fiction

I toned down the darkness a bit in this one to try to move away from my comfort zone. It gave me an opportunity to also play with transitions and flashbacks. But of course, there’s a bittersweet angle. There had to be.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Benoit Roche

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

This was the spot. In some ways it had changed. Most of the alfalfa was gone, replaced with sprouts and stalks Will didn’t recognize. In other ways it was exactly the same. Like the sky, still full of blanket blues and pillow whites. Or the sun, lounging on the edge of the world unashamed of its glory. But he’d changed so much, except for the memories that had brought him here.

Here was a field he remembered well, his only companions now the weevils and aphids nibbling on what would soon be harvested and coiled into giant rolls of hay to sit under the precious sky. If only he could fly.

What was he going on about? A child’s mind that had gotten him into much trouble over the years, yielding many regrets. One towered over the others.

He uprooted a weed and rolled it between his fingers. Its seeds spread as if awakaened, and flew. Not much of a breeze, but those seeds were determined. They didn’t make it far, but far enough, right over to a patch of dirt, still damp, a mud so thick he’d almost lost his boot.

Those seeds settled into his bootprint, aligning themselves like tiny crop rows.

“And you said I had a black thumb,” Will said to the ghosts.

He waited, hoping for one in particular. One who called those hay rolls cinammon rolls that were freshest right before the sun dipped down, because it wasn’t too hot or too cold.

And there she was.

“Like Goldilocks,” Billy said to her.

She was like Goldilocks, with her hair all yellow like the hay she stood on, with her face all pretty and smiling.

Just right.

“Huh?” she asked, letting her backpack slip from her shoulders, which were just right, too. He would have touched them if he was up on that hay roll with her, if he had the courage.

“‘Not too hot. Not too cold.'” he said. “Goldilocks.”

“Billy James, I don’t know what you’re going on about.”

“Don’t call me that. You sound like my Momma.”

She looked over her shoulder as the sun lowered through the clouds, glazing them with that golden frosting. Her ponytailed hair captured that light, and he’d never seen a prettier girl.

“Remember when we used to play house?” she asked. “Back when we were little. That old shed in your backyard was our mansion and the horse trough was our olympic size pool? Where your black thumb failed the crops?”

He looked at the ground and kicked a stone free. “Don’t say it so loud.”

“Billy James are you afraid of the world learning that you played house with me at six years old and that I thought I would be the wife and you would be the husband, but you got all weird when I tried to kiss you when you came home from work and insisted that I was your mother and not your wife?”

He knelt beside the bike they’d ridden here and squeezed the front tire. “I think you got a flat.”

“Don’t you change the subject, Billy James,” she said.

“I said don’t call me that.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to be your mother, and you said that’s what she calls you.”

“I was a little kid.”

She looked down at him with her hands on her hips, ponytail still alive with the sun. Her cheeks were rosy in the right places, and he felt his own turn red, probably in the wrong places.

“Okay,” she said.

He kept squeezing the tire as if would tell him what to do next, give him a sign. Maybe a genie would pop out of the valve and grant him a wish to wish himself out of here. No, that was stupid and didn’t make sense.

“You going to come up or pinch that tire all day?” she asked. “It’s almost time.”

She faced the setting sun, which outlined her, and he saw shapes he’d never seen before. His cheeks burned.

He put his face to his shoulder as he tried to climb the hay roll so she wouldn’t see. All his attempts left him with nothing but handfulls of hay.

She cocked her head at him. “Never too old for Mommy’s help, huh?”

“Shut up,” he said, and immediately regretted it when her smile faded.

She squatted and held her hands out to him, then shook them when he didn’t give his to her.

He finally did and planted one foot on the hay roll as his other left the ground. Her head was thrown back with effort, exposing her neck. His open mouth went dry.

“Why,” she said through gritted teeth. “Didn’t . . . you . . . leave . . . your–”

She heaved him up onto the hay roll and he tumbled on top of her but quickly rolled off with his arms windmilling for balance.

“Backpack,” she said and grabbed his arm, steading him.

He stammered something, and she shook her head at him, her smile back.

