Author: Paul O

After posting the chilling story, Into the Blizzard and Out of the Cold, we sat down with R.P. Serin to pepper them with our questions. You can read and listen to the full tale here. There may be minor spoilers ahead!

Q1. Where did the idea come from?

The initial idea came from thinking about what might happen in the moments directly after an unexpected, little understood, apocalyptic event. I wanted to focus on someone as they go about their everyday life and explore how they react to such a sudden cataclysmic change. It didn’t occur to me at the time – I had the initial idea in 2023 – but I’m sure the whole Covid/Lockdown thing is in there somewhere. I remember, at the start of the first lockdown, watching reports of people fighting over bog rolls in the supermarkets. Some even snatched them from the hands of elderly shoppers. It shocked me, at the time, how quickly things began to break down. Sadly, it doesn’t shock me so much anymore.

Q2. How did you decide on your character? Did they just appear intuitivly?

When I tried to find my preparation notes for this story and was quite surprised to find that I hadn’t actually done any, so there wouldn’t have been much of a process of character development beforehand. The only things that I had looked at were a range of articles about county lines gangs in the UK, and the way they exploit children to carry out various illicit activities, so I think that the idea for Chloe must have come to me intuitively, prompting me into further research.

With this story the character and the narrative developed together as I wrote. Sometimes I have an idea of how each will turn out before I start writing, but I mostly like to start with a rough sketch and see where the story takes me.

Q3. I love what happens on the underneath of this story. I found there to be a lot of theme and meaning, etc. Do you focus much on this when you write?

With Chloe, I knew that she possessed a strength that would help her navigate the catastrophic event while those around her fell apart, and I really wanted to explore the idea that even the end of the world can be an opportunity for new beginnings, that life can start anew. Hope is word that often gets misused, distorted, and diluted. It often appears on banal ‘positive affirmation’ type social media posts, but it’s not the vacuous totem of emotional insincerity that it often presented as.

Hope doesn’t mean that everything is going to be fine, and it isn’t permanent. It shifts and changes as conditions dictate. A hope based on blind optimism can be harmful, even deadly, but a hope based on more grounded expectations, a hope that can adapt, can be a powerful force for change. This kind of hope is not the easy option, it takes courage. I’m not sure if any of this comes through in Chloe’s story, but it definitely formed part of its creation.

Some people who have proofread this story have expressed frustration at not knowing what happens next, that the story is unfinished. I always try to take feedback on board, and often make changes based on what people say, but I feel quite strongly that any exploration of what happens once Chloe has reached the station completely misses the point.

Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?

It’s quite a sporadic process. I am always thinking of ideas, and jotting them down, but the actual process writing varies. This is partly because working shifts in the NHS, and being a dad takes up quite a bit of time and energy. Being autistic has some impact on this too – when I get the urge to write I go all in, when I don’t it can be very hard to get motivated. I am trying to remedy this though, by setting aside a set amount of time each day during which I sit down with the intention to write. If nothing comes, then nothing comes, if it does then I write. At the end of the period I stop, even if I think I’m writing something really good. I can’t remember where I got this method from, but I like it. I only set aside 20 minutes each day at the moment, but so far it’s been quite effective.

I’m also learning to play the Irish tenor banjo, which has been a great way for me to feel more connected to my Irish roots. At the moment I spend more time practicing this than I do writing, but I intend to gradually start extending my writing time, so this could flip at some point.

Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?

I do have a novel planned, which I’ve written a lot of notes for and completed a tentative chapter, but this is very much a work in progress and could well turn into the mythical novel that never appears. I nearly have enough short stories to put into their own anthology, which might be a more realistic prospect for the short term, if I can find a publisher who will be interested. I’ve also got a couple of completed short stories that haven’t found homes yet, and I’ve got several ideas lined up to start.

Linktree (www.linktr.ee/rpserin) is the best place to find my work, but I’m not on many social media sites. I am fairly active on Bluesky (@rpserin.bsky.social), and also have an Instagram page (https://www.instagram.com/r.p.serin).

They had stopped in the arse end of nowhere. All Chloe could see from her window was an unceasing expanse of desolate moorland. The unseasonal lack of rain and relentless heat had left it looking dehydrated and burnt. Isolated trees provided the occasional lift to the flattened landscape, twisted and gnarled by decades of assault by unhindered winds, though they were perfectly still in the motionless air. Thick tracts of thorny vegetation grew out of the scarred land.

Fucking trains!

They wouldn’t let her get away with being late again. If there was no announcement, or if the train didn’t start moving soon, she’d have to call Nate.

And he wouldn’t like that.

She’d delivered the package and she had the money, all of it. Though until he had it in his own hands she would be under suspicion, and even then, there would still be consequences. She shouldn’t be so fucking lazy. She should have caught a different train. Or even worse: She shouldn’t be such a lying bitch.

A group of football fans, who had been lubricating their livers since they’d boarded several stops back, started to grow impatient. Their unspoken anxiety at the prospect of missing the match reflected in the changing tone of their chants. An elderly woman, sitting across the aisle, smiled at her, and when Chloe didn’t return the gesture she turned back to the book she’d been reading.

 Time stuttered on. No announcement. No sign of a conductor.

The sense of agitation grew, rippling through the carriage. The old woman had put her book away and was now staring into the screen of her phone, jabbing impatiently at it. She wasn’t the only one having trouble.

Most of the other passengers were staring into their phones too, with a variety of expressions that ranged from bemusement to barely contained rage. Chloe pulled out her phone: a throw away burner that Nate had given her specifically for this job. The one number stored on it was only supposed to be called in an emergency, but even if she wanted to use it, there was no signal.

She squeezed her thumbnail, pushing down until it blanched white, until the pain was strong enough to reset her thoughts, to give her space to think.

Outside, tree branches were swaying gently. A breeze started to blow. In the distance, clouds started to form. Perhaps it was going to rain, though for now the white sun continued to shimmer in its own heat. Chloe squinted, trying to look directly at it. It seemed smaller than usual.

Her head began to spin. Looking away from the sun and back into the carriage she was unable to focus. A series of cramps rolled across her abdomen. She bent forward and cried out, clutching her belly with one hand, covering her mouth with the other. Acid burnt her throat as it crept from her stomach and into her mouth. Beneath the bitter, sting she could taste the bacon flavoured crisps she’d eaten earlier. Lumps of half-digested food were collecting at the back of her tongue, making her cough and gag.

