The Red Asylum

Issue Three is Live!!

2011-11-10T13:12:00.000-08:00

Yes folks issue three is here.

We've got some amazing stories in this issue by some fab authors.

And be sure to keep the submissions coming in. We're having a little change to our submission guidelines and for the next issue we're looking for flash fiction of no more than 1000 words.

Check out our Editor-in-Chief's interview on Duotrope

2011-08-04T01:51:00.000-07:00

The Red Asylum's Editor-in-Chief, Keely Christensen was recently interviewed on Duotrope. Click here to read it

Also, can you help us solve a mystery?

"We've also noticed on Duotrope that one person seems to have been waiting for a response for the last 70-something days? Our submission logs are current, so if that's you, you need to contact us at theredasylum.contacts@gmail.com. I'd hate if our response got lost in internet land, and you've really been waiting that long!"

Issue Two is here!!

2011-07-26T09:14:00.000-07:00

We're so excited to announce that finally issue two of The Red Asylum has been released.

The Red Asylum

Please stop on by and see what's inside.

As always we're still open for submissions for future issues, and if you have any comments about the magazine and it's content we'd love to hear from you.

Technical difficulties

2011-05-03T08:25:00.000-07:00

Hey Everyone,

We've encountered some technical difficulties which are causing us major delays with the publication of our second edition. We're working on them now and hope to have the next edition to you soon.

In the meantime please keep submitting and checking back with us for updates.

Our new archive

2011-05-02T12:34:00.000-07:00

With issue two on it's way we've added an archive feature to the blog so you can still find all your favourite stories from previous editions.

You can find the archive page at the top of the blog.

Scarecrow by Len Kuntz - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T12:23:00.000-07:00

At my grandmother’s funeral, an enormous swarm of black crows thwarted the sun. When I tugged Father’s pant leg and pointed, he swatted my hand away and spat on my shoe.
I worried that I would grow up like him, dark of temperament with a moody posture that warned one to stay away or flee. While I was round and chubby, Father was a stick, a scarecrow. His thin, dry fingers scratched like straw. When he kissed me once, his lips left two paper cuts.
At night I’d hear his footfalls, then they’d stop and I’d see the outline of his form seeped under the door like a litter of mice. After he passed, I’d make shadow animals against the wall. They were feisty critters, not passive at all. Some ate their own young. They screeched and squalled inside my head.
Years later, it happened to Father, much as it had my grandmother--a car wreck killed him.
At the cemetery plot, so many crows filled each tree that it seemed the leaves were bleeding ink, and eventually someone had to throw rocks to get them to stop their awful caterwauling.
At home Mother gave me the news.
I didn’t believe her until she showed me the adoption certificate.
“Why the shock?” she asked. “You were an emotional ghost in this family.”
A flower vase on the table revealed my reflection: head of a scarecrow, tufts of straw sticking out of my ears.
The birds came back then, slamming into doors and smashing windows. I could think of only one way to stop them, so I raised the knife high and plunged it through Mother’s chest.
You’ll read this and claim I made up the crows, same as every other shrink has. Fine, go ahead. Keep me locked up here as long as you like. I know what I saw.

About Len Kuntz

Len Kuntz lives on a lake in rural Washington State. His writing appears widely in print and online such places as Matchbook Lit, Troudadour 21, Juked and also at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.

The Resurrection Men by Icy Sedgwick - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Midnight mist swirled around my ankles. I stumbled, my foot caught under a tree root. At least, I hoped it was a tree root. I didn’t want to think what else might grab my foot in a cemetery.
“So what you’re saying is, you won’t steal, you won’t run any doxies, and you won’t get a job. How else do you expect us to make money?” asked Will.
I noticed he didn’t struggle with the sack. Perk of leading a gang, I suppose. We do all the hard work, he gets the glory.
“Well, not this. It’s robbin’ bodies, Will! Diggin’ up graves. It’s not right,” replied John.
I couldn't see him in the gloom but his reedy voice carried on the still air.
“It’s not exactly diggin’ ‘em up when the diggers leave the damn graves open, is it?” said Will.
“Think about it, John. The surgeons pay a pretty penny for bodies. Plenty o’ money for little work. We're helpin’ ‘em with their studies. Medical advances, and all that,” said Richard.
“What if we get caught?” asked John.
“We won’t be. Anyway, we’ve done it now. Might as well just go sell this ‘un, get our money and be off,” replied Will.
Will led us through alleys and dark streets to the back of a grand house near the Embankment. I almost dropped the sack twice on the way there. A crusty old man answered the back door. He wanted to send us away until Will told him about the sack. He didn’t want to see the contents, but he said his master would. He made us stand in the back yard by the midden heap. I couldn’t see anything, but I could smell the pile of crap by my foot. Even rich people need to dump their shit somewhere.
The back door opened a crack. A rusty metal lantern thrust through the gap. I could just make out a tall gentleman with a shock of white hair. Shadows pooled in the folds of skin under his eyes.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We’ve got a body for you, sir,” said Will.
“A body, you say? And where did you get this specimen?” asked the surgeon.
“The gallows, sir,” replied Will.
The surgeon stared at him. The skin around my neck crawled. Perhaps this was what the surgeon’s anatomical specimens felt like.
“The gallows, you say,” said the surgeon. “Do you mind if I examine the hand of the specimen?”
“Why?” asked Will.
I shifted my feet. The acrid tang of sweat filled the air. I heard Will gulp. If he could smell our unease, so could the surgeon.
“Humour me.”
Will nodded at Richard. He pulled back the sack and lifted the left hand free. The fingers stuck out like solid rods. The skin glowed pale green in the lantern light.
“I’m afraid I cannot buy this specimen,” said the surgeon. He let the hand drop.
“Why not?” asked Will.
“The last hanging at Tyburn was this morning, yet the stiffness of the fingers would suggest this specimen has been dead for several days. I also notice discolouration to the skin, and soil clings to the nails, which tells me this specimen was only recently dug up,” said the doctor.
“So?”
“I care not what you do to make money; however, I may not purchase specimens from grave robbers. I may only buy the bodies of executed criminals. Therefore I suggest that you take this specimen elsewhere.”
The door slammed shut. We heaved the sack back out into the alley behind the house. Will thumped his fist against the brick wall.
“Damn! I thought the old fool would take it!”
“You thought? We thought you knew ‘e would!” exclaimed Richard.
“I knew this wouldn’t work; I knew it was a bad idea,” said John.
“So what are we going to do now? We can't leave this ‘ere,” I said.
“Maybe one of the other surgeons’ll take it. Just because they’re not supposed to buy it don’t mean they won’t,” said Will. Desperation raised his voice.
“Shut up, do you want everyone to know what this is?” said Richard.
“Hang on. The surgeon said he can only take an executed criminal,” I said. A plan tickled the edges of my mind.
“Yeah, and?”
“Well, grave robbin’ is a crime. Pretty much everythin’ is punishable by hangin’,” I said. A strange look of hunger came into John’s eyes.
“Your point? I suggest you get to it,” said Will.
“Well I think we’ve got ourselves a criminal right ‘ere,” I said.
Understanding passed between us as we looked at each other. We all looked at Will.
John called for a constable.

About Icy Sedgwick

Blown far from her Northern homeland, Icy now lives and works in old London town. She’s only 27 but she remembers the days when she wrote stories in crayon. She likes writing about everything from grave robbers to telepathic parrots.
She spends her days running an office, and her nights hunched over her laptop. She dispensed with sleep some time ago. She appreciates loiterers at http://www.icysedgwick.com, and Twitter followers @icypop

The Moat-Suitcase by Jennifer Hollie Bowles - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T12:15:00.000-07:00

In the moat-

suitcase, a wooden rod of rusty

nails lies hidden,

a porcupine-

torture device

for when love's nectar

becomes self-esteem

acid & the chain-

links that hold our flesh

break & all that's left

is estrangement—

I will go

to the privacy of the bathroom

& use my naily weapon

on my chest, to indent,

bloody, & carve out

pieces of feeling

I cannot feel, pieces

of me you cannot own,

& pieces of you I cannot unfeel—

Then, I'll sit down on the toilet

to cry & piss & stare

at the little

morsels of chest-

flesh taken by my

self-flagellation tool

About Jennifer Hollie Bowles

Jennifer Hollie Bowles writes to prolong breathing and plays guitar with the ghost of her father. She is the editor of The Medulla Review, and her writing has been accepted for publication in many journals, including Three-Lobed Burning Eye, Twisted Tongue Magazine, The New York Quarterly, The Chiron Review, and Neon.

