Month / April 2024

by smashhitter

I Dare You

By Denise Longrie

Earl and I sat on the porch swing, listening to the hiss of rain against the leaves of the trees along the street. The great oak in the front yard swayed, dancing in the wind. I shivered, pulled my hood over my head, and took another sip of spiked hot chocolate, clutching the mug in oversized mittens.

In the distance, thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed. I’d noted the smell of a coming electrical storm arising from the earth all day.

“Wanna go in?” Earl asked. He grinned as if to say, “Chicken!” The wind blew his dark curls across his face. He had to feel that.

“Nah. Do you?” My hands trembled but I’d be damned if I were going to let him see that.

Cars drove by, raising walls of water that washed over the sidewalks.

A bolt of lightning lit up the sky.

“Christamighty,” said Earl.

Thunder crashed, rattling the windows behind us. “Holy shit,” I said.

“We can go in.”

What? And listen to you call me a coward forever? “Not yet.”

A Ford F-150 shot down the street, drenching Mrs. Baker while she walked her German shepherd. The poor dog howled and leaped straight into the air. Mrs. Baker swore.

“Earl.” I pointed to the hair standing up on my arm.

“Shit,” he said.

I stood and called to Mrs. Baker, “Come get out of the rain.”

She didn’t wait for a second invitation but ran up the steps and onto the porch, the dog at her heels.

As soon as Earl shut the door behind us, the dog shook himself, spraying water over the walls—and us. 

“Pompey, stop that,” Mrs Baker said.

I opened my mouth with an offer to get towels, but the loudest crack in the world rang out. The dog tore off, yelping down the hallway and dragging his leash. Mrs. Baker called after him. I looked out the front window. Half the oak tree that had once stood in our yard now lay in the street. The other half stood smoking in the rain.

                                                        *   *   *

Denise Longrie’s work has appeared in Danse Macabre, Liquid Imagination, and Wisconsin Review. She has self-published a nonfiction guide to pre-1900 speculative fiction. Currently, she is working by the flickering light of a Jacob’s ladder on a sequel treating twentieth-century pulp science fiction. In a previous life, she worked as a pharmacy technician.

by smashhitter

Grace

By Natasha O’Neill

All today I am anxious and excited, which, of course, means I’m overeating. Mostly I eat corn, corn, corn, and more corn. Although here, where the field meets the highway, are some fresh shoots of clover. So delicious, so sweet. The flavor transports me to several springs ago, when I wasn’t as big as I am now. For the truth is, I’m quite rotund. As I climb to the top of the mound, my udders droop and I can feel them scraping over the dirt, making me chafe. Oh, but listen to me complain. I know it’s wrong, complaining. I know because it does no good. Some of the others don’t understand this, and they wail. All day, I hear them bellowing and crying, stamping their hooves, butting heads, then falling senselessly to the ground. It’s horrible! Next to me, someone I don’t know is attempting to gnaw another’s ear. I wish it were evening, then I could look up at the moon. Other than Grace, the moon is my best friend; she is always looking over me with her bright face, her watchfulness never wavers, and this can be a great comfort.

Ah yes, but Grace. Where is Grace? I loll my eyes conspicuously to the right, then to the left. (I know exactly where Grace is; she is hiding behind a sapling, approximately ten feet away. Because of her size, she is not a great hider, but I never say anything.) No doubt it will amuse Grace if I walk purposefully in the opposite direction, pretending to mistake her dappled brown coat for another’s. This is ridiculous, of course. Grace and I were born the same week, in the same barn, and our mothers disappeared on the same day—the pattern of her coat is like a map of a world that I’ve always known. I walk a few feet, pause, look about in the direction of the highway, then make a U-turn until I’m facing Grace, who is still standing stock still behind the tree. She sees me see her and tilts her head up, perking her ears in the way she does. Oh, Grace. I walk to her and lower my head, nuzzling my nose against her neck. She licks my eyelashes, the top of my head, my ears. Her tongue feels like a warm bath and smells like a rainbow. Everywhere smells awful here—a putrid, choking stench that clings to the air. But somehow Grace manages to always smell like summer rain, which is the most glorious smell. Rain washes all the bad away, at least for an hour or two. And when the drops drip down my face and off the end of my nose, I stick out my tongue and lick them up. Grace likes to do this too, and whenever it rains, we try to be standing next to one another. Those are joyful minutes.

Now the man with his beard and hat is yelling in our direction. He likes to call us “Ladies.”

“Alright, Ladies. Let’s go! We’ve got a big day today.”

Now there is the other man on top of the horse. The horse is not called “lady,” but has her own name—Chestnut. Chestnut is beautiful but a bully; whenever she comes around, she’s telling us where and where not to go. I attempt to turn right, and she nudges me the other way. The bodies around me squeeze in tight and it’s hard to walk. I can tell the man with the hat is impatient. “Keep it moving!” he shouts. I’m walking as fast as I can, which is not fast. If only I wasn’t so big, I wouldn’t always be breathless. Ah, well.

Together, we are heading toward the big building with the tin roof. I’ve never been there before, and I’m curious what’s inside. I hope it’s not more corn. Maybe some calves? I love to watch the calves. But wait, where is Grace? I’ve lost her in the crowd and can’t turn my head. Oh, Grace.

Finally, after several minutes, there is some order at last. We are put into a queue—a long chute with walls on either side. It seems we are walking in a circle, though I can’t be sure, as it’s impossible to see up ahead. I can hear several voices speaking in a soothing tone. One is the voice of the man with the beard. He sounds calmer now. Grace doesn’t trust him, but I don’t know that he’s so bad. “It’s all fine. Don’t be afraid. Step right up, Ladies,” he’s saying. “Step right on up.”

*   *   *

Natasha O’Neill holds a Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of California Santa Barbara and her literary criticism has been published in American Literature, The Black Scholar, and Critical Inquiry. She was previously an editorial assistant at Harper’s Magazine and is currently a line editor at Vanity Fair.

by smashhitter

Scene at an Accident

By William Ogden Haynes

It is night, and a man is driving along a country road. The only 

illumination is a harvest moon and his headlights shining on 

the road ahead. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the bony crown of a 

buck shatters the windshield. The driver slams on the brakes, 

and is simultaneously punched by the deploying airbag as the car 

comes to a stop. Gems of safety glass on the dashboard and on his 

lap gimmer in the darkness. The driver unbuckles his belt and walks 

to the front of the car, where steam rises from the broken radiator. 

The headlights are still working, and they show the brown furry 

body struggling, back legs paralyzed, front legs scrambling to gain 

purchase on the asphalt. The driver drags the deer by the hind legs 

off the road and deep into the woods. He pulls the buck to a large 

tree lathered in moss, and sits with his back against it, his hand 

resting on the buck’s hind quarter. In thirty minutes, the deer finally 

calms and his breathing gradually slows, sighing with each exhalation, 

the blood on his fur, black under the moonlight. The man continues 

to pet him for a while, even after he dies.  

                                                             *   *   *

William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan. He has published several collections of poetry and many of his poems and short stories have appeared in literary journals and anthologies. http://www.williamogdenhaynes.com