There was retching and groaning, coming not from her, but from others in the carriage. Whatever was affecting Chloe was also taking its toll on them. People were shuffling out of their seats, fumbling around for the exit. Some were doubled over. Some were crawling on their hands and knees. Others were vomiting. Panic set in.

It was then that the shockwave smashed into the side of the train. The noise was deafening. Metal crunched, glass smashed, heavy luggage launched from the overhead racking. People started to scream.

The temperature drop was instantaneous and savage. Flurries of feathered sleet swirled around the passengers, who were now surging towards the exits like frightened animals fleeing a threat that none could understand. They appeared to be acting in instinctive unison, though this was just an illusion. A woman who was wearing a top that read In a World Where You Can Be Anything, Be Kind slammed her elbow into the side of another woman’s face, shoving her terrified daughter into the luggage rack as she pushed her way past. The blood from her mother’s face was dripping into her hair.

One man, neatly trimmed beard, salmon pink chinos, clambered for the broken window, trampling over anyone who got in his way. Some tried to help those who were struggling, though they were soon jostled aside, becoming victims of the herd themselves.

Chloe was willing to bet that these people hadn’t experienced much fear in their lives, not like she had. She was still scared of Nate, and the rest of them, though rarely for herself. Whatever they could do to her had already been done. She knew she could do what was needed to survive. It was what they would do to her family if she didn’t do what they asked, that was what she really feared. That was what kept her there, what ensured her obedience, long after she’d realised that her acceptance had been a one-way ticket. Non-refundable. Terms and conditions apply. The safety of your family may be at risk. Even the knife that she carried was intended to protect Nate’s interests, not hers.

A thick fog had descended on the moor. Chloe could barely see beyond the edge of the track. Some of the passengers were running into it, many of them staggered and fell as they faded into the veil of white. Others were shuffling around the side of the train. Many continued to vomit. Sleet turned to hail, then snow. Nobody was dressed for the occasion, yet they continued to venture into the outdoors. The inside of the carriage was cold, but it was surely worse out there.

The temptation to escape was strong, but what would be the point? Taking on the wilderness would be an obvious mistake. Following the track would be a better bet, though not with the weather as it was, and not dressed like this. Best to wait.

A blast of wind rocked the carriage. Snow continued to pour in through the smashed windows, covering the seats, soaking into their tired chewing gum adorned upholstery. There was nobody left except for her and the lady with the book who had smiled at her earlier. She was still in her seat, holding her arms across her chest, shivering. Her head was bent forward, her eyes closed.

Despite the nausea, Chloe was hungry. She could go for long periods without food, but she also made a habit of taking it whenever she had the chance. Her mouth was ashtray dry. There was a catering trolley that had passed by several hours ago; she’d thought about swiping a chocolate bar, but the right opportunity hadn’t presented itself. It might have been raided already, but judging by the levels of panic there was a good chance that it had not.

She eased herself from her seat, hoping not to wake the old lady.

Standing was an unexpected challenge. She felt her eyes roll as her legs gave way. Grabbing the headrest of the seat was the only thing that stopped her collapsing into a heap.

Without warning, the woman reached across and grabbed her hand. Chloe pulled it back. ‘What the fuck.’

The woman smiled, folded her arms again, and shuffled into her seat.

Chloe turned away and started moving along the aisle, clawing the headrests as she went, like she was taking part in a horizontal climbing contest. Her legs felt hollow, her body insubstantial. What was this? Terrorism? Global warming? An act of God? Nothing made sense. The carriage shuddered again as the winds howled around it; a frightened animal, confused, cowering from the elements. She stumbled several times before reaching the next carriage, and the catering trolley, which had been abandoned, along with everything else. Jackets, newspapers, children’s toys. People had even left their laptops behind.

In more ordinary circumstances Chloe would have made the most of the opportunity, taking anything that could be transported easily and sold quickly, though all she wanted now was something to keep her warm. There were no coats that were thick enough to do the job on their own but there were plenty of items to layer up with. A couple of t-shirts, a thin jumper, and a jacket from the kind of suit that smarmy city boys working in finance wore. If you’re going to make a living on the misfortune of others, you might as well look good while you do it, right? Though Chloe never really thought they looked good at all, just banal and insincere.

Biting into a tuna and cucumber sandwich, Chloe was transported back to when she still lived with her parents. Whenever it was sunny, her mum would make tuna and cucumber sandwiches to eat in the garden on a blanket she’d laid out on the lawn. Even as their relationship started to breakdown, they continued to do this together. A refuge from the escalating chaos. Her mum never really had a clue what Chloe had been up to, or the company she kept. She had suspected the drugs, but the stealing, the violence, the things she would have to do for Nate – she was in the dark. Maybe she worked it out once Chloe had left. Maybe not.

She’d never dared to go back, for their sake as much as hers.

There was a sudden commotion from the previous carriage. Chloe thought she could hear the low murmur of a man’s voice. The woman was shouting. She sounded scared.

Instinct urged her to move quickly, away from the noise. Sandwich still in hand, Chloe started towards the next carriage. The dizziness continued but wasn’t as debilitating as before.

‘Get your hands off me!’ Hearing the woman plead awakened a part of Chloe that she’d kept buried for a long time. Why, of all the things she had seen and done, was it this simple cry that broke through? Perhaps it was the strangeness of the situation, the otherworldly isolation that had descended with the icy flurries and freezing mist, the irrational responses of the other passengers.

She turned back. The woman was still in her seat. A man stood over her, holding her down with one hand while the other tried to prize the handbag from her frail hands. It was clear she had no intention of letting go.

Chloe reached down and pulled the knife from her sock, keeping the blade retracted. ‘Hey!’ The man turned to look at her. ‘Why don’t you leave her the fuck alone?’

The woman struggled to pull the bag towards her. The man tightened his grip, glaring at Chloe.

‘That’s my jacket, you scutty little thief.’ His left eye twitched. An inexplicable hate bursting at the seams, let loose as the new object of his focus compelled him to charge.

Chloe flicked the blade and held it up. She warned the man not to come any closer, but he kept his course, swinging towards her face.

The knife sliced neatly through the sky-blue fabric of his shirt and into the flesh of his forearm, stopping as it met with bone. The man jerked his arm away, widening the wound, trailing blood across the floor. He looked at Chloe in horror, cradling the injured limb across his chest. He staggered away from her. ‘Filthy whore,’ he spat, muttering more feeble obscenities as he turned to run, conviction wilting with each uttered word. The woman flinched as he passed. He fled out into the fog.