The Deeper the Lust, The Sweeter the Flesh by Kimberly Grenfell - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T12:11:00.000-07:00

Orrin could not shake his feeling of dread, and he could not understand why.
Many a time had he stood before the doors of ramshackle dwellings in the forgotten kingdom village of Nymphshire—most often to meet the red lips and spread legs of a wanton wench—and never once had he hesitated to rap his knuckles against the wood. But this time was different; this time he clutched the warrant.
Five-thousand gold pieces for the heart of Legendfire, it read.
Five thousand.
Enough to buy him a house inside the king's city walls, some expensive wines and ales, and all the wenches he wanted. Five thousand gold, and all it took was the severed heart of a dragon delivered on a platter of silver plating.
Not a simple task, and he knew nothing about dragons, but a desperate man had to fulfill his desperate desires somehow.
Now, as he stood before the door set askew upon its hinges, the odor of rotting meat and sulfur oozing through its cracks, Orrin had paused, hand in mid-air. Something had slithered into the crevices of his mind; something tainted with the foulest doubts and wildest imaginings.
He shivered and tightened his fist. The scroll in his hand crinkled. He peered down at it. Five thousand gold was naught to scoff at.
Orrin made to knock, but jerked back when an eyehole slid open and a gray eye peeked out.
“Nothin' here,” called a cracked voice. “Go away.”
The eyehole slid shut with a thud against Orrin's fingers. He pried it open, held up the warrant. “Nothing, but a silver-plated platter that craves the slick warmth of its reward, eh?”
Orrin cocked his head. The eye widened.
In a trice, latches rattled, a knob turned, and the door was flung open. Orrin recoiled from the stench.
“Come in, come in.” A thickset man with a bristly red beard ushered Orrin inside. “Seems I've been a might hasty,” he said, “a might hasty, indeed. Hail and well met, my good fellow, and let us discuss the deed.” He closed the door, returned the latches, and shuffled away.
Orrin hung back.
Light from the guttering street lamps seeped in behind him to fill the interior with looming shapes and shadows. Single room, no windows. No doors, save for the entrance. Stale air. Like cheap grog. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and Orrin cursed his worn woolen clothing.
“The name's Dover,” he heard the man say. “Yours?”
Orrin watched Dover take down a lantern from a shelf, blow dust from its top, strike a flint, and catch the wick alight.
“Orrin,” he replied, stooping as the room shrunk around him in the illumination, his head a fraction from the ceiling beams where dried herbs hung in tied bunches. They did naught to hide the dwelling's smell.
“Orrin . . . Orrin. . . .” Dover plunked the lantern atop a table set in the corner, pulled out two chairs, and slid into one. “Then come, and let's talk business.”
Boots clumping, Orrin strode forth and unfurled the scroll in his hand. He refused to sit. “Says here, five thousand gold for the heart of Legendfire. This correct?”
“Oh yes,” said Dover, “as correct and true as the ink on that paper.”
Orrin half-turned, let his gaze roam over the man's meager possessions-a rusty cast iron stove, an assortment of dented pots and pans, a stained hearthrug, a straw-stuffed mattress, a weatherbeaten chest with ragged leather strapping. . . .
“I can pay you the sum, if that's what you're thinking,” said Dover, and Orrin returned his eyes to him. “That wretched beast stole my wealth—nearly all of it—but that's the least he took from me.”
Orrin's brow lifted. “Oh?”
“Yes, and I must have my revenge.”
Dover grinned a mouthful of crooked teeth. One eye squinted, and a wide scar along the left side of his face puckered. Orrin rolled up the scroll, tucked it into his vest, and tried to ignore the ill feeling that still gnawed at the pit of his insides.
“Revenge,” said Orrin—loudly, to hide his unease. “Sounds serious. What did he take from you, besides your money?”
“Sit,” said Dover, “and I'll tell you.”
He edged the empty chair toward Orrin with his foot, a misshapen thing with pointed yellow nails. Orrin stepped back, repulsed.
“No,” he said. “I'll stand.”
“So be it.”
Dover twisted round behind him and plucked a palm-sized frame, well kept, crafted in gilt flowers and leaves, from a dusty shelf and presented it to Orrin, who angled it into the lantern's light. A fair face painted in oils met his eyes, and Orrin felt his loins flush hot with a sudden desire.
“Beautiful, eh?” said Dover, and he sat back, lit a pipe.
“Yes. . . .”
Swirling smoke filled the corner of the room, and Orrin, oblivious to all else, drank in the young woman's delicate features: Skin as pink as a ripe peach. Dark hair, sleek and sheen. Thick lashes that graced the curve of her lids. Crimson lips, set full and sensual beneath a dainty nose. And her eyes-glorious! As rich as the king's most prized emeralds.
Saints be praised! She's finer than any wench I've ever bedded.
“Geeld.”
Orrin blinked, looked up at Dover.
“Pardon?”
“It's pronounced 'geeld',” he said. “The surname, at the bottom there. Go on, have a look for yourself.” He waggled an impatient finger, and drew on his pipe.
The weed crackled and glowed, and Orrin brushed his fingertips over the raised lettering entwined with the golden vines—Gielde, it read—and coughed at a newly exhaled billow of smoke.
“Her name's Fern,” said Dover, “and she's the other thing that beast stole from me—my daughter.”
Orrin lifted his head. “A dragon stole your daughter?”
“Yes!” Dover slammed his fist onto the table. The lantern rattled. “So surely you must see why that dragon has to die, no? Look at her,” he cried, “just look! Such beauty and grace, and now . . .” He groaned, sagging. “Trapped in a grotto, atop a pile of her own inheritance, and this”—he reached behind him again, pulled down a handful of hair tied with a red ribbon—“this is all I have left of her.”
Head bowed, Dover held the bundle out to Orrin who, setting the picture next to the lantern, took it into his hands. The silken strands slid elegant and soft over his calloused skin, and even through the room's stench, he caught a whiff of their inviting scent.
Orrin lifted the hair to his nose and inhaled.
At once, the heady smell of lavender and cinnamon enveloped him. Orrin closed his eyes and, like a dragon driven by the urge to mate, he savored the intense rush of pleasure that filled him with an undue determination and reckless thoughts.
What a choice consort she would make! Fern Gielde, the perfect bed wench.
Surely this man, Dover, couldn't deny his daughter to her bold savior as his ultimate reward, could he? A wealthy beauty at his every whim. Even better than the five thousand gold he had first set out for. His desires would be fulfilled—tenfold!
A sharp clang broke Orrin's thoughts. He turned his attention back to Dover, who, brow furrowed, tapped his fingers next to a platter of silver plating on the table. Orrin lowered the bundle of hair, grimaced at the return of the sulfuric smell and pipe smoke.
“This is the only piece of material wealth I have left,” said Dover, “worth far less than the reward I offer, mind you, and I want that dragon's heart upon it, warm and still beating. Can you do this, Orrin?” he asked. “Can you carve the beast's heart out of its chest and deliver it to me?”
Orrin fondled Fern's hair. Its scent caressed him. He gave a curt nod. “Yes,” he said, “I can.”
Dover grumbled in doubtful contemplation. “I don't know. . . .” He sat back with his pipe, scrutinized Orrin. “You seem a might lean,” he said, “and a might young.”
“I can deliver it.” Orrin stiffened back his shoulders. “I will deliver it.”
“With my daughter at your side?”
“With your daughter at my side.”
“Good.”
Dover stood, took back the bundle of Fern's hair, handed Orrin the platter, and strode to a small nook, where he rummaged through some clutter within.
“I have a pike, tipped heavy with poison,” he said, “and a dagger forged strong enough to pierce dragon hide.” He produced the items, turned to Orrin. “Stab the beast's underside with the pike, and after it's fallen dead, gouge out its heart with the dagger. I trust you know how to carve a hunted animal, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Stout man!” Dover clapped him on the back, thrust the weaponry into Orrin's hands, and ushered him to the door.
“Wait.”
Orrin pulled up. Dover eyed him.
“Have you . . . tried this yourself?”
“Oh, I have,” said Dover, “believe me, I have, but I was lucky, and received only this for my efforts.” He pointed to the scar. “No, I'm far too old for such dealings. I need someone hale and hearty, brave, like yourself. But, if you don't desire the reward forthcoming . . .”
“I do. I want it.”
“Then here.” Dover tucked a folded sheet of paper into Orrin's pocket. “A map to the dragon's grotto, and may fortune travel with you, my good fellow. You shall be rewarded once the deed has been done.”
The door slammed. Latches rattled. A rat chattered in the dark.
Orrin stood upon the stoop, exposed to the chill of Nymphshire's dank night and burdened with a clutter of items-the pike, the dagger, and the platter. The inkling of dread crept into his mind once more, and he ran a hand across his mouth, smelled the lingering scent of lavender and cinnamon.
Fern.
Orrin turned, stepped out into the street in search of a tavern where he could gather a few provisions for his journey.
A severed heart of a dragon delivered upon a platter of silver plating. Not a simple task, and Orrin knew nothing about dragons, but he was a desperate man, and even desperate men had to fulfill their desperate desires . . . somehow.