“It’s time,” she said and plopped down, cross-legged.

He sat beside her.

“You still have your backpack on, silly.”

She slipped the straps off his shoulders and it was like his whole body electrified.

They sat in silence for a while, just watching the sun. It distorted the horizon like it was covered in plastic wrap. Birds took flight off a power line.

She elbowed him in the arm. “I know who Goldilocks is, you know.”

He nodded. “I know, I was just . . .”

“Just what?”

He shrugged.

“You smell the cinnamon?” She sniffed the air, and when she brought her head back down, it rested on his shoulder.

He turned into a scarecrow.

“How about now?” she asked.

He couldn’t separate his lips.

“You in there, Mr. James?”

“Mr. James?” he sputtered.

“That’s right.”

“Okay, then.”

Only the sun’s crown crested the horizon.

“Going,” she said, “going, and . . .”

From across the field of decades gone by, Will caught a hint of cinnamon and said, “Gone.”

AI creating artwork is an exciting prospect, especially for someone who regularly writes stories inspired by artwork. It was a great experience taking something developed by an AI and putting some conscious meaning behind it.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Miguel Oliveira

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

When Mer put her hands to the glass, she felt like she could live forever.

A silly thought, which made her blush. So much so that she saw the color in her reflection. She focused her eyes away from her face, which clung to baby fat even though she was thirteen. Thirteen. Today. A woman. Depending on who you asked. If you asked her, she’d say yes. If you asked her mother, who lurked behind her outside of the aquarium’s light, she might say no.

People shuffled by, heading to other exhibits. They were crazy. This one was the best. She looked for a plaque that described what swam inside, to tell her its scientific name so she could roll it off her tongue as if it was a secret language between her and the creatures, as if she had discovered them herself.

“I love you,” her mother said. She’d stepped into the light enough to highlight her hands crossed in front of her, fiddling with her wedding ring, and the tip of her nose, which Mer had inherited. A slope you could ski off. Her mother’s finger skiied off Mer’s nose.

“I love you too,” Mer said with a giggle. She turned back to the exhibit. It was hard to explain, what she saw. At first, she thought it was a trick of the light and glass, making things appear so alien, so disconnected. A pink blob waved tentacles one second, then those detached and drifted away to transform into something else, wriggling in the water like a newborn trying to find its legs. All kinds of alien creatures–because that was the only way she could describe them–dwelt in this aquarium that had to be a hundred feet wide and as many deep, rising from floor to ceiling.

Mer rested her forehead against the glass to try to get a better look at a cluster of stalks sprouting from the sand floor. They separated like fingers then intertwined like a length of rope and inflated so much she thought they might burst. She stepped back. Her reflection returned, and a chill prickled her hands and forehead where the glass had touched.

“Are you hurt?” her mother asked, touching Mer’s shoulders, almost pulling her away from the aquarium.

Mer shook her off. “No. I’m fine.”

Her mother fiddled with her wedding ring again, noticed Mer watching, and crossed her arms. “What do you think?”

Mer went back to the glass and found where she had touched it, still warm. “This is the best birthday ever.”

“I’m glad,” her mother said. “I wanted it to be special.”

“Why have we never been?” Mer asked.

“Because it wasn’t the right time.”

“You thought I was too young? Wouldn’t understand?”

“Something like that.”

Mer’s entire body touched the glass, her shirt peeking up just a little. She expected to feel its icy touch on her belly, but instead it was warm. “I’m not sure I even understand it now. These aren’t regular fish and octopuses–” She looked to her mother. “Octopi?”

“Even octopodes,” her mother said.

“I like that one,” Mer said. “Sounds more alien. These aren’t aliens are they?” Mer realized she’d vocalized her thought too late, and as if in answer, one of the creatures, a small one that looked more plant than animal spiraled its way to her on furry appendages, between which bubbled tiny white eyes when it reached her.

“What if they were?” The smell of vinegar fell over Mer as her mother drew close. What had topped her salad at lunch. Mer had enjoyed what the menu called a seaweed burger, but she was thankful there had been no seweed. Although, seaweed sounded good right now. A length of it elongated in front of her, looking even more appetizing, raw, slathered in salt water. She smacked her lips and worked her tongue around her mouth, wondering where this strange desire had come from.

