Debris & Detritus

by Robin D. Owens

  “Thanks for the favor,” Kindle said, fairly shining in the early morning light “I won’t forget this.”

  “Are they going to be taken care of?” Debris asked.

  Kindle threw back his head and laughed. Nothing sinister, just a real, full body, genuine laugh. His voice grew quiet like a gathering storm. “These mortals will be going to work on my latest project in a new state-of-the-art facility. A facility which, I might add, happens to be earthquake, fire, tornado, and flood proof. Their urine, feces, even their very breath will be recycled to maintain their safety and health, regardless of the goings-on outside. An internal greenhouse will supply food and regulate building temperature. Boys, these are going to be the safest, most looked-after, mortals on earth.”

  Nasty. On every level, recycling was nasty, not that Detritus was going to say that to Kindle’s face. Still, he caught a flicker of his brother’s expression that assured him Debris felt exactly the same way. They were both smart enough not to think it too loudly in Kindle’s presence.

  Detritus wondered if, safe or not, these mortals were ever going to see the sky again. He searched the mortals’ eyes for a hint of fear or worry, but all he saw mirrored back was the laughing soul of Lucifer and holy fire, emerald green, sapphire blue, and amethyst.

  It wasn’t too long after—time is difficult to parse when you’re a god—that Debris saw Buck and Gaia again. It was another boring party, but what else has one to do when one is a god?

  “Heeyy eyyyy eeeyyy!” Debris gave them Ephemera’s new greeting; it was all the rage. He wished he’d painted his nails. Buck, at least, would have appreciated the effort.

  Buck laughed and waved back. He was always up for a good time.

  Gaia, gorgeous as ever, scowled, gorgeously of course, adjusting the sling on her arm.

  “Gaia, darling, do you have to be a wet blanket 24/7?” Buck asked.

  The goddess pulled up her bra strap with her one good hand. “One of these days, and you won’t see it coming, I’m gonna shake off all these mortals like a bad cold. And without anyone to worship you, every last one of you fuckers is going to dry up and blow away, dead as last week’s news.”

  “Yeah, right,” Buck said. He smacked Gaia’s bottom so hard her buttocks jiggled.

  “You know I hate your guts, right?” Gaia said. There was a tiny bit of blood obvious in the corner of her mouth, in spite of her lipstick.

  “You can’t hate me, Gaia, I’m your darling baby boy.” Buck leaned forward and pinched her nipple.

  The look of loathing on her face was colder than death.

  Across the huge hall, Debris saw Kindle with his arm around Ephemera. He seemed to be whistling to himself.

  About the Story

  * * *

  When I was asked to submit a story for the anthology, it was suggested that I might use the characters within a tribal context, since I am an enrolled member of the Comanche tribe, but the gap between European cosmology and the old Comanche religion as I understand it made the very prospect mind-boggling. So mind-boggling, in fact, that it led me to think about the very nature of the sacred in a modern context; what we say we hold sacred as opposed to what we as a society demonstrably worship. Add to that a tidbit about packaging in modern Japan and the story began to take shape in my head, one where the shifting sands of human values hide the nature of our gods and their identities even from one another.

  Is an ancient god changed when they take on a new name and new attributes or merely obscured? And what is the end result of human behavior on the gods and on us humans ourselves?

  * * *

  Weyodi

  15

  Realms

  Beth Teliho

  It was the kind of storm where the sky is sickly green, and the air is charged with so much electricity your scalp tingles with each bolt of lightning. Rain surges from the black sky in thick sheets, saturating the earth in seconds, and you wince and duck instinctively with each violent clap of thunder.

  Yeah. That’s the kind of storm we had the morning I got my fucking brain cooked while peering into the chest cavity of a man. Don’t worry. He was already dead. I’m a medical examiner, not a killer.

  I think.

  Despite my wife’s protests, I braved the storm and drove to work that morning. Most people would wait out severe weather of that magnitude. Most people don’t have cadavers rotting on a metal slab and next of kin awaiting answers and death certificates.