Orrin trekked through the night.
By the glow of a lantern, he picked his way along stretches of forestlands, following the map's directions, resting and eating only when he needed, until at last he reached the base of a secluded cliffside lake, where morning light seeped across the rock to find a low and ragged hole.
Some distance away, Orrin halted. A golden glint caught his eye.
The dragon's lair!
He snuffed out his lantern and crept closer.
Behind a nearby cluster of brushwood he crouched, poisoned pike in hand, dagger at his waist. He lay the platter at his feet next to the lantern, then watched and waited. Slowly, the sunlight strengthened and brightened the lonely beach, and soon Orrin could see clearly into the heart of the grotto.
Three shapes took form.
The first, a glittering mound of gold pieces and gems rose high against the back slope of the shallow cave, whereupon the second sat, perched atop it: a lone female figure adorned in a dress of pale blue—the sensuous Fern.
Orrin flushed hot once more and, from the bushes, took in her gentle movements, her cascade of black hair, the supple curves of her body. What kept Orrin from rushing forth in a heedless surge of bravado and lust, however, was the third shape, a hefty lump between him and his desire—Legendfire himself.
The dragon lay on his side like a fat sack of grain beneath the arch of the grotto, lengthy neck stretched and red skin asparkle in the dawn light. His scaly feet twitched. His horned tail flicked. The tips of his tucked wings shivered.
Orrin listened, watched. Over the chirp of birds, he heard the heavy rattle of a deep dragon breath, slow and steady, and saw streams of smoke waft from the large nostrils as the beast exhaled, slow and steady.
Asleep!
The dragon was asleep. But he was also enormous, with four sets of curved claws and a jaw full of fangs.
Orrin shrunk back. He eyed the platter at his feet. Perhaps he could pawn it for more than it was worth. But the possibility of a wealthy wench at his beck and call, fulfilling his every carnal whim. . . .
“Oh!”
He heard the voice—a young woman's voice—cry out in faint surprise.
Orrin looked up.
There stood Fern, alight with the late morning sun, at the crest of the golden mound, gaze fixed upon him, face bright with excitement. At once, she hitched up the edge of her skirt and began to clamber down from the pile.
Coins clinked and tinkled in her quick and sliding descent, and Orrin cringed, hearing Legendfire give a violent snort in his sleep. Smoke puffed. Wingtips shivered again. Fern halted behind the dragon's back and with a slender hand beckoned to Orrin, tugged at his loins with an invisible strand of desire.
Orrin saw his chance. The belly of Legendfire was exposed—Stab the beast's underside with the pike—and he girt up his courage, gripped the shaft of the weapon, shifted it forward, focused upon the scaly folds under which lay the warm and still-beating heart . . . and burst forth from the brushwood.
His feet pounded the ground. His muscles pumped, burned with vigor. Wind whistled past his ears.
At last! Fern would be his! Wealth would be his! His desperate desires would be fulfilled—ten, twenty, thirty fold! Orrin let out a fierce cry and lunged, thrusting the pike end at the dragon's vulnerable underbelly.
A sharp crack and the shaft snapped.
The heavily poisoned tip spun high in the air, arced over his head, to land with a clatter at the edge of the lake's beach, and Orrin stumbled headlong into the dragon, who snorted, this time awake and aware.
With a great whump of his tail, Legendfire heaved upward and seized Orrin, hoisted him aloft and roared. Webbed wings flexed. Hot spittle rained into Orrin's face, spewed upon a breath of rotting meat and sulfur.
Stiff and terrified, Orrin let the odor wash over him, and he glanced down at Fern, who stood before the dragon, her expression taut and reproachful.
“Stop this!” she called. “Stop this at once!”
The dragon snuffed, cocked his head at her, then he folded back his wings, rumbled and dipped his snout, Orrin with it. Orrin grimaced at the churn of his insides, heard the dragon answer in a resonant voice.
“But my sweet, the night was long, and I don't care to be woken so rudely.”
“And you have naught but yourself to blame.” Fern crossed her arms. “You instructed him, didn't you?”
“Yes, but I didn't expect his arrival so soon. I gauged a full day's travel, at the very least, with him. He didn't seem sturdy enough to trek overnight.”
“Well, the sooner, the better,” she said. “The sooner, the better.”
Orrin watched Fern saunter closer to peer up at him through the rich emerald eyes he had seen in the painting. She lay her hand upon his upper leg, and he gripped the underside of the dragon's finger, heart thudding, and caught a whiff of lavender and cinnamon.
“So what was I this time?” she asked of the dragon. “Niece? Cousin? A friend's stolen wife?”
“My daughter,” he answered.
“Oh!” Fern laughed and, with a toss of her head, clapped her hands. “Champion, Dover, my love! Champion!”
Orrin gasped, glanced at the dragon's face, where a wide scar sliced down the left side. A gray eye shifted his way, and the beast's scaly lips stiffened back.
“He refused to sit in the enchanted chair,” Dover said, “so I had to use the ribboned locks.”
“Ah yes, the ribboned locks.” Fern smiled. “I remember. Powerful spell, that one. I crafted it so even the most reluctant would give in.”
“Reluctant! Pah!” Dover spat out a sizzling gob, eyed Orrin with a growl. “He could scarcely contain himself. He reeked of male human musk, and I had to light a pipe to rid my room of the stench.”
“Poor you. . . .”
Fern pouted; a teasing curl of her crimson lip. Dover's expression softened.
“But then again,” he said, “all men eventually succumb to your natural beauty, my sweet.”
“Oh, Dover, you flatter me.”
Fern caressed the dragon's snout, laid a gentle kiss upon his forehead.
Orrin's eyes darted from Fern to Dover and back to Fern, whose fingers began to crawl up toward Orrin's loins, her face pressed to his inner thigh. His body responded, and he heard Fern utter a sensual moan.
Dover tightened his grip, bared his fangs. Orrin wheezed, felt ribs crack. Pain pierced his sides. Fern laughed, and she pulled away.
“Your jealousy always gets the better of you,” she said. “At least he didn't slash you in the face like the last one did.”
“Right.” Dover rumbled. “And he won't.”
Orrin's mind began to swim, his chest to ache, and he struggled for a moment, unable to break free. That ill feeling! I should have paid heed to that ill feeling! Then he fell still, closed his eyes, found his quavering voice buried beneath his thick tongue, and whispered a slur of words.
“Who is Legendfire?”
“Who, indeed,” said Fern. She dug beneath Dover's finger, searched Orrin's waistband, and wrenched out the dagger. “I thought you would have figured that out by now.”
Orrin winced. His vision narrowed. Fern flicked the blade point with the end of her thumb.
“Platter?” she asked.
“Platter,” said Dover.
“At least we can reuse it.”
“Who . . . is . . . Legendfire?”
Orrin wheezed again, and Fern sighed.
“Does it truly matter now?” she asked.
“Yes. . . .” He had to know. He was a desperate man, after all, with desperate desires that had to be fulfilled.
“So be it.” And with her thin finger, Fern traced out a fiery set of letters that burned before him in the air: f-e-r-n-g-i-e-l-d-e.
Orrin read the name.
Fern Gielde.
He blinked, confused. At once, the letters, crackling like Dover's pipe weed, rearranged themselves. Orrin read the name again and groaned. His thudding heart sank.
Legendfire.
“I am Legendfire,” said Fern. “And I shan't be trifled with.”
Orrin coughed, tasting a swell of vomit and blood, and he swallowed, jerked his chin at the dragon. “Then . . . he's . . . not . . .?”
“Dover?” Fern scoffed. “Of course not! Who would ever hunt down and kill a dragon by that name? We use mine; it's far more gallant. Now, please”—she motioned to the beast—“move your fingers, my love. You've squeezed him long enough, and he's not soon leaving, I suspect.”
“As you wish.”
Dover spread his fingers, and Orrin, weakened, lay heaving, helpless within the dragon's palm. Fern grinned, and she lifted the dagger high, wiped away her slaver.
“Yes,” she whispered, “the deeper the lust, the sweeter the flesh. Well done, Dover. Well done, indeed. He will taste absolutely perfect.”

