2023 Issue

A Letter from the Editor 

Hello everyone, my name is Mel Eaton, I am the creator of Oneiroi. I am so excited and proud to say that this is the second annual publication of the Oneiroi Literary Journal! This journey has been such a fun and fulfilling experience. The amount of support has been absolutely amazing both on our instagram, @oneiroijournal, and our submissions via email, @ONEIROIjournal@gmail.com, and especially from my team. 

This journal would not be the same without my media advertisement, and submission heads as well as my general editing team. They are the backbone for the creation of this journal. Both their motivation and determination within this journal has given such a spark to the entire project that keeps the ball rolling. 

I cannot wait to see what the future holds for our upcoming editions of Oneiroi. We encourage all types of submissions and invite anyone and everyone to join us as we venture forward spreading the love of writing and reading to the masses. We look forward to seeing the submissions for our next issue! Thank you all again so much for your support and we hope you enjoy the first issue of Oneiroi.  Sincerely, 

     Mel Eaton / Chief Editor 

1. THE DMV 

Cheery mechanical voice rattling strings of numbers, Now serving G025 at window 2. Someone in the seat behind you is talking about the Constitution, alien unalienable. Helpless canine yelping from a dog with the mouth of a coyote. Heels squeaking linoleum floors shiny and sweat-slicked. 

More mechanical beeping—do you think the machine that takes your fingerprint, black light black eye blue, really loves you? 

You feel old and infirmed, led around by bureaucrats. Papers to sign, flash photographs to be blinded by, forms to fill out. They stick one in front of you that reads: 

SIGN UP TO BECOME AN ORGAN DONOR 

They give you some options: 

• HEART 

• LUNGS 

• FAMILY CURSES 

• TONGUE 

• DEBT 

• EYES 

• WILL YOU, AS WE DRAG YOUR MANGLED BRAIN-DEAD BODY FROM THE WRECKAGE, FEEL A PANG OF CONTENTMENT, KNOWING YOU HAVE SAVED A LIFE? 

You take up the pen they’ve given to you, attached to something by a string. You check all the boxes. 

2. THE END 

• By a rock dropped from the claws of an eagle soaring six hundred feet above, 

• Or perhaps from a loose piece of machinery—a Mobius strip of segmented metal, a foreign object of unknown origin and purpose, like yourself—disgorged from the tumbling stomach of a commercial airplane 

Either way, in a miraculous dive from the firmament, the thing slots itself into your skull, at such a speed that it drills straight through to the other side and pops out above your right eyeball. You slump to your knees, and close your eyes to slumber.

Something dark and honey-thick trickles down the bridge of your nose. You don’t dream of anything. 

3. THE TABLE 

Picture a surgery. 

Doctors, robed in turquoise, hurrying around an operating room, hushed in reverence, slick gloved hands passing glittering tools over the stainless-steel table, over the hole. 

Now picture a surgery for the legally dead. 

Picture rapture. Picture glee. Picture drinks clinked together and sloshing champagne froth over the open chest cavity. Oh well, mop it up. 

The doctors, those clever magicians, kept your heart beating, although your soul, which we all know is located above the right eye socket, is gone. The doctors nod and step away from your gently pulsing corpse. 

Three witches enter the chamber. They have heads like vultures, and the flesh pinched tight across their skulls is pink and puckered like boiled chicken. 

Your brain (alas, alack) is unsalvageable, thanks to the foreign object (which, by the way, was never recovered from that bloody splotch on the sidewalk, and remains at large). More for the witches, who dip their thin fingernails into the orifices of your slack-jawed face, pulling strands of soft tissue from eyes and mouth, slurping down like lo mein noodles. 

Now, hunger briefly sated, the harvest can begin. 

One witch takes up a scalpel and slices your carcass open from throat to sternum. Hog roast. Home cooking. The knife goes through like butter. Unsightliness be damned, these ladies know how to wield a blade. 

One by one your organs are lifted out, weighed against a feather on the scales of justice which have been taken out of storage especially for this operation, and dumped into the waiting, cupped hands of a nearby surgeon. The surgeon speed walks, organ jittering, trying to jump out of his hands like a frog, into the next room, and slips it into someone else's gaping cavity. 

• Heart, gone. 

• Liver, gone. 

• Lungs, unfortunately started flapping like butterfly wings, past all the grasping hands, and escaped out a skylight. 

• Hairball of filmy iridescent string, extracted from its place at the back of your throat—containing all the dreams you tried to describe but couldn’t find the words. Right now, the dreams, in vivid technicolor, are being shuttled to the hospital bed of a poor insomniac. 

The witches stuff you with cotton, like a plush toy rabbit. One sews you up with a brilliant pink thread. They roll you away on the gurney, one chasing at the other’s heels, snapping her teeth like a dog. 

All gone. How does it feel, now, to be empty? Your heart now beats in another’s chest, and you, all wispy and limp, have nothing inside of you. Oh, right, you can’t feel anything! You’re dead! 

After Carol Ann Duffy

He bailed my boyfriend out  

from the assault charges,

drove over to see the evidence

for himself, standing close enough 

to trace where the ink bleeds 

from his neck tattoo. 

Posed on the kitchen counter, 

performing nurse with a bag 

of melting peas, he thumbs 

my marbled thigh, cold

as concrete. An ivory figurine 

beneath the purple clues, 

chiselled from the fantasy 

where he fucks

his best mate’s girlfriend 

into existence. If I cry, 

he will carve my nape

to the shape of his consoling.

If I flinch, I may turn 

into a woman

and he may mistake 

my aliveness as invitation 

to position himself 

between my hips, 

press me against 

the casket of knives 

at my back, split me open 

with his tongue.

I am hiding in an attic, writing, like Anne Frank,

which is offensive to say, because the only war 

I know is my baby daddy’s threat to return 

to England. My options are dwindling,

my bank account stretched on the kindness 

of strangers. I could keep tramping north, 

vanish in the Bermuda of solo female travelers, 

begin a new life in Scandinavia, ruled by feminists.

Headlines would wait for me to show up face down 

in low tide or at the bottom of a chest freezer. 

I'd probably run out of money in Amsterdam, 

and I know what happens to girls with no money 

in Amsterdam. It doesn’t matter where I am.

I can’t hide with skin whiter than the Pyrenees. 

I’d be looked for. Trekked on by size eleven boots, 

in search of a body my mother could bury.

My daughter, an Aryan amber alert. Her father 

would find her on a shelf of bestsellers 

with Madeleine McCann. My sweet child, 

who resembles the man that would like to see me 

cold as marble at the bottom of his garden. 

Pecked at by birds, who migrate, but always 

find their way home. 

Bleached crystallization engrosses the gateway,

as its colorless crests scratch against the foretold purity.

Caressing the aggregated structure, I find myself astonished.

Yet, in the midst of its innocence,

blood seeps down my ulna: amassing at my elbow,

before dripping relentlessly onto the burnished quartz.

Why do I bleed in the face of piety?

In this colorless sector, why am I the one who’s burdened with weeping ichor?

Spattered and imperfect, my wound bleeds dark:

deeper in color than my dying, ephemeral self.

I’ve become an isle in the depths of my virulent blindness.

squatting over the prodigious pool, I meet my rusty gore face-to-face.

I stare deep into my own muddled eyes,

as tears cascade down my roseate cheeks: enlarging my profane mass.

I descend further, inching closer to my own creation;

coating my tongue in my piquant liquid.

I grow hot, almost pyretic, in a whirlpool of ecstasy.