  As I entered the lab, my assistant, Gary, looked up from a tray of sterilized instruments he was preparing. “Mornin’, Debris. HelIuva storm. Gonna have our hands full today. One wreck after another out there,” he said with a shake of his head.

  Yes, my name is Debris. Blame it on my mother. She had a thing for Greek mythology.

  I nodded in Gary’s direction, too cold and wet for conversation, and set my umbrella against the wall before squishing around the corner where the lockers are located, just outside the restroom door. I keep a fresh set of clothes and shoes there—body fluids happen despite the best of preventative efforts—and switched them for my wet clothes. I donned my lab coat, hairnet, mask, face shield, and latex gloves before moving to the examination area and shifting my focus to the dead body.

  I scanned the information sheet belonging to the deceased: 38-year-old unidentified male, entered hospital 4:56AM with significant blood loss, flat-lined at 5:12AM, unable to revive, pronounced dead at 5:25AM. IIP

  Gary had already completed the preliminary procedures. He’d photographed, X-rayed, and fingerprinted the body. The clothes and physical characteristics were meticulously recorded. Any evidence detected on the body or clothing, such as fibers and residue, were collected, and samples of hair and nails were taken. Since the death was tagged IIP (investigation in process), an ultraviolet wand would’ve been swept to collect any further evidence undetectable by the naked eye. The clothing was removed, bagged, and the body was weighed and cleaned. Finally, a block was placed under the cadaver’s back to lift the chest in preparation for internal examination.

  I noted in my handheld voice recorder that the body was that of a white male with short, black hair. Stocky physique. A large tattoo of a cross bearing Jesus Christ spanned his entire upper torso, ironically following the path of the Y I would soon incise. Above the cross and below his clavicle was a Bible verse: 1 Peter 4:17

  My eyes scanned his body for what I assumed was a bullet wound, as so often is the case with bleed outs, when I noticed the wide gashes on the inside of each wrist. Suicide, I thought.

  “What’s the verse?” I asked Gary, who I knew would’ve looked it up.

  Gary glanced up from his microscope and, replacing his round, wire glasses, read from the notebook on the table next to him. “For it is time for judgment to begin at the household of God; and if it begins with us, what will be the outcome for those who do not obey the gospel of God?”

  The tray of instruments was at the end of the table, so I pulled it nearer, removed the scalpel, and placed the tip of the blade at the right shoulder, preparing for the Y incision that would open the chest.

  Lightning blazed from the darkness on the other side of our sole, narrow window like an enormous camera flash. I squinted and blinked, blobs of light dancing in my vision, and I played the game. You know the game? After lightning, you count: one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, until you hear thunder. Each second equals a mile; that’s how you know how far away the storm is. I made it to first “issip” before thunder assaulted the air like a goddam atom bomb, leaving instruments quaking in their metal beds.

  “Fuck’s sake, that was a bad one,” Gary mumbled. “Feels like the heavens are pissed off or somethin’.”

  “It’s right over us,” I said as I pierced the lifeless, greying flesh and sliced downward. At the precise moment I reached the bottom of the sternum, all the hair on my arms stood on end.

  It’s funny what the brain remembers. Even now, I can still feel the sensation of being struck by lightn
ing so vividly it makes me break out in the shakes. Like a million bees stinging you at once, but worse because it moves through you like a tsunami of pain. Violent. Relentless. And I remember a deafening clap, combined with the sizzling sound of my flesh and hair burning.

  And then nothing.

  I awoke in a hospital bed three days later with a throbbing headache and raging hard-on. Remnants of an unsettling dream clung to me with wicked tendrils: I was folded in a dark closet, peering through the cracked door, barely breathing while I watched a woman undress in her bedroom. She removed her blouse, bra, and skirt before donning sweats and a t-shirt, and then gracefully twirled her long brown hair into a bun while sauntering out of the room.

