Raging War by Samantha Seto

Wiping palmfuls of blood

out of my eyes,

snapshot of hundreds of pills,

grim half-dream haze.

My dark-unadapted eye, God-centered.

Paper cranes drift from the ceiling,

red ribbons wrap around painted birds.

Faint voice emerges, I glower.

She’s so different, so useless.

They scream, ashamed of me.

Don’t burden her, she’s barely there.

Muffled tears behind heavy breaths.

Misty hospital smells comfort me in dark green walls,

never able to concentrate.

Taste bitter salt in the smell of linen,

my mother whispers.

Stay here, listen to me, awaken.

Reach my hand out, I imagine her:

Dark, nebulous iris, black shawls,

wrinkled hair, face of shadow moon.

Get a grip on reality, I remind myself.

I shrink at the words spoken, strain my voice.

Why must I be so deprived, a nothing.

She leaves prayer in doctor’s note, paranormal cure.

Dirty water from streets flood windows, steady hallucination.

Someone shoves a blank page in front of me,

I etch the word with paper cut hands,

each letter bleeds through ripped paper - BLIND.

Heads Up by Michael Flanders

     Brom road his stallion down the dirt road leading out of Tarrytown. His horse sped through the night, passing trees that looked like skeletal hands in the light of the moon. He recalled stories his friends spoke of earlier around the fire in the Van Tassel estate, stories where these trees would take on a life of their own, where the dead crept through the shadows on the outskirts of town, where the ghosts of fallen soldiers beckoned for blood, all during the witching hours of the night. These tales made grown men cry mere hours ago, leaving him to question their manhood. They were weak, they were fools, but most of all they weren’t Brom.

     He was a beast in stature, standing six-foot three, with the chiseled features of a statue. His brown hair accentuated his baby blue eyes, yet he was never mistaken for a man of a soft nature. The muscular frame he wore and brute force he demonstrated on a daily basis saw to that. There was no question why Mayor Van Tassel had elected Brom the town vanguard. He was strong, he was able-bodied, and he was the one intended to marry the beautiful Katrina. Not Ichabod. The lanky and superstitious schoolmaster thought he’d make an attempt for Katrina’s hand, it was obvious with how attentive he was to her every word. Leaning in to touch her knee, hanging on each syllable she spoke, didn’t the annoying peasant know that women aren’t meant to be heard, but rather placed upon a mantle like a conquest? In fact, if it hadn’t been for Ichabod’s clumsy flirtations at the party, Brom wouldn’t be riding so hard after him now.

     Coming to a crossroads, the man had to stop for a moment and listen to the night. Complete darkness was kept at bay by splinters of moonlight creeping through the branches and grey clouds overhead. The smell of rain bled into Brom’s nose, hinting that the clouds carried a downpour for later in the evening. Patting the horse, he relaxed its breathing so he could make out which direction Ichabod had gone. There was no way he was going to lose that scrawny excuse of a man, not after his desecration of Brom’s betrothed.

     An eerie silence fell upon the area, interrupted only by the chirp of a cricket. Brom’s horse circled atop the loose dirt, causing a small cloud of dust to build. His eyes penetrated it for a moment, and suddenly Brom found himself seeing things in the forest. No, not things, men. But they seemed less than that. Their features were dressed for the grave, their mannerisms, mindless. One in particular stood out, drawing Brom’s attention to the object dangling from its mouth. Could it be a wild hare which the man chewed upon? Would the liquid dripping from his mouth be blood? Was the animal still alive? Unsettled, Brom shook these thoughts away. His task was Ichabod, and besides, the dust had dissipated; now nothing appeared where he was just looking.

     The faint sound of hooves made Brom break for the right, nudging his horse forward and taking off like a cannonball. The cape he wore tugged at his neck, making him rethink the whole costume idea only for a second. Yes, he wanted to scare Ichabod, and he could’ve easily done that without the aid of theatrics, but somehow the idea of making Ichabod believe the fabled Horseman rose from the depths of Hell to claim his head was too good to dismiss.

