had retrieved from the glove box before getting into his car.

“You don’t happen to have anything a little harder, would you?” I ask.

My question touches a nerve. His face bunches up and for a moment it looks as if he is going to cry. We stare at each other, the silence as uncomfortable as the plastic chairs we sit in. Finally, he shakes his head.

“I’m sorry dear, but no.” He manages a little smile. “Those days are long past for me.”

He gets up and pours himself another glass of lemonade, gesturing out the window to the sprawling mass of lights that is Los Angeles at night.

“I used to be kind of a big deal down there, producing movies and TV shows and whatnot. I had it all. The money. The fame. The fortune. Surrounded by young, beautiful women like yourself. But I drank it all away.”

He stares down at the lights of the city below.

“I tried the whole sobriety thing down there, but I couldn’t take it. Pardon my language, but that’s a pretty fucked up town. It’s amazing what people will do to each other to get ahead.”

You are preaching to the choir my friend.

“Once I wasn’t living inside a bottle I found out that my skin wasn’t thick enough to deal with it. So now, I just want to be left alone up here, living the simple life and communing with nature.”

Communing with nature?

A shudder passes through my body and my eyes are drawn back to the taxidermy that adorns the room. I fixate on the owl that is sitting on a shelf above the TV. His eyes are bright, fierce; not the usual muddied, opaque marbles.

Los Angeles is not the only thing fucked up around here.

“It’s getting late. You can sleep in my bedroom, I’ll take the couch. Don’t worry--we’ll get you fixed up in the morning.”

                                                                                              ***

I almost feel a twinge of guilt as I stand over him, his nostrils flaring with each soft snore. It’s so much easier to dispatch them when they’ve been pawing at me with their lecherous hands. But, decent man or not, he made it too easy, and too worthwhile.

Once I was sure my host had fallen asleep, I had done my recon. The top of his dresser was littered with bank statements, and the plethora of commas and zeros on them was enough to make any girl swoon. I found his wallet and the keys to the Cadillac on the table. Only one thing remained.

Sorry bud, it’s nothing personal, but a girl’s gotta eat.

My finger starts to tighten, taking up what little slack there is in the trigger. I take a deep breath and prepare for the recoil of the silenced handgun.

A piercing shriek cuts through the air behind me. I spin around and the gun jumps in my hand, lodging a bullet in the couch next to the man’s head. He screams and kicks at me and I tumble over the coffee table, ducking just under the owl as it swoops down on me. The pistol flies from my hand and slides across the living room floor. The enraged raptor redirects its attack and lands on my back, beak and talons tearing into my flesh.

I manage to get to my feet and make a break for the door and, owl still in tow, we burst into the cool, quiet California night. I race to the Cadillac, fight free from my tormenter, and slide in, slamming the door on one of the bird’s wings. It thrashes about, struggling to free itself, a writhing, screeching mass of blood and feathers.

I fumble with the key, trying to slip it into the ignition. Out of the corner of my eye I see the man lurch through the door of the house. The car finally starts and I speed up the steep incline of the driveway. Just as I am about to turn onto the road, a hulking black shadow appears in front of me. I slam on the brakes and skid to a stop just as the bear rears up and brings its crushing weight down on the front of the car.

I sit there frozen and watch as more animals: deer, coyote, fox, skunk, raccoon, opossum-- emerge from the shadows and ring the car, their preternatural eyes aglow in the beam of the headlights.

What the fuck?

The car door opens. The owl flaps away and lands on the hood, glaring at me and nursing its injured appendage.The old man raises the gun, my gun. I stare down the barrel, and wait for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Written by: Ben Cook
Photograph by: Anna Westbury

Go Deep

“It was a perfect spiral,” Lenny said, reenacting the throw on his back from the chaise lounge. “It just landed in the wrong hands.”

Lenny let his plastered arm drop to the cushion with a thud that sounded like pig skin crashing into a receiver’s chest.

“And that’s why you drove your truck into a ditch?” asked Dr. Emanuel.