  Every night since then, the dream revisits. It’s shockingly evocative. I’m stalking the same woman. I select the dark clothing I will wear when I break into her house. With ninja-like agility, I sneak through her fence into her backyard and surgically cut the screen of her dining room window with a razor blade. I hide in tiny closets and confined spaces in silence for hours upon hours, tolerating muscle cramps and unfathomable positions. I watch her. And I wait.

  When I wake, I can still smell the scent of her body lotion.

  The first time I saw her nearly a month ago, I was instantly smitten. Her nametag reads: Birmingham Public Library: Christa. She’s tall and thin with legs like a dancer. Her long, chestnut hair parts just to the left of center and sweeps over her brow. Her eyes are an incredible, luminous brown that glows like wet henna. The most adorable cluster of barely visible freckles sprinkle across her nose, and her sweet, pink lips shape into a cute little pout when she’s concentrating. Her voice is ethereal and angelic, and her skin, oh God, her skin. Pale. Virginal. Holy.

  Even her name, Christa, so close to that of my Lord and Savior. She’s perfection. My little lamb. If she only knew how much I loved her. But she doesn’t because I’m a coward. I’m terrified to talk to her and can’t seem to find a way to strike up a conversation. But today’s my lucky day. She’s working the front desk. I will talk to Christa today.

  My palms sweat as I hand her a book of Psalms to check out, my library card, and History of Christianity to return.

  She scans my card into the computer and my account pulls up, and there it is in illuminated white type, my name: Detritus Reynolds. Christa leans forward in her chair, eyes squinting at the screen. It’s a look I am intimately familiar with.

  My hands shake and I shove them deep into my pockets, nervous and excited to finally have a reason speak to her. “Detritus. It—it’s . . . uh . . . My mom was a Greek mythology nut,” I say, explaining my name like I’ve done countless times, but this time I’m stammering like a frigging idiot.

  Her expression is impassive. She says nothing.

  “Detritus and Debris. They were um . . . brothers,” I continue, trying to save this sinking ship. “Fraternal twins, actually. Sons to the God of Lightning and Goddess of Retribution.” I’m rambling but can’t stop.

  Still, her only response is a blank stare.

  I fidget and glance around, embarrassed. “One brother was evil, the other a saint. Their mother knew they couldn’t exist simultaneously without one canceling the other out, so . . . ” Someone shut me up. “To her husband’s dismay, she sent them to live out their lives in different dimensions, never to know the other brother existed.” I shrug, sheepish and weak and I want to kick my own ass.

  “That’s fascinating, Mr. Reynolds,” she says, “but you can’t check anything out until you pay your fine. History of Christianity is a week late.”

  That’s fascinating? Was that as patronizing as it sounded? My face gets hot. “Yeah, I was out of town. Sorry about that.”

  “It happens,” she says, in an ambiguous tone. Could be benign. Could be bitchy.

  I decide that in my anxious state, I must be hearing her wrong. I give her the benefit of doubt and try again. “You can call me Detri. All my friends do,” I say, adding a warm and trustworthy smile.

  She tilts her head toward me and presses her lips together in an expression that is either adorable or infuriating. I can’t read this chick.

  “I’m afraid I can’t, Mr. Reynolds. We’re not friends.” Her words are cold. Wooden. With a flick of her wrist, she hands my library card back. “How will you be paying your fine today?”

  I narrow my eyes, confused and offended by her flippant response. More than that.

  I’m humiliated.

  That’s when I know what I must to do.

  Cleansings, I call them. I balance the scales and rid the Universe of negativity. It’s more than a vocation. It’s a spiritual calling. One that takes insight. Thought. And careful planning.

  I will covertly immerse myself into her world and observe her every move.

  I will know everything there is to know about Christa. For death is an intimate moment, and as her savior, it’s imperative I know her as intimately in life as when I deliver her to the House of Our Lord.

  I limp into the lab on just two hours of sleep in the past four days. My right thigh hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. I don’t recall doing anything to hurt it. No bruise or swelling to account for the pain.

  “You okay, Debris?” Gary asks, concern pinching his brows. “You didn’t have to come in. I can handle this one. Go home and get some rest. You look like shit.”