The wind showed no sign of abating, and though it could be no later than two in the afternoon, the daylight was rapidly vanishing. Soon they would be plunged into darkness.

‘Thank you.’ The woman placed her bag on the table in front of her and smiled again. She seemed to have shrunk. ‘I don’t know why I fought so hard to keep it. There is little in here that will be of use to me anymore, and he could have taken any number of things that the other passengers left behind. Luckily, I gave up trying to understand people a long time ago.’

This made Chloe smile. She felt as if her whole short life had been nothing more than a futile effort to understand people, to understand herself. She wiped her blade clean before putting it away. If it bothered the woman then Chloe couldn’t tell. She just pulled a hip flask from her bag, took a long swig and offered it. Chloe hesitated.

‘I wouldn’t normally offer my scotch to anyone, especially one as young as you, but given the circumstances… Obviously, if you don’t want any then I’m not going to insist. More for me.’

Chloe took the flask and drank. ‘Thanks.’ She handed it back and then reached into the jacket pocket. ‘Do you want these?’ The small packet of custard creams felt measly in her hand, she felt foolish for offering them, but they were greeted with the warmest smile to have come her way for a very long time.

‘That’s really very kind of you, but I don’t think I will be making it off this train.’ Her smile didn’t falter. ‘You should have them, and then you should search for as many useful items as you can carry. Torches, food, warmer clothes. That jacket will be no good out there.’ She shivered incessantly, voice wavering as she spoke. ‘I’m sure it was summertime when we boarded, and it should be still.’ She smiled, eyes glinting despite the cold. ‘But it looks like winter now.’

Chloe took the jacket off and laid it over her new friend. A presumptuous move, but one that met no resistance. ‘You’re a very kind young woman. But please, don’t worry about me, you should go and find help. I doubt there is any coming this way. Follow the tracks to the next station.’

Nodding, Chloe headed to the main luggage rack at the end of the carriage. She was more likely to find useful items in the larger cases. It paid off. A few holdalls in and she’d found a decent looking torch and an array of Skiing items. They were too big but would do the job. She put them on and stood by the open door, looking out into the swirling darkness into which the vast landscape had been concealed. It was full dark now. The sun had vanished completely.

One of the football fans was lying beside the track, curled into a foetal position, bare arms wrapped tightly around his chest. She shined the torch on him. His pale skin, mottled and purple, was becoming lost beneath a thickening layer of snow. His eyes were open. His lips slack and blue. She doubted his companions had managed to get much further.

Chloe glanced towards the lady. Her eyes were closed, and she was huddled into the jacket, shivering. Chloe looked outside again. What was the rush?

It didn’t take long to find a couple of decent blankets. She rolled one into a pillow shape and positioned it under the woman’s head, tucking her in with the other. She opened her eyes and pushed at the blanket. Chloe nearly took it away until the woman whispered ‘hand.’ In just this short amount of time she had grown too weak to free her arm from the loosely fitted covering.

Chloe eased her arm from the blanket, taking care not to expose too much of her shuddering body. The woman’s hand clasped her own. No more words were spoken, and the woman soon fell into what, as far as Chloe could tell, was a gentle sleep. The intensity of the shivering lessened and eventually her breathing slowed; her hand remained clasped around Chloe’s until it finally loosened and fell away.

Chloe covered the woman’s body before finally leaving the train. She hadn’t realised how much shelter the carriage had provided until she stepped into the biting wind and turbulent blizzard. She was thankful to the person who had left the skiing gear behind, though didn’t dwell too long on what their fate might have been.

Walking was difficult. Her legs and body still felt ineffective and weightless, though if she thought about it too much, the nausea would begin to return. The weather conditions didn’t help.

Chloe didn’t know what she’d find once she got to the station. She doubted the emergency services would be prepared – whatever had happened, happened fast. Perhaps there would be less panic, people working together, helping each other out. Perhaps not. Either way, Chloe knew that there was no going back. Everything had changed, and yet somehow it felt familiar.

Misery might change its face, but the smile stays the same.

The struggle would be hers, it always had, regardless of who tried to shape it. It didn’t really matter if she froze to death before the day was out, or whether she miraculously made it to old age, her life – like her fear, like her hope – would be hers and hers alone.

Editor’s Note

What’s strong in this story is the challenge that the events pose on the protagonist. She’s in a bad way, in with some bad people, and yet we see her trying to do the right thing. She’s also a bit of a bad-ass, and that’s very easy to route for.

We interviewed the writer.

Before you read this interview with writer Lena Ng, we suggest reading her tale, A Day with Horrible the Clown. The interview may include some spoilers.

Q1. I love the playfulness of this story. How did you come up with it?

I saw a prompt for clown stories – it’s hard to be original when creepy clowns are such a popular horror trope. But aren’t clowns supposed to be funny? I’m scared of them even when they are being funny. Humour can be aggressive and violent, while on the flip side, horror can be hilarious. I laugh at jump scares, the unexpectedness and silliness of them. I can’t help myself.

Q2. There are a lot of famous clowns out there. Did any particular clowns form the inspiration for this story?

Horrible the Clown admires Pennywise and the Killer Clowns from Outer Space. I like the thought of clowns having their own code and culture, and dreadful magic behind the laughter. They are not people under the makeup; they are something else, something sinister. They don’t understand why you’re not laughing.

Q3. One of the things I love is when you can tell that the author enjoyed themselves when writing, and that comes across here. Was that the case? Or was the end result a lot of hard work?

I had a great time writing it. It was like being in a room with friends and throwing jokes around, each one more gruesome than the next.

Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?

I tell myself I will write longer projects, but I never do. I’ve written one novel which didn’t get published, but have over a hundred published short stories. I don’t have the stamina to commit to longer works, though I have low-key ambitions to do so. Short stories are fun, but novels are work, and I like to have fun when writing.

Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?

I have a checklist of stories to complete. I surf websites for calls for submissions, see which ones interest me, and add them to my checklist. Then it’s the challenge to get as many of them done by the end of the month. For more of my stories, “Under an Autumn Moon” is my collection on Amazon.

Hi Pal! I’ve heard you’ve run away to join the circus. Aren’t you lucky you’ve got a day with your favourite circus performer, Horrible the Clown. Come spend a day behind the scenes to learn all about clowning. You will get to see the insanity that goes on behind the makeup. If you follow my lead, you’ll be a success. I’ve done so well for myself, I can freelance on the side. I’ve built a nice, big house, deep in the backwoods. Not everyone can appreciate a clown for a neighbour. Last house I had in town was burnt to the ground. I can take a hint.