“Then I’d say I’m too old to fall for tricks like that,” Mer said. “I’m thirteen now.”

“A woman. I know.” Her mother didn’t speak for some time. “But I didn’t ask if you thought they were aliens. I asked what if they were aliens.”

“I’d–” Mer went to face to her mother but couldn’t remove herself from the glass. The warmth she’d felt on her hands head and belly now encased her, even where the glass didn’t touch.

“I-I love you,” her mother said.

Something tapped once on Mer’s head and spread down the part in her hair, cold. Her mother trembled against her, was fighting to stay there, Mer could tell, while something or someone tried to pull her away.

Mer wanted to pull away from the glass, from this room, from this building, from these things that now collected in front of her in strange configurations, like . . . people?

“I’m scared,” Mer said. “Wh-what is this? Mom, please. Help me.”

Her mother’s silent trembling turned into a violent hitch, which unleashed a scream silenced by a gasp.

Mer couldn’t turn to look. She couldn’t move at all. Here hands lay where she had first touched the glass, but almost looked like they were passing through it. With her head smashed to the side, it must be an illusion. Her eye too close to the glass, which had to be thick to hold all that water, must have made it appear so. That had to be it.

“Mom?” she called again. A slur as her chubby cheeks pushed between her teeth into her mouth, mashing her tongue.

No one answered. She looked the only way she could: inside. Coils and scales and tentacles and teeth and eyes fanned in a kaleidoscope as clear as if there were no foggy glass or hazy water, as if she were right there with it, inside the aquarium with it, a great mouth opening wide.

It told her it would be okay. It told her that her mother loved her. It told her she would live forever.

The flow state. The elusive flow state. Tapping into it is the secrete of finding the diamonds of your subconscious. Anyone in the creative industry experiences it from time to time, and those who understand how to summon it by will prosper the most. I can’t count myself among that number, but I catch it from time to time.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Leo Brynielsson

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

A dark room. He stands in the doorway looking in. He could turn back now. The glow of the TV behind him hits the white walls to either side of the door in myriad colors. He hopes something within himself might latch on to those colors. The void of the dark room is too strong. It keeps the colors at bay. It keeps him at bay.

His foot struggles to cross the threshold. Colors dance on his shoe. They embrace him. They don’t mean him harm, but they do harm him. He forces himself through the colors that have extended past his shoe. They’re on his leg now, his T-shirt as white as the walls. Its a canvas. Somehow, he can see the colors there more clearly, more vividly. They strike him with their wonder, with their spell, and he almost gives in, just almost. An accident perhaps, a slip, a gravitational force beyond his control. Whatever it is, it gets him inside the room.

The dark room. He stands inside with the roar of the TV with its sounds and colors fighting to win but losing. He pats the wall for the switch. The smooth and cool wall reminds him of the touchpad of his laptop. Ready to be warmed by his palms and the CPU within once he fires it up to get lost in the abyss of its screen. He finds a single jagged key on the keyboard. He presses it.

The room turns on. White walls, just like the hallway but with vignettes where the light cannot reach. But light reaches many other things, brightens them and their disarray. Shelves tower with unread books. Dusty covers weigh him down with guilt. His games are also there, in boxes, in cases. Lighter than the books, easier to pick up, to insert, to plug in and go. So many he hasn’t tried yet.

A cord divides his path across the floor. It leads to a controller with buttons worn smooth, a d-pad that’s finicky but has character, who he’s become close friends with over the years.

He almost apologizes as he steps over it, then shakes his head at the stupid notion, which cocks his head just enough, just at the right moment to catch another TV that sits next to the bookshelf, on a stand. More game cases lie strewn at the TVs feet, as if thrown without the strength to reach him.
He faces a new enemy, a new monster. Brighter than the walls and his shirt, but without color. The drone and the colors of the TV outside the room are gone. But maybe this new one would inspire him? Give him an idea, a prompt to set the stage, because it was a stage, any empty one he must fill.

