Deanne Richards

The glacial glow of mediocrity was the venom, full of fire that dulled his dream. A guitar of ice with chords of frozen popsicles stood in the corner. The reflection of his past was like a dog sniffing foot prints. His belly was a paunch, pie shaped, a chunk of cement.

The other one was a toxin produced by an organism of praise. He lapped it up to excess and spat it back to the audience. There was a collective rousing with cell phones waving in a crowd of disappointment. The cliff was now too high, and he longed for hungry guts.

He was flatlined in an aura of mail. His heart was full of zip codes. His apron was torn from parcels of forgiveness. The truck was full and on time, but he still longed for the celestial notes that raised him out of the bins of licked envelopes.

The other one became the collective whisper that roused the others out of their sleeplessness. The tinge of pungent chemicals siphoned through the air and swayed to the beat of the chosen one. He didn’t play the hand of an ordinariness so deadly. His vitals were yummy and his aura electric with a silhouette that roared.

He ate his dullness for breakfast and choked on regret the size of a pineapple. His dreams hovered above him like a balloon that he couldn’t reach. Prairie dogs visited him with hugs and kisses in a condo made of dirt. He drank coffee full of rusty nails and kicked tubs of stones that had no postage.

The other one had one-night stands and sons who jumped from a penumbra. He didn’t know where he was. His home was a myriad of hotels trashed by an attack of earthliness. His soul was a closet full of empty hangers. There was no one close by, just the echo chamber of the crowds cheering for more of the malignant puff of phantasm.

DEANNE RICHARDS is a digital artist and writer who resides in Santa Fe, NM.

Ani King

Thing is, you can’t trust the king of the underworld, not with her blue-black hair, and her blue-black eyelashes, and the way her pale triceps pop when she sheds her battered jacket to reveal a thin white tank top and all manner of mismatched tattoos. Mermaids, hellhounds, dragons, anchors; you name it, it’s inked into a calf or forearm or thigh. You especially cannot trust the king of the underworld if you are a pretty woman in a bar who happens to resemble Hades’s ex-old lady, Persephone herself.

On this occasion, it was fair to say that if a girl could be Persephonic, then the Southern blonde certainly fit the description: abundant breasts with fig-colored nipples, soft arms and heavy thighs. Her lips looked pomegranate-stained and lush.

So of course Hades slicked her dark, wavy hair back and adjusted her sunglasses, and leaned over the pool table so her shoulders cut square and wide. She said, Baby, I think I’m in love, and the Southern blonde laughed at her. No, really, I am; just tell me your name, darlin’, the king of the underworld drawled, and anyone else might think they were being made fun of, but that drawl turned into a purr turned into a kiss turned into a tangle of limbs in the Southern blonde’s head.

Maybe the Southern blonde knew she should be careful the moment she laid eyes on the king of the underworld, but she still accepted a beer, and then another, and then a few more, and stood giggling at jokes that were too old to be funny.

What animal walks on four feet in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? She didn’t say, hey man, everyone knows that, she just wound her curls around a finger and waited for the punchline.

If there’s one thing the king of the underworld had going for her, it was that bad girl business that good girls like so much, and it hadn’t been but a minute before she pulled a poem out of the air and ran it over the Southern blonde’s plump bottom lip.

Don’t make any noise on the stairs, and you can come home with me, the Southern blonde said, fixing her lipstick and rubbing the smudges of black eyeliner at the corners of her big blue eyes. I don’t want you to wake my mama up, she said, and the king of the underworld could see the Southern blonde probably wasn’t quite old enough for the beer now, but man just look at the gleam of her even white teeth, and didn’t she smell like spring come to life?

Yeah, the king of the underworld rode a motorcycle, and looked dangerous in a long black jacket; that’s not even a question. Hades had the kind of bike that you really had to sidle up to and jump on before it took off on its own. White and chrome and mean enough to make a girl blush while she holds on tight.

Darlin’, one of these days I’ll take you home with me, and we’ll be able to make some noise, the king of the underworld purred, a few nights later, but she didn’t really have plans to do any such thing. Which was fine; girls these days aren’t so naive about the way a bad girl might use poetry and sadness to get you all lathered up and ready to jump onto her bike and speed on back to her place. Don’t you like my place, the girl asked, the pink walls and trimmings positively labial in color. Positively pink, like her tongue, too.