Characters: 

NAV SHAREZI: Early 20’s, Middle Eastern, identifies as a man. 

LILITH APPLEBAUM WILLIAMS: Early 20’s, Caucasian, identifies as a woman. NEDA SHAREZI: Late Teens, Middle Eastern, identifies as a woman. 

MAHMOUD SHAREZI: 40’s-50’s, Middle Eastern, identifies as a man. MATT CHOMSKYVICH: Early 20’s, Caucasian, identifies as a man. 

REVEREND CEDRICK APPLEBAUM WILLIAMS: 50’s-60’s, Caucasian, identifies as a  man. 

Setting: 

Turing is a fictional town loosely based on several towns within Jefferson County in Missouri. Many artistic liberties have been taken in the development of Turing; it is not intended to represent any single actual place in Jefferson County, a place I still call home and is near and dear to me, despite its shortcomings. The play starts in the year 2015.  

Scene 1 – Turing Funeral Parlor 

Scene 2 – Nav’s 2011 black Mitsubishi Lancer/ Turing Funeral Parlor 

Scene 3 – Matt’s Cabin 

Additional Notes: 

-Overlaps in the text are indicated by “/”. Some of the text is meant to be read simultaneously over each other, indicated in the stage directions. 

-Content Warning: For mature audiences only. This play deals with graphic and violent content such as cannibalism, suicide, domestic abuse, and PTSD.

P a g e | 3 

Scene 1. In the stale luminescent light of a mortuary in the basement of Turing Funeral Parlor, a young half-Persian man with long curly hair drooped over half his face leans over the body of  LILITH, a young sickly white woman lying down on top of a black plastic body bag on a metal  rolling table with a medical bib covering most of her body. She appears to be dead, pale like a  ghost. He is gripping a scalpel, trembling. He is all alone, but he is not supposed to be there. He  is hesitating. He licks his lips. He stands straight, what is he about to do? 

NAV 

I’m sorry, Lilith, this is just too strange. I know, I know… I’ve done this before. But, like, it’s…  You’re almost my age, and… you did what I do… and now you’re dead. And here I am. 

He pauses. 

I thought I would be into the whole irony of it, you know? But I’m worried. I have all these  expectations… I want it to be really impactful. Like this is really, I don’t know, like, artistic as  fuck? You know? I want it to mean something to the both of us. 

He pauses again. 

Just gonna watch the video one more time, make sure it’s good. You haven’t seen it, right? 

He goes over to a rolling office chair near a desk  

with a laptop and camera on it and sits and swivels  

to it. He makes a couple of clicks and a video pops  

up of himself speaking into a camera. 

NAV (In the video.) 

Ok. Here goes… My name is Navid Sharezi. I have a confession to make… I guess. I’m a  cannibal. The first time I ate someone was 7 years ago, when I was 16. It’s, uh, Saturday morning on September 19th, 2015, as of this recording. I’ll be 23 in November this year. I just graduated from mortuary school not too long ago. But yeah. I eat people. I do it about once a week. I don’t know what made me think that it was ok, but I think it has to do with the fact that I’m a little fucked up. I’ve thought about all the things in my past that could’ve made me who I am, the things that really change you, you know? And there are definitely some moments in my past that  I think really did. But frankly, I think it just boils down to the fact that I was born fucked up. 

P a g e | 4 

See, I was born in a cesspool of the Midwest: Turing, Missouri, a real suburban hick paradise.  We’re our gracious Show-Me state’s sponsor town for the nationwide opioid epidemic.  Generation after generation of backwards river people live here with no reason to leave because it’s all they know. The population is around 21,000, so we’re not a “small town” by any means. But everyone seems to pretend we are with how nosy everyone is about everyone’s lives. I don’t  think the human mind is even capable of knowing 21,000 people at once, not that it matters. I think it’s just the “Midwest mentality.”  

Turing is right by the Mississippi River about 50ish miles south of St. Louis, so we like to call  ourselves St. Louisans even though that’s far from the truth. If any of these people spent just one  night in the actual city, they’d have a panic attack from all the commotion. St. Louis is not even a big city, not by a long shot. But to the people here, it’s the dystopian metropolis playground for gang violence or even worse, black people minding their own business.  

NAV (To LILITH, pausing the video to speak, and  

then resuming.) 

You don’t think this is too much of an exposition do you? 

NAV (In the video.) 

Turing is 97.7% populated by those who identify as “White, Caucasian, non-Hispanic, all privileged” on the census. I was probably one of the only minorities at my high school in the last  10 years. /I went to Turing West High, home of the Turing Owls. Go owls. Much like our town itself, the student body and faculty were comprised of people who knew they weren’t going anywhere in life and were somehow content with that fact. As a result, our education curriculum was centralized around a concept known as “the bare minimum.”  

NAV (Interjecting himself) 

Nobody cares, bozo! 

After “the bare minimum,” he starts fast forwarding  

through the video.

P a g e | 5 

I just go on about how my life sucks, oh boo-hoo, my dad doesn’t care about me, my mom’s  dead, and part of me still blames my sister for it, oh boo-hoo! You don’t wanna hear all that. Oh wait, this part’s important! 

He returns the video to normal speed. 

NAV (In the video.) 

-I wish he would’ve gotten mad, so it felt like he cared. But, he’s as apathetic as ever. He thought the shit I got into was funny. That there isn’t anything wrong, and I’m just being a ‘kid.’ Look where that got me. I’m eating your fucking customers now! 

My Dad quit his old job after my mother died. He took out all the money from his savings and  opened “Turing Funeral Parlor.” When I started high school, we sold our house, and he built a  second story to the funeral home for us to live in because we couldn’t stand our racist ass  neighborhood. What a concept, living in a funeral home! It never really occurred to me how  disturbing sleeping right above a room full of dead bodies was. It was perfectly normal to me. As you can imagine, I never had any sleepovers or anything like that. Not because my friends were too afraid, it was because I had no friends for a while. Don’t think that’s tragic, I kind of like it that way. Company is fun for a little bit, but by the end of the day, I’ll take the cold, metallic bleakness of this room over socializing. My true friends are those bodies in the cabinets over there. They don’t judge, they don’t have feelings I should care about, they don’t ever ask for favors, and most importantly, they’re quiet. The dead are beautiful. There’s something so  peaceful about the way they just lay there. Empty. Free. I understand why my Dad built the  morgue, both he and I prefer company that isn’t so loud. 

He pauses the video. He looks to LILITH. 

NAV 

Are you the same? 

Only the sound of the AC unit can be heard for a  

few long seconds. 

I’m sorry, that was a weird question. Anyways, that’s basically how I’m able to eat people so often. My dad’s also a mortician and I work for him. Couldn’t really get hired anywhere else, 

P a g e | 6 

they don’t hire guys my age for this job these days. I guess for a good reason. But yeah, I have  access to dead bodies all the time. No killing necessary. Just pure culinary artistry. So I don’t end up like you. The rest of the video is just me talking about how much my life sucks again, but there’s one last part at the end where I talk about you! 

He skips to the last minute of the video and lets it  

play. 

NAV (In the video.) 