First, it’s time to wake up. Nothing like getting hit in the face by an oversized rubber hammer. Boing! Ow, that hurts! Funny, eh? You laugh when I’m injured. That’s okay, it’s funny to see others get hurt. At least until they start vomiting blood.

Now it’s time for exercises like stretches. Gotta keep limber for all the mischief in store. Left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, pull and twist, bend and bounce. Stretch your arm in a stabbing motion, move your body in a clubbing motion. Now for some cardio: jump rope, shadow boxing, butt kicks. We need to be fit in case we get run out of town.

Next is getting ready. First, I choose the wig. I like to pick the colour based on my mood. Red is for angry, orange for stab-y, green is for jealous, blue is for short-of-breath etc. Easy to remember, right? Once the wig is stapled to your head, it’s time for makeup. It’s okay to apply a fresh coat of paint over the cracked layer from yesterday. Like rings on a tree, more layers mean another day alive. Get the brush, dip it into the lead-free paint, and slowly move it down the side of a cheek, letting it drip down the neck. White paint stands for the innocence of youth. Paint on a red nose and round red cheeks in honour for the master we serve. Brightly coloured costumes to hide the filth. If the teeth look dull, I give them a thorough sharpening before I leave the house.

Next, a hearty breakfast. Can’t have a good day without a good breakfast. I chow on a full clown breakfast of rusty nails for iron, black mold to prevent scurvy, and swallow it down with the tears of lost children. Then I prepare a breakfast for my pets. They live in cages in the basement. They are on a strict diet so they can’t get too big or too strong. Dog Boy gets a gnawing bone and Cat Girl gets a mouse. Technically, they are not kids any more. I’ve had them for a long time. They’ve been house-broken and trained to behave so they don’t scream as much, just whimper once in a while. To make them feel better, I tell them their parents are coming to rescue them. When they don’t, to ease their disappointment, I tell them their parents couldn’t make it because I ate them. It’s such a funny joke. That’s how I gather their tears for my breakfast.

I go through my agenda for the month’s jobs, to see if I need to pick up any supplies. Balloons to make animal figures, a Ruger, arrows with steel tips. Don’t want to be accused of being an amateur. Swords for arm-cutting, axes for head-cutting. Each clown has their own set of skills, but the more things you can do, the more jobs you can book.

Today’s job was a six-year-old kid’s party on Rich Folks’ Lane. They wanted a pony, a bunny, and a couple of turtles. I made some balloon piranhas and grizzly bears. The kids had a great time seeing their parents mauled. Can never tell with those balloon animals. They’re wild and unpredictable. One time, I thought the shark was going to behave. Don’t know why I thought that. Spoiler: it didn’t.

The pony reared up and stampeded over the toddlers. The bunny bit the mom on the bum. The fire-breathing turtles burned down the shed. To escape, they dug a big hole. One kid fell in and they’re still looking for him.

It’s funny to see people getting hurt. Clown magic is a bit on the crazy side. It only wants to get laughs. There is no right or wrong. The floppy shoes trip the old ladies, the honking squeezy thing gives people surprise heart attacks, the plastic flowers shoot acid. Hope you weren’t too attached to your eyes.

I like to juggle grenades. Why not? Danger is the fun of it. I’ve only blown up a couple of faces. Skipping with pythons is also a great act. I told them the snakes weren’t real, but they stopped believing me after one swallowed the rabbit. I squeezed the python to regurgitate it back up, but the rabbit wasn’t the same. I had to ditch that party early and hide in the storm drain. I rather liked it down there.

Sometimes, I bring other props. Chainsaws, mallets, spears, whatever the job needs. I’m great at clean up as well and a pro with bleach. Blood stains are not a problem for me anymore.

After the job, I go back home for dinner. Dog Boy and Cat Girl never seem too happy to see me, though I feed them pretty regular. I’ve tried to teach them some tricks, but they rock and cry so much I’ve all but given up.

If I’m not too tired, I’ll go back to hide in the sewers. I peek through the drain cover and give ‘em a big smile. I love to add to my collection of arms. I’ve got all kinds of sizes. When I need to curate my collection, I feed the ones I no longer want to my pets. They’ll eat them when they get hungry enough.

Anyway, you wanted to run away and join the circus. Since it’s late, come stay over in my basement. No, I insist. I’ll show you a trick. You’ll laugh so hard, you’ll cry. It’s funny when we get hurt, isn’t it?

Editor’s Note

Who doesn’t love a clownish tale? I loved the playfulness of this one and I hope I did it justice when narrating it.

Read our interview with Lena here.

After posting Marigold Rowell’s excellent tale, The Transom, we asked the writer a whole bunch of questions. You can read or listen to the tale here.

Q1. Where the hell did the idea for the entity come from in this story, and how can I banish it forever?  

The Transom was actually inspired by an episode of The Dick Van Dyke show, in which several characters plan to sneak into a locked office through a transom window over their boss’s door.  I thought how creepy it would be to glance up and see someone peering down at you through a high transom. That person would either have to be standing on a ladder, or be ridiculously tall.

To banish this entity forever, make sure you keep the curtains closed at night. And always take the elevator.

Q2. Do you tend to plot your stories out, or do you let them flow and just see what happens?

A mix. I write the beginning pages, and at that point I know if the story feels like a story. It’s very much a gut instinct thing. Sometimes, I will realize it’s a cool concept with no plot. Or, I’ve got the wrong angle of approaching the idea. Or I need to wait for additional inspiration to drop out of my subconscious.  If the beginning passes the sniff test, I’ll make a rough outline of the rest. Usually, I’ll stick to that, unless I get a really good idea.

Q3. I’m awed by the level of your descriptions in this story. Is that something you purposefully focus on? Any tips to share on how to nail vivid descriptions? 

I’m a visual person (I also draw and paint), and my writing process is basically transcribing the movie that I’m watching in my head. I do focus on descriptions deliberately. I’m a fan of onomatopoeia and subtle rhymes. I also love words that sound spooky. Lugubrious. Spine. Cloying. Abyss. Glower. Visceral.  Fun stuff like that.

My best advice would be to choose your descriptive words carefully, read your story out loud, and don’t be afraid to add a little purple prose here and there.

Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?

That’s a tough one to answer, since I usually have multiple projects going at once. I’ll work on something until I get stuck, then I’ll switch. A few years back, I wrote a novel, which I’m now shopping around to literary agents. (Wish me luck!) But, I’ve been in short story mode for a while. The longest thing I’ve written recently is a novelette of 15k words or so, which I finished last year.