Frankly, it worked well to have the king of the underworld ride off home into the horizon. The Southern blonde was pretty sure that Hades didn’t consider their relationship exclusive, judging by the little bruises and bite marks she wore regularly. And she sure the hell wasn’t the type of girl to go home with someone if they weren’t serious. Well, at least not until her mama caught the king of the underworld leaving one early morning, and said, goddamnit girl, I told you not bring your sin home with you. And look at this one, ain’t no chance she won’t do you wrong, she just smells of it, can’t you smell it? She’ll do you bad, this one.

Wasn’t too long into the argument before the Southern blonde found herself making claims of affection that she shouldn’t, to show her mama wrong.

Sometimes it’s pride that makes a girl do truly stupid things, and the Southern blonde took Hades’ hand and said, mama, you can’t talk that way about the king of the underworld, I love her, and sure enough her mama threw out on her pretty, round ass. Don’t come back ‘til she’s done with you, the tall, rough-handed farmer called, every bit as pretty as her daughter. The king of the underworld was smart enough to shut up and wait on the bike and not say a word. I give it six months, the older woman yelled up the stairs while her daughter did a hasty grab of her favorite belongings: a pink canvas backpack, her three favorite porcelain unicorn statuettes, her dad’s old army jacket, and enough underwear for a week.

The king of the underworld couldn’t take back the invitation to come home with her, not after all that, and plus it really it might be nice to get another woman in the place again.

Problem is, the Southern blonde, blue-eyed with heavy thighs, she didn’t have the same constitution as Persephone, the famous woman she so resembled. So after the tour of the room of souls — mostly storage for unlabeled boxes and garbage bags full of who knows what, and a quick yogurt and pomegranate seeds, she lay in the massive bed, under the sheets of pure midnight with the king of the underworld, thinking shit, maybe this was a bad idea, her heart slowed, and her body cooled.

And what the fuck was Hades supposed to do then but drink more whisky and pace and mutter to herself? The Southern blonde was definitely her problem once the girl was dead. Maybe it was her eatin’ those seeds, I suppose, murmured the king of the underworld.

Hades laid back down next to her new live-in and said This is pretty weird, babe. No pun intended of course. I’m too drunk for this shit, you know. Plus, I’m not much of a night sleeper. And off the king of the underworld went to play with her three-headed dog’s new puppies and think.

It probably should have scared the hell out of Hades the next morning when she went to go deal with the body and get some sleep and the Southern blonde was sitting up yawning, a little blue around the edges, but otherwise right as rain. I’ve never slept so deeply, she said, running her hands through oddly untangled hair. I don’t think I even dreamed.

Every night the Southern blonde fell into death once the sun laid down and closed its eyes, but the king of the underworld couldn’t think of a way to tell her, so Hades just nodded when her old lady said she’d never slept so well, every morning.

By the end of the first month the king of the underworld was bored with the whole goddamn thing, pissed off that she’d gone and fallen in love with the first girl she’d seen in ages, and the Southern blonde only spent half her damn time alive. To be honest, she was starting to worry the whole bad break up business with her first old lady had been her fault, and fuck all if she wanted to consider the past with so much intensity.

During the day, the king of the underworld would try to stay awake as long as possible, sacrificing sleep for tastes of the Southern blonde’s soft skin, or her wheaty scent afterwards.

Now, it’s true that at some point in the months they’d spent together the king of the underworld had taken to making the Southern blonde’s cooling body dance do the occasional tango, or sit up at bizarre tea parties, or watch all the films she declined to see during the day. You’re getting a bit weird, Hades said to herself in the mirror more than once. And no doubt she considered all the things she could be getting away in the dark hours of the night, but she stayed true. She was pretty proud of herself, too.

A few months in, the king of the underworld finally settled into a routine. She slept a little more during the day and it felt like the situation wasn’t so untenable. Hadn’t the Southern blonde been patient herself, dealing with some pretty lonely days, and giving up her pink room she’d liked so much? Hades thought, I should really do something nice, something special.

