Shannon Noel Brady

The purple monkey hugs my kneecap with his armpit. Squashed into my front is the yellow dinosaur, her spinal ridges prickling my belly every time she shifts. The blue elephant’s hindquarters press against my ear, which is unpleasant, but not as much as the child’s face flattened against the glass.

From my vantage point atop the pile, I watch as the small human points and taps and slides its hands across the window with covetous delight. It leaves prints fossilized in some wet, pink substance, as if moments ago it had dipped its hooks into a bucket of strawberry jam. What a waste of fingers. So many things the child could do with its flexibility, those joints and thumbs — thumbs! — but instead it sticks them in jam and smears them across everything as if the world were its bread.

The child rubs its face through the mess, sliding down so its nose pulls up into a nostril-flaring, porcine snout. I glance at the polka-dotted pig nestled against my teddy bear shoulder, and imperceptibly to the human she frowns at the likeness.

It’s been a long time since someone visited our glass enclave. With the flashing lights, neon colors, and chirping, whooping sounds of the other games, the arcade-goers had left us in peace. Such stability gave me time to get to know my neighbors, especially the pig.

She’s an observant one. In lush detail she described the factory she came from, the others she met on the bumping trip over, how between assembly line and truck the blue sky swelled above her like a balloon the instant before the pop. She would make up funny stories about the humans that walked by, or embellish what she saw for those too buried to know the difference, and I would laugh at how outlandish she was. Sometimes I’d wake in the dark and, when she didn’t think anyone was listening, I’d hear her humming sweetly to herself. During business hours, while the others lazed about, the pig and I would talk and talk, and somehow I could sense that it wasn’t the cramped space that made her hear me, but that she really, truly wanted to.

She looks at me, I look at her, and then together we wince at the squat human that has resorted to banging its fists.

A taller one appears, its flowery cardigan the only part visible through the window. It takes the child’s hand, inspects the filth, then rummages through its purse. It whips out a tissue and wraps it around each grubby finger, digs jam out of the pits in between. The child shrieks and we wince again at the stitch-splitting noise while it yanks and strains at its parent’s grasp. At first I’d considered its face a minor annoyance, but now I can’t help feeling unnerved by its mounting, contorting greed.

The parent finishes, but still the child slams its slightly drier fists against our window until my threads feel ready to burst. Dragging the small human proves fruitless for the tall one, and its torso sags with a sigh. It folds the tissue over to an unsullied spot, wipes its own hands and unzips a purse. The silver gleams in the arcade glow as the parent passes over a quarter.

Howls of glee replace the screams, but they sound no less malicious. The coin clanks through the machine and a bright light flicks on, hurting my lidless eyes. It’s been so long since I’ve heard that sprightly tune of the game starting that I forgot what it sounded like. The claw above us jolts into life as the child rips the joystick back and forth.

Nobody wants to go with this monster. Just imagine what it would do when it got one of us in its devilish digits. I can tell this creature has ripped apart a few toys in its time. Yet there is nowhere to escape. Glass packs us in on all sides, plush shoves against plush. Those buried below give hushed thanks for their safety and for once I wish the pig and I didn’t have this viewpoint atop the pile. My belly stuffing clenches, and my friend the pig whimpers and huddles closer around my shoulder. The child peers through the window, mouth open and forming a jellyfish of fog upon the glass as it deliberates. If it takes too long, the game will shut down, and we all pray for indecisiveness and a coinless purse.

But the human does decide, and with a fangy grin it lowers the claw.

The pincers snap together around the tail of a green shark, but her flaccid fins slip through.

Two more tries.

The neck of a red horse feels the metallic clutches next, but he’s wedged too snugly amongst his brethren.

One more try.

The claw comes down over the polka-dotted pig. It pinches her ear. Tight.

No! Of anyone here, not this one, not her! She trembles like a dew drop, fighting to unlock herself as she ascends. With all the strength my teddy bear stuffing can summon, I reach to her. She reaches back.

Closer . . .

Closer . . .

Just a little bit more . . .

Yes! Our limbs touch!

But, unlike the humans, neither of us has fingers. Nothing to latch onto, nothing with which to grip. Only soft, rounded, plush-filled stumps.

The claw freights her up, drops her down the chute into the child’s talons, which clamp onto her with dexterous might. Her deep black eyes watch mine as she and her captor retreat, getting smaller and smaller, further and further, until I can no longer see my friend the pig as the throng of people fills that ever-widening canyon of space.

For the first time in ages my shoulder touches air, and it is cold.