A canvas. It rests on the pine easel large enough to hold a canvas nearly the size of the wall behind it, because he has big aspirations, big plans. He just needs to start small. They always say start small, otherwise you’ll never start.

Something is wrong with the canvas. It doesn’t absorb light. It reflects it. His garbled reflection bends across it, as do the book shelves and TV, arcing over him like waves about to break. The only color on the canvas is a triangle of cardboard at the bottom right corner. He picks at it with a fingernail, but the cardboard is trapped behind a plastic sheet that seals the canvas. He grabs a pencil from a mug on his desk of scattered paper and empty paper cups stained with wedges of coffee around their rims.

The pencil isn’t sharp. It won’t break the plastic. Blunted from all the meaningless sketches crumpled on his desk he can’t bear to look at. So much wasted time. So much wasted talent. He laughs at the second thought, from a voice he hasn’t heard in a long time, who had supported his endeavors, because he’d told her it would take time, it would take patience, just like everything worthwhile, like everything that had meaning.

So.

Much.

Waste.

Pain stabs his hand, which has closed into a fist, both sides of the pencil sagging. He opens his hand to find the pencil broken in two, splintered right in the middle. He takes one half and cuts the plastic, which pops and slides away, shrinking on the floor behind the easel.

He touches the canvas with both hands flat. Something presses back. Kicks. He steps back and looks for more. He sees more disturbances where the imperfections of the canvas, the textures upon it create form. It changes depending on where he’s standing, and his mind runs wild.

His hands find a brush and palette and tubes of paint, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from the canvas in fear of losing what must be released from it, because it has been imprisoned for far too long, caused so much waste, so much pain, moreso than what throbs on his hand from the broken pencil, which was a bandaid that needed to be torn off, pulling hair and skin and scab, to let blood flow free just like what’s flowing now across the canvas, breaching its surface to show him color before he places it, so he chases it, that color, always behind but catching up with every beat, and the walls are gone, the room is dark and then full of those colors as the depths of the sea surround him, and fish glide from those depths, behemoths with ribbon tails and bubbles rising from their mouths, but he is not afraid, because he is possessed by a desire to translate their form and value onto the canvas while the very water they swim in aids in blending the paints, creating edges, highlights, shadows, and he is with them, within their world, and the sweat on his hands and leaking from his hairline does not disturb the process, does not disrupt this beautiful flow.

A story both inspired by the artwork and the beautiful town of Varberg in Sweden, where I had the pleasure of staying a night on my Scandanavian road trip.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Alariko

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

He had chosen the old ways. He with no name. He with a name once, though never scribed, though never etched, so ever forgotten.

The old ways were this: Leave. Remember. Return. Forget.

He contemplated these four tenets while grass probed the splits and holes in his sandals, if they were ever his at all; while a palette of flowers bent in the wind as if acknowledging his passing, his returning; while trees plumped along a white stone fence, all bathing in the shower of the sun; while a house sat at the center of these majesties, its broadest wall facing him with nothing but a window and a chimney, a raised hand, as if waving. Goodbye or hello?

But towering in bulbs of churned creme, ruled a cloud. Too small a word, he decided. Five letters weren’t enough to describe what he saw, what gave him pause in this meadow of flower and tree and home.

Home.

Leave. Remember. Return. Forget.

The Four came to him again, with the wind that tousled his hair, which had grown long with curls, billowed his cloak which had grown weary in thread, forging the air into knives to whittle his flesh.

He waited in the center of the meadow, if there was one, looking for a path he had trod when he had left. Because he had left here. He remembered. Or was it the Four playing tricks on him, giving him hope, because they knew that he was worn thin, his body naked to their eyes, and his soul all but naked as well, because his skin was worn thin, too.

He tried to remember more. The flowers, the trees, the white wall divided by faulty stones. Had he placed those stones? The house itself did nothing to jostle free the treasures the spiders had trapped in their webs and sucked dry and wrapped their empty shells in silk. The spiders had what he sought in their bellies, swirling with a head of scarlet hair and rose-kissed cheeks, with a doll hand reaching for his with pale and eager fingers, with a cold nose and a—

The spiders folded their legs and closed their eyes and all was lost to him.

