Rachel Cassidy

The text message is nearly incoherent.

Either her mother has accidentally switched autocorrect to some previously undiscovered dialect or she’s thoroughly plastered already. Madison’s betting on the second. Mom doesn’t usually descend into wheedling territory until she’s well lubricated. And apparently there’s a crisis at hand — they’ve run out of ice.

Maddie shakes her head slowly and stuffs her phone in her pocket | mixes a dry martini up with olives | swipes a credit card | wipes down the marble bar. Christmas Eve at the domestic terminal, and she’s not sure where she wants to be less — here at work or headed for this family “soiree” when her shift is over.

The outbound passengers are staring into their drinks and studiously ignoring each other.

She brushes back her bangs with a tired tentacle | rings out the register | stacks the dirty glasses in a rack.

The PA barks, and the last of them shuffle off to gates. She shrugs off her uniform and pulls on six gloves. It’s cold out. The cheap knit is frayed, and some of her suckers poke out. She tucks them tight to her body for warmth and makes her way to the staff parking lot.

Her keys are buried in the depths of a fringed hippie-throwback hand-woven bag, its fabulousness offset by the mundanity of the frozen 1987 Toyota Corolla that may or may not start. Her parents had offered her the old Audi, but no, she had insisted on earning this piece of crap herself. Just like her rent. And tuition. And everything else this job barely pays for.

She gets in, stashes her purse | clicks the seatbelt shut | inserts the keys, and isn’t sure which outcome she’s hoping for.

She thinks about her little brother there alone with them, gives in to the prickly guilt of familial duty, and turns the key.

It starts.

The Point Grey mansion is a little too black. The streetlights illuminate the front door, but just barely. There are no lights on in the house, and the doorbell button does nothing. Candles flicker through the windows.

The strains of an out-of-tune violin crying “Silent Night” drift through the darkness, with some of the notes in the correct order. The Corolla looks sadly defiant parked between the aging Mercedes and Land Rover.

Madison pounds on the door and waits for an eternity for the violin to stop. The front door crashes wide open.

“Dad.”

Edward Rafael Reich deHuitbras III balances a crystal glass of scotch | props himself up | tugs his bathrobe closed | seizes the bag of ice | embraces his daughter.

“Madison. Come in.”

He pivots and strides towards the salon, a wayward tentacle drunkenly sending something antique and expensive crashing to the floor. Delicious smells of roasting meat waft through the air.

“Dad. Why is the power off?”

Edward waggles three arms nebulously, batting away her question.

“It’s of no importance. Peasants.”

The salon glows richly, firelight reflecting off precious objects and luxurious fabrics. Madison’s mother is draped on a chaise lounge. She examines a flute of lukewarm champagne in the firelight | taps the ash off the glowing tip of a long brown cigarette | trails several tentacles elegantly across the oriental carpet. The ashtray is overflowing and the carpet is pocked with circular burns.

“Darling. Merry fucking Christmas.”

The aroma is coming from the fireplace. A roasting pan is propped precariously on a burning stack of wood that probably used to be the dining room table.

“Mom. Where’s Eddie?”

Madison’s mother gestures vaguely in the direction of the hallway.

“Probably still playing those stupid games.”

“But the power’s off.”

“Whatever.”

Madison goes in search of Edward Junior. She knocks on his bedroom door.

“WHAT.”

“Eddie. It’s Maddie.”

“FUCK OFF.”

“Language!”

She pushes the door open. Eddie’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a useless Xbox controller | pushing a truck around on the floor | picking his nose and inspecting the results in the candlelight.

Something’s missing.

“Eddie. What the . . . ”

Madison storms back into the salon. Edward Senior raises a topped-up glass of scotch | dons oven mitts | prepares a white china platter. Madison’s mother downs her glass and flares her nostrils.

“Dad? What exactly are you cooking?” Maddie peers at the roasting pan.

A tentacle, a small one, simmers in its own juices. A smattering of dried herbs speckles the surface and a few shriveled potatoes and carrots are browning nicely alongside. The suckers have shriveled into crunchy rosettes.

“Are you shitting me? Eddie?” Maddie’s tentacles hang limp at her sides as she stares at her father in disbelief. Her mother looks pointedly in another direction and exhales a noxious plume of smoke.