One morning a few weeks later, the Southern blonde woke up alone, no sign of the king of the underworld, and wandered through all the rooms she never went in, occupied as she was with Hades. She found the tea room of misery and wondered at the two settings, lipstick so like hers on the edge of one cup. In the ballroom of despair, the speakers hissed while the record player turned almost silently, album long since done.

Who was the king of the underworld spending time wooing like this, the Southern blonde wondered? All she knew was that her mama was right, it had only taken six months. She packed her meager collection of things back up and hitched a ride out of the horizon, up the highway towards home, ignoring the snow gathering on her shoulders and hair.

When the king of the underworld came home, white and chrome and mean pickup truck carrying cans of pink paint and newish blonde-wood furniture, she was surprised to find a note on the counter saying the Southern blonde didn’t know who Hades was dancing with at night, but she sure the hell knew she was going home. Everything has a season, she wrote, and our season has ended.

And the king of the underworld thought about jumping in the truck, roaring down the road, and bringing the Southern blonde back, but like the note said, the season had changed, and maybe Hades would turn her eye to brunettes.

ANI KING is from Lansing, Michigan. She enjoys good bourbon, great books, and bad pizza. She can be found at thebittenlip.com

Joshua James Jordan

Four moth heads stood over me while I lay on an operating table. They had split my abdomen wide open, and one of them held my liver in two claws while licking with its long straw of a tongue.

“That’s mine. Put it back,” I said. All four looked at me as if surprised that I could speak. Paralysis wracked my arms, but I pumped my fists and I could tell that I would regain control soon.

“It’s impolite to take what isn’t yours, especially when it was on the inside of someone else to begin with.”

They looked at each other with hundreds of eyes and then scrambled to shove my liver back into my torso while stitching me up. I could move my biceps again and practiced my motor skills while they worked. When they finished, the last one sent his tongue up my belly one last time as if it couldn’t help itself.

I sat up and in an unconscious movement covered both of my nipples with a forearm. “Where is she?” I asked.

The moth heads looked at each other and then back and me. One shrugged its humanlike shoulders.

“I know you know. Now tell me,” I said, lifting up the arm that wasn’t covering my breasts.

One of them pointed to an operating table nearby. Dried blood covered it from top to bottom, and I knew that Betsy had gotten the worst of it. It’s always the worst your first time. I knew that I shouldn’t have taught her how to zone.

I slugged one of the moth heads in its eye. Squish! The other three ran away hissing.

My clothes lay on the floor. They had cut everything down the middle to get access to my body. My shirt could still cover most of me. I wore it backwards so that the split was on my backside and it still covered my front. My pants were torn, but I used the otherwise useless split bra as a makeshift belt. I’d have looked crazy anywhere else, but it wouldn’t matter here.

The metal room had an open door with a trail of bloody footprints leading out. They likely removed each one of her internal organs, licking them up and down while she watched. She probably fled, cried, wondered how she was still alive.

Guilt bounced around through my chest, making my heart skip a beat each time. How else could I have taught her how to zone? You have to take the good with the bad. Right? I had to get her back, regardless. Otherwise, she could go crazy in here.

I followed the footsteps through metal hallways and rooms, each one rustier than the last. My own footsteps clanged on the solid metal but crunched on the rusted flakes. Eventually the metal rooms gave way to a grassy meadow with the tree line of a purple forest in the distance. Two blue suns hung in a starless pitch-black sky.

Tuna-sized fish with black and blue stripes swam through the air over the meadow. One floundered over to me and revealed a full set of white human teeth with an eerie smile. “Have you seen another like me?” I asked it.

It flicked its tail and moved side to side with its mouth open as if letting out a silent howl. “May yes. A taste of your flesh will remind me. Four fingers should do.”

“Two,” I bargained.

“Three,” the fish said.

“One,” I said. It revealed its full set of teeth again.

“Two then,” it said. I nodded and reached out a fist with an extended pinky. The fish swam closer and began sucking on my finger until finally biting down. It grinded and crunched on the small bones.

“Another?” it asked, approaching me again.