Previously appeared in Aphelion

About Kimberly Grenfell

Kimberly Grenfell--wife of one, mother of two, and willing companion to two other "children" who have disguised themselves as dogs. She lives in the backwoods with several black bears, coyotes, turkeys, and a stray moose, and works as a stay-at-home mom during the week and a part-time kennel technician on weekends.
She has been an avid reader since childhood and has studied creative writing and editing both on her own and through college and independent classes. Currently, she's working on a collection of dark fantasy novels (and one novella) based in Caendoria, a fictional world where she spends a good deal of her spare time.

Dead Birch Log by Mary Webster - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T12:01:00.000-07:00

Now some people will tell you that it's impossible to hide twenty-eight bodies in just under two hours, and they're probably right. If Dad were here, instead of living out his retirement in Mexico under a fake name, he'd call them quitters. That's the kind of guy my dad is; he didn't raise any quitters.
To be honest though, I don't really see how we can get out of this mess. I'm half tempted just to call the cops and surrender. It might shave the sentence down to thirty years if we cooperate. I'll be sixty-one in thirty years… is that too old to make enough money to retire to the South of France? Probably.
Man, I need a smoke.
Moe climbs up the steep hill and sits next to me on the rotting log.
"How long until the logging camp bus comes through?" he asks. He looks down at the place where the road crumbled away under the truck tires. It rained a lot last week.
I check my watch. "An hour and twenty-five.”
Ed's still down by the truck, cursing a blue streak and trying to pry the hissing, crushed hood open with the crowbar. Even if he does get it open, he'll never be able to fix it out here. I peel a piece of grey-white bark off the log. It's pinkish underneath and I roll it into the shape of a cigarette. Moe says that birch trees are precious to his people, but I don't really see anything special about the decaying lump.
"Is it still sinking?" I ask Moe. The shoulders of the road are covered in a thick layer of rotten leaf muck and mossy mud, which has been slowly sucking the front end of the truck down like quicksand.
"Maybe a little," Moe says, "but I think the axel is distributing the weight enough to keep it from going down much more." He pulls his Marlboros out of his breast pocket and lights one. He takes a couple of long drags before he passes it to me.
"I quit, remember?" Both of my eyes fix lecherously on the cancer-stick. Moe chuckles and takes the birch bark from my hand and replaces it with his cigarette. He knows damn well I need it.
Ed gives up trying to open the hood and instead starts bashing in what's left of it with the bar. The sound of crunching metal echoes through the trees, which I suppose isn't really a big deal, since we're miles away from anyone else, but still, there might be a hunter in the woods somewhere.
"Cut it out, Ed!" I call as I rest my head in my hands. My palms feel strangely cold. I should have put my hat on. I take another drag and pass the cigarette back to Moe.
Ed screams with rage and starts pounding the crowbar against the trunk of the big maple that has turned the front of the truck into an accordion. He roars and flings the bar at us, but it falls about ten yards short. Neither Moe nor I bother to move. We just sit there, two bumps on the log, watching Ed kick the sunken passenger-side tire with his steel-toed boots again and again and again.
"How far are we from the border, Moe?" I've never been in shock before, but I think that's why I feel so cold. He blows two long streams of smoke out of his nose and I take the cigarette back from him to finish.
Moe shrugs and sticks his hands in his coat pockets; he's cold too. "Thirty miles or so. Maybe a little less."
Ed has abandoned the truck and is pacing up and down, running his hands over his stubbly face and through his scraggly hair, occasionally pausing to kick a crate.
"We could use the CB," Moe continues. "Turn ourselves in. Set the bodies out real nice before they get here and tell 'em that we didn't know we were smuggling people."
"Yeah officer," I say, in a high-pitched, cutesy voice. "We thought we were smuggling guns into Canada, not illegal immigrants from wherever-the-fuck. Our mistake!"
"How fucking stupid did they have to fucking be to get in a Goddamn crate with no motherfucking air holes?!" Ed bellows, looking desperately up at us. His knees buckle and he sits in the mud. He leans against the truck, the wet streaks on his cheeks visible even from up here. Moe takes the butt and puts it out in a little puddle of water in a hollow of the log.
I look around. The view up here is spectacular. In far distance, I can see the Rockies, white masses against the grey sky. All around us, the hills are burning with the orange, red, and yellow leaves. A long, narrow divide runs for miles though them—the logging road. In the foreground is Ed, sobbing loudly, the wrecked truck, and twenty-eight empty crates with a blue-faced body in cheap clothing lying next to each.
I force myself to stand up. "C'mon, Moe," I say. "You're right—let's line the bodies up and cover their faces. Maybe they won't charge us with improper treatment of a corpse." He follows me down the hill, but he doesn't say anything. What is there to say?
I'm a third generation smuggler; my grandfather was a rumrunner in the thirties, my dad was a drugrunner in the seventies, and I'm a gunrunner—or at least I was until this morning. Dad and Grandpa both used this old road in their days… Dad's going to be so embarrassed. I wonder how he'll be able to write to me while I'm in prison without the cops finding out where he is? The easy way would be to not bother writing at all. Dad likes easy answers.
"Let's set 'em over there on the dry moss," Moe says. He points out a soft, green area, then bends down and wraps his big, olive hands around a woman's ankles. I pick her other half up by her wrists and together we hobble across the road, the body swinging a bit between us. Her soft skin is warm against my cold palms, like she's still alive. Moe's hands are wrapped around her socks, so I don't think he's noticed that she hasn’t gone cold yet.
"Christ, Ed! Come help us before they go stiff!" Moe grumbles, irritably. We lay the woman gently down and adjust her arms to lie at her sides.
Ed gets to his feet and heaves a smaller body up over his shoulder. The boy looks like he was about fourteen. Fifteen, maybe. Ed carries him over to lie next to the woman while Moe and I struggle to pick up a big man with a scruffy, black beard who must have been in his early to mid-forties.
He bends easily at the waist as I lift his arms up and a low, breathy moan slips out of his mouth. My last nerve snaps and I screech. I drop his arms like his hot flesh has seared my palms, and back away as quickly as I can. My ankle hits something hard and I fall over backwards, landing on top of a skinny woman who was about my age. As I scramble off her, her head rolls heavily to the side, her eyes open and glassy. Her last breath whooshes out of her lungs, and as I gasp for air, it gets sucked, still warm, down into mine. She tastes like soft spices, unbrushed teeth, and something unpleasantly earthy.
I shove myself hard away from her when I realize what I've just swallowed, and wind up lying against the burning flesh of a middle-aged woman. Then two hands grab my shoulders and pull me away. Ed wraps his arm around my waist and half-carries, half-drags me about ten yards away, turning me so I can't see the bodies. I fall heavily to my knees, willing myself not to puke on his shoes. That'd really piss him off.
"Jesus Christ, Liz!" he snaps. He puts a frigid hand on the back of my neck and gives me a shake. "Get your shit together, will ya? They're not going to fucking bite!" He lets me go and I hear his footsteps on the dead leaves as the hypocrite walks back to the truck.
"He's not dead," Moe says quietly, somewhere behind me.
"Course he's friggin' dead," Ed spits. "They're all friggin' dead."
"Not this one," Moe insists.
I take a deep breath and turn around to see what they're talking about. Moe's kneeling on the road next to the big guy we dropped, his fingers pressing into the dead guy's doughy neck.
"Can you feel a pulse?" I ask as I hurry over.
"No, but he is breathing," Moe says, his voice soft in wonder. "Hold your hand above his mouth and see." I stretch my hand out half an inch above the guy's mouth and wait.
"I don't feel anything, Moe." I'm a bit worried that Moe's snapped. I can't handle being stranded in the middle of the woods with twenty-eight bodies and Ed-the-jerk by myself. I need Moe.
"That's because he's fucking dead!" shouts Ed. "It was just air being forced out of his lungs and through his voice box!"
Moe jumps up and runs toward the hill. He pulls the crowbar out of the leaves and when he runs back to the truck there’s a moment I'm pretty sure he's going to smash Ed's head in. Ed's hand is already inside his coat pocket, wrapped tightly around that Taser that he doesn't think we know about. Moe stops at the truck, raises the bar up high and brings it down hard against the passenger-side mirror, knocking it to the ground. Ed looks relieved, and I see his hand relax inside his pocket.
Moe drops the crowbar and grabs the mirror. "Look," he says and he holds the mirror in front of the dead guy's mouth with a shaking hand.
"Christ," Ed whispers as the mirror slowly fogs, then clears a little, then fogs again, then clears. "Which crate did he come out of?"
"That one, I think. Moe gestures to a crate without taking his eyes off the mirror.
Ed looks it over and in seconds he's found a knothole the size of a quarter. He sticks his finger though it and wiggles it at us. "He had air," Ed says, amazed. "Not enough to stay conscious, but he had air."
"He needs help!" Moe jumps to his feet and hurries to the truck. He yanks open the passenger door and grabs the CB from under the dash. "I hope we can pick up the camp from here."
Suddenly my brain starts to work again and I leap to my feet. I'm at Moe's side in an instant, smacking the radio out of his hand. I am not going to jail.
"What are you doing?" Moe shouts. I chuck the CB onto the truck seat and slam the door shut.
"Ed, help Moe lift him into the driver's seat, then fasten his seatbelt." I check my watch. "We have an hour to get them back into their crates and onto the truck. Hurry, before they start to go stiff!"
Moe's dark eyes stare at me and his mouth hangs open. A little part of me feels so ashamed as I stand fixed under his hard gaze. But Ed bends down, grabs the guy under his arms, and drags him around to the driver's side. I turn my back on Moe and pull off my scarf to wipe our prints out of the truck. When I look back, he's helping Ed heave the guy up onto the seat.
By the time we hear the first echoing rumbles in the distance, we've got them all back into their crates and into the back of the truck, except for that first, fat woman we moved. Ed and I drag her back to the truck and manage to wedge her back into her box. Moe slaps the lid down and uses the crowbar to drive the nails back in. It takes the three of us to lift her onto the truck. Ed slides the squeaky door down, slamming it hard into place, and we're done.
The ground starts shaking and there's a wild scramble as we tear up the leafy hill and melt into the trees. The bus whips around the bend in the road and we hear the ancient brakes squeal as the tub lurches to a stop. Moe stops and peers around a tree to watch the burly men climb off the bus, but Ed grabs his arm and shoves him along. We jog away, heading due north, listening as the excited voices fade away behind us. I'm almost sure that I heard someone shout "He's dead!" but I might have just imagined it. It should be a while before they open the crates.