     The Horseman. What was so scary about a decapitated man riding nightly in search of a head to replace his? To Brom, there was no reason to be afraid. He didn’t buy into the story. If it could bleed, it could die. After that, The Almighty takes care of the rest. There were no such things as ghosts, goblins, or horsemen of the headless variety. It’s all just men and their imaginations, as he experienced only a moment ago. But Ichabod seemed to think differently, hence why Brom was now clad as the ghostly rider.

     His horse continued its charge as a figure appeared in the distance. He kicked at its sides, spurring it to run faster. Ichabod was in his sights and he wouldn’t let him get away. The horse lunged forward, suddenly propelled by an unnatural force. Brom’s cape bellowed wildly in the wind with the new burst of speed, but it got caught on a lone tree branch, yanking it from his person. Was it a branch, Brom thought, or a boney claw reaching out for me? He immediately dismissed the idea, he wouldn’t let his mind be clouded by such nonsense again.

     Ichabod couldn’t have been more than twenty feet ahead now. Brom grinned for a moment at the thought of his actions. Sure, part of his costume was gone, but they’re both riding too fast to drink in all the details. Brom was eager to scare the piss out of the poor man. He didn’t need a cape for that.

     Pulling alongside the schoolmaster, Brom had to prepare himself. He wanted to laugh right now, laugh at how pale the poor man would turn once he saw a ghost riding beside him. Brom looked to Ichabod, and as he spoke he found that all together he lost his words. Ichabod had no head.

     His gaze unwavering, Brom realized he wasn’t looking at the dismembered body of Ichabod Crane, but rather the ghostly form his friends had described earlier in their tale of the Headless Horseman. He was muscular, tall in stature even with having his head severed, and he wore the bloody war garments of years gone by. The unsettling part of looking at this man -a man? Or the Devil on horseback?- wasn’t that he possessed no head, but rather that even with missing this important part of the human body it still seemed he was looking back at Brom.

     A flash of metal and Brom realized he was on the ground. He blinked a few times to make sure he wasn’t dreaming and went to collect his bearings. He tried to move his hands, he tried to push himself upward, but found that he couldn’t feel his arms at all. It was at this moment Brom saw the Horseman ride off in the distance, followed by his own horse…with his own body still riding along. A dreadful revelation took hold of Brom’s mind, but only for a moment. You see, a head can only stay alive so long once it’s been removed from the body…

The End

The Harbinger by Michael Flanders

I swiped with my ax and chopped the thing in two. Liam wiped away the debris and placed another log on the block, holding it steady for me.

     “Are you ready,” I asked with a grin on my face. “This one’s gonna come fast.”

     Liam looked up at me with his baby blue eyes, returning my smile with a smirk of his own. “Ready!”

     I dropped the blade and Liam quickly threw himself backwards, letting another log feel the wrath of my ax. It was right after this we both heard a voice.

     “Come one, come all! You’re about to witness the greatest show of them all!”

     I picked up Liam and slung him over my shoulders. Even up there he couldn’t tell me who was calling out, so we headed closer to the sound. A few steps later we saw the feint image of a man walking up the dirt road leading into town. He repeated his chant, causing Liam to become excited.

     “Is it the circus, daddy? Can we go?” asked Liam.

     “No, Liam. There’s something off about this. The circus isn’t due for another month’s time,” I told him. “Head back home, I’ll meet you there once I find out what’s going on.”

     The boy took on a look of sadness. “But dad-“ he started.

     “No buts. Get home now.”

     I loved my son to death, yet he looked so pitiful and hopeless when I asked him to do something against his wishes. He bowed his head and slowly shuffled off, making it a point to stir up dirt by dragging his feet.

     “Come one, come all! You’re about to witness the greatest show of them all!”