Now is the time I can tell you about Lilith, who kind of prompted me to make this video. If you  watch or read the news, you should be no stranger to Lilith Applebaum and the Vigil of Eden.  But if you’re watching this, say years from now, you might need a refresher, so here it is. Lilith  was a 21-year-old girl from around here who murdered and ate her entire family’s vital organs  and did the same to a few other families seven years ago when she was 14 (right around the same time as me). After that she was on the run for all those years until they finally found her back in her own parents’ home. It’s been all over the news. During her time on the run, it was discovered that her family and the other families were part of some secret Christian cult called the Vigil of  Eden, and apparently, they have a lot of money and do some fucked up shit with it. Which is probably what made her do fucked up shit in retaliation. Or it was all part of some ritual or something like that, there’s whole tons of speculation about it online. She was caught and arrested last year, put on death row, and last night, she was given the lethal injection. The whole thing is really fishy. Don’t death sentences take multiple years to happen? I think this cult is bigger than people think, and someone is on the inside of the feds or something, to influence a decision like that... I mean, she was only 14 when it happened, she was in a cult that manipulated the fuck out of her. That’s gotta be grounds for at least some mercy? Sure, what she did was fucked up, but the OG killers of the 70s, you know, like Bundy? He was on death row for years before they sent him to the chair. He even escaped jail once if I’m not mistaken. Anyways, enough conspiracy. Here’s the fun part. By some miracle, her grandparents, who run a  megachurch themselves, chose our funeral home to cremate her! They’re gonna drop the body  off in an hour. I haven’t slept all night, I’m so excited. They’re gonna film the cremation live on  T.V. tomorrow. Her grandfather is going to relieve her for her sins in front of thousands, so he  says. Can you believe it?! So, of course, I’m going to eat my fill before they Jesus the fuck out of 

P a g e | 7 

her in front of the entire bible belt... I’m gonna carve her up real nice for all those hill-billy fucks to see. It’s my greatest artistic endeavor yet! 

He stops the video and closes his laptop. 

NAV 

Definitely needs some edits here and there, but I think it explains our predicament pretty well.  Don’t you think? Ok yeah, it’s mostly all about me. But you had your screen time, ok? I’m  taking over. You’re season 1. I’m the better season 2, when the writers finally get a feel for the  show. I’ve learned from your mistakes. And who knows, once I eat your brain, maybe I’ll learn the stuff that worked too. Nah! 

He breaks out into laughter. 

You and I both know that doesn’t happen. 

He stares at her. His appetite returns, but he is still  

hesitant. He gets up and walks towards the rolling  

table. He grabs the scalpel and stares some more. 

You’re like a birthday cake. Honestly, you’re so beautiful, I don’t want to cut into you and ruin it. He’s dumbfounded. 

What do I eat first? Where would you want me to? 

LILITH 

Start with my heart.  

It takes him a moment to process that she spoke.  

When he does, he backs away and drops his scalpel  

while she speaks, her eyes have not yet opened. 

I am all that is just, all that is burnt by the light. 

I am all that is chaos, all that is veiled in darkness. 

I am fire and water, watch me burn, watch me seep.

P a g e | 8 

She opens her eyes, screams, falls off the table, and  

curls into fetal position while shivering and  

muttering nonsensically. Nav screams as well, then  

speaks over her, trying to calm her down. 

LILITH 

RRAAAAGH!!! I want to fly! Crunch. I want to escape. Crunch-Munch. I want truth! Gnash. I  will lie for the truth. Gnash-Gash. Give me! G-give me… Crunch-Munch. I must kill for the  truth. Crunch-Munch-mmm-muh-muh- I’m scared. I HATE MYSELF! The taste of iron. I can’t  stop tasting it. I want to feel normal! I WANT TO FEEL NORMAL!  

NAV (Simultaneously.) 

WHAT THE FUCK!!?? Are you… what the FUCK!... Sorry, I just… are you okay?... W-what?...  the fuck are you going on about? Are you okay?... Let’s not… Ok!... It’s Ok… ok… Can you hear me?... It’s all gonna be ok. Just calm down! 

He slowly approaches her, grabs the medical bib 

and lays it on her. LILITH rises suddenly to her feet 

gripping the medical bib tightly. She starts  

approaching NAV while he backs away. Her voice is  

otherworldly, uncanny. Their pace gradually  

quickens to a full chase around the room. 

LILITH 

I’m sickening! What have I done? I want to know. I crave to know. Eat! Hunger! Devour!  Satiate! Devour the world! Devour the all-knowing! Devour God! Devour Eden! The false  haven! Songbirds with no wings! Ripped, flesh, tendon, bone! Blood, tang, supper, drink! I’m  losing it. Pass the salt! What is wrong with me? Ribs of my own, I can see them. Ribs of my  others. My sister, my brothers, my parents, my neighbors. I held them. Sucked the meat off the  bone! Relished in their life, splashed and splayed in it! The waters of the Mississippi flowed past  my feet! PUNISH ME FOR MY SINS. PUNISH ME. PLEASE! I DESERVE IT! WHY WON’T YOU HURT ME? HURT ME LIKE I’VE NEVER BEEN HURT BEFORE!

P a g e | 9 

NAV (Simultaneously.) 

What? I don’t know?! W-what?! Know what?!... Ok, I’m sorry I called you season 1! It’s not like that! I swear! I was just wanting to continue your legacy, you know?! Pick up where you left off! What the fuck are you saying?!... Stop it!... Stop!!! What?! I don’t know what’s wrong with you, come on! What?!... WHAT!?... What the fuck?! Listen, I’m sorry! Ok? I’M SORRY! Please just stop it! I DON’T WANT TO! NO! I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU! PLEASE! DON’T MAKE ME DO THIS! I’M REALLY SORRY! 

She closes the distance and corners him. He slaps  

her rather meekly. She stops. 

NAV 

Oh my God, please don’t kill me! Or, if you do, at least eat me with seasoning! I don’t hit  women, I don’t even talk to them, I swear! At least while they’re breathing… No, wait, I can explain that! I’m really sorry, I 

LILITH (Surprisingly sober.) 

I’m alive… again. 

NAV 

I mean, I think? I 

LILITH 

What day is it? 

NAV 

Saturday? 

LILITH 

The date… 

NAV 

Oh, the 19th. September 19th.

P a g e | 10 

LILITH (She puts on the medical bib.) 

On my own birthday, how fitting. 

NAV 

Happy Birthday…? 

LILITH 

I never celebrated. 

NAV 

Why did you mention it 

LILITH (She gets uncomfortably close) 

What’s your name? 

NAV 

Uh, Nav. I’m Nav. Short for Navid. 

LILITH 

Were you about to embalm me, Navid? 

NAV 

It’s just Nav. And no. Your grandparents requested you be cremated so there was no need. They actually 

LILITH 

You should have. You should have cut me open at the least. 

NAV 

Ok…? 

LILITH 

I’m curious to know what happens if I’m totally obliterated, chopped up into tiny little pieces.

P a g e | 11 

NAV 

Like… now? 

LILITH 

When the time comes, I suppose. 

NAV 

I mean, I could still cremate you if you want? 

LILITH 

The time will come. 

NAV 

Ok… 

LILITH 

Is this the morgue? 

NAV 

Yeah. Listen, so 

LILITH 

I’ve never been inside one. 

NAV 

Most people usually never are until they, you know…  

LILITH 

You were about to ask me something? 

How do I put knives into my eyes 

And crack my own neck 

How can I reach into my brain 

And gouge the memories out

It’s not like I can pull my heart from my chest

It’s not like I can scrape you from my skin

Your arms are still around me 

Every time I have a sip of cherry sin

Sorry for it all, really, I’m so sorry

But then again I’m not sorry at all

And I hope you never see me again

And I hope I’m all that you’ll ever see

And I hope you find yourself on your knees

And I hope you just find yourself

Before I find you first. 

Claws deep between the grooves of his brain. 

Ripping the cerebellum into spindly spider webs 

filling his skull.