Hours later, a large, black shape looms up in front of us. Ed kicks the door in and I hear a surprised squeak and a lot of frantic scratching. A moment later, two raccoons bail out a broken window and run underneath some curled-up ferns. I can't believe we found this place.
It's weird, knowing that Dad spent the night in this same cabin, once upon a time. I wonder how he was able to sleep when the wind sounds like a haunted whisper as it forces itself in through the loose boards, and every wind-tossed, leafy branch sounds like footfalls surrounding us, hunting us, trapping us.
We're all sweating from the long hike, but it's a cold sweat, making our bodies go clammy. Moe kneels down next to the rusty cast-iron stove and pulls the squeaky little door open. "Go find us some wood, Liz," he says. He hasn't looked at me since we left the truck.
Back outside, I take a moment to duck behind a wide tree to pee. I have no idea what to do… I need to get over the border. Maybe I can disappear into the crowd in Calgary. I can't use my credit card though… I'll find a women's shelter and get a shower and a change of clothes so I'll look decent enough to get to my emergency account at the bank. Then I'll jut try to lie low and keep changing hotels for a couple of weeks until I can get a new passport lined up. Ed's big mouth is going to be my biggest problem. At least he doesn't know my real name… Moe does, but Moe also knows how to shut up. I'd better dye my hair again too… I'll pick up some cheap colored contacts and some Tan In A Can…
I do my best to gather some wood, but everything's so wet! When I nudge the cabin door open with my foot, Moe's already on his knees in front of the stove, trying to get a smoking bundle of grass to ignite.
"What about your matches?" I ask him as I set the wood down where he can reach it. It's so damp there are slugs crawling over it. I glance down at my jacket to make sure there are none on me.
"Must of dropped 'em," he grumbles, still not looking at me.
"What kind of Indian can't start a fire?" Ed snipes from the broken chair in the corner.
"Cut me some slack, asshole," Moe says calmly. "Everything's wet." He leans in and blows gently on the twigs until the tiny flames spread reluctantly to a bundle of damp twigs. Ed snorts and props his feet up on the table. I'm so sick of his shit.
"Ed, you're a jerk, y'know," I tell him.
"I know," he smiles.
"If it wasn't for Moe, we would never have found this place. We'd be trying to sleep under a bush somewhere." Ed just shrugs and lights a cigarette.
"You had some fucking matches, Ed?" Moe shouts. Ed laughs and Moe stomps out the door.
"I suppose the squaw won't let me have any supper now," Ed chuckles. "Not that that's necessarily a bad thing."
"Supper?" I ask Ed. My empty stomach growls excitedly.
Ed tips his head back and blows a perfect ring of smoke. "He clubbed a raccoon with the crowbar." My stomach doesn't care. Clubbed raccoon sounds just as good as filet mignon right now. I scoot closer to the stove and hold my hands and feet out to warm them.
Moe comes back a few minutes later with bloody strips of raw meat cupped in his hands and some sharpened sticks tucked under his arm. He dumps the meat on the brown brick hearth and casually tosses a stick to Ed—he doesn't offer me anything and I don't ask or reach for the other sticks. If he wants to be like this, then fine. We'd be in the back of a cop car with our hands cuffed behind out backs right now if I hadn't acted.
The guys skewer some meat and roast it in the fire. It smells fleshy and musky, but my mouth waters anyway. Then Moe holds the end of his stick over to me, inviting me to take the brown piece of meat. I don't touch it. I don't even look at him.
"Stop being so prissy and just take the fucking thing, would you? Geez!" Ed snaps angrily. I hesitate and look at Moe who's staring into the fire. My stomach growls and I grab the meat. It tastes a bit gamey although I know it's fresh. Moe fries himself a big piece and eats it while he does another from me.
It's my fault. I know it is. I thought I was being so smart. It should have worked! We did everything right… we moved the cargo to a different van, we stopped and changed the plates—twice. We could have been over the border and gone, made a ton of fast cash and quit doing the kind of shit that we do. The last few years, things have been getting more… intense… in the business. Too intense. I glance at my watch. We should have been in Seattle an hour ago. They'll be looking for us now. If it had just been a load of guns that we'd stolen from our supplier, he'd kill us, but human beings? The cops will never find our bodies.
I move and lie down on the floor on the far side of the stove with my back to the guys, wondering when each of those people died. Did they go one by one while we were driving down the long logging road, or were they gone long before then? My throat and lungs feel weird and I can't stop myself from coughing a few times. That woman's breath was so bad. Ed coughs too. The heat from the stove seeps into my back, but I'm still so cold. After a while Ed lies down too. Moe just pokes the fire and sits where he is.
"We killed them, you know," Ed says to the darkness. "Rigor mortis usually sets in after the first couple of hours so that means they were alive when we picked up the truck in L.A." His voice hangs in the black air for a long moment, clear and soft. At least I'm not the only one having an ironic conscience crisis. "And the cops are the least of our worries," he continues with a cough.
"We know, Ed," I grumble. My skin aches. I must be allergic to the dust on the floor.
"If they were alive, then why weren't they shouting or banging on the crates?" Moe asks.
"Maybe they were drugged," Ed says after a long pause. "They should have been stiff… it doesn't make sense…"
"We should split up when we get over the border," Moe says, matter-of-factly. "Make it harder for them to find us all… for a while, anyway."
"Jesus," Ed mutters. I can hear him rubbing his hand over his eyes and stubbly chin. "It doesn't make sense," he mutters again, as I shut my eyes. "They musta been drugged… they shoulda been stiff." No one says anything else, and soon, I fall asleep, dreaming of depression-era cops kicking the door in and crashing tear gas in through the windows.
Sometime deep into the night, I wake up to find Moe's arms around me and his jacket covering me like a blanket. There's a warm, damp spot on my temple from where he's kissed me. He looks like he's asleep, so I allow myself to bury my face in his warm chest—he smells like sweat and pine needles. His arms tighten around me and relief washes through me as I understand that I'm forgiven. I close my eyes and let Moe hold me close as I go back to sleep.
In the morning, Ed is gone. We aren't particularly surprised, Moe and I. And we don't give a shit either, so long as the little jackass doesn't get himself caught and rat on us, that is.
Moe and I wrap the last of the fried raccoon in some big maple leaves and he slips it into his pockets for us to have later. I can't believe that Ed didn't take it all, although I kinda don't blame him; my own stomach feels like hell. Moe takes my hand and we start walking through the trees, not talking since our throats hurt too much.
"Moe," I rasp, after a while. "Why would anyone want to smuggle people into Canada when it's so easy to walk through the woods like we're doing?"
"I've been wondering about that, too," he croaks. "I don't think they were meant to get anywhere alive. I think they were containers to smuggle something awful. Like a box inside a box." I mull that over for a bit as we walk on. I look up at Moe; the skin on his face looks puffy. I put a hand up and touch my own - it feels lumpy and soft. "Don't worry," he hisses, "it'll be okay. Just don't stop walking."
We don't, although our feet start to burn, then our legs and torsos. The light wind is making my face feel wet in little patches, and when I look at my handsome Moe, I know why. He winks at me, but we don't speak. I'm getting so scared, but he doesn't let go of my hand, and that makes me feel a little braver.
Late that evening, we come out of the trees near a little town. Moe says we made it over the border, but I can't believe him until I see the Canadian flag flying in front of the post office. We make it about two blocks before someone screams and runs into a bakery.
"I guess they've already found Ed," Moe rasps. He coughs and a bit of pink juice flies out of his mouth.
It takes about eight seconds before the second scream, then people start to stick their heads out of shop doors and apartment windows. The panicking is spectacular. Doors slam, their locks clacking behind them. Parents lift their children clean off the ground in one arm and run in the opposite direction, their other hand clamped over their children's noses and mouths. A little old lady with a walker grabs her heart, and someone from the hardware store takes pity on her and runs out to grab her around the waist, dragging her inside as she passes out. In the span of a few moments, Moe and I are alone in the street with the pruned trees, painted benches, color-stuffed flowerbeds, and the tipped-over walker.
I'm scared to let go of Moe's hand - it's the only place where my skin isn't coming off. We start walking down the pretty little main street in the sunset, following the signs that lead to the hospital. I want to cry, but I'm scared it'll hurt. I can feel my heart pounding, and I will it to be still so that it doesn't just tear itself away from its resting place and fall into the pit of my stomach like a juicy rock. Moe looks kinda scared too, but I know he's staying calm for me. As the sirens get louder, the breeze blows softly over us and I feel more wet patches on my face. We manage to stroll down another block before the ambulances, cop cars, and fire trucks fill the street all around us.
"You'd look pretty in that dress," Moe rasps, nodding toward a flowery green number in a store window. The cops are in full riot gear and the firemen are wearing their oxygen tanks.
"Yeah?" I gak, blushing. My face burns and my skin cracks across my cheeks. The ambulance guys pull on sterile, white biohazard suits, and so many gun safeties click at the same time that it almost sounds like crickets.
"Yeah," he whispers, with two little beads of blood forming at the sides of his mouth. Someone's shouting something over a megaphone, but I can't really hear it. My ears feel wet inside and I can't hear much of anything.
"Would you please step away from each other and cooperate with the paramedics?" the Mountie booms through her loudspeaker.
"It'll be okay, Liz," Moe tells me. The blood spots grow and then run down his chin. "Blame everything on Ed. He's probably dead anyway." I nod and something inside of my right ear starts to trickle down my cheek.
"Please stay calm and still so that the paramedics can help you," the Mountie booms again. "You are highly contagious. For the sake of everyone in this town, please cooperate and step away from each other. If you do not, then we will open fire." Moe squeezes my hand tight as the people in the white suits grab our arms and pull us toward the ambulances.
"Don't die, Moe—please," I croak, panicking as they pull as apart.
"I won't, babe. I promise," he says, and then I'm being pushed down and strapped to a stretcher and I can't see him anymore.
When they lift me into the clean ambulance, I'm able to notice for the first time that I stink. I smell Ed's cigarette smoke, b.o., raccoon blood, and pine needles. I can still feel the heat from Moe's hand on my skin and when I look down, for an instant, right before they cover me from the neck down with a white sheet, I see how my skin has turned grey and is flaking off, leaving raw, pink patches that look just like the bark on the dead birch log.