     I turned my attention back to the chanting. The unknown herald strolled through the streets in his top hat and trench coat, reciting this phrase until a small crowd trailed behind him. Upon first glance he looked almost like a ring master, twirling a cane between his bony fingers and walking with an unmatched bravado. Closer inspection revealed a skeletal man in dirty attire, his hat covered with grime and burns, his coat dingy and tattered.

     Yet people flocked to him, unflinching. They were mesmerized with his presence, his ability to be confident even though his appearance was that of an abused vagrant. He rallied more and more of my fellow neighbors with every stride, none of them seeming to care about following this odd stranger. And even now I must admit curiosity got the better of me, for I fell into the crowd. Yes, I became one of the sheep being led by the shepherd, or perhaps it’s better to say I was one of the cattle being led to the butcher… We all stopped in the center of town.

     “Thank you all for joining me on such a glorious day,” said the top-hatted man. “I have much to tell you and much more to show you if timing permits. That’s the funny thing about time though, we always take it for granted, assuming we have as much as we need and it’ll never run out.”

     People in the crowd started to chatter amongst themselves, and then the arousal of suspicion came. “Where’s the rest of your circus folk?”, “Is there a bearded lady?”, “If it’s a cure-all you’re sellin’, I ain’t buyin’!” How naïve we all were.

     The man danced around the statue built as a landmarker for the town’s founding father, twirling about as if light as a feather. He was carefree, he was high-spirited, yet he remained enigmatic. His hat hid his eyes from us all, and a man’s eyes defined him. How could we tell, how could I tell what his true intentions were?

     “Now, now my friends. This gathering is nothing of that sort. It’s more just a test of time against your will. That being said, I’m a fair creature. How does one hour sound?” the man asked while finally standing still on the base of the statue.

     More suspicion came from the crowd. The chatter turned almost frenzied with the level of confusion rising. Finally Old Man Jones spoke up. He wasn’t anyone special in the town, just your average farmer who wanted to know what the hell was going on.

     “What’re ya talkin’ about, sonny? An hour for what?” sputtered out Old Man Jones. He wasn’t a poet, but at least he was direct.

     The top-hatted man used his cane to push up the brim which concealed his eyes. It was unbelievable at first, something the whole town obviously didn’t expect. A crimson pair of orbs were staring out over the town where human eyes should’ve been. To say we all questioned our faith at that moment would be an understatement.

     “My dear man, I’m giving you and your town one hour to make the greatest decision of all. Die, or give me one of your children,” the man grinned from ear to ear, revealing a set of razor teeth one could only describe as snake-like.

     Something in Old Man Jones must’ve had it with this guy, because he pulled out his pocket knife and ran at the demonic vagrant. He slashed at the person, tearing loose clothing, flesh and blood. The man simply grabbed Jones, gripping him by the wrist, and lifted him off the ground. He pushed his hat back a little further, letting locks of black hair fall over the sides of his face. He looked to Jones, then to the awestruck audience.

     “I was hoping a demonstration wasn’t in order. As I’ve said, I’m a fair creature. Had you brought what I asked for, this man would’ve lived. Sadly though…” the man’s words stopped there. Jones was kicking and struggling to get away from the top-hatted individual, but he seemed to possess a supernatural strength. This power was used to keep the feeble farmer levitated above the crowd. Yet this was only the beginning of our “demonstration,” for a burst of fire erupted from the chest of Old Man Jones. Flames swallowed his entire body, covering him in a blanketed inferno. It all happened so fast, I still don’t think he even had a chance to scream. The man held Jones in the air for what felt like an eternity, then dropped his charred corpse to the ground. He dusted off his hands and held them out to the crowd.

     “One hour, my friends. This is how long you’ve been given to satisfy my appetite. A moment longer will produce consequences such as this. Or this.”