Hailing from California, Shannon Noel Brady is a multi-genre author of novels and short stories. Her tale about an overdramatic houseplant has been published in Vandercave Quarterly, and her blog can be found at snbradywriter.wordpress.com. If you like dog photos, then BOY OH BOY does she have the Twitter for you: @snbradywriter

Matthew Myers

Ooo-hoo. Oh man oh man oh man. You really want the best? This is what you have to do: Make sure you have plenty of cash. They don’t take credit cards or any of that. What hotel are you staying at? Okay, head south from there, go two miles down whatever road that is, two blocks past the third gas station. There’s a little shack of a place with bars over the windows and all the lights out. Park in the back near the pile of old Christmas trees. Watch your step. The asphalt’s like waves. If you become disoriented, look up and try to find familiar stars through the sodium lights. There will be nothing but a swirl of yellow-glazed bugs. Despair and then strengthen yourself. Let the shivers run down your spine and out like gutter water.

Knock on the door marked DELIVERIES. Use your knuckles. Don’t use the palm of your hand. Knock three times, each one louder than the last. Don’t knock again. Don’t doubt that you knocked right. You did just fine, just fine. Make sure your shoelaces are tied. Be on guard. There are killers and thieves in the shadows of the laundromat across the lot. They will strike if they feel you’re not on point. They may strike anyway, so keep your wits a-fucking-bout you.

A woman will answer the door. She’ll ask you if you need to talk to Arturo. Don’t answer. After the silence becomes unbearable, she will ask you if you have a reservation. Say Yes. You won’t, but say Yes anyway. She’ll ask your name. Say ‘Frankfurt Burns, party of two.’ Make sure you have two in your party. Say you’re Rich’s other nephew and cough twice into your fist. Don’t forgot to mention that you’re Rich’s other nephew or she’ll become suspicious. Technicolor spiders will appear on her shoulders and you won’t know whether you’re awake or dreaming, and you may forget your mother’s maiden name.

She will open the door and hand you a manila envelope. Accept it immediately. In the envelope will be a map and a postcard with a picture of a horse on it. On the back will be a number written in pencil. Memorize this number. Say ‘Thank You, Sharon.’ She will crinkle her eyes as if her name is not Sharon. But it is.

Return to your car. Pray no dogs come out, but do not pray out loud. Watch your corners. Make sure no one’s in your back seat before you open the door. Drive back to the gas station. Fill up your tank and buy a two-gallon container. Fill that as well. Turn off your headlights and flip the map upside down. Follow it to the letter. The drive will be long, and you will abandon hope of ever reaching your destination. Keep going. You can’t fail. Your appetite is on your side.

The moon will appear to pixelate and shudder. Night clouds will turn blood red and take on a horrific majesty. Suicidal ideations may take hold, and your steering will pull left a bit. If you’re a praying man, pray. If you’re not, don’t. Hold fast and breathe slowly into your hunger.

In your rear view the road will chase you. You will know sorrow and you will know fear. Your bones will make sounds that your ears will doubt. You will come to the end of the map and still you’ll see nothing but corn, and the howls of animals will remind you of past loves. Don’t ignore the rush of nostalgia. Feel it fully, cry until you’re dry, let the memories become small enough to fit into the glove box, then place them there beside the flashlight, the tire gauge and the gun you didn’t know was there. If you must doze, doze. The rumble strips will bring you back.

Press the radio on and scan the AM band until you hear something like the laughter of children. Signal right but turn left and drive until the laughter dies. Pull over and kill the engine. Leave your keys in. Get out of the car, take three deep breaths and follow the sound of footsteps through the kicked-up cloud of gravel dust. Feel free to fear, but don’t doubt the maker of the footsteps. Just follow and keep your own thoughts hidden from you.

A screen door will find you like a spider web in the dark. You’re here. Squeak the screen door alive and open. The cicadas won’t be there to cheer you on any longer. Step inside and go blind from the neon light of beer signs. When your eyes tune in, your Hostess will be standing there. Her hair is a black majesty. The scar on her forehead will do nothing to hide her beauty but don’t gaze too long or she will own your soul and the pink slip to your car. She will take your coats and offer you salvation. Let your face fall down into her breasts without embarrassment. She will hide you and heal you. There is a blue rose tattoo on her collarbone. Count the petals. This will come in handy in future lives. The number on the coat check ticket will feel strangely damning.

Hand her the postcard and tell her your number from the postcard. It’s no longer written there, but you remember it, don’t you? Of course you do. Follow her into the dining room and when she offers you a seat, ask her for another; for a booth, closer to the window. She will try to talk you out of it. Do not, for Christ’s sake, let her talk you out of it.

