Everything would have to be perfect. It wasn't too late, not yet. She didn't want to lose him.
But he didn't come home until two in the morning, staggering over the threshold, his foul-smelling breath making her dizzy. His disappointment was the putrid odor of a rat's carcass that had fallen into the canal; his bitterness the sick stench of vomited bile. Her stomach roiled, nausea choking her. It was Budapest all over again.
Her skin itched, a sign that the stink had gotten to an unbearable point. Before her transformation could start, she lunged for the door to make her escape, but her lover grabbed her arm and pulled her to him.
"Let me go," she said through gritted teeth.
"No, you promised you'd stay with me forever. Isn't that what you wanted?"
She shook her head no, tears lacing her lashes.
"I love you so much." Though his speech was slurred, his gaze was focused, boring into her soul. "I love you so much, and I don't understand why you keep trying to sneak away, why you keep looking out that damn window—is there someone else? Someone out there? Who is he?"
"There's no one!"
"Liar!" He slapped her face. She gagged on the stench of jealousy, a festering wound oozing with pus. She couldn't breathe. It was too much, too much…
Her bones creaked, shifting and rearranging themselves to accommodate her true form. She bit back the scream lodged in her throat. It wasn't fair. He was supposed to be special, the miracle she'd prayed for. After Budapest, she'd lived her life in isolation to avoid the humans reeking of broken dreams and fallen expectations. A century spent in hiding to shun the warmth of their bodies, the lively beat of their gullible hearts. She'd resisted temptation to save herself the heartache. But all she ever dreamt of was to love and be loved in return. And when she found him, odor-less, unburdened by worries, she'd welcome him as her salvation.
She should have known better, but regret always comes too late.
Her skin puckered and cracked into scales. The man continued to hold onto her, his hands gripping her shoulders, lips murmuring ti amo, ti amo. Blinded by the enchantment, he couldn't see how her legs fused together, elongating into a serpentine tail. Fangs protruded from her mouth, her eyes turning into yellow slits. The transformation pained her, but once it started, there was nothing she could do to stop it.
"Ti amo, ti amo. Don't leave me," he pleaded.
She searched his face, for the man she once thought she loved. His stench overpowered any happy memories, and she knew that soon, too soon, she'd lose her humanity. Before she gave in to the beast inside of her, she pressed her forehead against his.
"I'm sorry."
Rimorso. It was the Italian word for regret, for remorse. But when she bit into his neck, she found that she had none.
Anguish by Kelly Heinen
Tonight, she's making his favorite meal: meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas. She doesn't drink, but still has a couple beers in the fridge for him. Every time the phone rings, she jumps, hoping to hear those magic words: "We found him." After two years, she doesn't care what shape he's in—as long as he's alive. But the last call was weeks ago, from the county morgue: a false alarm.
After he ran away, she saw him around town here and there, now and again. She would see him here but never there, now but never again. She wanted to say she was sorry, but she could never gather the courage. Soon, she stopped seeing him altogether.
Now, she pulls the battered blue roaster from the oven and inspects the contents; it's done. She checks the potatoes, which are still warm and ready to go. Dishing up the potatoes and the peas, she puts the meatloaf on a platter. As she cuts into the tender meat, she smiles for a moment, and then it fades. Tonight she and her husband will sit down at the worn old wooden table, which she polishes daily. They will sit on the worn old cushioned chairs, and eat this meal their son loved.
She gazed at his place at the table; he always sat to her left. It allowed them to eat without bumping elbows. Their son would be somewhere, hopefully alive, hopefully not going hungry, and hopefully thinking of the family he left behind. It is all she can ask as she takes her first bite of the savory dish. It is her dream—that if he cannot come home, that he is alive and well and well-fed. Her dream is fleeting; she wants her boy to come home.
* * *
The muffled sounds of fighting tumble from the living room. Her son came home drunk again, and he is only sixteen. Sighing, she opens the hot oven, checks the meat, and pulls the blue roaster from inside. Supper is ready.