“No, that was the beer,” Lenny explained.

“The tests would beg to differ,” Dr. Emanuel countered.

“What tests?”

Dr. Emanuel pinched the screen of his iPad and turned it towards Lenny.

“The doctors tested your blood. Your BAC was .00,” Dr. Emanuel said, pointing to the results on the tablet.

“Well, I was in that ditch for awhile,” Lenny noted. “Maybe it worked itself out of my system?”

Dr. Emanuel made a few more finger swipes on his device and handed it to Lenny.

“According to the police report, a witness called 9-1-1 the moment you were ejected from your vehicle. You were emitted to the ER within 28 minutes.”

“So?” Lenny said, handing the tablet back to Dr. Emanuel.

“So, there’s no way your blood level could’ve dropped from DUI to nothing in less than thirty minutes.”

“Maybe it was one of the other drugs?”

“No other drugs were found in your system,” Dr. Emanuel stated, no longer bothering to pull up Lenny’s charts.

“Maybe I was roofied?” Lenny suggest.

“Although odorless and flavorless, Rohypnol can still be detected in your system. Which in your case, it was not.”

Lenny sat up and looked Dr. Emanuel in the eyes.

“What are you getting at, Doc?”

“The root of your problems.”

Lenny laid back down and stared at the textured ceiling that reminded him of painted turf in an end zone.

“My only problem is that goddamned throw that cost me a goddamned championship,” Lenny argued.

“That certainly is a problem,” said Dr. Emanuel, “but it’s not your only problem.”

“Well no-fucking-shit.” Lenny said, waving his cast arm towards the doctor.

“That’s two problems,” said Dr. Emanuel, “but I bet we can find more.”

“Heeere we go,” Lenny moaned. “Time to delve into my daddy issues.”

“Who said anything about your father?” Dr. Emanuel asked.

“Give me a break, Doc. You seem to have my entire life on that goddamned tablet.”

“Guilty,” Dr. Emanuel admitted, throwing up his hands. “But then again, so are you.”

“Of what?”

“Of lying to me.”

“About what?”

“About your real problems.”

“Fine, guilty,” Lenny said, throwing up his arms to mock Dr. Emanuel. “I guess growing up around a self-destructive sociopath sticks with you.”

“And in you,” said Dr. Emanuel.

“In you?”

“Don’t you see a little bit of your father in you?”

“Yeah, every time I look in a mirror.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

“I am NOTHING like my dad,” Lenny said, standing up from the chair and inflating his chest.

“Are you going to hit me, Lenny?” Dr. Emanuel asked, more intrigued than intimidated.

“No.”

“Then why are you standing over me like a territorial gorilla?”

Lenny turned away from Dr. Emanuel and began taking a lap around the office.

“I don’t know?” Lenny responded in stride.

“What makes you think your father was a self-destructive sociopath, Lenny?” Dr. Emanuel asked.

“My old therapist told me so.”

“Did he or she ever meet him?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“Then how could she diagnose him?”

“Well, the self-destructive part is kind of a no brainer.”

“How so?”

“Ask his liver.”

Dr. Emanuel’s eyes widened as he dragged his finger across the tablet.

“So your dad was a drinker?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Is that why you don’t drink?”

“It certainly helps.”

Dr. Emanuel paused to take a quick note and continued.

“What about the sociopath thing, Lenny? Where did your therapist get that?”

“Where do I start?”

“Where did you start with her?”

“Probably his funeral,” Lenny said, retaking his seat on the chaise lounge.

“What was it about his funeral that stood out to you?

“No one came.”

“No one?”

“Nope, aside from a few family members.”

“Was your dad a secluded man?”

“Not at all. He was constantly trying to get other people’s attention, especially women.”

“When would he do this?

“Grocery stores. Restaurants. My peewee football games.”

Dr. Emanuel readied his iPad for a treasure trove of insights.

“What happened there?”

“Not my games, as far as he was concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean he was too busy flirting with all the moms to even know what number I was wearing.”

“Were your parents divorced?”