Your Waitress will come by about a half hour later. You’ll think it’s Sharon but it’s not. You’ll then think it must be her twin sister, but Sharon has no twin. She’ll ask if you want the buffet. There is no buffet. Say No. She’ll ask if you want to hear the Specials. There are no Specials, but don’t, Do Not, let her know that you know this. When you’re very sure she’s done with the Specials, say you’d like to see the Tuesday menu, unless it actually is Tuesday, in which case simply ask for ‘The Menu.’

A doughy-faced man at the next table will grab your shirtsleeve and ask how’s the weather in El Paso. If you happen to be from El Paso and have only left recently, feel free to tell him, but use plain English and avoid meteorological jargon (this will enrage him and you’ll have to fight him to first blood in the parking lot with silverware and jumper cables and you will lose). Otherwise, laugh like it’s an old joke and say, ‘Oh no, I’m not that easy,’ then give a little laugh, then he will laugh too and slowly release his grip from your sleeve, leaving a runish mark that you will ponder in your old age when all of your friends have died.

Study the menu. The words will spin slow and settle onto the page and into the sauce-smeared fingerprints of past diners. The fingerprints are mysteriously, Pygmi-ish small. The jukebox will cue up Walter Pitchfork’s Pigfucker Lacrimosa No. 4 and it will make you fear for the lives of your children. Especially if you have no children. Resist the urge to call and check on them or all will be lost. Concentrate hard on the menu. There is a troubling wisdom in the description of sauces if you’re the kind who can find it.

Now order.

This is your time. Do not falter. Easy now.

The Burnt Tips are gone by the time you get there. Don’t even ask. The Pickled Sow Cunt is what the place is known for. Order it with beans and slaw or not at all. The Pulled Pork Platter has tons more meat then the Sandwich but costs the same. The Chicken is just okay, but if you’re a chicken guy, I guess you’ll like it just fine. The Ribs are excellent, but they’ve been known to induce temporary blindness in whites and Chinese. Small price to pay, some say, but know the odds. They only do full racks, no halves, and don’t even think about splitting it with your partner because fingers are lost that way more often than they’re not. The Devil’s Cock-n’-Balls is exactly what it sounds like. Do not order this unless you literally want to eat the Devil’s cock and balls.

The 66-n’-6 Sampler is the way to go. I always get the ol’ 66-n’-6. It of course comes with the Devil’s Cock-n’-Balls, but just let them lie there if that’s not something you feel comfortable digesting.

The needle will mysteriously jump from Pigfucker Lacrimosa No. 4 three bars from the end, and either Whammy Bar Mama or Slaughterhouse Kate’s Cuntrag Blues will come on. They have identical guitar solos but are otherwise nothing alike in sound, substance or mettle.

The sauce cart will sidle up hot and loud and Gravy-Face Gary will ask you what sauce you fucking want in a voice that brings to light all of your father’s infidelities. There’s Miner’s Lung No. 6, Death Throes Rose, Bonnie’s Special Red, Ragwater No. 5 and Bonnie’s Xtra Special Red. If you’re braving the Devil’s Cock-n’-Balls, I’d use the Xtra Special Red and man oh man let it flow. Otherwise you can’t go wrong with the Special Red. Miner’s Lung is an acquired taste but if you’re like me, you should always be acquiring more tastes, right? Ragwater No. 5 doesn’t hold a candle to Ragwater No. 4 but that recipe died violently with its progenitor Polly ‘Pretty Please’ McGuillicutty at a Greyhound station in Joplin. Death Throes Rose gives me fevers and the shits so I rarely touch the stuff.

The bathroom is to the right of the aquarium. Don’t mind the chickens hanging from the Bible-blackness of the drop-ceiling grid with no drop-ceiling tiles. Those are just the Voodoo chickens. The chickens they use for cooking are in the mop closet, which is inspected quarterly in accordance with local bylaws, so breathe clear and easy.

When you exit the bathroom, mind the Irish Wolfhound chained up to the slop sink. He doesn’t bite or leg-hump, but lose yourself in his gaze and you risk a hellish vision quest, suspended in a mist between two waxing crescent moons, descending into a bright blue madness, remembering all pre-verbal pains and soul scars, before reemerging awash in glory fire and a new soul-skin, released from his spell and placed safely back in your seat by the mighty oaken arms of Gravy-Face Gary, also in accordance with local bylaws. Also, the Wolfhound will own the pink slip to your car (if you’ve already lost this to the Hostess, you’re fucked, brother).

If you’re lucky, your food will be waiting for you when you come back.