"Come on guys!" she calls, pretending that nothing has changed, that her son is still the cheerful boy he used to be.
"Fuck you, dad!" her son shouts.
She flinches. Things have gotten worse.
The front door slams and she fights back tears. As her husband enters the kitchen, a perfect picture of what her son will look like in his forties, she moves toward the front door. She is not stupid; her son is fast and he will be long out of sight by now. But surprisingly, she finds him on the front step, smoking. She waits for him to finish. When he turns, stamping the stick into the ground, she sees his dilated eyes. He's high.
"Come eat," she says, opening the screen door. "I made your favorite."
Her voice is hard, and her breaking point is near. She's done her best to be strong, to hold it together, but he is pushing the wrong buttons. As her hand turns the brushed-nickel handle, her son turns, swaying a bit on his feet. She reads the conflict on his face.
"Or not, it's your choice. But I'm going to eat."
To her surprise, he follows, sitting at the table, minding his manners. There is no conversation, no 'how was your day?' Just the sounds of a meal in progress. Outside, the sun shines on their backyard, the pool glinting a bit in the light. Out of habit, her husband closes the shade, until the sun has moved further west. It's a hot summer this year, but she enjoys the heat.
"Thanks."
Her son stands, placing his plate in the sink, and soon his bedroom door clicks shut. She wipes her mouth, the napkin heavy in her hand. At least he ate with the family tonight.
* * *
"You're thinking again."
It's a simple observation, something her husband has become good at. His fork scrapes his plate as he finishes his meal, and wipes his mouth with a flimsy paper napkin. The napkins are green, something else she does for her son. He loves green.
"I am."
They don't talk much these days, avoiding the topic both need to speak about. Both have accepted that their son isn't coming back, but leave the door open, just in case. In the last year, they've gone quiet. They answer the phone less, leave the shades partly pulled. His disappearance was picked up by local media a month after he ran away. Occasionally, someone wants an interview, to see if anything new has surfaced in the last two years. Neither wants to be interviewed anymore.
* * *
Another night, another meal. She kneads the dough with care, watching it stretch. She rolls it out into a perfect circle, puts it in the round, greased pan. The green napkins are still on the table. But tonight, it's her favorite meal. Her son never liked pizza. He'd always pick off the toppings, wipe off the sauce, and eat the bare crust. Then again, toward the end, he didn't like much. Sighing, she wipes her hands on a dishtowel and puts the pizza in the oven. Heat shimmers over the stove for a moment until the door squeaks shut. The battered blue roaster sits just visible on the counter.
Looking at her son, noting that he is high but not drunk this time, she sighs. He is fighting with her husband again, hurtful words flying through the air in rapid-fire succession. She flinches at each word, her hands shaking with anger. She is tired of the fighting.
"Enough!" she shouts, storming into the living room. The feuding pair stops to look at her, her son's face pulls into a sarcastic smile. Her finger jabs at the door, seething, her shoulders shaking.
"I've had it!" she shouts, her hands balling into fists. "You get your shit together, or you're out of here!"
He
r son's smile fades, and she wonders if she's finally gotten through to him. Her husband's face is red, his anger still simmering, as they face their son.
"Excuse me?" her son asks, eyes wide, mouth slightly open. He stares at her, hands on his slender hips, head cocked to one side.
Her husband glances at her, and she nods. "You heard your mother."
The words no longer hold anger. They hold anguish, regret. But something has to be done. Her son's face wears a mask of attitude and shock as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. Before he can light it, her husband takes it from him and grabs her son by the arm.
"Get. Out."
Their son's troubled blue eyes soften and he looks at his parents. "What?" he whispers, those blue eyes now brimming with tears.
She can't let him see how much this decision hurts. His wet eyes had to be from being high. His eyes always change when he is high. "We can't take it anymore. Get out." She jabs a thick finger at the front door. "And don't come back."