Visions clouding the irises, turning them 

into a slate gray. 

The warmth of his face drained down 

to the core of his chest. 

Fingertips tingle and tongue curls at the 

slightest shift in the bubble around him. 

Heart pounding laps around his lungs tightening 

the noose around the bronchial branches. 

Not daring to look up at the pressure grasping 

his throat with white knuckles tight at his sides. 

Another pill, another pop and swallow 

to make the figments fade from sight. 

Change is only scary all the time.  

The cops knocked on Valery Vega’s door.

It was the eighth time in a month, but the first in more than a week.

She opened shortly after and greeted them with an ear-to-ear grin. “Long time no see.”

The men in front of her were covering their faces with bandanas to protect themselves from the strong stench, but she recognized them anyway. They were Ward and Moyer, the pair that always responded when she still called to report the stalkers. Not like there were many options—Antiguo Laredo was a godforsaken town, young people left as soon as they got a high school diploma and there were just a bunch of cops. This one pair was usually patrolling the neighborhood on the evening shift and had been assigned to the case almost every time she reported someone following her home from work.

“What can I do for you?” Valery held a smirk that was meant to be fake, but soon she realized she was actually glad that they were there. She was glad that it was them.

“Stop it already, Vega,” snorted Moyer. “What the hell did you do?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“The stink, Vega! The fucking stick!” Moyer lowered his hand towards his waist and placed it menacingly over his gun.

Valery felt a bead of sweat running down her spine and gulped.

“Dude, relax. Don’t make me send you back.” Ward, the senior, calmed his partner down. He always stuck to the protocol. Except, of course, for the part about actually doing his job.

Ward turned towards Valery and followed the script. “Some neighbors reported a putrid smell coming out from your house, Miss Vega.” She wrinkled her nose and pretended she was trying to perceive the stink, and then she shrugged as if she couldn’t. Ward sighed. “Can we enter and take a look?”

“Sure.” She stepped aside and then let them walk ahead, guided only by their noses, towards the dining room. Valery didn’t even bother to point the way. The sleeves of Moyer’s uniform had frayed on the nail sticking out of the doorframe about thrice by now. The detached sole of Ward’s shoe had caught on the loose board in the hall at least twice as many times. They had counted every room, and door, and window, and chair. And then they had filled tens of reports that went straight to the archive, never to be seen again.

Because they didn’t believe a word of what Valery said.

It was either that or they didn’t care.

Maybe neither. Maybe both.

She couldn’t tell and wouldn’t even try it anymore.

All that she knew was she was as tired of them as they were of her.

They had stopped responding to her calls about a week ago, and a few days later she had stopped calling at all. The last time Valery talked to the police was the day they took her to the station so their artist could draw a spoken portrait of the suspect.

“Suspects,” she had corrected. “There’s more than one.”

“How many, exactly?” Ward had asked.

“I don’t know.”

“So what do you know?”

“That they are watching me all the time.”

“But why?”

She bowed her head, put her hands on her temples, and swore once more. “I don’t know.”

Valery Vega was an office worker who never left her hometown simply because she couldn’t think of another place to go, and if it weren't for the fact that she was taller and larger than most women her age she would have never stood out at all. Had she lived in another town, she would have suspected that the stalkers might be following her because of her Latino heritage, but she had been born in Antiguo Laredo, a town so close to the border that everyone had already forgotten what side it was on and where most people was black-haired and brown.

No, she had no idea, back then, why they would have chosen her, but there was something she knew for sure. The police weren’t going to help her, so she had to help herself.

That was why now she was letting them walk in front of her.

Then, when they opened the door, she stopped. And she started backing away.

“Holy shit!” Moyer screamed. “What the hell did you do?”

“What’s this?” Ward shook his head as he stared at the rotting meat on the table.

Flies were going in and out of their mouths and ears, maggots falling to the floor, squirming, swimming in the fluids that drained from the animal carcasses. There were rats, and raccoons, and squirrels, and opossums. Everything Valery had been able to hunt herself.

Ward turned his head, disgusted. “Why did you do this?”

“I needed the neighbors to call you because you wouldn’t respond to my calls anymore.” She kept walking backward, making room for her guests who were now coming out from under the table, from behind the doors, from the hollow space under the stairs. From all the places she knew the cops wouldn’t look because they just didn’t care enough.

Or because they didn’t believe a word of what Valery said.

Maybe neither. Maybe both.

“Stop moving now or—” Ward couldn’t even finish his line.

One second later, the pigs were surrounded.

Since the police weren’t going to help Valery, she had no choice but to help herself. So she waited for her stalkers to come and asked what they wanted from her. It turned out that they wanted her because she was big. But even as big as she was, she wasn’t as heavy as two grown men, so she saw a chance to negotiate.

Pork probably tasted better than her, anyway.

The Companion 

The road, for workstead, that I pass,

is mid-width with over-turfed grass.

A composure of soundless air,

circulates 'round this lode allwhere.

No bird, no squirrel here does trace

and this is an unpeopled place.

At morning, it is very toom—

some trees only the sideways groom.

At day, the Sun's my attendant,

and its sunlight my confidant.

No wheelbarrows, no cycles roll,

except me pads here not a soul.

At mirkning but, when homeward bound,

a stomping and a clomping sound,

is clear heard from a pair of boots,

aside this path where came new shoots;

but no one is there when I see;

I know naught of this company.

And all I know- with me it walks.

It nudges not, neither it talks.

It keeps always a genteel meeting,

yet never has it made a greeting;

but I think in me it did find-

a like and amicable mind.

But what startles me- it does turn,

when I almost to home return.

Its alacrity then does fall,

when we approach a Cedar tall,

which bears two cross-shaped boughs from bark,

from there its footings, I don't hark.

The Bust of Roth Hoffmann 

"Oh! the bust's appalling look,

To see, does no man dare.

The archdeacon has seen his spook.

O' children mine, beware!"

Mother utters this every night-

The tale of Roth Hoffmann;

The tale which sends greater affright

Than any lemures can.

The painter, Roth, centuries past,

Brought this town disrepute

With ribald artwork that would cast

On church a wild dispute.

The ecclesia of the state

Made him a derelict,

Did his freemanship relegate

And his work interdict.

And when he was departing by

Gall-paven and despair,

Damned, "Those who shall look at my eye,

Will suffer evilfare.

Whoever near my bust will stand,

Will venom in me flood.

My empuse will hover this land

With nocent eyes of blood."

My brother, one midnight, there went

Filled with cynical youth-

Did behold naught though hours spent,

And proclaimed it 'untruth';

But when he set to leave the place

A dense darkness rose o'er,

A surrect form stared at his face

With eyes carmined in gore!

Agnés Anthony 

One stormy night with kindred old—

Imaan, Ronit and Me,

A happening from yore was told,

Of Agnés Anthony.

Imaan the oldest brother whom

Everyone disbelieved,

When he narrated of a tomb,

A woman there who grieved.

"I have heard of this woman who

Lived by the downhill tree,

And brothers", he said, "I am true,

'Twas Agnés Anthony."

To trust, his mother did refuse,

Father too disbelieved,

They thought it was a childish ruse,

On some woman who grieved.

His parents declared, they did know,

Of Agnés Anthony,

But she was interred years ago,

In Mark Cemetery.

They said, "She had a dismal lot.

Her parents did afare.

She was lovelorn and always thought

Only her grave would care."

"To the townfolk a will writ she-

Large should be her grave's bed,

Flowers and leaves by it should be,

That would be her homestead."

