Janine Sheldon

Reapers Prefer Automatic

 

Nightmares have an odd way of ruining my life even though I’m not sleeping, especially being a ten year old kid like me. The more sleep I lose, the more my imagination takes over my reality. I’ve been having the same nightmare for weeks.

 

It always begins as a brisk, dingy night. The air is still after an hour of rainfall. A car approaches the wet streets of a small, quiet neighborhood. It parks near a curb and the engine shuts off. Once the headlights go out, three men emerge from the car. They are dressed in the same clothing: dark jeans, collared flannel shirt, and a heavy jacket with names printed on the left breast-Willy, Ty, and Tom. They close their doors as they look around at the dim two-story houses, then glance at each other before walking in separate directions.

 

Their heavy boots pierce through the silence, each step more foreboding than the last. In one synchronic motion, the three men disappear into their chosen houses, not through the front door, nor a window. They enter as though they are being absorbed into the house. 

 

Moments later, a bright light emits through an upstairs window for only a few seconds, the men exit and walk solemnly toward the car. Screams from the houses are heard through the sky, mournful cries. Just as they are about to get inside, their heads slowly turn and reveal black holes where their eyes should be as they peel a grin over their putrid teeth. They are grinning at me, as if they’re trying to say, ‘YOU’RE NEXT.’

 

That’s when I wake up, covered in a cold sweat, gasping for air. I have no idea what this dream means or why I’m even having it. Every night I try to go back to sleep but the fear of seeing those faces again keeps me wide awake. I tried explaining it to my parents but they think I’m just watching too many scary movies or reading garbage comics again,  and there was definitely no way they would give me any sleeping medication either. My parents were so weird about health and making sure we never did anything to risk illness. It’s a wonder they haven’t stuck me in a plastic bubble by now. 

 

I lay in my bed flustered with anxiety and exhaustion. All I can do is stay in my bed and try to count sheep or fantasize about a decent night’s sleep. I begin thinking about summer vacation and the fun trips my family will go on. No more homework and studying, no more bullies and bitter teachers. I smile and close my eyes, imagining the smell of fresh cut grass and hot dogs at the baseball stadium, the heat of a roaring campfire and roasting marshmallows. 

 

I feel myself drifting into sleep and then I see the neighborhood again. It’s different this time, the sun is out and children are playing in the front yards. Fathers are mowing lawns and barbecuing while the mothers are pruning roses. The car arrives and parks in the same spot. Willy, Ty, and Tom get out of the car, staring right at me. My body struggles in the sheets, my heart is racing, and my lungs are tight. Something else new, I hear a heart monitor beeping rapidly. I can’t tell if this is the dream or a sleep-deprived hallucination.

 

 My eyes are squeezing tighter, trying to escape the dream. The three men are walking toward me now. I hear the beeping increase. They step closer to me, arms reaching out. I can’t believe I’m not running or waking up. My mouth is dry and air suddenly seems foreign to me. 

 

“Nurse! Nurse!” a man says in the background.

 

I feel hands all over my body, the men have captured me. Panic takes over and I begin to shake. Frightened voices surround me and I faintly hear the sound of my mother sobbing. Electricity flows through my chest, I taste rubber and plastic on my lips as air shoots into my mouth and lungs. I can hear the same voices that were frightened before but now sound calm. 

 

“Everything seems to have stabilized. He should be back to normal in a few minutes.”

 

“He does this every night, doctor. Is there anything we can do?” 

 

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. All we can do is wait for him to wake up. He has slipped so far into his coma. It’s hard to say when it will be over.”

 

I hear my mother crying, in between sobs she stutters. I can make out three words: Willy, Ty, Tom. 

 

My father’s voice appears, trying to soothe her, “No, honey, he will not die tomorrow.” 

 

Their footsteps head toward the door and echo down the hallway. I lay there, trying to sleep within my sleep. Hoping to see the car again so this time, I can try to get in.