I do go through periods where I don’t want to write at all. That’s when a lot of my artwork happens.

Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?

I’m in the upcoming anthology Suffering the Other from Dim Shores Press (slated for March/April of 2026). All the profits from this anthology will benefit two charities: Transgender Law Center and the National Immigration Project. I’m very proud to be included in the project, and I encourage everyone to check it out.

I’m planning to release a few ebooks on my Ko-Fi page, as soon as I finish editing them. (Soon!) One is a novella titled Quahogs, about giant mutant clams attacking a sleepy Massachusetts beach town.
You can find me at https://marigoldrowell.carrd.co, which has my latest news, plus links to my social media.

Upon reading Jessica’s tale, I had to pepper her with questions to get their thoughts on writing and where the idea came from. You can check out The Immortal Question here.

Q1. How did you come up with the idea for this story? Please don’t tell me from personal experience…

I was thinking about the differences between being immortal and being invulnerable, I believe. Depending on who you ask, “immortal” is sometimes defined as someone who won’t die of natural causes, but can still be killed, while other times it means fully invulnerable. It really gets down to what one defines as “mortal,” I suppose. In any case, I wondered about the limits of immortality, and how it might affect the people around the immortal being. Then, naturally, I wondered how it might all go wrong.

Q2. I love how human this story is. No family is perfect, and these small (or large) jealousies happen in every family. Did you know from the outset that this story would be about that?

Not really! That was something that just came out as I wrote, as I questioned who the narrator is and why they would be so willing to look after their brother—and then be so willing to figure his condition out. I suppose jealousy and magical powers go hand-in-hand in my head; I was always so jealous of the characters in the fantasy and sci-fi books I read as a kid. The leap from “a character is immortal but comatose” to “and the person taking care of him is jealous” probably came from there. The fact that the narrator isn’t jealous of Benny’s immortality is kind of unintentionally ironic, isn’t it?

Q3. I love the sound and repetition of ‘And yet…’. What made you write in this way?

These kind of repetitions (Chuck Palahniuk uses them constantly and calls them “choruses”) always strike me as so gimmicky even though I adore them, and it felt like the perfect way to encapsulate how things should be going versus how they actually are. I planned to go back through and replace them with less repetitious wording later, but my beta readers all said it added so much. A good lesson in why you should sometimes ignore that inner critic who hates everything that’s ever been done before.

Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?

Short fiction is a relatively new area for me, and I’ve been dabbling in it for the past few years. Although I love writing novel-length stories that nobody else will ever read, and I love that slow build of characterization and world, shorts are where I feel I can truly contain the entire story in my head at one time. This makes it a lot more straightforward (if not easier) to revise, edit, and rewrite, and a heck of a lot quicker to submit for others to read. Still, probably 25% of my writing time is spent on short stories, and the rest is put into that novel vault that you’ll probably never hear from again.

Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?

Nothing at the moment! This was my first accepted submission anywhere, something I’ll probably be eternally grateful for, and I’m just pleased as punch to be included. Hopefully it isn’t the last you’ll hear from me.

The car had sped down Hell’s Canyon Road, alongside one of the steepest, deepest cliffs in the United States. There were no signs of braking. No alcohol or drugs in Benny’s system. My brother had suddenly, spontaneously gone over the edge, straight down. Judging by the distance, he must have been going ninety-five. The Prius had been mashed into a pulp, and my brother along with it.

He should have been dead. And yet…

And yet.

“Nearly miraculous” is what the doctor said. She was tall, clipped, no-nonsense, which made her wide-eyed surprise at his recovery all the more intense. “He should not be alive. Nothing that came out of there should be.”

Benny had lost an arm outright, one leg so mangled that they removed it on-site, and what remained was only half of my brother—less, even. In the months since the crash he had lost even more muscle mass, wasting away while the rest of his body healed. Now his tan had faded, hair was turning prematurely gray. To me, he was unrecognizable.

The fact that he survived was one in a million, a billion, the doctor repeated. So we couldn’t, shouldn’t expect more. There are some things the brain just cannot recover from, and at this point he was not going to.

Benny, the perfect firstborn, the man I was supposed to aspire to be. Now he wasn’t a golden child, though. He was a braindead one.

The doctor said nothing, the insurance investigators said nothing, but I knew this was his way of making revenge. That he had done this to himself. A suicide attempt or something. It’s always the ones who you think have it all, isn’t it? Just like Benny. And just like Benny, he hadn’t thought of what I would have to do once he was gone.

Don’t take this the wrong way. I loved my brother. I did. He had been my best friend growing up, and, after our parents were both gone, my only family. Despite our differences (there were many) and our disagreements (there were more) he was, at the end, my brother, and I was his. When I first saw what had become of him after the wreck, I bawled my eyes out.

The thing is that after five, six, nine months of overseeing all of your brother’s operations, of watching as nurses turned him over and sponged the shit that dribbled out of his ass, well, you start to only remember the things that you hated about him. The way that he never lorded his success over you, even though you deserved it. The way that he knew not to give you more than a little bit of money at a time. The way you’d see the sadness in his eyes, sometimes, when he looked at you.

Now when I looked at him, pulling one eyelid open, I’d see nothing. A glassy, dead stare. Like a hole in the side of an abandoned house, revealing cobwebs and dust and a curious absence of people.

…and yet.

And yet it was so, so hard to tell the doctor what she was waiting for, what she was fearing I would say. Like everyone else in the world, she had gravitated to Benny, decided that he was one of her flock to look over, that his successes were her successes. He had always got that treatment, always because people wanted to support him without him asking. Even completely braindead, without that charming smile, that spark hidden behind his pupils, people tripped over themselves to help him.

Nothing could help him, now, of course. Which is why I eventually told the doc what she was waiting for: that I was ready for her to let it, at last, end. To cut the power. Pull the plug. Stop the machines that were doing their damndest to keep my perfect brother alive.

Nodding, swallowing her sudden, unprofessional tears, she made a motion to the nurse. There was a small flurry of activity as the wires and tubes tethering my brother to this side were disconnected. Then one last switch was flipped.

Life exited the room as the droning machines lost their power, as their capacitors ran down. The only electronics left on were the sensors, to tell us the exact moment that Benny’s soul ran out, too, if it was even still in there. All of our eyes were on the little readout as it showed his heart faintly, faintly beating.

One.

Two.