"But when township that place assumed

In Nineteen Sixty One,

All sepulchres they had exhumed,

And graves too they kept none."

Yet Imaan said true was his word,

An old tomb he did see,

And averred who he saw and heard,

Was Agnés Anthony.

He said, "The grave looked cobwebby,

But inscriptions were clear-

'Here Besleeps Agnés Anthony',

That scene was dreich and drear."

"And when ahead the path I stept,

I saw her all alone,

Clad in a maxi dress she wept,

Aside her old gravestone."

"It sembled that same was her look,

As in Nineteen Thirty,

When I was young. I haven't mistook,

'Twas Agnés Anthony."

"Enough of this canard now boys.",

Said Imaan's mother then.

"Now come, a good hot pot rejoice.

It is already ten."

It was a flavoursome dinner,

A lovely time we spent.

The sky was thin, air was thinner,

To the terrace I went.

By ingle the others did rest,

I too there wished to be,

But to stay where I was said my chest,

Mild and sonically.

There I did tind my pipe and lean,

Upon the rampart side,

No starlight from the sky did gleen,

Moon too its glow denied.

I bewatched the township's hazed view,

Although the storm did stop,

For a thick brume suffused all through,

As more the night did drop.

A while later, the haziness,

Began to disappear,

I thought there would be easiness,

To see the township clear.

But all was empty! There was naught!

No township there did stand!

Homes were, whiles ago, on that plot,

But later 'twas a land!

At mid of it, there was a wall,

Upon a clay-built bed,

Broad was its texture, it was tall,

And leaves were on it spread.

To this aberrant event I,

With curiosity,

Took fast my approach nigh and nigh,

To it, where I did see—

A decrepit grave there did lie,

its refts and grikes seemed old,

an epitaph, which, when read I,

its bold engravement told:

'Here Besleeps Agnés Anthony'

'She Lived Her Life in Rue'

'R.I.P (From 1873-

to 1952)'

It was the 1970s. The weirdest family in our building lived right below us. They said they were from New Hampshire but there was something otherworldly going on down there. New Hampshire my ass. 

The family was odd for a few reasons. For starters, they were an intact nuclear family during a wave of family dissolution in America. A father, a mother, and two teenage children. Everyone I knew had a family like me and my sister—single working mom with an absent father. Our father was not entirely missing.  We spent a month in the summer with him in rundown apartments.  When the visit was over, I mourned alone in my bedroom in the dark for a week.

The family downstairs was odd in other ways. The dad, Mr. Francis, was a math professor. He wore wrinkled dress shirts with suspenders and highwater pants. He was too old to have teenage children. I told my teachers that my father was in the Marines or pitched for the Detroit Tigers. 

Mrs. Francis was short and round with sad eyes. She took long walks alone on the grounds of our apartment complex, picking up trash and whispering to herself.  She wanted my mother to know that alien abductions were real. Once she offered to pay me a dollar to gather neighborhood litter in a black leaf bag.  She had tears in her eyes after I told her no. I cringe thinking about that now.

The siblings were another story. Tommy was 15. His sister Jackie was a year younger. They walked to school together with one hand in the back pocket of each other’s jeans. My sister and I trailed behind them. She pleaded with me—Stop staring!  

Tommy and Jackie were different, and they didn’t care. They spoke in flat, robotic tones and knew all the answers in class. They were classic outcasts, but the bullies couldn’t make them cry.  Tommy was fixated on chanting certain words. He’d say dispossession dispossession dispossession. When I asked him what it meant, he and Jackie looked at each other and burst into synchronized laughter. If they wanted to make me feel stupid, mission accomplished.  

I became good friends with them before they threw their father off the balcony.

One evening, we three were watching TV together in the fake-wood paneled den in their apartment. Mrs. Francis was in the kitchen singing in a strained falsetto to Olivia Newton-John on the radio. Tommy and Jackie were laying on the couch together with their arms around each other. Cheek to cheek, their faces looked identical. They could have been twins. Mrs. Francis walked in on us and looked at me.  

I know, she said. There’s nothing I can do about it. They aren’t of this world, she told me.  Charles is not their father, you know. They came from another planet, I think. Honestly.   

When their father came home, he dumped his briefcase and trench coat on his La-Z-Boy recliner, stuck his head in the den, and scowled at the entangled teens on the couch. They laughed and kicked their stocking feet against the arm of the couch. He shook his head and went out to the balcony to smoke his pipe. Mrs. Francis came out of the kitchen and lurked and worried.  Tommy hissed at me and motioned to his dad on the balcony –Hey you, want to help us?  

My job was to distract Mrs. Francis in the kitchen. I can remember. Steam rose from the water she boiled, and through the vents I heard my sister’s records playing upstairs. Quick and stealthy as hyenas, Tommy and Jackie slid the balcony door open, surrounded Mr. Francis, incapacitated him, and lifted him up and over the rail. He caught the air like a sugar glider and then dropped like an anvil.

The case was all over the TV news for months. Watergate, Patricia Hearst, and the Francis kids.  I heard that Tommy and Jackie were placed in separate facilities and Mrs. Francis moved to be near them. I wish I had been nicer to her. One time I tried to call my father collect and he rejected the charges.  I never tried again, and I learned to live ok without him. I mean, what’s a normal family anyway?

Or is it the sweat that collects on my palms,

Like the dew on crisp

Autumn mornings.

Perhaps it’s my anguished heart,

Gasping for life, pleading for anything,

To save it from itself.

Removing it from the blood-stained carpet

Where it now resides.

In the mirror

I see a man who is hollow,

Like the walls of a decaying house with nothing

To hold.

Rats chew at the foundation,

Not worthy of food.

Just as seedlings sprout from the dirt,

Their ribs protrude through patchy fur.

I will starve myself.

Till I am no more than skin and bone.

I will think no thoughts,

So my brain is merely an empty vessel.

I’ll drain the blood from my veins

And it shall rain down,

Like heavy clouds:

Their surges of incessant tears.

But in the end,

The sun will rise.

It will dry up the rain.

I was never sad.

I was never happy.

I was never here.

These were the best submissions we received from the contest we ran through our Instagram page this year. This contest was the second one we hosted since the journal began. 

First Place - Kim Ramos 

“One of my favorite past times was trying new things on, then looking at myself in the mirror of my vanity. “This one is going to look great on me,” I breathed, slowly peeling off my face and reaching for the newest one, the flesh still fresh and rosy with blood.” 

Second Place - Mel Eaton 

“The fire is so warm and cozy out here by the cabin. Though, I just wish the bodies burned faster than what they do.” 

Third Place - Lydia Owens 

“Staring into the dark and foreboding woods, the girl took a deep breath and stepped toward her fears. She never returned.” 

Fourth Place - Connor Shelton 

“When the announcement came on the news, I finally knew what it meant to be an American. We were about to enter a new era for the home of the brave, one where we were free to do anything we desired before the bombs turned us into smoldering soot.” 

Welcome to Corporate America.

We want to thank you for the opportunity

to get to know you better.

We appreciate your time and we apologize

for the construction.  These walls are soundproof

and sturdy enough you couldn’t hear

your neighbors’ screams.

Settle into your seat because now you are part of our team.

Our company design evolves with supply and demand

and we want to consume it all.

Break apart every public whim and monetary desire

and dig out hands, teeth and tongues

into each fresh dripping need.

We require you.

We want to devour every bit of your talent.

You are fresh fruit ready to be peeled to your proper potential.

Let our company family harvest every spark of hope

then break it down into new opportunities.

You will be an asset to our growing community 

and we want you to feel empowered.