The Second had given him all it would.

He broke his petrification by taking a step toward the house that stared at him with its empty window, where a child of its own, small and feeble and in shadow lurked at its side with an eye of its own. Not a window. A door. A passage. Into his home, where he wouldn’t need memories. Where what the spiders held existed in flesh and bone and blood.

Return. The third. It should have ended at three. Four are two pairs, and two pairs can separate and still not be alone. Odds were more pleasing. One in the center, two to either side, where no matter which left, one would be alone. He had been the one left alone, so he had to be the one to return. Could the two, if there were two at all, still be here? He had left, after all, but that was his calling, his duty, his purpose. A Traveler must leave to return, to—

He would not utter the Fourth. He would not think of it. But the letters of its making formed in the shadows of the trees, in the patterns of the flowers, in the bulbs of the cloud. Everywhere he looked, it lurked. He was without armor in this meadow, without shelter, though a shelter stood near.

He gripped his walking stick and worked his gnarled fingers over its gnarls to massage the courage from it he could not muster. Perhaps it was more than a walking stick. Perhaps it could call forth fire from the Below. Perhaps it could sprout a blade and rend the Fourth in two. Perhaps it was just a walking stick, and perhaps that was enough. All he had left to do was walk, after all. The shelter hadn’t moved, and he had moved one step. Why did he call it a shelter? It was a home. His home.

Remember.

No, he had journeyed to the Second already. He couldn’t go back. Mustn’t go back. It was forbidden. Shunned. He would be shunned.

Return. He had returned, was still returning, tangled in the woven grass that had become a ribbon to lure him, that had become a rope to ensnare him.

He took another step, and his sandal split in two. Two is a pair. He shook his head, he shook his fists, he shook the walking stick over his head, anticipating lightning to bolt from the great cloud on white spider legs so broken yet precise to smite him.

All that happened was nothing. He lowered his arms, lowered his gaze, and took another step, the sandal leaving that foot as well. He staked his walking stick through the flowers and grass, deep into the soil and grubs. A connection was there, rooting him.

He let go. Of it all.

He strode to the house with nothing but his cloak and the spiders in his mind, who had drunk his memories, cocooned the shells. Those cocoons of what used to belong to him unfurled into ribbons not unlike the ones that had paved his path to this house, this home.

Each step unfurled another until his mind was full of shreds colored with the palette of the meadow’s flowers, which bobbed on swells of grass. The structure sat patiently beneath a cloud like no other, sculpted by the gods, everything so lush in its beauty, like a painting made just for him, a man with no name, who had chosen the old ways. To inspire travel, for he was a traveler. To capture the memory of home, for it was his home. To abstract reality enough to separate him from what it truly was. To make him forget.

He dropped his walking stick and stepped inside.

I’ve never written a story about a creepy clown, so why not?

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Gerasimos Kolokas

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

The thing in the window. It haunts me. If I look or do not, it makes no difference. It wears a clown mask with fiery hair and a collared shirt and overalls. The curtain is half drawn.

I like to imagine what’s behind it, there in the darkness. Is it lonely, and it wears the mask to hide its sadness?

It’s gloomy outside, though it always is. Where does its hair find its fire in the gloom? Does its thoughts kindle the fire? What does it think?

I do not know why I call it an it. It is clearly a man. His collard shirt and overalls lie flat against his chest. Such a strange combination, to wear such things while dwelling inside an apartment. The stucco at the windows corner is peeled away, the frame chipped, bowed. As if the frame wishes to break free, to let him out.

Children play on the street. Running in circles, throwing stones. A game I do not recognize. Does the man with the clown mask hope they look up to see fuel for their nightmares? They are in a group now, strong in numbers, but when their mothers call them in for supper, they’ll sit at the table, appetites lost, dreading the solitude of their rooms, because they are big boys and girls who don’t sleep with Mommy and Daddy anymore. They have their own rooms. They have their own windows.

Can they see him if they look out? Do they dare look out? So many questions that will never be answered. Or will they? There I go again. Always asking, never answering.