…three, four, five…

He should have been dead. He should have died. It should be over. That well of relief that I had been waiting to wash over me, the dam of “finally, this part of my life can end,” should have broken.

And yet, miracles of miracles, Benny would not die.

***

I moved into one of Benny’s houses, a nice modernist place around Payette Lake. Everything in it had rounded corners and clean, white surfaces, exactly how Benny liked it. Managing his finances was a full-time job, which is why I used some of that deep reservoir of money to pay someone else to do it. Benny wouldn’t have let that happen, but Benny always wanted to do things himself. I think at one point he had three full-time jobs. The only job I had ever held for any long period was as a part-time drug dealer, which satisfied me the same way playing with Benny’s chemistry set had, back when I was a kid.

Now my only job was taking care of Benny.

He got his own special room, the one with a gigantic round window, outfitted with all of the necessary medical doodads that basically kept him from stinking up the place. Nothing that would actually help to keep him alive, apart from the ones that transferred nutrients into his blood, to take the place of eating. I didn’t want him starving to death, after all. That would be cruel.

Wasn’t this half of a life cruel enough? They said he didn’t think, didn’t even dream, as he lay there. He wasn’t sleeping, because this was the most awake he’d ever be again. Dead, but not dead. Alive, but far from alive.

Some nights I’d sit in there with him with a bottle of vodka and a jar of olives, mixing martinis in my stomach. We’d talk. He was a shitty conversation partner, but then it was nice to finally have the upper hand in something. I’d tell him how he had been so good at school that I felt no reason to even bother trying. How things had come so much easier to him than to me, and how he had been praised for his good luck. How I had never had so much as a pat on the back for getting a promotion. I guess moving up the food chain from drive-through worker to burger flipper isn’t that impressive to a dude who could make a few thousand bucks via one smart phone call.

He didn’t have any smart things to say now, the fucker. Nothing that made me nod and feel bad about myself until he left the room.

Out of boredom and some unplaceable urge I dug through his things, pretending I was a treasure hunter on a TV show. There were a few nice finds: stacks of the same sort of paintings that hung on the clean white walls of his house; odd, tacky jewelry that was probably worth thousands to a collector; some antique books written in a language I hadn’t known existed. Was he into mysticism, I wondered? Voodoo? Now I would never know. There was a box of letters, too. Some were hand-written ones from Mom and Dad, because apparently daily calls weren’t enough. I was mildly surprised that he had printed out texts and nudes from old lovers—it seemed so rude, maybe even illegal. I had no idea Benny could think the word “illegal”. There was even a note addressed to me, scribbled on his letterhead. “It’s my fault” is all it said.

It sure was.

I would beg, plead with him, tears rolling down my face, vodka scorching my throat, to die. To leave me free of him, finally. From the day I was born he had hung over my head, telling me without a word that I wasn’t good enough, and now, after what nobody but me would admit was a suicide attempt, he was still doing it, even though he did nothing but shallowly, slowly breathe. By all rights I should have been done with him. We both finally agreed that the world would be better without him.

And… yet…

I don’t know when I changed my mind. When it became clear to me that I had one path forward. I woke up one morning, the sun dappling off of the still surface of Payette into the kitchen, and knew that it was finally time to be rid of Benny. This part of my life, nearly three decades, was going to end, today.

I had watched it in enough movies to feel like I was just going through the motions of a play, seeing out a conclusion that was already going to happen. The pillow clenched between my hands, I looked down at Benny’s face. His eyes weren’t fully closed, a slight gap between the lids revealing the greys of shadows. I didn’t mind; I didn’t feel watched. I didn’t even feel acknowledged.

I pressed the pillow down across his face, smothering his nose and mouth.

I counted, slowly, and had a flashback to the day we had pulled the plug. A laugh bubbled up my throat as I realized this wasn’t even the first time I had tried to kill my brother. Now his chest was stopping its steady, slight rise and fall. The whisper of breath that came out of his nostrils ceased, blockaded by silk pillowcase and downy stuffing.

I counted, and counted. When I reached sixty I kept going. I got to one hundred and couldn’t stop. After all, he had survived an impossible crash. I needed to be sure.

At two hundred Mississippi I at last lifted the weight from my brother’s face, and leaned back. It was done.

He was dead.

I held one wrist and pressed my fingers against the veins there, half remembering my short stint in the Scouts before also remembering Benny’s Eagle ceremony. No, those memories would be leaving, now. They’d be gone soon enough, along with Benny.

…and yet, a slight thump against my fingers.

 “No,” I croaked, my mouth drier than it had ever been. I fumbled for his neck, pushing two fingers into the major artery there, but already saw that his chest was rising again, that air was being forced, gently, ever-so-gently, out from his lungs.

His pulse was weak but persistent, until both of my hands clamped down around his throat and squeezed as hard as they could.

I saw the monitors at his bedside fall silent. I saw the steady line of his heart rate stop. I watched it for one long moment, then another, and another. It felt like hours, but the clock said that I kept his throat closed for five minutes. When I at last relaxed my grip my fingers refused to open, they were so cramped.

A moment of silence, of stillness. That dam began to let the waters out and my heart felt like a weight was lifted.

Then the monitor beeped.

His chest began to rise as his lungs filled.

And I screamed.

***

Life became a purgatory. Time passed for me about as quickly as it did for Benny—that is, it slowed to an impossible crawl. Days blurred into a single never-ending haze. I’d fall asleep whenever or wherever I felt like. I’d eat rarely, but eventually nothing was left. I started to drink most of my meals. Trash and empty bottles piled up, turning the whited sepulcher into an animal’s den, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even bother opening the shades or turning on lights.

I drank and I watched Benny.

I suppose, at that time, I could have left him, couldn’t I? I knew there was no point in monitoring his pulse, in keeping up with his vitals. I knew then what I know now, even though I hadn’t quite confirmed it as officially.

He could. Not. Die.

So why not abandon him? Why not dig a hole and bury him, or throw him in the lake? Why not just leave the house, board it up, refuse to sell it? Leave him there until his gross, wispy beard was down to his toes. I could go back to the city, reconnect with my old friends, get back into cooking like I had always wanted to. After these months of hospice care, and rent, and everything else, the money was already running out. But I was allowed to spend more, more of his money, because now it was my money.

There was also the fear of getting caught, of someone I gave a shit about finding me in my squalor, surrounded by trash and my older brother’s decrepit, living corpse. They would see me and know me, at last, for what I was: a parasite who couldn’t do anything right, not even let his brother die.

And, in the end, he was still my brother. He always would be.