About Mary J. Webster

Mary J. Webster is a Canadian writer with an English degree and a trucking license. She enjoys SCUBA diving, metal detecting, and digging through the scrap metal pile at the dump.

Medushair by Dan Powell - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T11:54:00.000-07:00

She said she wanted a change, something dramatic, but even allowing for her hairdresser’s Greek ancestry, the metamorphic effect of June’s restyle was unexpected.
"I want my new style to stop him dead in his tracks," she told her stylist, Alexia.
Now, with nothing but her own face to look at as the girl applied the color, June had to agree she was looking old. She was old. Trevor never stopped reminding her. Look at you. Can't you even try to make an effort? Used to be I fancied you, but you've let yourself go since the kids left. The worst thing about Trevor’s criticisms was the truth of them.
The hot pressure of his words in her head eased as Alexia's delicate fingers massaged deep conditioning shampoo into June's scalp.
"Your husband, he will not recognise you."
June smiled gratefully and focused her attention on the soothing camomile fragrance of the shampoo. A quick rinse and the styling began, the girl gently pulling and cutting June's hair, reshaping it with incremental snips of the gleaming scissors.
The restyle complete, June let herself be led to the dryers.
"A few minutes under here and you'll be perfect," Alexia said, lowering the dome over her head.
Restrained under the retro-futuristic helmet of the dryer, June had little to distract her from her thoughts. Once more she felt her insides bristle and her face heat, hurt and shame flooding upwards into the roots and length of her hair. Something squirmed about her head, tickling at her ears. The hissing started as she raised a hand to scratch her scalp.
"There’s something wrong with this machine," she called out to the ladies busy colouring and cutting.
Alexia hurried over and turned the dryer off at the wall before placing her hands on either side of the dome to lift it. Her scream turned every head in the beauty salon.
"Something bit me," she whimpered as another member of the staff wrapped her torn arm with a towel.
June slipped from beneath the dryer and stepped slowly to the line of mirrors over the sinks. The salon filled with the sound of those around her snatching a breath and holding it. Hissing filled the silence following behind.
In the mirror, snakes coiled and wound about her head, slate eyes and forked tongues flicking this way and that. Behind her, in the reflection, terrified faces stared. June turned and, as she caught their eyes, watched each one turn the grey of old stone.
"Oh my goodness," she said, though no one in the room could hear her.
She put a shaking hand to Alexia's cheek, the young girl’s face cold, stopped in the midst of a grimace. June turned back to the mirror, careful not to look herself in the eye. The snakes somehow perfectly complemented the haggard, tiredness of her face. For just a heartbeat, she felt fearful of herself. Then her thoughts filled with the idea of showing this new 'do to her husband, and she wasted no time collecting her things. Wrapping her head with a patterned scarf, she left, letting the salon door lock behind her.

About Dan Powell

Dan Powell writes fiction of all shapes and sizes, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in the pages of Neon, Metazen, The View From Here, 100 Stories for Haiti and Litsnack. His story 'Half-Mown Lawn' took first place in the 2010 Yeovil Literary Prize for short fiction and is available to download on the Ether Books app for iPod and iPhone. He blogs at http://www.danpowellfiction.com

Creepy Job by Christopher Woods - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T11:51:00.000-07:00

About Christopher Woods

Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher, and photographer, who lives in Houston and Chappel. Hill, Texas.

Held by Yael de Jong - Issue 1 Archived

2011-05-02T11:47:00.000-07:00

The shock of the cold wears off. I look up in the rippling darkness, my hair floating around me. All is black; only the moon shines on the surface above. I am calm. As I look at the bright disc, his silhouette appears, framed in the halo of light. I close my eyes and drift away.

The first sensation to intrude upon Anna as she slowly came to was the warmth of Rob’s chest. He had drawn her close to him, and the gentle rocking she felt was the rhythm of his walk. He was carrying her, his strong arms holding her easily.
Anna knew she should be worried about something—that something terrible had happened—but she could remember nothing. A strange lassitude hovered around her, threatening to overwhelm her. She fought the lead in her veins and tried to lift her hands to Rob’s face, but she could not.
“Shhh, Anna, go back to sleep. Please.”
He bent his head down to kiss her forehead, then looked resolutely ahead and carried on walking. Anna snuggled closer to him and let sleep come.
Dream became memory.
Anna pulled into the parking space in front of Rob’s building and listened to the last chorus of her favourite rock song before turning the car off. She felt the nervous trembling in her stomach and noticed her hands were shaking as she lifted them off the steering wheel.
“Tonight, I’ll tell him tonight,” she said firmly to her reflection in the rear-view mirror. “He’ll freak out, but he’ll be cool with it, eventually. It’s going to be fine.” She looked down at her barely swollen belly and covered it with her hand. “It has to be.”
Anna pulled herself together, grabbed the two shopping bags and her handbag from the passenger seat, and got out of her little car. She flicked her long black hair over her shoulder and strode purposefully to the door of the apartment block.
Even though it was only eight o’clock, the hallways were deserted. Anna stood for a moment before Rob’s door and took a deep breath to calm herself. Timidly she knocked. There was no answer. She knocked again, braver this time. Still nothing.
Damn! He must have gone out, she thought, disappointed. Although they weren’t supposed to meet tonight, Anna had assumed Rob would be home. She took the key from her bag, the one to be used “only in an emergency,” and let herself in. The apartment was dark.
“Rob, Hon? You here?”
No reply.
Probably out with the guys. Double damn it! she thought. Anna pushed the door closed behind her with her foot and carried her bags into the dark kitchen, switching on the light with her elbow. She decided to get everything ready for when he came back. She would wait for him for as long as it took. Anna carefully arranged the cold supper she had brought on two plates and then opened the cupboard to get out their two wine glasses. With a bottle of wine and glasses in one hand, she grabbed her handbag from the counter and walked around the corner into the apartment’s sitting room. She dropped her handbag onto the floor and flicked the light switch.
She stopped dead.
Rob’s usually neat apartment was in disarray. The couches had been moved around and beer cans littered the floor. Three unfamiliar black sports bags lay against the far wall. Anna barely noticed them. Her eyes were riveted to the hundreds of little white pills strewn all over the coffee table, along with rolls of unused coin bags from various local banks.
“Anna?”
She whirled around. She had been too shocked by the sight of the pills to hear Rob enter the apartment.