Should I answer? Perhaps I should. To put an end to all the questions, though I fear there will be more. I do fear. Other things. Oh, I forgot to mention that. I have this odd habit of changing the subject from time to time, regardless of the vector of conversation. Vectors are sharp. Aren’t they? I suppose all directions have sharp edges, for they must cut through time and space. Vectors are also organic. Organisms that transmit, specifically.

Where was I going with this? There, another question. I look across the way to avoid any more questions, to see if he will ask me any as he looks, or at least appears to look, at me from a distance I could jump. Perhaps. I could open my window and try. The fall would be disastrous, though. I try to count the floors but lose count after two. I should be able to count higher than that, because I am an educated man.

Raised on a farmstead, sure, with livestock and everything. But I broke all the stereotypes. Good with words and numbers. I always loved numbers. I count the children before they go inside, so I will know if he takes any in the night, and then I will have the evidence to have him removed, convicted, incarcerated. Executed? And why not? He is not a positive force in this world. I don’t know him, but I do. You can tell a lot about someone’s appearance. They tell you to not judge a book by its cover, but that is a lie. It’s a lie they wish to persist, so they are the only ones who know the truth.

Wow. Look at me. I sound mad. I’m not a conspiracy theorist. I hypothesize only on data. Remember, I am a man of numbers. Words, too, as I mentioned, but I’m sure by now you can see that they churn like . . . Hah. Look at me. At a loss for words. Perhaps I will find the right one if I give it time. Words are like that. They need time. Not like numbers. Numbers flow like the children who now dash inside for supper, then to hide under their bedsheets because they are too frightened to draw the curtains. They know he’s there, looking from above, though he does not appear to look down. They think if they do not look up, he won’t be there. Funny, children thinking that the universe adheres to their observations. They are right to a degree, I suppose. The observer effect, in physics. See, I told you I was a learned man. Physics relies on numbers, so I naturally migrated into adjacent fields of study.

But you don’t care about that, do you? Whoever you are. Listening. Reading. Like him. He does read me, because he cannot hear through the glass. He never sleeps or steps away from the window. I stayed up three days straight once. Never got up even to use the restroom. I won’t bore you with the details. It was for science, which can require great sacrifice.

He knows that with his face that defiles an image created to bring children joy. At least in modern times. But he could be older. Far older. In which case his meaning is anyone’s guess. But that smile, with jagged teeth, curving far beyond what’s physically possible. It hints at other meanings. Hunger. Predation.

That’s why I remain here, at my window, allowing him to haunt me. If I close the curtain completely, I fear he will strike. If I dare look away, even to clean the cobweb in the corner of the window in the corner of my vision, he will strike. If I dare to pass the time by touching up the chipped paint on the window sill, he will strike.

I must live this life to protect the children in their beds, so they may sleep soundly. Safely. When I look, he looks, so I must look at him. I risk a glance at the children just to count them when morning comes. He knows the number, too. Because he looks, too.

He must be a man of numbers, like me. Of words, I cannot say.

The children churn like . . . a rush of blood. Grim but accurate. The right phrase is important. I knew it would come to me eventually.

A fun jaunt through childhood memories of horror movies and video stores.

Thanks for reading.

Artwork by Andy Walsh

DISCLAIMER: This work has not been edited beyond what was done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time and keep it as raw as possible.

The Story

Arlen sifted through the spines of fat plastic Betamax cases in the recesses of Roxy Video. Alphabetized, upright, orderly, the labels were easy to read, without a haze of scratches to dull the artwork beneath. He admired the hand-painted cover of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre set in the negative space of bold black letters that read “Who Will Survive and What Will be Left of Them?”

“No one ever cared about quality,” he said. “Not that you really needed it with this one. Shot in 16mm. Made it creepier. Don’t you think?”

Milo frolicked in the pile of VHS tapes that composed the Comedy section, whose shelf lay in splinters over the checkout counter. The small boy tossed something with John Candy’s face into the hole in the side of the popcorn machine.

“You’re right,” Arlen said. “What a shit dad I am showing you this stuff. But you know it’s fiction. You know it’s not real.” He picked up Cannibal Holocaust. “Wow. I thought this was banned in the US.” Arlen saw the signs of UK distribution on the back. “Man, I wish we had power. Probably for the best. I don’t think you’re ready for this one.”