     The man snapped his fingers and all of our livestock fenced around town lit up just as Old Man Jones did. The chickens ran around like soundless flaming spirits, the cattle went mad, bumping into each other like silent towers of smoldering meat. He clapped his hands together and all the fires around town went out, our animals fell to the ground as lifeless chunks of charcoal. Jumping from the base, the man worked his way through the crowd, strolling past all the villagers who dared not to be touched.

     He stopped just on the outskirts of the group and turned to us. “Find me at the tavern in an hour’s time. Remember my dear audience, don’t be late.” He propped his cane over his shoulder and began to strut off.

     “Who are you?” a voice from the crowd called.

     The man halted his steps and slowly looked back to us. He wore an evil smile upon his face, as if delighted to answer the unknown person who questioned him. “I am the Harbinger of Fate, the Herald of Chaos. Death is my servant and my curse. Be warned, I am an Agent of Strife and your life is forfeit if we meet again after today.” He directed his attention back to the road leading to the tavern and picked up his course once more. Soon he disappeared from our eyesight and we were left in a state of utter panic.

     The silence was deafening. We all stared at each other for moments, wasting the now precious gift we’d been given by “The Harbinger.” Mouths hung open, eyes shifted between husbands, wives and loved ones. It’s not known who spoke first, but finally someone asked “What are we going to do,” and the town went mad. I tried to get my bearings and talk to everyone rationally, but my attempts were in vain. It’s hard to gather the thoughts and ideas of a mob in fear for their lives, or the lives of their children. Eventually it got frustrating.

     I mounted the same statue The Harbinger stood mere moments ago. “Alright everyone, shut the hell up and listen! This man is a worker of Satan! He is too powerful for us to take in a fight! Yet we are servants of the Lord, and that adds speed to our flight from here! Gather your families, your belongings, anything of value and flee! Flee for your lives!”

     At once the crowd broke for their houses, and I followed in suite. I kicked open the door to my hut and began looking for my son. “Liam!” I shouted. “Liam, where are you?!” I must’ve ran through the place a half dozen times before the screams came from outside.

     “We can’t leave! Oh dear God, we can’t leave!” I heard as I rushed back to the crowd now gathered again. Widow Timbleton was surrounded by everyone, sobbing on her knees. “I had no one… no one left to run away with. I flew for the entrance to town and was knocked back by a sightless wall. We’re trapped! The Devil has us!”

     Immediately we left the hysterical woman to her cries so we could investigate this invisible force keeping us in the town. Father O’Riley was there probing at nothingness when we arrived. We stared in awe, unsure of what we were seeing exactly. There was absolutely no wall there, yet each of us took a turn pushing against the barrier.

     “We are all damned,” said Father O’Riley. “The Lord is smiting us for our sins.”

     I looked at my fellow villagers, neighbors, friends, and saw the frenzy they were in. They all seemed to believe a way out was possible, if they could only find it. Each one now groped at different parts of the wall, hoping against hope there was an escape from the Hell which was now our home. I removed myself from the group, running back to my house to find Liam. There was only forty minutes left before the judgment of The Harbinger was brought down, and I wanted to make sure my son was safely hidden from the sorcery of this mad man…

* * *

     Five minutes remained. The town was in utter chaos. Neighbors bickered between one another, blaming each other for this blight. Some even wanted to offer up the children of their former friends in order to appease The Harbinger. Our once quaint town of farmers and tranquility had become an asylum for the wrathful and the damned. Everyone’s true colors started to show, yet I remained uncaring. Liam was still missing and I felt completely helpless. There was now three minutes left.

     It was a difficult decision to come to, but I seemed to be the only person left in town with some sort of sanity (or perhaps it was insanity). I decided to approach The Harbinger and reason with him. It was the only thing to do. Either that or let the whole village burn without so much as an attempt to save it. I didn’t care about the inhabitants. It was Liam I was doing this for. I rushed to the tavern to meet with the top-hatted man.

     I burst through the doors of the tavern and was met with a shocking surprise. Liam was sitting with The Harbinger. The two were at a table with their backs to me, the man downing a shot of whiskey while my son spoke.