“Rob? What’s going on? What’s all...?” she stammered.
“Anna, what are you doing here?” Rob demanded in a harsh tone that she had never heard him use before. He grabbed her arm.
“Ow! Rob, let go!”
“Quiet!” He dragged her to the bedroom and thrust her inside. “Stay in here and don’t make a sound!”
“Rob, what’s going on?”
“Please, Anna.” His scowl disappeared and was replaced by a desperately worried look. The next moment he was gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Anna stared stupidly at the door and then down at the glasses and bottle still in her hands. Her confusion paralysed her until she heard male voices in the sitting room. Quietly she put the bottle and glasses down on the bedside table and crept towards the closed door. She pressed her ear against it, straining to hear.
“Right! I got the beers! Let’s finish this.” She recognised Matt’s voice, one of Rob’s friends.
She heard the squeak of leather couches as the two of them sat down and then the clatter of pills being moved around on the table.
“I want this done now! We’re meeting Enrico in one hour,” said a third male voice, rough and deep, that Anna did not recognize. She heard the sound of a beer can being opened. “What’ve you got in your fridge, Rob?”
“Oh? Stuff. Just help yourself,” Rob’s voice was tense.
Anna heard heavy footsteps moving towards the kitchen.
“What’s going on, Rob? You expecting someone?”
“What?” asked Rob.
The heavy footsteps came back into the room. “There are two plates set out in the kitchen, Rob,” Anna heard the rough voice say. “Who are they for?”
“Umm... er, no one. I just thought maybe you guys were hungry.” Rob sounded strained.
“And what’s with the heart made of strawberries?” the rough voice asked. Anna gasped remembering how she had decorated the plates for Rob.
“I bet you’ve got someone coming over,” the rough voice accused. “I’ve told you before about keeping this secret. If someone finds out about this, I’ll...” The voice stopped and Anna strained to hear.
“What’s this?” the rough voice came again, but this time it was quieter. Anna could hear the deadly anger in it.
“Oh, that?” Rob’s voice shook. There was a pause. “That’s just my girlfriend’s bag. She left it here when she came over last time.”
“Really? Only I don’t remember seeing it earlier.”
“Maybe you missed it and ...”
“You know what I think? I think you’ve got your little whore stashed here, haven’t you?”
“No. No! I don’t! There’s no one here.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Bill, please, I swear. There’s no one else here.”
“So you won’t mind if I look in there.”
“Bill!”
Anna sprang back from the door. She looked around desperately for somewhere to hide. The room was too small. The door crashed open and a huge man loomed in the doorway. Anna backed away but her legs bumped against the bed, and she fell heavily on the mattress. The man strode across to her and grabbed her hair, dragging her to her feet.
“Well, what do we have here?” he sneered.
The man threw her out of the bedroom and Anna tripped and went sprawling against one of the couches. She sank to the floor, looking around for some escape.
Matt was sitting, mouth open, on the couch opposite her. The pills littered the table between them. Rob stood close to the bedroom door, frozen in shock. He backed away, and Anna got a good look at the man with the rough voice for the first time.
He was huge, towering over everyone in the room. His over-muscled arms were covered in tattoos and his black t-shirt stretched across his massive body. His stubbled head rose block-like from a thick neck, mouth parted in a silent snarl. Most frighteningly, his ice-grey eyes stared at her without the slightest flicker of humanity in them.
Seconds ticked by.
“We have ourselves a little situation here,” growled Bill.
Rob shook off his fearful silence. “Please, Bill. This is Anna. She’s cool, man. She’s nothing to worry about.”
Anna nodded dumbly.
“You got someone else coming round later? Who else have you told?”
“I haven’t told anyone! Bill, listen, I didn’t know she was going to be here. I found her when we came in with the beers. She wasn’t supposed to be here tonight!”
“I was just going to surprise Rob.” Anna found her voice at last, although it came out in a fearful whisper. “I didn’t see anything.”
Bill looked at the pills. He looked over at the bags against the wall. “You’ve seen enough,” he said. He started towards Anna.
Rob stepped in front of him. “Anna won’t say anything, I swear. Who’s she going to tell? It’ll be fine, I promise you. Anna knows how to keep a secret, don’t you, Hon?”
Anna nodded desperately.
“Really? That’s just great.” Bill moved deceptively quickly for a man his size. He shoved Rob violently out of the way. Rob was flung against the wall and sank down, stunned. Bill lunged and grabbed Anna’s arm, dragging her up to him.
“Matt, get the tranq!” he ordered.
“What? No! Bill, please!” Rob got up shakily and stumbled, trying to pull Anna away. Bill grabbed Rob’s hand and squeezed hard, bringing the younger man to his knees. Anna heard the bones in Rob’s hand crack as they were ground together.
“Now, Matt!” Bill shouted.
Matt was galvanised into action. He opened the bag closest to him and took out a small bottle and a hypodermic needle. He inserted the syringe into the bottle and measured out a dose.
Anna struggled against Bill’s grip, but couldn’t release herself. She tried to kick his shins, but he spun her around to face Matt, pulling her arm up her back. Anna screamed in pain and fear. Her arm was close to breaking. Matt advanced on her with the syringe.
“Please, Matt, Bill, don’t.” Rob begged, still immobilized. “She won’t say anything, I promise.” Tears stood in his eyes.
“Keep your mouth shut,” growled Bill.
Matt took hold of Anna’s arm and jabbed the needle in. “Sorry about this,” he muttered as he looked into her pleading eyes.
The room started spinning. Anna sank down to the floor, unconsciousness making everything black around her. “This is what you’re going to do if you want to live through this,” she heard Bill say in the distance.
And then, there was nothing.
With a gasp, Anna opened her eyes. She started struggling weakly in Rob’s arms, trying to fight the drug still coursing in her veins.
“Rob. Please. Rob.” Tears started streaming down her face.
He looked down at her with an agonised expression but did not stop.
“Rob, please. I love you. Please. Don’t do this,” she begged.
Rob clenched his jaw and carried on walking.
“The baby, Rob, don’t hurt our baby,” Anna sobbed helplessly, unable to force her numb body to do anything.
Rob stopped and stared at her in anguish. “Baby?” he asked. Suddenly he stumbled forward, pushed from behind, nearly dropping Anna.
“Move!” Anna heard Bill’s harsh voice. She closed her eyes in despair, hope fading.
They came to a river and stopped halfway across a small footbridge. Rob laid her down carefully. Rough hands seized her. She was rolled onto her front and her hands were bound behind her. Her legs were then tied together and chains were wrapped around them. Anna rested her face on the wooden planks and wept. “Please don’t. Please don’t,” was all she could say, over and over again.
Strong arms picked her up, holding her, not gently as Rob had done. The arms swung her round and then let go. She flew, out into the river. The cold water cut into her like a knife as she sank into the depths.