As she finishes rinsing the dishes, putting them in the dishwasher, she looks out the window over the sink. The neighbors' kids are home from college for the weekend, the family sitting outside, having a cookout. Wiping the tears from her face, she closes the dishwasher and joins her husband in the living room. Another night of silent TV watching will pass, another night where she wonders about her son. Another night of regret, hoping her son is still alive and well and well-fed.
Through the Fence by Cat Woods
I stand in the back of the line, always the back, and wait to be sorted. My cheeks on fire, my heart burning in my chest, my head so heavy I cannot turn it toward the voice.
"What's wrong with you, Ilsa? It's only dodge ball."
The voices taunt. Overlapping each other, barking orders, culling us into two teams. But it's more than dodge ball on a schoolyard playground—at least for me. It is life or death, and I am always picked to die.
Each night in the stifling darkness, I scrub at the numbers once stamped upon my shoulder marking me. I scrub until I bleed, the scabs never healing, the scars growing bigger.
Hands grab at mine and I pull back. "Seriously, Ils, it's a movie. You can't buy a ticket without waiting in line."
But, I don't want to wait in line, to enter the darkened theater, where some go in and not everyone comes out. I only do so because I'm told. And since that day, I always do what I'm told.
"Strip off your clothes. Stand in line. Wait to be picked."
Tremors race up my spine. I never want to be picked, and so I cower behind the others, hiding my bleeding arm, my bleeding heart.
Inevitably, I am always picked.
"I love you, Ilsy" my groom says and folds me into his warm embrace. In that moment, hope blooms. Maybe my life—her life—was worth something. Just maybe I can make my future mean enough. He turns me toward the greeting line, and a stone replaces the excitement in my belly. My smile freezes painfully on my face. Hands stretch out, wanting to touch me. I have nowhere to hide.
I raise my children to be strong. To be not like me, helpless and afraid. I teach them to stand up for themselves. To be brave. To be proud. To be everything I am not. And I watch, always, from the back of the crowd. There I am invisible. There I cower in fear, waiting to be sorted. My cheeks on fire, my heart burning in my chest, my head so heavy I cannot turn it toward the voice.
"Could you see me, Momma? I waved after I got my diploma."
I nod and my arm itches.
I'd seen nothing beyond the backs of the other women. Heard nothing beyond the harsh voices and the barking orders.
"Someone escaped through the fence last night. Someone marked for death. She is here now on your side."
We stood hundreds in a group. Dirty. Hungry. Bent. Broken. Trembling. I could not be picked again, and so I remained. Quelling the nerves that threatened to give me away. Tremors racing up my spine. Thinking of my arm where the death mark had been scrubbed away. If nobody noticed me, I would live. Put to work, yes. Starved, maybe. But alive, not marched single file into the theater where nobody comes out.
The guard's eyes flick past mine before settling on a woman in the front line. She's stronger than me. Bigger. Healthier. A girl my age clings to the woman's arm. The girl is twelve, maybe thirteen. Bigger, stronger like her mom. Healthier than me, more apt to survive.
"One last chance to give yourself up before someone pays your price." The words nearly knock me over.
I will probably die anyways. Like my mother and sisters before me. Like my aunts who begged me not to leave them. Like the women marching single file in the distance. I urge my foot forward to accept my fate, but my need to live holds it in place.
Swiftly the guard pries the woman away from her daughter.
She does not fight. She does not scream. She does as she is told, but not before turning to her child, her voice carrying a message for us all to hear. "Be strong. Be brave. Be proud."
Her last words as she is taken away, in my place, to the other side of the camp. Through the fence from life to death.
Strong. Brave. Proud.
I am none of those.
I scratch at my arm, at scars too tough to bleed any longer. The same is not true for my heart.
Island of Blood and Horns by A.M. Supinger
The beach was deserted, except for the skeletons of abandoned ships; their sun-bleached beams groaned as salt gnawed at the bones of the once-grand vessels. But the sound was rhythmic as the sea, and just as soothing to Evangeline.