     “And you were able to trap the tiger?” Liam asked with amazement in his voice.

     The Harbinger nodded an affirmation and laughed. “It wasn’t as difficult as it sounds. Someone like me is… capable of so much more than taming simple creatures.”

     I slowly worked my way into the tavern, trying not to draw attention to myself. It was a poor effort though, because Liam quickly turned around as I stepped on a loose board that squeaked.

     “Dad!” the boy shouted as he sprang from his chair to hug me. “Dad, this is my friend! He’s caught a tiger before!”

     The Harbinger rose to his feet, smiling at the look of fear on my face. I fed into Liam’s awe, trying to keep the situation from getting worse. “Really, son? That’s good. I’ve seen your friend though, and know some of his… special skills.” The man laughed.

     “Oh Connor, I must tell you Liam here is quite the treat. I thank you for offering me some company while you and your fellow townspeople discussed my proposition. Tell me, have you all reached a decision yet?” He dropped his brow and narrowed his red eyes at me.

     “Why are you doing this,” I begged. “Are you the Devil?”

     The Harbinger became enraged. “How dare you compare me to such a paltry being! I belong to no religion, for I am older than them all! God, the Devil, they are all pawns as far as I’m concerned.” Flames began to ring around his eyes. “Now make your choice.”

     I became frightened, pulling Liam closer to me. “We have no choice. You didn’t give us enough time-“

     “Time does not matter! You were given instructions! I made it clear what would happen if my demands weren’t meant!” The Harbinger lifted his hand.

     “Wait! Take me! Spare the village, spare my son, you can have me!” I shoved Liam behind myself and dropped to my knees.

     At first I couldn’t tell if he was contemplating it, or if he was merely drinking in my shame for his amusement. He walked around me for a moment, looking me up and down. He worked his way back to the front of me and stood frozen for what felt like an eternity. Suddenly he snapped and Liam was set ablaze.

     “No!!!” I shouted! I threw myself on Liam, trying to douse the fire which magically consumed him, yet I was thrown from the flames. I couldn’t bear the heat, and I laid on the floor now crippled, watching my poor son dance his life away in helpless torment. His soundless body dropped to the floor after five minutes of being on fire.

     As if Liam’s corpse hitting the floor was his cue, The Harbinger gripped me by my throat and lifted me into the air. “I didn’t ask for you! Telling a whole town to choose between a man or its survival is trivial. They’ll choose the man every time. Telling a town to choose between itself and a child is a completely different beast entirely. That’s when the chaos ensues…” He stared at me with intensity, choking the life out of me.

     I don’t know what compelled me to ask, or how I even mustered up the strength to do so, but I guess I had to know, “Why… why create… chaos?”

     Immediately he dropped me, allowing my lungs to fill up with air once more. He grabbed his cane and made his way to the front of the tavern. He looked back at me and smirked. “Why create chaos? Isn’t it obvious? It’s what I live for, it’s what fuels me. Chaos is older than time itself, I’m older than time itself. But I didn’t get to be that way by just sitting idly by. Sometimes you need to be the fire-starter.” He kept the grin on his face as he snapped his fingers again. I could hear fires erupting all over town. “Remember, if we meet again I will kill you.” Those were his parting words as he exited the tavern, and then I passed out.

* * *

     I don’t know how I made it out of the town, or even why I wanted to live after seeing my son die, but things happen for a reason I suppose. I’m living in a new town, far from where Hell had been brought to life. I’m all but useless now, my arms and legs rendered immovable by trying to help Liam. Yet I get by, the town has accepted me as an eccentric of sorts, paying to tell them tales of the so-called Harbinger. However, they all failed to heed my warning as soon as the words “Come one, come all! You’re about to witness the greatest show of them all!” bellowed through the streets. They flocked just as we did all those years ago… 

Toy by Derek Kohlbeck

Mummy, please buy me a toy today.