 

 

 

Fredric Mitchem

The Bureau of Phenomenology   

 

     I am Kelvin Pike.

     I turned into the mirrored drive of ‘Cawdor’ from New York Point. The sun reflected off the black glass of the monolithic mansion like a razor. After being buzzed through the main gate, I parked under an enormous cottonwood not far from the swimming pool in the rear. As I exited the car, Blackhawk Down, founder and CEO of the Atomic Clock, appeared from out of the softly flickering shadows of the tree’s leaves. A tall, dark Amazonian beauty, she greeted me:

     “Welcome to my home, Doctor. I haven’t notified the police. I was hoping your special eye could guide us to some light on this…singular event.”

      Down’s little juggling dog snapped from the neatly-clipped grass beyond. Without asking, Jimson, Down’s butler, poured me a chilled vodka from a pitcher. On a chaise lounge, Lisle, Down’s perfect girlfriend, turned her flesh over in the sun. A young man floated on his back in the center of the pool. Upon turning to engage Ms. Down – whose black eyes curiously never blinked – I did another take. It was then that I noticed that there was no water in the pool. I saw Jimson looking (at me?) over Down’s shoulder, a pasty death mask with a toothless hole for a mouth. During a strangely silent moment, I maneuvered around the pool through various tricks of light and shadow to try and ‘correct’ this error in reality. Nothing worked.

     Down said: “There you see, Doctor. The levitating corpse.”

     Blackhawk Down was a tall, striking brunette dressed from head to toe in black pleather. On her left breast was pinned a mother-of-pearl brooch of a hawk. Her ebony eyes were lined heavily in lampblack.

     I lit up a Morland Special. “And you have no idea who the…individual was? Nor your friend? Nor this gentleman?” referring to the pasty butler.

     “No, he was here when I came out this morning to have my  orange juice and read the paper.” Her voice was a somewhat deep, smoky velvet. Like Linda Darnell’s.

     A tall female form appeared to be standing behind the mansion’s black glass. It was Blackhawk Down’s reflection.

     Bypassing the obvious question of ‘how’, I asked: “Who do you suppose might have done it?”

     Down said: “He’s a young man, about college age. Perhaps it was some sort of fraternity prank.”

     “Are you sure he’s dead?” To answer my own question, I added: “Do you have a small mirror?”

     Lisle, lolling onto her back, said: “I’ve got my compact mirror right here in my bag.” She produced it from the bag without getting up. I retrieved it from her.

     “Thank you.” I climbed down the pool’s ladder and approached the body. Carefully (so as not to touch the body), I held the mirror up to the young man’s nose. “Hmm, no breath. – And there’s no pulse in the carotid artery. Yes, he’s dead.” I remained by his side, his profile at about eye-level. Curiously, the body – sunburned, fair-skinned, wearing only a red Speedo – showed no actual signs of pallor mortis, or of livor mortis, certainly none of decomposition. I dared not move the thing, at least until I’d gotten some photographs. From my car I retrieved my Nikon,  and, as an afterthought, my static meter, a device for checking for electromagnetic charges. I proceeded to take pictures with the still camera from every conceivable angle and distance. After which I scanned the entire area, including directly around the body, with the static meter. There was no trace of electromagnetism. When I was finished I asked Ms. Down:

     “What time did you discover the body?”

     “Six. I always come out here for my orange juice at six.”

     I noted this down on my pad. Somewhat sheepishly I said: “Are you going to call the police, Ms. Down?” I preferred not mixing my work with the local constabulary. An old story…

     “No, I’d rather not. I don’t need that kind of publicity. The Atomic Clock is ready to open a whole new wing of science-related entertainment, and I don’t want to mar the festivities.”

     “Of course. Well, we’re on the same page. Now, about my fee – should you decide to keep me on.”

     “Of course.”

     “I charge a set hourly fee of a hundred dollars, plus expenses.”