  I wave him away. As Chief Medical Examiner, I typically don’t have to come in on Sundays. But if I stay at home, I’ll sleep. If I sleep, I’ll dream. No more sleep. If I have to dream of hunting that woman one more time, I’ll lose it.

  I shouldn’t kid myself. That ship has already sailed.

  “What do we have today?” I ask Gary, while glancing over the chart of our newest cadaver: 33-year-old female. Dead on arrival. Stab wound to the chest. IIP

  He nods his head toward the body on the metal table; its back is arched over a block, ready for internal examination. “Just this one. I’ve got ’er prepped and ready for ya. Expect the press today. Rumor has it the Palm Sunday Killer got her.”

  “Is that right?” I mumble, only half-aware of what he’s saying as I round the corner toward the lockers. I retrieve my autopsy garb and put it on, like I’ve done hundreds of times before, and then hobble into the main area toward the body. The instant I notice her long, chestnut hair, a déjà vu feeling comes over me, sending a chill up my spine. I take a few more steps, heart thundering in my chest, until her face comes into view. I grip the side of the metal table, certain I will lose my balance, breath coming in short gasps.

  “Debris?” Gary says with concern.

  I can’t answer him. I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

  Although I’ve never laid eyes on her before in my life, I know everything about her. I know that she’s reading the Harry Potter series for the third time. I know her secret indulgence is reality television. Through the sterile, antiseptic smell of the morgue, I can still detect a wisp of coconut that I know is from her shampoo. Before looking at her feet, I know her toenails are painted lavender. I know she takes her coffee with cream, no sugar. And I know her name is Christa.

  My little lamb, I think, just before collapsing onto the cold tile.

  My chest tightens. The blood is already coagulating on the knife. I typically work faster, but tonight there was a distraction—to put it mildly—and I’m fucking pissed. I hunch over the bathroom sink, scrubbing the knife, picking at the gelatinous, red nubs as the hot water sets them free.

  I stop to admire the artwork in the sink, and I can’t help but smile. The contrast of the virginal white sink splashed with sensual curves of bold, powerful red makes for a stunning abstract piece. Like an eclipse, the luminosity combined with the dichotomy of colors is at the same time difficult to look at and impossible to look away. Sometimes I take photos, but I don’t have that luxury tonight. I need to work fast.

  I resume clean-up, rinsing tonight’s art down the drain. My mind returns to what happened and I begin to dissect it. I believe in le
arning from my mistakes.

  I didn’t know about the dog.

  My leg throbs where the fucker got me, but I’ll inspect the damage later. I hate the sight of my own blood. Amused at the irony, I cackle so loud it echoes off the bathroom walls.

  The dog was never here before. I would’ve known. I would’ve seen him, watched her let him outside, or at the very least noticed dog bowls. It must have been a recent acquisition, definitely after Thursday, since that was the last night I was here. I’m absolutely certain there was no dog in the house that night.

  He would have sniffed me out in the closet.

  I have been over my strategy hundreds of times in the past few weeks: how I would enter her house, how I would listen to the rhythm of her slumbered breath, which knife I would use to exterminate her. Every second going by torturously slow as I awaited the chosen day for cleansings. Palm Sunday.

  The damn dog nearly ruined the whole thing. I press a hand against my throbbing thigh and limp back into her bedroom, where blood still oozes from her gaping chest wound, dripping off a saturated sheet corner onto the furry heap lying dead on the floor beneath her.

  I lift my lids enough to see the sun is rising and grit my teeth in anger that I’ve slept. What the hell is wrong with my leg? I rub my thigh that continues to ache like the devil. Foggy remnants of the dream haunt the corners of my mind, but I push them away with a shudder and pull myself out of bed, careful not to wake my wife.

  Despite efforts to ignore them, pieces of the dream filter through my mind with sickening velocity. And that’s when it hits me.

  “No. That’s impossible,” I say in a panicked whisper as I realize the dog bite I dreamed is the reason for my pain. Christ-have-mercy-on-my-soul, what is happening? How can I wake with symptoms of injuries sustained in a dream?