A Barbie doll in a cake,

so when I wind her up,

she pops out.

She won’t say

a word… and I could relish

the silence.

During supper time

she won’t eat,

she needs

to watch her figure.

I could dress her

up as a nurse,

a French maid,

or a genie.

Plastic complexion

eye glitter eye lashes rhinestone 

Pearls

Orange spray can tan

Lips stretched out to smile.

During those scary nights

We could cuddle, gaze at the stars

and airplanes passing over.

I promise not to abuse

Take her apart,

dig a hole, and bury

her in the back yard like the others.

What Attracts the Flies by Derek Kohlbeck

When Death sends

Them to do his work.

they swarm

throughout the land, carrying

 and scattering  like living seeds

with wings.

I lie

twisted in a weedy woods.

Swamp lanterns

pushed up from hell, brings

them closer.

I don’t feel them land

Warmness digs.

Static vibration tickles my insides.

Prune skin slides off

a cream cheese mask

 Purging fluids

feed soil. 

A Family Forth by David Frazier

On the Forth of July.

Firecrackers pop, sparklers ignite.

We watched the fireworks glitter in the night.

Loud bangs and booms.

He conceived a torture

Of fireworks, buy one get two free.

Tape M-80's to the fingers,

Blow them off one by one.

BANG! WEEEEE!

There goes another.

Sky rockets attached to the arms

Feet tied to cement blocks,

Light the rockets, WEEEE!

BOOM!

Arms in outer space.

You knew it was coming.

Not too much left of the victim.

Made up some “surprise stew”

For his clan.

Everyone had seconds,

It was so good.

He never had this much fun

At his family reunion.

A Man Without a Wife by Allen Kopp

Ronald Nettles came home from work one day and found his wife dead on the floor near the stairs. She was lying on her back, dressed in her pajamas and the green chenille robe with coffee stains down the front. On kneeling by her side and taking a closer look, he saw that she had a collar of red marks all the way around her white neck. Her eyes were open and slightly bulged but, except for that, she looked quite all right, quite at peace. Her clothing was hardly disarranged and there was no sign of a struggle. It was almost as if she had laid down on the floor voluntarily and allowed somebody to strangle her without offering any resistance. 

            Looking around her body for a piece of rope or cord with which the deed might have been done, he found nothing. He walked all through the house to see if anything was missing, but nothing was out of place. All windows and doors were tightly secured.  

            He was going to get a blanket and cover her up so he couldn’t see her staring eyes, but instead he picked her up and put her in the wing chair. When he had her perfectly balanced in the middle of the chair so she wouldn’t slide over either way, he pulled the collar of the robe around her neck to cover up the red marks and propped her feet on the ottoman. Except for the eyes, which weren’t open as wide as they had been when she was on the floor, she looked perfectly natural. There was nothing wrong at all, except that she was dead.

            “Who did this to you?” he asked, as he sat on the couch facing her. “Why would anybody want to kill you? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

            The phone rang and he ran to answer it, thinking, illogically, that it might be the killer or somebody who knew what had happened, but it was only a wrong number. He could have wept with frustration. He poured himself a tumbler of whiskey and drank it down. He believed it might help to calm him down, help him to think.

            If he called the police, they would most certainly believe he had killed Midge himself. They wouldn’t believe when he told them he came home and found her that way and knew nothing about what had happened. A likely story, they would say. They would make him feel like a criminal, even though he had done nothing wrong. They might even coerce a confession out of him. He had seen enough movies to know how unscrupulous the police can be.     

            Feeling hungry in spite of his upset—he had been too busy at work that day to eat lunch—he went into the kitchen and ate some leftovers from the refrigerator. When he was finished, he had another tumbler of whiskey and went upstairs and took a long bubble bath, dressed himself in his pajamas and matching robe, and went back downstairs.