“NO! My mom would be sitting right next to him, and he’d still turn and talk to Ms. Calvin’s big fake tits.”

“Did your mom say anything?”

“Hell no. That man could do no wrong in her eyes.”

“Why’s that?”

“He used to be a dumb jock; she was his secret admirer; and it wasn’t until everyone else they knew went to college that they, ‘fell in love,’ as she tells it.”

“Ah ha,” Dr. Emanuel said, pressing his finger against the tablet so hard he almost cracked the screen. “Let me guess, your dad was a quarterback?”

“You’re brilliant, Doc,” Lenny answered.

“A high-school-championship quarterback?”

“Can’t get one past you.”

“And you’re angry that you’re not?”

“Are you a psychic?”

“And THAT is why you drove your truck into a ditch.”

“No.”

Dr. Emanuel’s grin vanished and his finger stopped moving.

“No?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to me again, Lenny?”

“No.”

“But you said you were disappointed about the loss?”

“Of course!”

“But not disappointed enough to harm yourself?”

“No.”

“Then why would you harm yourself?”

“My mom.”

“Your mom?”

“Yes.”

“What did she do?”

“It’s something she said.”

“When?”

“After the game.”

“What did she say?”

“You remind me of your father.”

Dr. Emanuel rested the tablet on his lap and looked at Lenny.

“And that’s why you drove your truck into a ditch.”

Lenny’s eyes welled up with tears as he lifted his arms above his head.

“Guilty.”

Written by: Mark Killian

Photograph by: Omar Sanders

The Regular

“Knock on wood,” Charles chuckled, rapping his knuckles on the bar and fumbling for the light in his pocket.

The bartender, Dan—Danny as he was known by regulars at The Poodle Dog Lounge—had just finished another of his perpetually optimistic “if/then” arguments on how the ’Boys were destined for the playoffs.

But Charles knew better. He’d seen—and heard—it all before.

Still, Danny is a good kid, Charles thought.

I was a good kid once, too. But that was before.
Before the long days. Before the late nights. Before Linda.

His hand passed to the next pocket of his stained microsuede jacket, fingering every familiar crevice, the seams surprisingly intact. Sure, the cuffs were frayed and the smell of smoke—black and white—lingered permanently, but the coat held its own.

And to think what that Injun sold it for. It’s funny what booze’ll do to a man.

The door screeched open and light poured in, illuminating the ever-present stream of dust and particleboard wafting from the over-cranked A/C. A young couple stumbled through the entrance. Charles caught the glint of what he thought was a Volvo keychain.

Sloppy.

Their giggles dying down, the fresh meat came to a standstill a few feet in. Scoping the scene, they began to whisper to one another.

Charles hated that.

“Why can’t people just say what they mean? I mean, this is America, God damn it! Land of the free speech, home of the bravado, and all that crap,” he’d say. But Linda wasn’t listening.

Linda never listened.

The newcomers reeled around, herding themselves toward the door. Above it: a half-rusted exit sign next to which the word “only” had been carved, alongside a rough caricature of someone’s rear end.

“That’s a real pain in the crass,” Charles used to joke with Buck, the previous barkeep, who couldn’t help but groan.

Buck had passed a few years back. Charles was sorry he couldn’t make the funeral, but he’d poured one out while watching the game. There had been a lot riding on “that one.”

Fuck the ’Boys.

Fuck Linda.
“Fuck, that’s bright,” came a cry from the shadows as the tourists took their leave. “It’s like the land of the rising sun in here.”

Pat.

Pat, the patron—that’s what Charles called him anyway. He’d never known Pat’s given name. But he didn’t need to; they’d shared drinks and stories and Marlboros—none of that American Spirit shit. They’d shot pool together. They’d swapped life lessons with Buck. Hell, they’d bled together. Pat; Pat was a blood brother.

The hinges swang shut. “I didn’t know!” Charles thought he could make out one of the outsiders chirp at the other.