I fired the nurse that came by every other day. I stopped the nutrient drip and the saline. It saved several thousand bucks, and besides, why bother? I was tired of changing the bags, anyway. With no liquid entering his body, he stopped pissing himself, too, which was great. I didn’t bother cleaning him but after a time the smell went away. It’s not like you could tell that smell from the rest of the house. And though he starved and thirsted more than I think I could possibly imagine, though he became a pile of twigs under a sheet, he lived on.

“Miraculous,” the doc had said. She hadn’t known how right she was. This was beyond a medical mystery, or pure luck. There was something else going on here, something beyond what I could understand, but I tried. God did I try.

And yet, eventually, I got bored. And tired. And lonely. And so one day I snatched up a butcher knife from the kitchen and plunged it into his chest.

The point slipped right between his ribs, punching through like the skin was paper, like his lungs and heart were nothing more than crumbly hamburger. Blood spurted and spread and I did it again, then again. I left five gaping holes in his sweat-stained, urine-dyed, filthy hospital gown, then dropped the knife and curled up on the floor, sobbing.

I fell asleep in that position. When I awoke I was stiff as a week-old carcass and forgot, for a moment, where I was. What had happened.

But Benny was fine, or at least what counted for him. The wounds were scabbed over, looking almost like someone had stitched them up. I knew from the blood on the knife, still wet to the handle, that I had stabbed through his entire chest cavity. And. Yet.

It was at this point that I truly began to experiment.

***

For the first time in years I had a purpose, something gifted to me from my brother, something that he couldn’t take away or put on an allowance. I felt that old curiosity well up inside me, a drive that I hadn’t felt since I was a kid.

I started with some simple cuts. Those took as long to heal as you’d imagine: a week for a small one, a bit longer if I went a little deeper, but if I made the cut too deep, the rate of healing would increase.

The more life-threatening a wound was, the faster it would scab.

Things escalated quickly from there.

Head wounds healed the fastest, but only the ones around his brain. When I removed an eye, nothing came of it, although the skin healed over so quickly that I swore I could see cells form.

Afterwards I crushed his skull with a hammer. The mess was… indescribable. At the time I didn’t think anything more of it than if I was fileting a fish, or making a meatloaf. He was hardly a person at that moment—just a weird, insane biology lesson, draped on top of a bloodstained and rotting bed.

Of course, the instant passed, and after my thoughts caught up and realized he was a person I vomited more and longer than I ever had before. Then his head began to inflate, skull fragments reassembling under the skin, the shape of him—the shape that said “Benny” to me—realigning. I’ve never been able to remove that image from my memory.

The game continued. Was there anything he couldn’t come back from?

Not from amputations, that’s for sure. I removed the rest of his limbs myself with a hacksaw, and though they healed over nicely, they didn’t grow back.

Naturally the next thing I removed was his heart.

After all, that was what clued me in that he was still living, wasn’t it? His heart pushing a thin stream of blood to his other organs. That must have been what kept him coming back. His head was already so much sparkless gray matter—they don’t call it “braindead” for nothing. But the heart, that was what was keeping him alive.

I looked up how open-heart surgery was performed and ordered a bunch of equipment from some online black sites. Spreaders for holding the rib cage open, bone saws for cleanly cutting away the defensive tissues and cartilage. The accountant had long since quit after I messed up paying her, but I had already taken out a couple of loans, so it was no big deal to get another. Benny’s credit was good.

When I removed the sternum plate I saw knicks in his bone from my butcher knife, the only evidence remaining that I had stabbed him straight through, multiple times. With a few slices the heart was out, sitting in my hand. I wondered if it was all over. As I watched, blood drained out of his ventricles and pooled in his chest.

Then the veins and arteries, still dangling and tangled where his heart used to be, moved.

My mouth hung open as slowly, ever so slowly, new, tiny blood vessels slithered out where I had cut away the old ones, then blossomed, snaking into the open air and filling, beat-by-beat, the shape of a human heart.

When I screamed I don’t know if it was from fear, or rage, or revulsion. I don’t know if it was from the pure madness that gripped me in that moment. I had seen the impossible so many times already, but this was new. This was a step too far.

In just a few minutes there were now two copies of Benny’s heart in the world: one that had fallen to the floor, the other beating, ever beating, in his open torso.

When I saw that the bones were pushing together, ribs re-forming to protect their holy ward, I stepped outside for some air. I didn’t come back for several days.

***

Months passed. When the bank came to collect, it shook me from my drunken, fetid stupor. The money, the cars, the other properties were all gone, but I still had the Payette house, and I still had Benny.

The solution was simple, honestly.

A new will entered my lungs as I cleaned up the floors stained with human tissue and blood and other organic debris. Benny was still on his bed, his heart once more beating, his lungs filling with air and emptying, pushing fresh oxygen to the remaining extents of his body. Like him, I was a new man. And after a solid week of emptying trash and scrubbing walls, the freshly bleached and white house was like new, too.

Cleanly-shaven, in fresh clothes for the first time in months, I washed Benny. With care, I tended to the marks the previous year had left on him. The scars both old and new. The wounds both cleanly healed and ragged. His tattered head I went over with a razor, not even thinking about the fact that, somehow, his skull was perfectly round once more.

I took out a quick loan, one last loan. I ordered ice, and fridges, and shelving. Lots of shelving.

Most of my adult life had been spent buying and reselling odds and ends. In the final equation, selling organs wasn’t that different from selling drugs. You use channels that the everyday person would never think of to find those in need, and you make a connection happen. My customers don’t ask where their miracle lungs or kidneys or livers come from, and I don’t bother trying to explain. They think that they’re exchanging someone’s life for theirs, or their loved one’s. I don’t tell them that it is literally impossible for my brother to die, and they are exchanging nothing but money.

How many people are walking about right now, due to my brother’s condition? How many lives have I saved with his perfect hearts, his tumorless bladders? I don’t know. I don’t keep records. I take the money and I wash it through some of Benny’s side ventures. It satisfied all of the banks, and it keeps the lights on and my liquor cabinet full.

I don’t know if the cops are trying to find where this black organ market originated from. After all, if nobody’s reporting an organ missing, why would you even care?

I can’t escape from my older brother, and he’ll never escape from me. When I look down at him, at his frail, wasted, tiny corpse of a living body, I can think of nothing but revulsion, and jealousy, and pure, white-hot hate.

And yet…

Editor’s note

This story is what happens when a great idea meets a centre theme that works. If you have siblings, this one will hit a note. It did for me, at least. Jealousy and family dynamics meets a horrific situation, and it’s all very well written.