She'd grown up wandering the shore, was used to the macabre reminders that strangers died gruesome deaths on the sand beneath her feet. That is, if they didn't drown first.
She glanced at the deceptively calm water, knowing as well as any islander that the rocks just below the surface ate ships without mercy. They'd been filed to jagged points through the ages; now when the tide was at its lowest, it was easy to imagine a great beast waiting—mouth gaping open—for prey.
But the rocky teeth of the sea were nothing compared to what lurked on land.
If a traveler made it to the beach, his blood was swallowed by the sand—no exceptions. Evangeline knew her duty to the island, her people. There could be no survivors, no prisoners. If even one mortal discovered their secret and escaped, their whole existence would be threatened.
So she killed, and kept her mercy chained deep in her heart.
As Guardian, her task was to protect the shoreline. It was a thankless job, lonely and without the comforts she'd taken for granted as a child. But every islander took up the role of Guardian at least once, so they would all know the price of murder…and freedom.
Some were luckier than others, spending the full fifty years without ever having to kill a beached traveler. Evangeline was not so lucky; she'd forced herself to still the beating hearts of three lost souls.
The men had washed ashore together. Their eyes caked with sand, their bodies torn and bruised from the shipwreck that left them stranded. Pitiful, really, the mewling sounds they made as they died.
As always, the memory made Evangeline's stomach clench with guilt.
Her natural-born skill wasn't killing, but sowing. She flourished when up to her elbows in dirt—but that was a rewarding task, one sought after by all her people. To nourish the island, to bring immortality to its inhabitants…there was no greater goal or joy.
Evangeline sighed and picked her way along the rocky coast; each step was placed carefully, with precision learned from her innumerable trips over the landscape. There was no straight path, no game trails; just like with the sea's low tide, the land hid teeth beneath its calm façade. There were sinkholes and secret caves, jagged rocks beneath layers of leaves, and waves that unexpectedly—and violently—reached out from the depths of mellow coves to slurp up the unwary. Though her thoughts were wishful, her mind never wandered from the danger in front of her.
She had only another year before her duty as a Guardian was over, and then she could pick whateve
r job she wanted for the next fifty. Only a year of solitude left! Evangeline grinned as she took another step, her heart light and full of excitement. Guardians were given first choice, and she knew exactly—
A sound—a mere whisper of breath—broke her reverie. The crash of waves would have masked the soft noise for most people, but it was distinct to someone who'd lived in silence for forty-nine years. In fact, the unnaturalness of it rang in her ears. The slow hiss of air had been deliberate, timed to match the never-ending cycle of waves. The island was a sparse place, with few wild creatures, and none were so…sneaky.
She quickly scanned the lapping waters to her left, the grey rocks in front of her, and then the palm-riddled beach to her right. Evangeline narrowed her eyes as her instincts screamed that something hid just out of sight. She stood still, waiting for her prey to flush itself out. But instead of a dehydrated traveler stumbling around like a drunkard, something else entirely tripped into view.
A unicorn.
Evangeline strangled the gasp before it escaped her lips. How the little creature—only slightly larger than a housecat—had found its way to the beach was a mystery. One she didn't have time to investigate. Seeing it here was a disaster—the ruination of her people stood before her, horned and glossy and untethered.
Her duty as Guardian was clear.
As if sensing her inner turmoil, angelic-blue eyes turned toward her. In a moment of suspended fear—for both of them—they studied each other. Evangeline had no idea what the unicorn saw, but her eyes found traces of panic in the creature's delicate features.
She slowly reached into her pocket and withdrew her knife, making sure to keep it pressed close to her thigh so the beast wouldn't see it. Guardians weren't expected to deal with unicorns, so she didn't have gloves, or any protective gear. Nonetheless, she had to stop this one from roaming—the risks to herself were naught compared to the dangers it could wreck upon the world.
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