Edward Senior raises a defensive tentacle.

“What’s the problem? He’ll grow it back.”

“He’ll grow it back? You cut it off him and cooked it and all you have to say is he’ll grow it back?”

“So we wanted a nice evening. What’s wrong with that? It’s been a little tight lately. It’s not like it’s permanent. Stop being so bloody dramatic and show a little goddamn gratitude for once.” Edward stalks out of the room with a dismissive gesture.

Madison is speechless.

“Mom?” Maddie turns at the sound of Eddie’s small voice. He’s standing in the doorway, still clutching his truck, one sleeve of his Christmas sweater hanging limp and empty. Their mother lurches up from the chaise, tentacles flailing drunkenly, scattering lit candles and glass in every direction. A flame licks at the curtains.

“Eddie. Come to mother. We’ll have a lovely Christmas dinner.” She’s slurring.

Enough.

Maddie shoves her mother out of the way | scoops up Eddie | reaches for her bag and runs for the door.

As they pull away in the Corolla, she can see the windows of the house in the rearview mirror, the flames growing hungry red and orange, and the black silhouette of Edward Rafael Reich deHuitbras III as he lifts the battered violin to his shoulder and screeches out the opening bars of another carol.

She wraps a tentacle around Eddie to hug him close | wipes away the tears blurring her vision | dials 9-1-1 | shifts into second gear and steps on the gas, hard.

RACHEL CASSIDY was raised semi-feral on the back of a horse in the Rocky Mountains, lived long enough in Portland, Oregon and Mexico to call both home, and now writes from Salt Spring Island, BC. Her short fiction has appeared online in The Molotov Cocktail, Out of the Gutter, and Cat on a Leash Review. She can be found online at www.facebook.com/readrachelcassidy.

Zack Stein

Jim shades the edge of the cliff with the front bumper and puts the car in neutral. We watch the fire swathe the metal, spread quickly to the trunk, then trickle to the engine. The airbags deploy and begin to melt into marshmallows; two tires blow, giving the car momentum to slowly dip off the cliff.

This land is stark and unbound and things can get lost in the margins. The sun rolls downward trading three shades of sultry orange for an obsidian chill by the time we reach the summit.

Knickknacks of Christ surf the dashboard. Jim circles for beer with his right hand, corkscrewing around traffic with his left hand, leaving helixes of rabbit blood, squinting past rain falling syrupy like bird droppings, skidding on buttered-down Goodyears through intersections. When we break and turn off the main road, we split the seas, and 65 feels slow again.

We stop at a gas station. Stock on beer, sweets, and protein bars. Jim goes to the bathroom. From the pump, I hear him scream, followed by a release of sorrow that crescendos on the wave of the echo. A cop steps out of his vehicle as Jim exits the bathroom, and Jim stops, so the cop stops. Ay, buddy, I say, and inconvenience trumps intuition. Jim floors it and gulps down his first beer.

I tell him, a real small town or a real big city, or whatever first ticket out is. He says nothing, except, got no gas.

He’s carrying a small red suitcase. I tell him, do not go outside until you change. I put the suitcase in the trunk of the Dynasty, and he shortly follows with wet hair and a fresh t-shirt.

Jim leaves a message in a succession of wheezing sentences that ducks and dodges the point — asking for me.

When he bites off his last nail, Jim begins to stockpile, accumulating things, picking up small things, big things, examining them and deciding if it would suit this new life. He spots a small red suitcase and thinks it will be big enough.

While Jim watched Grace, his sister’s waddling and whirling toddler, waddle and whirl, he became drowsy, and dozed off chin into chest. He didn’t feel her tiny hands, (her barely visible fingernails painted pink), reach into his coat pocket for the mysterious pearl object that gleamed inside. Delicate fingers set off a delicate button, ejecting a three-inch blade through an air socket between Jim’s ribs, shooting his right leg off like a bucking horse. In the twinge between breath and shriek, Jim was reminded how gentle things can so easily curl.

ZACK STEIN lives and writes in New York City. He was known as “Shakes” in prison for writing love letters for fellow inmates. He’s a man of the people, just not your type of people. Don’t listen to rumors of his brilliant, life-changing masterpiece, a 2000-page poem with crayon illustrations, buried in a nearby cemetery — they are unsubstantiated.