     “Agreed. And if you solve this thing, I’ll gladly double it.”

     “You will keep all your gates closed and let no one upon the scene.”

     “No problem.”

     “And you will, of course, not refill the pool.”

     “Of course.”

     As I took another drag of my Morland Special, the image of Odilon Redon's ‘Homage to Poe’, a print of which hung on the wall of my office at the Bureau of Phenomenology, entered my mind; it depicted a giant drifting eyeball looking skyward. Then, replacing this, I saw in my mind’s eye (for thus shall I call that which my eye cannot render) Redon’s ‘The Gambler’, the picture of a tiny man overwhelmed trying to support a Brobdingnagian die on his back. I felt this weight now. How, Good Reader, do you solve a…crime from an impossibility? Just then, a very important thought came to me; voicing the thought, I said: “You know, Ms. Down…even if a body -- in our case, a corpse -- were somehow freed of the force of gravity, it would not remain floating, stationary, but would rather be subjected to the centrifugal force of the movement of the earth and recede away in the direction of the spin of the earth at an accelerating speed. Literally sailing off the planet and into outer space…

     “The case is closed, just as it begins.” In a whisper to myself  I added: “This does indeed fall into the category of phenomena – that which is directly perceived by the senses regardless of whether its underlying existence is proved or its nature understood.”

     I declined my fee.

     With this I stowed my Nikon and static meter and was buzzed through the front gate in the Helix Sun Ray – the little juggling dog chasing after me down the block.

 

Fredric Mitchem attended Art Center College of Design in Pasadena in the film department, the College of Santa Fe in theatre. He has had two stories published in the Café Irreal.

 

 

 

Deborah Guzzi

Hell’s Kitchen

 

Persephone didn’t know why the hell she’d ever rented this Westside loft with its floor to ceiling windows. The sunlight, when it fell across her bare skin, gave her hives, yet she never tired of staring into the light. From dawn to past noon, you could stir-fry on her chrome countertops. Her houseplants needed constant attention or they’d die of heat stroke.

 

It was only April, but the brownstone, which lacked insulation, already felt like an oven. She slept naked. Her tangled mass of wiry, waist-length, strawberry-blonde hair, blocked some of the light. The drapes on the canopy-bed helped too, but not enough. She rose from floral sheets and tripped over her black lab, Cerbe, on the way to the kitchen. Cerbe’s head rose and then he curled around the kitten again. Percy eyed her reflection in the chrome, a wilted lily. Yes, that’s what she looked like. She started the coffee, and then grabbed her sky-blue robe. This morning seemed no different from any other.

 

A rumble announced the rise of the loft’s freight elevator. Cerbe growled and bounded toward the platform. Percy followed. No one appeared to be in the lift, but Cerbe’s barking became wild. Through the grate, she saw a glint of gold fur. “Oh my God,” she moaned. It was the downstairs neighbor’s golden retriever, Missy, and she was very dead. Opening the accordion-like, safety door, she knelt beside the dog, stroking its head. Tears ran down her cheeks. Laughter rose up the shaft with the scent of tobacco. Capturing the cell phone from her robe pocket, she punched in 911. Then she called and her neighbor Maud. Poor Maud, she thought, hugging Cerbe. Who would kill a dog?

 

There were six fixed-rent apartments in the building. Everyone had a pet. Percy was on the top floor; the golden had lived on the ground floor. Weeks went by and life settled back into an artsy routine. Up at dawn, sculpt until two or three, paint until sundown, sleep, and rise. Then around the last week of May the second floor tenant’s python came up in the lift headless. Percy screamed until her throat was raw. Again, the laughter rose with the scent of tobacco from the shaft. The police came and carted off the snake. Its owner followed, crying softly.