Enjoy your food and eat sloooow. Chew each bite thirty-seven times or the chef’s allowed to leave a trace of his soul in it (again: local bylaws). Chef’s a decent guy but I wouldn’t want a goddamn mote of his soul in my belly, and I eat most anything.

Now when you’re done, and if you still own the pink slip to your car, pull out and drive in an easterly fashion with the headlights off until you hit the main road. Take nothing but lefts until you’re back on the highway. If you sweat something that doesn’t smell like your own sweat, don’t worry, that’s situation normal. Ignore the sounds of hooves clopping beside you. Now suck on that starlight mint and let that toothpick do its work and drive, drive, drive.

And of course there’s Porkin’ Mama’s just two blocks that way. They’re pretty good too.

Matthew Myers studied film at New York University in the 90s but somehow ended up working on an ambulance in the Midwest. He now works in an office, where the leftover adrenaline from his past profession had been redirected and is now secreted as fiction of both short- and long-range capability. Apart from one accidental short-form publication, this is his first published work.

Kathryn Michael McMahon

The great white who bit the salt-and-pepper-haired man on the foot would soon come to regret this impulse. The man flailed in the water and his wife watched, marveling at how he had managed to spill cranberry juice all over the breakers. Someone got out his phone to film it and she shouted at him, shouted for help, and smacked his phone into the sand. Some strangers came and risked their own lives, they would tell the news reporter, their own lives, and limbs, she would add, and they pulled the man out. An ambulance took him to the hospital. The man received a bionic foot with incredible sensors. The news reporter who had interviewed the strangers who’d risked their lives (and limbs) also did a follow-up with the man with the bionic foot. He told her he wondered whose idea it was to allow him to feel the gravel on the driveway. The news reporter surprised herself when she gave him her number. Their affair lasted two months until the heat of it collapsed upon its discovery.

Too angry thinking about the great white, the bionic man’s wife had not noticed the news reporter hit on her husband. Then she was culling mutilated socks from her husband’s drawer and she found a receipt bearing inky-blue, ultra-feminine numerals. Her husband blamed the affair on his foot and she blamed it on the shark. Neither blamed it on the reporter because she wore stage makeup and they agreed she must’ve been lonely.

The cheater’s wife decided on a course of divorce and revenge. She first learned to steer a boat and throw a harpoon, but that didn’t feel dangerous enough. She then learned to scuba dive, but disliked the mechanical octopus on her back. She turned to free diving and spearfishing. She knew she had made the right decision when she could stay underwater for ten minutes, twirling her hair like a mermaid, a mermaid years younger.

The great white who’d bitten the mermaid-woman’s husband felt guilty for her pain. When he told himself he’d thought the man was a seal, he was lying; he just hadn’t liked the way he’d talked to her and then chatted up the Spring Breakers half his age. The shark wanted to apologize, but her spear gun made him nervous.

An ex-wife celebrated her first alimony check with a cranberry cocktail and a rental right on the beach. Though small and rundown, it was all she needed to swim and twirl whenever she wanted. She bought a silicone tail, blue and green, that went over her hips, past the appendicitis scar and stretchmarks. Her spear gun grew dusty on the shelf and she finally sold it on Craigslist.

The woman bought books and learned about mollusks and starfish and the difference between male and female horseshoe crabs (size, the female is longer). She swam past the breakers, splashing into the unknown. The long arcs of her arms grew strong while her fingers pruned to pits.

The shark watched her twirling hair like seaweed and learned that she liked to swim every day at seven a.m., except in the rain. She was not afraid of a little rain, he later found out, but she knew sharks like him were drawn to the chaos of fresh and salt. Even though he liked her new tail and that she didn’t carry a spear gun anymore, he still felt uncertain about approaching her, so he watched her from the depths where the pressure matched his heart.

One day when he could bear it no more, he swam up with his best smile and said, “I’m sorry.” He was so nervous, he forgot to breathe.

The woman by now had realized that a shark was not to blame for her husband’s cheating capabilities. “You should’ve bitten him higher up.”

The great white had started sinking, but at her answer, he shot to the surface and breached, which cleared the beaches for weeks.

No one had ever leaped for her before, so when he asked if she wanted a ride, she said yes. She gripped his dorsal fin, and the denticles of his skin felt like a freshly trimmed beard. He was big — three times her size — yet he taught her to hunt from the depths with stealth. But he never dove too deep because he knew even though she was strong, she was still just a mammal.

She soon gave up wearing her tail, preferring the kick of her legs. They began swimming together every day, even in the rain, because with him, no one bothered her, and besides, they both liked how rain made them feel safe and alive. She missed him during thunderstorms and after the skies cleared, she would wade back into the water, looking for him with his broad, white belly just as he looked for her with her twirling algae-hair. When they found each other, she would greet him with a kiss to his nose, where the nerves were sensitive, and he tingled all over.