I look up again. I want him to be the last thing I see. Just as the dark returns to claim me, I see him falling towards me. He crashes into the shining surface above, arms stretching towards me. Around him a dark cloud grows, oozing from the hole in his heart. He reaches me and we sink down. Together.

About Yael de Jong

Yael de Jong is an avid reader and writer of fiction of all kinds. She lives in Cape Town, South Africa with her husband, two sons and a cat.

Issue Two is on the way...

2011-04-22T09:28:00.000-07:00

Yes folks, we're delighted to announce the second edition of the The Red Asylum is on the way.

Released in May, here's a sneaky peak at the cover just to wet your appetites:

We Want Your Artwork!

2011-03-07T10:20:00.000-08:00

Don't forget, in addition to dark and twisted short fiction and poetry we also invite artists to submit their pictures/photos to The Red Asylum.

Do you want to see your artwork on the cover of the next edition? Of course you do!

Click on the link to The Red Asylum and check out our submission guidelines.

We'd love to know what you think

2011-01-20T11:53:00.000-08:00

The first issue of The Red Asylum has been out a few days now and hopefully you've had a chance to read it.

If you have and you've got comments, about any aspect we would love to hear from you.

You can e-mail us at theredasylum.contacts@gmail.com. We want to give our readers what they want, and only with your feedback and support can we do that.

The Red Asylum, Issue One - LIVE!!

2011-01-16T02:48:00.000-08:00

Fanfare please! Our first edition is now up and available to read on our website.

Click on the cover to access -

We'd love you to share the good news, so please pass this link on to all your friends: http://theredasylum.webs.com/currentissue.htm

Reporting your response times

2011-01-09T09:25:00.000-08:00

Don't forget everyone, if you make a submission to The Red Asylum, please take a few moments to report it on Duotrope. We aim to read your work and give you a decision as quickly as possible.

The submissions tracker on Duotrope will help you track all your work as well as helping the publications you submit to by recording how efficiently they respond to the writers.

Janury 15th - First Edition Release Date!!

2011-01-08T13:18:00.000-08:00

That's right everyone, the historic release of our first edition is just one week away.

The Red Asylum, Issue 1, January 15th 2011.

We're still taking submissions in the mean time so be sure visit our site. Check our submission guidelines and enter the doors of The Red Asylum.

We're still accepting submissions for our first issue

2010-12-29T12:36:00.000-08:00

Since we've made it onto the Duotrope listings, we've had some fantastic pieces sent to us. We're just putting the final touches to the historic first edition of The Red Asylum. However, if you want to be part of that, there's time as we still have a couple of spots open.

Visit our site and have a look through the submission guidelines right now, don't delay!

Issue One is under construction

2010-12-16T01:40:00.000-08:00

Here's a sneaky peak of the front cover of our first edition.

Find us on Duotrope

2010-12-15T12:53:00.000-08:00

Excellent news. The Red Asylum is now on Duotrope. This means we are are open to a much wider audience, which means we can expect a lots more submissions.

Don't for get if you have a dark and twisted story in you, let it out and bring to our doors. We're always excited to get new stories.

There's still time to make the first historic edition of The Red Asylum!

2010-11-30T01:43:00.000-08:00

Hey, about time we gave you an update! The submissions are rolling in to The Red Asylum and things are getting exciting, but we're always hungry for more!

We're hoping to launch the first issue at the beginning of the new year, if you want to make that first historic edition you know what you have to do - send us your most dark and twisty tales, stuff that will really make us go 'WOW'. Don't forget we're also looking for cover art and a couple of poem all under the same theme.

Give us a shout at theredasylum.contacts@gmail.com if you have any questions.

Submissions Call!

2010-10-12T13:22:00.000-07:00

Don't forget, The Red Asylum is still looking for people to submit their dark and twisted fiction to us.

We use Submishmash so the procedure is pretty painless.

If you know anywhere we could advertise The Red Asylum to spread the word please let us know.

And... We're Live!

2010-09-27T13:27:00.000-07:00

Yes, Ladies and Gentleman, a historic day for us here at The Red Asylum. After much planning we're finally opening our doors and inviting submissions ready for our very first edition.

Come and visit us at: The Red Asylum, full website address: http://theredasylum.webs.com/

Look forward to seeing you all soon.

Coming soon...

2010-09-24T13:36:00.000-07:00

The Red Asylum is a brand new short fiction magazine focusing on the dark and the twisted. This blog is where we'll be sharing updates on the slush pile and any other news.