Milo, at Arlen’s side now, mirrored him as his perused other titles.

Arlen knelt down as Milo disloged a tape. “Now that’s a classic.”

Milo cracked open the case of Lucio Fulci’s Zombi. “Cool.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Arlen said. “Careful. That one deserves special care. Wish you would have seen it. That was before zombies were played out. Yeah, I know. I’m a sucker for a zombie movie.”

Arlen took it from him and put it back. “So, what’s your favorite?”

Milo clomped over the comedy pile and took a hard right behind the check-out counter.

Arlen chased after him, leaping over the tapes and landing on the intestines of one Milo must have gutted. He caught air but grabbed the counter’s edge just in time to save him from falling on his head. The speckled ceiling tiles blackened to a starry sky before inverting back to normal. He flopped onto his stomach, fighting the stars that lingered in his vision, trying to call out for his son, but his wind was lost. He croaked, getting to his feet with the help of the tape-return slot.

He rounded the counter, holding its lip for support, searching the shadows for Milo. Outside the windows at the front of the video store, the street revealed its asphalt mulch and potholes caused from the mayhem that had raged for weeks. The streets were quiet now, except for the wet air that had a language of its own. He would have liked to listen to from his bed after a good horror flick to set the stage for his dreams, where Milo would have been passed out, hardly making it to the part where things were just getting good.

In another time, maybe.

“Milo?” Arlen growled, his voice mostly back. “Buddy?”

A clatter sounded in the darkest part of Roxy. Arlen grabbed the shovel on the counter, his only weapon, rusted and passed down from his father for anything but this. He gripped it in both hands as he trudged toward the sound.

All manner of imagery flashed through his mind, manifesting in the darkness ahead. Milo torn in two, lying in his own pulp, those things feeding off him, whatever they were, and the boy looking up at Arlen with a painless expression. His throat clenched and the abstracted horror before him abstracted further in a blur as he felt his eyes wet.

A door creaked, wafting the smell of old carpet. As if Arlen had stepped back into the old west, a saloon door drifted on its hinges before juddering to a stop. Arlen pushed through, weapon at the ready.

Shadows tangled with his thoughts making all kinds of shapes. Writhing arms, gnashing teeth, eyes filled with an unholy light that–

“Dad.” It was Milo, grinning with an armful of naked ladies trapped on the covers of VHS cases.

Arlen sputtered a laugh and caught himself with the shovel across both knees. He wiped his eyes. “Some of my favorites, too.” He laughed again.

Milo scrambled through another door at the back of the Adult section.

“Milo! What the hell–” Arlen pushed through the figments of his imagination after his son until one of those figments pushed back. The smell of rot and the heat of decomposition suffocated him, but he swung that shovel with the last of the oxygen in his lungs. The creature creaked back upright, spine popping, breath fuming, and Arlen swung again, turning the shovel ninety degrees to cut through the spine, the head thunking to the ground, jaw searching for flesh it couldn’t reach.

Arlen stepped over the body tapping the floor in front of him with the shovel, pulse punching his neck. “Milo?”

Shouldering through another door he hit a wall of fog and cold. At his feet lay a beanie, highlighted by a streetlight.

Arlen wiped away the dew in the knitted grooves, dreading the warmth he might find. “God, no, no, no.”

He did find warmth, where the crest of his son’s head must have been seconds before. But no blood. Thank God, no blood.

“That one,” Milo said from his dreams, from his fears, from a dark room way past his bedtime. Most importantly, though, he said it from just ahead, outside the alley, pointing down the street.

Arlen ran for him. His mind conjured the teeth and arms already reaching for the boy. But his hands found him first, and he held tight, smelling his damp hair.

Milo wriggled free and pointed again. “That one.”

A fog, alive with luminance, whorled at the end of the street, bordered by dead cars, as lurching figures cut through it.

Arlen slung the shovel over his shoulder. He recognized the Carpenter classic. There was no ocean, but it was close enough. “That is a good one.”