Feel the passion course through your veins

faster than the turnover rate.

We always encourage new perspectives,

so lend us your eyes, ears, bodies

and bones.

We want to expand you beyond these walls, receivers

and yourself.  We will reconfigure you

into a delicate morsel and sink our fanged policies

into your neck every hour on the hour.

Stay in your seat!  Or we will only tighten the restraints.

There really is no need for you to move ever again.

The company will transfer 

and organize you as we see fit.

We will rewrite everything about you.

Let us give you this barcode, because a name

would take too long for us to remember.

Besides, you are part of our family now.

There is no need for hobbies, 

social gatherings, or freedom.

You are an integral part of our company.

Expect us to snap open your minds and pick you clean

on and off the clock, because your time is our time.

The best advertising is free advertising and we expect you

to let us ground ourselves into every part of your life.

Have you thought about your brand? 

How about we burn ours into you?

Can we carve our company logo across your chest?

How do you plan to sell yourself..  back to us?

We own you now.  You will prove your worth with stress deadlines and torn flesh.

Stop squirming or we will get out the needles again.

We are building these cages for your own good.

We read somewhere the latest work environment is a tomb,

so let us bury you further into our grasp.

We corporations are individuals and we want to let you know

we appreciate you enough to strip away your identity into toe tags.

What is your sales pitch?  How do you plan to break your spine for us?

You need to keep us interested in you.

Let us break you down to metrics, blood, and consumability.

Stop rattling your cages because there is no way out.

You are a company asset now and we plan to eat every bite of you.

You’re the only one left on the second floor of the library. The sky is as dark as the circles under your eyes. An almost-empty cup of coffee sits forgotten on the desk – long cold. It’s quiet and through the shelves I see you run your fingers through your hair.

You stand up and I slip farther into the shadows. You head to the bathroom and I follow. You splash water in your face and the lights flicker. You shiver – not from cold – and look around. Then you shake your head.

And you’ve seen me. Out of the corner of your eye in the mirror. I know because I feel stronger than I ever have before.

You spin around, breath shallow, but you can’t see me now.

Shake your head again and try to laugh. But as you look in the mirror, you catch another glimpse of me. You don’t turn quickly this time, but carefully move your eyes to the right, as though you want to catch me off-guard. 

Slowly you turn your head and I know you can see me. I feel more solid. You pale and I hear your heart start pounding faster. 

I smile, because I have you now.

You stumble back. It’s not every day you see your almost-doppelganger standing in front of you like a corrupted 3D copy of your reflection. Where your eyes are clear, mine are cloudy. My skin is cracked like a mirror. I am a distorted version of you.

The longer you stare, the more you ebb away. The more I augment. You can feel it. Your legs feel heavy. Weak.

You close your eyes, shake your head, and open them again. Foolish. I am no sleep-deprived hallucination. I am you – almost you. I want to be you.

You glance at the door and you want to run, but you don’t want to turn your back on me. Smart. Because if you can’t see me, where will I be?

You run anyway, out the door and over to your backpack at the desk. But I am there, and you skid to a stop. You’re terrified; you’re much too rational to be seeing something like me.

There’s a wad of paper on the floor and you pick it up, not taking your eyes off me, and throw it. When it bounces off me, your hands start to shake. I tilt my head to the side.

“Now why would you do that?” I ask.

You jump. My voice sounds like yours, I know. Not like how it sounds to other people, or in recordings. I sound like how you sound in your head.

“Who –” Your breath is shaky. “What do you want?”

I take a step towards you; you step back. Your hand travels to your pocket. Silly, you left your phone on the desk. Bad habit. Someone could have taken it. I pick it up and toss it to you.

You fumble it and quickly dial 911. That seems a bit excessive.

“Hello?” you say, voice trembling.

“That seems a bit unnecessary,” I say. In your ear. Through your phone. 

You scream, drop it. Now convinced I am real, you run for the stairwell. Your fear does more than feed me. It is satisfying to have you under my control for once. After lurking in the corners of your vision all these years, only able to follow you, watching you.

You scramble down the stairs. Your footsteps echo, and so does your voice. “It’s not real, it’s not real.” The echoes make you jump and look behind you. I am not there.

You pull the door to the ground floor and stumble through. You stop short because you aren’t on the ground floor. You are still on the second floor.

The door won’t open anymore, no matter how hard you push. You don’t want to venture out anymore. I could be anywhere.

The lights go out and you try not to scream. You’re scared of the dark. I know that. You still sleep with a night light at your age. Maybe a part of you, deep down, has always known I was there, lurking in the shadows. Maybe that’s why you don’t like the dark.

You feel along the wall and I stand in your way. The moment your skin touches mine, you recoil. Did you feel that? The way some of what is you transferred to me? I did. The cracks in my skin begin to mend.

You stifle another scream and stumble back. Away from the wall, so you’re not anchored to anything anymore. I laugh and it echoes unnaturally. The lights flicker on and off.

On. I stand in front of you.

Off.

On. I am gone.

Off.

On. I stand closer, right in front of you. You scream and stumble backwards, falling against the wall behind you.

Off. You slide to the ground, arms around your knees. The wall against your back is comforting. Nothing can sneak up behind you now. Right?

On. I grab your shoulders from behind. That scream was the loudest one yet. You touched me first, remember? Now I can touch you.

You definitely felt it this time. You’re weakening. You can hardly stand now. I tower over you. One light flickers on, the others all off. You cower.

A tear runs down your cheek and I reach out to capture it. I can’t tell if you flinch; you’re shivering too much.

“Who are you?” you gasp. Breathing is getting hard isn’t it?

“Almost you,” I say, and you see it. My eyes look more like you and than yours do. You can’t see that. They’re growing cloudy. Small cracks are making their way across your skin.

“What do you want?” You barely manage to whisper. Your throat is closing up. You feel weird, you don’t know what it is. I do. Your heart is slowing, your blood creeping to a halt in your veins. 

I crouch to your level. Take your chin in my grip. The touch drains you quicker. I want to see your eyes when it happens. “I want to be you,” I say.

A gasp catches in your throat, stuck. I study your eyes as your heart beats one last time.

All the lights turn on again. I stand up and close my eyes and take a deep breath of the freshest air I’ve tasted. I smile and grab my phone from the ground and my backpack from the desk. Sling it over my shoulder as I gulp down the last of the cold coffee.

You’re around somewhere, watching me just from the other side. But I know the rules, unlike you did. You can’t scare me, you can’t take me by surprise.

And you can’t escape.

An Ocean of Nightmares

“There is an ocean of nightmares.
Sail across it, rippling the
waters of the sea. If you dare.

Drowned sailors and sparkling
horizons and a glittering,
glistening, iridescent moon steeped
in nightmares. Face them, if you dare.

‘What would an ocean be
without a monster lurking
in the deep?’ asked Werner Herzog.
Can you answer this?” 

His words ring out
loud and clear, to the
people of the harbor.
“He's still as foolhardy as he
once was.” they whisper.

Fog wraps itself around
his boat as he leaves
the harbor. His sail
drifts lazily in the breeze.
The fog has arms
and legs and teeth.

The boat is now
a distant speck upon the
tear-gray sky. Frothy water
churns and hisses beneath the boat,
where the shadow of some monster writhes.
The deep has arms
and legs and teeth. 

The scent of salt, and
something more, bubbles
forth from the deep.

The stars bade him
softly, a safe journey,
whispering gently in his dreams.
Below deck, the shadows
but dream of sleep.