“Tell me first,” I said.

It swam away a moment as if thinking, then spun around and said, “She’s a guest of the Shadow queen.”

I had seen the shadows walking through the forest, but I never visited the shadow palace itself. The fish swam right up to my other fist and nudged with its snout but I didn’t expose any fingers. I started walking towards the shadow palace.

“Don’t leave yet. Another snack? A deal was struck,” the fish said, ever grinning.

“I know what I need and need what you eat,” I said.

The fish grunted. “I’m a shrewd debtor. I will collect your flesh in this world or the next.”

I laughed. I had never seen anyone other than Betsy and me successfully zone.

“Go fly into a shark’s mouth,” I said. The fish gave me one last smile and floated up into the clouds, its tail flicking powerfully left and right. I headed on towards the shadow castle, which I knew was through the purple woods.

The shadow castle sat atop a small hill. Despite its name, the stone itself glowed with a bright white light. A violet vine crept along the walls and up the towers. A two-dimensional figure stood flat against the wall. The shadow guard clutched a spear, a real one, which floated in front of the guard but always looked as if being held, the spear following its clenched fist.

“Here to speak with the shadow queen,” I said, walking through the gate. A spear blocked my way.

“Shadows only,” the guard said, the sound of its voice like a disembodied echo.

“I’m already inside,” I said. “You should go and get me out.”

“Oh, flickers,” the guard said. “How’d you manage that? Are you a doppelganger?” It slammed the butt of its spear into the ground. “Queen’ll feed me to the fire. Third doppelganger I let in since tomorrow.” The shadow figure trotted along the wall into the castle of light.

My own shadow ran inside, the legs stretching thin as the distance between us grew longer and longer. I almost wished my legs were that long. Betsy’s seem to be four feet long and I love her all the more for it. She always says that I have the better tits. She’s full of shit.

I followed my dark double into the fortress and found the shadow queen sitting at a grande table in a dining room. She was a giant black figure not stuck to the walls at all but sitting at a table. Betsy, looking unconscious, sat locked in a cage high up near the ceiling. The Queen stood up, grew in size, and slowly tore a strip of skin off of Betsy’s leg and placed the flesh on a plate. She sat back down and picked up a knife and a fork.

“I love it when my next meal takes the initiative to deliver itself to me,” the Queen said.

I could usually negotiate with my own body as food but I got the feeling that the Queen was well fed as of late. “I’ll trade my soul for our lives,” I said, pointing to Betsy.

“A soul?” The queen seemed to rest her head in her hands. It was hard to tell since she was just a silhouette. “Could I eat that?”

I shrugged. “I suppose not, but―” I stopped. I had to think about what the heck a being of darkness could possibly want. “It’d make all the devils jealous.”

The Queen stopped in the middle of cutting the meat on her plate. “Both souls,” she said.

I agreed. Not that it mattered. Just like our bodies would grow back once we left, who’s to say that souls don’t work differently?

They lowered down Betsy’s cage and opened the lock. This world had taken a lot of her. I held her in my arms and concentrated, closing my eyes. First I could feel my feet and legs relax as they faded, then my body. Then Betsy in my arms. Until finally every part of us had zoned back.

We were lying in bed, the same as when we left. Our bodies were whole. It felt like my soul was still there, whatever that felt like.

“Did that just happen?” Betsy asked.

“Did what just happen?” I asked.

Betsy had a confused look on her face. “I . . . I don’t remember. But I didn’t like it. Let’s not do that again.”

“Okay,” I said with a smile. I gave Betsy a peck on the cheek.

I sat up in bed and looked over to our fish tank. We must’ve been zoned for hours, maybe days, so I went over give them a pinch of food when I noticed the little castle in the aquarium had tipped over. I reached in to pick it up when I felt a sharp pain at the knuckles of two fingers. A new exotic-looking fish in the tank with black and blue stripes swam to the edge of the glass.

It stopped. Looked right at me and grinned with a full row of perfect white teeth.

JOSHUA JAMES JORDAN lives with his wife and two kids in Tallahassee, Florida. He writes all genres of fiction ranging from heroic fantasy to whatever the heck this piece is supposed to be.