Midge was exactly as he had left her in the wing chair. It was an odd sensation, he thought, to be in the room with a person who wasn’t there. He knew he couldn’t leave her there indefinitely. He was going to have to make a decision about what to do. He was either going to have to dispose of her body somehow or call the authorities and tell them what had happened. Either way, he felt backed into a corner.    

             He had another drink and then another. Worn out from the trials of the day, he lay down on the couch a few feet away from Midge and fell into an alcohol-induced state somewhere between sleep and unconsciousness. He remained that way all night long until the first hour of daylight the next day.

            When he awoke, he was surprised to find he wasn’t in his own bed. Something was pressing uncomfortably into the small of his back and he didn’t know what it was. He sat up, stretched, and rubbed his eyes with both hands. For one hazy minute, he forgot all that had happened before he went to sleep, forgot that Midge was dead.

            He felt a pang of despair when he thought of the trouble he was going to have as a result of Midge being murdered. He was going to have to answer a lot of questions and be terribly inconvenienced. He would have to go to pick out a casket and arrange for burial. He regretted that the two of them had never talked about death, never made any plans. Now it was too late. Maybe she would have preferred cremation, but he would never know.

            Here he was thinking about Midge being dead, and he forgot for a moment that she was in the room with him. When he realized she wasn’t in the room with him, that the wing chair was empty, he jumped to his feet. Where did she go? He ran into the kitchen and out the back door, as if he could catch her before she left or could see where she had gone. Realizing how silly that was, he went back into the house.

            Luckily it was Saturday and he didn’t have to bother with going to work. He had two days to try to figure out what was going on with Midge. He was a little relieved that she wasn’t in the wing chair. Maybe that meant she wasn’t really dead. If she wasn’t really dead, then where was she? Was she—or someone else—playing a trick on him?

            There was a knock at the door. He smiled and pulled his robe around him. Someone was here to help him. If it wasn’t Midge, it would be someone who could tell him what was going on. He eagerly went to the door and opened it. The old woman who lived next door, Mrs. Finney, was standing on his doorstep holding a casserole up toward his face.

            “Hello, neighbor!” she said cheerily, grinning like a gremlin. “I hope I’m not calling too early!”

            “No, no, it’s fine,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

            “Well, I made a tuna casserole and as usual I made too much for just Eubie and me and I didn’t want any of it to go to waste. I said to Eubie, I said, ‘I think I’ll take the rest of it over to that nice young man who lives next door’.”

            “That was very thoughtful of you,” he said mechanically.

            “I know that bachelors don’t always like to cook for themselves.”

            “What?”

            “I said bachelors don’t like to cook.”

            “Did you say ‘bachelor’?”

            “Why, yes. Is anything the matter? You look a little peaked.”

            “No, I’m fine. Just a little headache is all.”

            “Well, you can bring me the dish whenever you’re finished with it. I hope you enjoy it.”

            “You haven’t by any chance seen Midge, have you?” he asked.

            “Midge?” she said. “Is that your dog’s name?”

            “No, my wife. Midge, my wife.”

            “Oh, I didn’t know you were married! When do I get to meet the bride?”

            “No, I think there’s been some mistake,” he said, not being able to think of anything else to say.

            Mrs. Finney opened her mouth to say something else, but he closed the door in her face before she got it out.

            He and Midge had lived next door to Mrs. Finney for five years. He didn’t know how she could not know who Midge was. There was something going on, and he had to find out what it was.

            When he went upstairs to get dressed, nothing was as it should be. The wedding picture of the two of them that Midge had always kept on top of the bureau was replaced by a porcelain zebra. The left side of the closet, where all of Midge’s clothes and shoes were, was bare; likewise the drawers where she kept her underwear, stockings, scarves, gloves. In the bathroom her toothbrush was not in its usual spot; neither was her cold crème, face soap, shower cap, or any of the other items she always kept scattered around.

            Midge could only be one place, he reasoned. She took all her things without telling him and went back home to her mother. Trying to get him to believe she was dead was just to scare him, to get back at him for something he did.