One day, she splashed up to him and she’d cut off almost all her hair (it had started breaking apart in the saltwater). She was slipping away; no more tail, and the hair, he thought, was her last anchor to the sea, to him. “I wish you could stay down here longer. Can you get gills?”

The woman thought about what he was really asking, which might’ve been a tad soon, but the freedom of gills appealed to her, and, anyway, her landlord had been slow about fixing the leak in her roof. So she said, “That’s a great idea.”

She went home, fingertips eroded into canyons, and looked on the internet for “best local plastic surgeon” and made an appointment for a consultation.

When the receptionist told the plastic surgeon that his two o’clock wanted chest work done, he was not surprised, because even though it was boring, it was his bread and butter. But when the pretty woman came in, he furrowed his brow. She carried herself with a severity that did not normally accompany a woman trying to pump her chest full of self-esteem.

“What can I do for you?”

She pointed to her ribs. “I would like to get gills.”

The surgeon almost dropped his clipboard. He’d heard of patients wanting O-cup breasts and fewer toes and even cat whiskers, but this was new. “Why?”

“I want to be a mermaid.”

He looked at her face that caught the sun and kept it and he agreed, knowing she would make him famous.

The woman who would be a mermaid returned to the sea and found her shark. “It’s going to take six months before I can go back in the ocean. They need to re-route blood vessels and add a special coating to my lungs.”

All he heard was, “Six months.”

“It’ll be over before you know it.” She pet his nose and he was a sea sponge in her hands.

The surgery was long. In the black, she dreamed of fish flickering in sunlight, dancing for their own splendor.

During recovery, the surgeon came to check on her every day and she began to look forward to the smell of his aftershave, which was not something she had ever smelled at the beach. Come to think of it, underwater she could never smell anything, anything at all.

Because she was not a cheater like her ex-husband, she decided to tell the shark they were through. She met him at high tide and he came right up to the shore, which cleared the beaches, except for her, kneeling in the sand.

Had six months come and gone so fast? “Are you ready?”

“No.” She wanted children and adoption was not an option she felt comfortable with and, anyway, this was all for fun; it wouldn’t’ve worked out between them.

She stood and clutched her chest because her new gills ached and he thought it was her heart, so he watched her go, kicking crests of sand in goodbye. She did not turn back.

She’d shot out of the ocean, breaching his trust, and then the tide left without him. He realized a few moments too late that watching her walk away had been a subconscious act of self-destruction. He struggled to breathe and the more he wriggled, the further he wedged himself into the sand. There was no one around to help; to risk their lives (or limbs), but when people returned the next day, they found a dead shark and said, “Cool,” and took pictures with it. An enterprising man charged the town to get rid of the shark and he took out its teeth and cleaned them and dried them and sold them.

The plastic surgeon who had checked on the woman every day had done so because he wanted to avoid a lawsuit but also because he wondered what it would be like to make love to a woman who didn’t have to use her mouth for breathing. He was glad she hadn’t asked for a tail because it would’ve probably killed her and if it hadn’t, it would have definitely impeded the lovemaking. He discovered her kisses tasted of seawater, which was the first time she hadn’t surprised him and he liked that she could do both.

She, too, enjoyed new surprises; her healed gills were erogenous zones in their own right. In his pool, she discovered a disconnect from air benefited her. Upside down, blood rushing to her head, she pushed into the side of his pool, rough and prickly, and thought of her shark until she thought of nothing but the crest of the wave starting in her toes.

The woman who would’ve been a mermaid did not return to the ocean much. The surgeon would’ve wanted to join her and she didn’t want him losing a foot or worse. And her guilt repelled seawater.

Though the surgeon knew nothing of the shark, he knew she missed the sea. One day after stopping at the convenience store for more condoms (the receptionist had required his spare), he stopped at the souvenir shop next door and bought his mermaid a shark tooth pendant.

She wore it both because he had given it to her and because no sharks had recently cleared the beaches, so she knew it was her great white. She wore it between her breasts, sharp between soft, and once in a while it would scratch her. Then she’d stroke the serrations and examine her gills in the surgeon’s full-length mirror and think of what would’ve, could’ve, never should’ve been.

KATHRYN MICHAEL MCMAHON writes literary and speculative fiction. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Subtopian, A cappella Zoo, and Apocrypha and Abstractions. She is an American raised abroad and has found a home in Vietnam where she works as a preschool teacher. Sadly, this has failed to cure her phobia of stuffed animals.