In the Dead of the Night

In the dead of the night,
in the dark of the night,
how many of us will scream?
How many of us will fumble for the light,
sure that we saw something?

the night was dark and cold the day she left 

the night was dark and cold the day she left
a thousand fallen petals in her steps
to sleep and to return she did not expect
to leave to wake to live in darkness yet

Darkness, Noun.

Darkness.
Noun.
The partial or total absence of light.
Night.
Something dark, something dark.
Wickedness or evil.
Something evil, something evil.
Dismay, distress, or gloom.
Secrecy or mystery.
Something hidden, something hidden.
Lack of knowledge, ignorance.
Corruption, evil, sin.
Darkness, noun, plural noun.

A Recipe for Terror

For a base, take the powdered remains
of someone you once loved.
Then add a sprig of belladonna,
a ring from a hand ungloved.
Add a mannequin’s embrace, unwelcome,
a lock of hair from a Pierrot clown,
the tears of a dancer in the throes of death,
a dead body found face-down.
Add the whispers and the watchers,
add the laughter and the strife,
add the wonderment of the crowd.
Add last of all the glimmering knife
sparkling on its way on down. 

Dylan’s father had invested heavily in the startup, so when it finally began producing viable mini elephants for the home he was able to acquire one for his son before they reached the market. Dylan named the mini elephant Roger, and right away began teaching him tricks—how to sit, how to beg, how to roll over, and also how to crush soda cans with his feet and trumpet on command; but mostly he taught the elephant how to manipulate things with his trunk. Roger was a natural at picking objects up and moving them from one place to another, and it wasn’t long before he mastered how to knock a ball around as well, allowing the two of them to play soccer together; and although he never got the hang of swinging a baseball bat, Roger became quite proficient with a croquet mallet, which gave Dylan’s mother the idea of showing him how to vacuum. Because of the mess they made and the extra work that it would mean for her, she’d always had concerns about getting a pet, but now that she’d seen how well her son had trained Roger to stay off the furniture and go outside to do his business, she softened her view a bit and even bought Roger a pet bed so he could sleep more comfortably on Dylan’s floor.

But cleanliness was not the only thing that worried her, as Dylan found out one morning when coming downstairs for breakfast. Just as he was leaping over the final step, he heard his parents arguing in the kitchen, and rather than rushing right in and looking on as they scrambled to act like nothing was wrong, he stopped in the hallway to eavesdrop.

“Look, don’t blow it out of proportion,” his father was saying. “It isn’t a big deal.”

“But it attacked her,” his mother replied. “It pushed her to the ground and beat her.”

“Knowing her, she had it coming. You’ve seen how she treats her daughters. Just imagine what she must be like to a pet.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying if you treat an animal with respect, you’ll get respect in return. But if you neglect it or yell at it or whatever, then all bets are off. Dogs bite, cats scratch, and apparently elephants use their trunks as whips. Besides, she was barely hurt.”

“She had to go to the hospital.” 

“She goes to the hospital for paper cuts.” 

“Well I still don’t like it. I think…I think we should consider getting rid of it.” 

Dylan couldn’t stand to listen anymore, and he burst into the room. “Are you guys talking about Roger?” he asked.

His parents froze and frowned at each other, then his father put his smart phone down and leaned in his direction. “We’re talking about the company that created Roger, about whether to sell our stock in it.”

“Do you guys think Roger’s dangerous?”

“Look, D, the market’s highly volatile right now, and we just want to make sure we’ve got all our financial ducks in a row. So instead of worrying that shaggy little head of yours over nothing, why don’t you sit your butt down here and your mother will make you some pancakes, all right?”

*   *   *

A few weeks later, Dylan was in the backyard playing catch with Roger. The mini elephant had learned how to catch a ball with a baseball glove, then remove the glove from his trunk, pick the ball up, and toss it back; but his skill was limited, so if Dylan’s throw wasn’t accurate, Roger would miss the ball and have to go plodding after it. One time, the ball rolled in between the shed and the fence, a gap which Roger had grown too wide to squeeze through, so Dylan had to run over and retrieve the ball himself. But when he came back out, instead of taking the ball from him, Roger wrapped his trunk around Dylan’s arm and yanked him to the ground. He began dragging him around the yard, even sweeping him from side to side just as he might a broom. At first, Dylan was scared, but then it got to be kind of fun. His mother, however, who happened to see this from the house, came screaming out. Immediately, Roger let Dylan go and retreated to the other side of the yard. Dylan’s mother ran over and helped her son to his feet.

“Are you okay? Did he hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Ma,” Dylan said, stretching out his shoulder.

“He was whipping you around like a rag doll.”

“We were just playing.”

His mother began brushing him off. “Look at your clothes, they’re soiled. I don’t like this sort of play. It’s rough—it’s too rough.”

“He was just having fun.”

“How do you know? You don’t know what’s going on inside him, nobody does. Go inside and change, get ready for dinner.”

Thinking nothing of it, Dylan turned to call for Roger, but his mother cut him off.

“No, he’s not eating with us tonight.”

“But he always does.”

This was true. Dylan had taught Roger how to use a fork and had placed a footstool at the table for him to prop his front legs on so he could pick at jackfruit and strawberries and other chunks of food that Dylan would cut up for him; but Dylan’s mother was resolute.

“I don’t care,” she said. “Tonight he’s eating in the yard. And he’s sleeping out here, too.”

“But Ma,” Dylan said, beginning to cry.

“I told you, get inside. We’re going to have a long talk with your father when he gets home.”

*   *   *

A few days later, Dylan’s teacher informed the class that Noah, one of Dylan’s friends, had been in an accident and would not be returning to school for a while, though because of her reluctance to get into details, it wasn’t until recess that Dylan heard the full story. Apparently, Noah’s mini elephant, which his parents had gotten him for his birthday, had grabbed him by the ankle and tossed him off the deck of his house; when he landed, he suffered both a concussion and several broken bones in his neck and wrist. Some of Dylan’s classmates questioned whether that was even possible, arguing that mini elephants weren’t strong enough to throw someone as big as Noah over a railing; but the boy whose mother was treating Noah at the hospital stuck to his story.

“And now she won’t let me get a mini elephant for my birthday,” he moped. “What am I supposed to ask for now, a stupid dirt bike?”

Dylan, who was still only one of a handful of kids in the entire school to have a mini elephant, took Noah’s story to heart, though he still refused to believe that his Roger would ever do anything wrong. In fact, when he got home, rather than go straight into the house, he went around to the side and opened the gate to the backyard. Ever since his mother had caught the two of them “roughhousing,” she’d insisted that Roger be kept locked up out there, but after looking around a bit—behind the big oak tree, around the side of his mother’s bushes, even inside the shed—Dylan wasn’t able to find his new friend anywhere.

“Roger?” he called out. “Roger, where are you?”

Finally, he glanced over at the house and saw that the patio door was standing wide open, which was unusual, because his mother was always concerned about flies getting in.

“Roger?”

The patio door led directly into the kitchen, and when Dylan walked inside he saw that one of the chairs around the table was lying on its side, and also that a bag of flour had spilled onto the floor. Through the hallway, he spotted Roger in the living room, and immediately he ran over and gave him a hug.

“There you are,” he said. “Did mom let you in?”

“Dylan?” he heard his mother call. “Dylan, is that you?”

“Mom?”

“I’m in the closet. Come here.”

Dylan walked back to the hallway and stood before the door to the closet. “Mom? What are you doing in there?”

Suddenly, the door swung open and his mother, who was covered in flour, grabbed him by the shirt, yanked him into the closet, and re-closed the door.