“That’s the problem with kids today,” Pat bemoaned. “They can’t tell if they’re coming or…” he broke into a half cough, half laugh, half gasp. Then he turned the tank nozzle half-a-notch, or thereabouts.

Pat knew. Pat was wise beyond even his years.

There was a special place in Heaven just waiting for Pat: a stool with his (real) name on it. Pat was one of the good guys.

“I hope he outlasts us all,” Charles had toasted once, before tossing back a shot of Jack with the boys, while some sissy onlooker sipped his Scotch.

He’d cracked the glass on the first slam and cut his finger. “Amazin’ how the littlest cuts’ll bleed forever and a day.”

He’d soaked the back half-seat of Linda’s pickup straight through to the foam. But the man had problems of his own.

“Where the hell is my light?” he muttered aloud, having reached his limit on time spent without the lucky striker.

The lighter had been a gift from his father. Stainless steel. Emblazoned with an eagle—an eagle killin’ a snake, nonetheless! God bless America.

His father had been a true American, a red-blooded American. A patriot, as the French would say. And dagnabbit if he hadn’t been willing to do whatever it took to preserve that way of life, including swapping a fat cash cow or two (who could count?) with that dirt farmer from down south for that fine fire-starter.

“Aha!” he proclaimed, finally finding the prized heirloom behind the two empty glasses in front of him. “Sneaky bastard, ain’tcha?”

It was there. It was always there. It had always been there.

It was there to light candles on his eighteenth birthday. It was there to fan the flame of Lord knows how many cigs on his first tour. It was there to stoke the celebratory stogie when his first-born was… y’know.

It was there on the Fourth, when the kids needed to fire up the roman candles to burn out each other’s eyes.

And it was there when that first “LATE:” notice came; for all the overnights; the 12-minute “lunch” breaks; the 5 a.m. “happy” hours.

It was there at the end. It was there to burn the papers she had signed—and made him sign. It was there. It was always there.

Just like The Poodle Dog. The Poodle Dog was always there. The Poodle Dog had always been there.

For birthdays. For holidays. For that promotion. For funerals.

R.I.P., Buck.

Chuck crossed himself, or rather, backward-J’d himself, forgetting where the fourth tap should land.

“Aww, to hell with it.” And with one, two, three strikes came the flicker of flame and the sweet release. Paradise in his lungs—his haven on Earth.

“Hey, hey… Charlie! …You can’t do that in here,” Dan chided from across the bar, one eye on Charles, one eye on the girl he was (over)serving, and another on the front door.

What? Does he think Serpent Co. is about to bust the joint?

“Since when?” Charles inquired, earnestly.

“Since so-and-so said so… whenever… awhile ago.”

“Oh, come on, Danny boy! Be a team player. You’re a good guy.”

“It’s Donald,” spat back the young buck, rolling his eyes and snatching the smoke. “Danny only works Tuesdays. And those things will kill you anyway.”

“Knock on wood.”

Written by: Josh McGonigle
Photograph by: Chris Boyles

Pennybacker

When he was seven, Hunter slipped on his father's boat, fell in Lake Austin, and saw merlings. They were less magical and fantastical than he thought they would be; they were gaunt things with rigid bones and gray skin stretched thin. They were not the curved, fluid creatures of bedtime stories and animated films. They were, however, captivating. Hunter forgot everything: how to swim, his mother Elinor, even the importance of oxygen. His father jumped in and pulled him from the water.

There were witnesses. Witnesses who swore that the sopping wet boy's father had been a six-pack deep when he took his son out on the water. Witnesses who swore the father had a cap pulled low over his brow when the boy fell. Witnesses who swore the boy was under for almost a minute before the father jumped. It didn't matter how much was true. It mattered that Hunter's mother believed it

"Just tell her you saw them, Dad!" Hunter said. "I can back you up if you just tell her."

"When are you gonna quit this?" Hunter's father growled. "I didn't see them. You didn't either. You shut up about those mermaids."

"Merlings!" Hunter said. "They're merlings."