 

Percy spent most of her time now pacing instead of painting. She seldom slept. The third floor tenant lost his exotic fish around the middle of June. He arrived home and found his floor to ceiling tank smashed with dead fish and glass everywhere. The fourth floor’s birds were still OK. The fifth floor had a new litter of kittens. Percy didn’t intend to wait until the maniac got to the birds, the kittens, or her pets. The afternoon when the fish were killed, she locked her kitten in the huge bathroom. She and Cerbe began a search.

 

They took the stairs down. Outside the building she saw a for sale sign. She hadn’t known the building was for sale. The first-floor grills felt tight when she rattled them, but there was new graffiti everywhere. The entrance smelled of pipe smoke. The hall’s light bulbs were smashed - vandalism all round. Percy held Cerbe’s collar and they skulked toward the basement. She wondered when all the vandalism had happened. She hadn’t been shopping for weeks. Her gallery showing was coming up in August and she had tunnel vision when she was working.

 

The basement was cave-like. The only light came from the furnace room. She held onto Cerbe as they walked. Where was the super’s room? She liked the elderly super, a giant black man with a gap-toothed smile. She didn’t know how long ago she had seen him and she didn’t remember him smoking. The basement reeked of tobacco smoke. She knocked on the labeled door. A stranger answered. He was tall, bone-thin, with a nose sharp as a knife’s edge. There was also a black growth on his lip. Pipe smoker, Percy thought.

 

“Can I do something for you?” he asked, rubbing his crotch.

 

Cerbe bared his fangs, pulling away and advancing on him.

 

“Where’s the old super gone?” she asked.

 

“No idea,” he said. “You got me now. Too bad about y’all being booted,” he laughed.

 

She knew that laugh and ran for the lift, but Cerbe didn’t follow. She could hear his growl as she ran up the stairs, too scared to wait for the lift. Percy had trouble unlocking the door; she was so scared. God, Cerbe, she thought. However, he was a very big dog and she needed a moment to recoup. She could call the cops. But, what would she say? He had a scary laugh and smoked a pipe? A heavy rain started as she rummaged for the large flashlight. She found it just as the lights went out in a blast of sheet lightning. The flashlight made a fine club, she thought. With Cerbe’s leash in one hand and the light in the other, she unlocked the lift’s grate and descended.

 

When the lift landed, Percy smelled sulfur. A red-orange glow was coming from the open door to the furnace room. “Cerbe, boy, where are you?” she called softly, having no desire to see him again. The debris-covered floor had drag marks leading to the furnace room, torn clothes, and a single shoe. She looked into the furnace room and called out, “Cerbe?” A dog’s shadow loomed on the far wall. Strange she thought. It appeared as if the shadow had two more heads. Trick of the light, she thought, as Cerbe came to her.

 

The tenants never lost another pet. The property didn’t sell, however, because full disclosure required the buyers be made aware of the pet killings and two missing persons. Percy’s art exhibit went well in August, but no one saw her all winter. Though they heard Cerbe’s bark and an occasional howl on stormy nights, the dog never could stand lightning.

 

 

Deborah Guzzi was born in Maine, U.S.A. She was educated at the University of Connecticut where she attained Bachelor of Fine arts with equal focuses in Printmaking and Shakespeare. She first published at the age of sixteen. At the present, she writes articles for Massage and Aroma Therapy Magazines. Her published poetry appears in the Literary Journal of Western CT. University, Inclement Magazine, Pyrokinections, Daily Love, Jellyfish Whispers, Grey Wolf Legends, The Germ, Wilderness Literary Review, The Anthology Dreams & Nightmares, Bitterzoet Magazine, haiku journal, and Contemporary haiku. She has published two illustrated volumes of poetry, The Healing Heart and Heaven and Hell in a Nutshell.

 

Currently, she resides in central, CT. where she is the owner operator of Empathic Touch. Acting as a healing facilitator, she specializing in the Eastern Arts of Shiatsu, Lomi Lomi, Thai Massage, Feng Shui and Reiki energetic healing. We welcome Debbie to the Danse.