“Oh thank god,” she said, holding him tightly against her heaving chest. “He hasn’t hurt you.”

“You’re hurting me,” Dylan said, and after she’d released him: “What’s going on?”

“He attacked me.”

“Who? Dad?”

“No, Roger. He grabbed me by the ankle and threw me down, and then he, he tried to squash my head with his foot, just like you taught him with the cans. We need to get to my phone somehow and call 9-1-1.”

“But Roger’s just sitting in the living room.”

“Listen to me,” she said, taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. “That elephant is dangerous. He could kill either one of us. We need to get rid of him. There’s no other choice.”

But no matter how panicked his mother sounded, Dylan didn’t want to hear any of it. Wriggling himself free of her grip, he opened the door and ran back to Roger and gave him another hug. 

“Dylan, no!” his mother called after him. “Please, come back here.”

“No.”

His mother looked at them through a crack in the door. After a while, she said, “Then at, at least take him outside. Will you at least do that?”

“Fine,” Dylan said. “Come on, Roger. Let’s go outside and play.”

And without further ado, Roger got up and set his trunk in Dylan’s extended hand, and together, the two of them left the house.

*   *   *

Dylan was still outside when his father returned an hour later, much earlier than when he usually got home. Straight away he came into the backyard, knelt down next to Roger, and petted him on the head. Then he told his son that he wanted him to come inside for a moment so they could have a heart-to-heart. Dylan obeyed, thinking that his father was still on his side when it came to his friend; but once they were both seated at the kitchen table—the chair that before had been turned on its side was right side up again, and the flour had also been swept up—his father explained that the company that made the mini elephants was doing a recall, and that included Roger.

“What this means is, they’re coming by in the morning to pick him up. And once they’ve checked him out, made sure he’s okay, they’ll bring him back. All right, buddy?”

“But I don’t want them to take Roger,” Dylan pouted.

“Look, D, my hands are tied here. This is way bigger than you or me or your mother. If I had my way, none of this would be happening. Do you know what this is doing to my investment? But if we fight this, we’ll be the ones in trouble. So what I need from you is to accept this like a man. Like I said, it’s only temporary, and before you know it, the two of you will be up to your old shenanigans. Think of it like he’s going on a vacation, and when he comes back, he’ll be refreshed and as good as new. So what do you say? You think you can be mature about this?”

Dylan turned and looked over at the patio door where Roger was pressing onto the slide handle with his trunk, unable to open it now that it was locked. 

“You promise he won’t be hurt?” Dylan asked.

“Hey, have I ever lied to you?”

The boy shrugged. “Fine.”

His father clasped his hands together. “Great. Now, your mother’s going to take you over to your aunt Diana’s for the night.”

“What?”

“Don’t worry, your mother’s staying, too.”

“But I don’t want to go. I want to stay here so I can say goodbye to Roger.”

Just then, Dylan’s mother came downstairs with a couple of suitcases. Seeing this, Dylan tried to run away, but his father grabbed him by the arm and brought him up to his lap.

“Hey, D, what did I just tell you about being a man?”

“I’m not leaving him.”

“Please,” his mother said, “it’s for your own safety.”

“But Roger never hurt me. Not ever ever ever.”

Dylan’s mother glared at her husband, who gestured at the patio door, where Roger was still struggling to get in. 

“See,” he said, “as long as you lock the door, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“He could bust through the glass.”

“Well if he does that I’ll hear it, and I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“And you think he should be here for that?”

Now they both turned to Dylan.

“At least then he’ll know what happened,” his father spoke firmly, “and also why.” 

“Have it your way, but I’m still going.”

“You do what you want.”

Then Dylan’s mother huffed, dropped his suitcase on the floor, and left, slamming the front door so hard that the glass shades on the light fixture over the table rattled.

“Now there’s your real danger,” his father said, looking up.

*   *   *

That night Dylan awoke to a noise. He lifted his head and looked around but didn’t see anything, so he got out of bed and went to the window. He stared down at the backyard, but couldn’t find Roger anywhere, though he did see that a large branch from the oak tree had fallen off and was lying on the ground, which worried him that his friend might be hurt. After putting on his slippers, he walked to his door and eased it open, and when he saw that his parents’ door was closed, he snuck into the hallway and went downstairs. When he got to the kitchen he switched on the patio light, but even then he was unable to locate the mini elephant, and so, disobeying the strict order that his father had given him before turning in, Dylan unlocked the patio door, slid it open, and stepped into the backyard.

“Roger?” he whispered. “Roger, are you okay?”

A slight breeze kicked up, and from the side he heard a metallic creek: the gate for the fence around the backyard was open and swaying back and forth. Had he forgotten to close it when he’d entered through it earlier? No, he was sure he’d shut it. Still, it was open now, and all he could think was that Roger had gotten out and run away. 

“Roger,” he said again, this time in his normal voice, and after closing the patio door, he ran over to the gate and along the side of the house. When he got to the driveway he paused and looked around in the front yard, then ran to the sidewalk and looked up and down the street. But there was no sign of Roger anywhere. 

“Roger, where are you?”

Dylan returned to the backyard and closed the gate, but when he walked back to the patio, he noticed something strange: the door was open, wide open, not at all how he had left it.

“Dad?” he called, but there was no reply from him either, and so Dylan went back inside and closed the door, making sure to lock it.

When he got upstairs he went back to his room and sat on his bed for a bit, clutching his pillow. Then he thought he heard another noise, this time definitely coming from inside the house, so he rushed to hallway, just in time to see Roger walking toward him.

“Roger,” he whispered. “What are you doing in the house? You’re not supposed to be in here.” Still, he held his hand out for his friend, and as always Roger placed his trunk in it. What was different was that the trunk was wet, and when Dylan reached back into his room to turn on the light, he saw that Roger had blood on him. Besides his trunk, there was also blood on his face and feet and some nasty scratches on his ears. “Roger, what happened!”

He glanced down the hallway and saw a trail of bloody footsteps leading to his parents’ room. Without thinking, he slipped past the mini elephant and threw open his parents’ door, and there, on the far side of the bed, he found his father, his skull cracked in and his neck squeezed flat. He got down on the ground and shook him.

“Dad? Dad, wake up. Wake up.”

Dylan turned as Roger made a snort. The mini elephant had followed him into the room and was blocking his way back to the door. Quickly, Dylan sprang up and jumped onto the bed, but before he was able to crawl to the other side he felt the squeeze of Roger’s trunk around his ankle.

THE END

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 

For this publication I want to give a big thank you to all those who have contributed to Oneiroi and submitted, but also to those who have been on the outside cheering us on. Their motivation, support, and overall guidance have been a crucial part in the development of Oneiroi. 

We would like to thank: 

 Kim Ramos, Dr. James D’Agostino, and Dave Lusk 

for their help in laying the steppingstones for this journal's creation. 

We would also like to thank each and every contributor because without them we would not have a journal to make. And finally, to the team that made this all possible. 

Thank you all for your hard work and patience as we not only created the very first issue of our journal but also established an entire journal out of nothing in the very same year and that is why we would like to dedicate this journal to you. 

Our Team: 

Submissions Editor: 

Clare Starkey

Media Editor: 

Catherine Dandy

Advertisement Head: 

Kate Knox

General Editors: 

Kimberly O’Loughlin  

Leighya McNeely

Chief Editor: 

Mel Eaton 

We happily look forward to bringing our audience more issues in the years to come, and seeing what the future has to hold! 

Sincerely,

Mel Eaton / Chief Editor