The merlings were real, and to deny them would be to lie. After his father left, he tried to convince his mother. Hunter drew pictures and plastered them all over his walls. His room was a chamber of Lovecraftian horror: shapes and angles forced by the rabid hand of an unskilled artist. There was one Hunter drew over and over again.

"The Harbinger," Hunter told his mother at dinner. He showed her his latest attempt, with rough calcified scales at the tail and sharp moldy skin. A wide mouth brimmed with dark pointed teeth. White eyes bulged.

"Where did you hear that word?" His mother forced herself to swallow a forkful of meatloaf.

"He told me. That's what he said he was called." Hunter replied. "I think I'm supposed to go back and find him."

His mother checked him into a children's psychiatric hospital. There, Hunter learned that he had likely experienced trauma falling in the water. The doctor said Hunter's father was an alcoholic, and although Hunter did not know that, he had figured out that he would probably die because his dad could not rescue him. Hunter's mind had invented angels of mercy to help him prepare to go to Heaven.

"But if that were true, I would've made real angels. Real angels are white and glow. They have wings, not fish tails." Hunter told his doctor.

Hunter learned that the mind does all kinds of funny things when you are scared. Maybe his mind played with shapes in the water. Maybe his mind played with how the light shined within Lake Austin. Hunter probably heard the word "harbinger" on TV. Hunter's mind knew what it was from context. When Hunter thought he was dying, he invented the merlings. One of them was his herald.

That's what the doctor said.

Hunter stopped talking about the merlings. Hunter stopped drawing them. Over years of therapy, the Harbinger faded into Hunter's memory.

But not Elinor's.

"I wasn't there for him," Elinor told herself.

She wasn't there when her son fell into the Harbinger's murky waters. She was across the street, "borrowing a cup of sugar" from Ted Vicars.

She wasn't there when the Harbinger called again. Her husband wrapped his truck around a telephone pole. The paramedics pronounced him dead at the scene. The coroner's report said his blood alcohol level was above the legal limit.

In the years it took for her boy to become a young man, Elinor saw tragic events as evidence of the Harbinger’s presence in her life. When the doctor suggested Hunter may be ready to leave the hospital, Elinor did not object. Good news was rare.

When Hunter came home, he was surprised by the house. Each room had been painted a different shade of watery blue. The living room was a shallow mountainside brook. The kitchen was a country pond, its surface just kissed with algae. Hunter's room was the top of Lake Austin when it glinted with sun.

Elinor's room - no longer his parents' - made him uncomfortable. It was the dark, deep inside of Lake Austin. It tugged at him, begging him to remember drowned nightmares. Hunter did not go in his mother's room. Hunter did not see her fill the tub and stare at it. He did not see her submerge herself, holding her breath under the tepid water. He did not see the inside of her closet, wallpapered with his old sketches of the Harbinger.

Hunter did not hear her call its name.

"I think we should go back to Lake Austin." Elinor said over lunch. "I think it would be good for us to confront what happened there."

"Mom, I don't want to go back in there. I don't think it would be good for me." Hunter stared at his spaghetti. The shapes were tangled curves, and for a moment he saw the ebb and flow of water and thought he might vomit.

"By Pennybacker! Not into the water, of course." Not yet. She could hold off a little longer. Maybe take scuba diving lessons first - just in case he wasn't near the surface this time. And really, who knew how deep Hunter had been?

When Elinor saw the bridge, she knew they were close. It was a low, wide arch the color of rust, and Elinor laughed at how it looked like water corrupted the structure. The amber curve did not dip into Lake Austin. It straddled the banks, but it was a false portal.

When Hunter saw the bridge, he inhaled sharply. Bad thoughts came to him, dark and evil things flooded his memory. The bridge transported Hunter back to that day he saw the merlings, that day he saw the Harbinger, that day he realized his father couldn't save him.

"The Harbinger." The word was a whisper. Neither knew who said it. Neither cared.

Shaking, Hunter pulled into the nearest parking lot. Elinor stepped out of the car without a word.

"See you soon." The voice creaked.




Photograph by: Emily Blincoe
Written by: Erin Justice