            While he couldn’t remember the old lady’s phone number, he remembered the house where she lived and he would drive there. It would be better if he showed up in person, confronted Midge face to face. Let her know he wasn’t appreciating the little games she was playing.

            He drove the twenty miles to the small town where Midge had lived when he first met her. He found the town all right, but nothing looked the way he remembered it. The library near where Midge lived and where she worked as a librarian wasn’t there anymore; neither was the movie theatre or the restaurant where he had taken her and her mother a couple of times for dinner. He wasn’t able to find the house at all, or even the street it was on. The streets, which used to run north to south, now ran east to west. It was almost as if the town had been replaced by a different town entirely.

            As he was driving back home, he remembered Judy Lumpkin. Midge had known Judy since high school and often referred to her as her best friend. If anybody knew where Midge was, it would be Judy. He and Midge had gone to a New Year’s Eve party at Judy’s house a couple of years ago. She would at least be able to tell him the last time she had seen Midge.

All the two-story, brick houses on Judy’s street looked the same, but he remembered that Judy’s house had a little gazebo in the yard that she strung with Christmas lights during the holiday season. He spotted the gazebo and pulled up in front of the house, pleased with himself that he had been able to find it so easily. He was grinning as he went up the walk to the house and rang the bell. Judy came to the door but he hardly recognized her. Her hair was a different color and she was wearing glasses now.

“Hello, Judy,” he said.

“Do I know you?” she said, opening the door a couple of inches.

“Ronald Nettles,” he said. “You remember me. We came to a party here a couple of years ago on New Year’s Eve.”

“That’s been about five years ago, but, yes, I do kind of remember your face. What can I do for you?”

He laughed to try to hide his discomfort. “I was wondering if you could tell me anything about where Midge might be.” he said.

“What’s her last name?”

“Midge, my wife. Midge Nettles.”

“Um, I don’t know anybody by that name.”

“Midge always said you were her best friend.”

“Well, that must have been in high school. I don’t remember much about those days. Sorry I can’t be of help.”

She smiled for the first time and started to pull the door shut.

“Wait a minute!” he said, taking hold of the door. “How can you not remember Midge? The two of you get together all the time for lunch and shopping trips.”

“I’m afraid you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”

She closed the door before he had a chance to say anything else.

After he left Judy’s house, he didn’t want to go back home and sit there and worry without having anybody to talk to. He felt like being with people. He drove to an unfamiliar part of town and parked the car and got out and began walking down the street.

After walking for several blocks, he stopped at a bar that seemed friendly and inviting and went inside, took a seat at the bar and ordered a beer. He drank it quickly and ordered another.

In a few minutes a woman came into the bar and sat down to his right. She had red hair and wore false eyelashes, lots of makeup, in an apparent attempt to make herself look younger than she was. He could feel her looking at him so he turned to face her.

“Haven’t ever seen you here before,” she said with a smile.

“First time,” he said.

“My name’s Estelle.”

“My name’s Bob,” he said. “Bob White, like the bird.”

She laughed, knowing that wasn’t his real name. “You can relax with me, honey,” she said. “Nobody’s out to get you.”

“I’ve really got to be going,” he said. “My wife is waiting for me at home.”

“I’m going to let you in on a little secret.”

“What is it?”

“She doesn’t exist. You made her up when you needed her and then when you didn’t need her anymore you killed her.”

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Estelle, I said.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Take it from one who knows, baby.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, standing up and leaving the bar.

As he was driving home, he became lost on the unfamiliar streets and had difficulty finding his way back to anything he recognized. Traffic was heavy and there were lots of pedestrians because of a street festival. The longer he drove, the more entangled he seemed to become.

While waiting at a stoplight, several cars back, he saw a group of women crossing the street up ahead. He wouldn’t have noticed them particularly except that one of them turned her head in his direction, looked at him and then looked away. He was sure it was Midge. He felt a jolt of recognition pass between them.