Read the interview with Jessica here.

We took the chance to ask L.M. Conkling questions about writing and What She Brought Home. 

Q1. How did you come up with the idea for this story?

I heard Hank’s voice in my head, and he was insistent that he had a story he wanted to tell. I couldn’t deny him!

The dream of having children, and the inability to attain that dream, haunts a lot of people, myself included. That thwarted desire drove the actions of the characters in my story. I wanted to contrast the strength of the love Hank and Ramona had for each other with the love they’d hoped to give to a child. It’s why Hank makes such a extreme sacrifice, and why Ramona tries to save him from his own actions.

Q2. My favourite thing about this tale is that it centres on family and the want of one. Did you spend a lot of time thinking about that theme or did it come out naturally?

I didn’t spend too much time thinking about the theme, but more about the emotion of the situation. The theme developed naturally from there.

There are reams of stories in folklore about barren couples who yearn for a child, and the devious beings who step in to fill that desire. This story is partially inspired by the old stories of fae foundlings, and that temporary joy childless couples must feel when they imagine, for a moment, that their wish has been granted after all.

It was very important to me to show that, even without children, Hank and Ramona were a family already. In its best iteration, family is where we can be safely vulnerable. I wanted to show Hank’s unwavering support of how his wife processes her grief, even though it resulted in a farmyard of rescued animals and a house full of unused children’s clothes. To be able to show this love in action was important to understanding the characters of the story. Just as Ramona’s ability to see a situation clearer than her husband, then move to protect him, is also love in action. She is the one who first feels uneasy, even as her husband is falling in love with the child. Ramona recognizes danger. I imagine that after the story ends, and she realizes what has happened, her clear-eyed and insistent love will be what saves them.

Q3. Pets are such an underused element when it comes to raising tension. I love how subtle it is when you have Dominic and the dogs staring like there’s something wrong. As readers, we feel this strongly. Where did this idea come from? 

This is directly from real-life experience. I grew up on a small farm in California where we often had spooky experiences, and I learned to watch the animals. We had indoor cats and I’d notice that they would often be watching the empty air intently right before something unusual happened. Nowadays I live in town, in an older house, and we have dogs who often will bark at nothing (especially in our hallway) and watch things that aren’t there. I’ve learned to notice when they seem interested, and when their hackles start to rise. If it’s the latter, I intervene.

I also desperately want a donkey, so adding Dominic into the mix was pure enjoyment on my part.

Q4. How much of your time do you spend writing short stories versus other projects?

This past year I’ve primarily focused on short fiction, working to polish my ability to contain a full story in a brief medium. Learning to make a character and their experiences memorable in this way has given me the skills to make them sparkle in a longer format. Also the delicious feeling of completing a first draft in one sitting can’t be beat.

Q5. What other works do you have on the go? Anything you’d like to promote?

I’m currently working on expanding a short story titled “Strange Habits of Secretive Sheep” into a novel. It has been so much fun to dig in and get to know the characters of a story I initially wrote over a decade ago. They are even more twisted than I originally thought.

I’m very excited that my short horror “Without My Spoon” was selected to be in an anthology titled “Fun in the Dark #1,” which will be published by Kilter and Rammel this April.

My wife brought something home.

 This was far from the first time, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. She’s brought home dogs, kittens, rabbits. An iguana. Once it was a rat she thought was a guinea pig because it was missing its tail. I was able to find homes for most of them, though we did end up keeping two of the dogs and three of the cats. And a miniature donkey, but that was my choice. I love that damn thing. I named him Dominic, and he likes to be held like a baby.

But this time she didn’t bring home an animal. She brought home a child.

“He was all curled up in a little ball,” she told me, her cheeks flushed while she rocked the child she’d wrapped in a quilt. “On the side of the road. He was freezing.”

“We need to call the cops. Social services? Child protective services?” I wasn’t sure who to call. I also wasn’t entirely sure that she’d really found this little boy like she said she had. She’s always wanted a child. But one of us wasn’t capable of producing one. We’d never had the tests to see who it was, because what did it matter? We don’t have the money for any fertility treatments, just like we can’t afford to adopt. Which is why I couldn’t blame my wife when she scooped up every animal she ran across that might need a little mothering.

This was different. This was a human child.

My wife is a good woman. A kind woman. But my heart sinks at the idea that she may have convinced herself she’d rescued this child, when she really just took him.

“I’ll call, I will. Let’s just get him warm and fed, and make sure he feels safe.” She continued to rock the bundle, more at ease cradling his little head against her shoulder than I’d ever seen her. Natural, like she’d finally found her footing on a rocking boat.

“Do you want to see him?”

I’d purposefully held off from looking at the child’s face. My wife wanted to be a mother, it was true. I also had always wanted to be a father. I was scared I’d get attached.

Have you ever had a little kid look at you? Like really look at you, in the eyes, and you could see they were an endless font of trust and innocence that you’d lay down your life for? I’ve had glimpses of it. From my nieces and nephews. Hell, even from little kids at the grocery store. They stared and stared at me, sometimes smiling, sometimes perplexed. And each time my hands itched to hold one, to have my own.

“Hank, come here. Hold him for a minute.”

“Aw Ramona, my hands are dirty. I just came in from outside.” I stepped back, directing my gaze out the window while my wife advanced toward me. Dominic was watching the house, his big furry brown ears pricked forward, on alert. Maybe he could hear us talking. Maybe he wanted a treat.

One of our cats was sitting on the fence beside Dominic, above the old historical site designation plaque, his narrowed feline eyes shooting daggers at me. Arranged in front of them were both of the dogs, gargantuan scarred mutts with blockheads and sleek fur. The normally goofy pair were perfectly still, their small round eyes focused on the house, looking right through the window to where I stood. They probably could smell the kid. It’s not like they’d know they were smelling a kid, just that it was something new, and they were curious. Maybe we’d go out in the morning, let the kid pet Dominic.

Maybe not the dogs. You never knew what’d trigger an old bait dog. And I didn’t like the way they were making eye contact with me right through the pane of glass. It felt like they were on edge.

My wife continued to move toward me, ignoring my protests.

“It’s not like the little guy is super clean. Just keep your hands on the quilt. I’m going to see what we have for him to eat.”

Before I knew it, she’d deposited the bundle in my arms. He was warm, but unmoving. Too still for a little kid. He wasn’t a dead weight though; I could feel the tension in his muscles.

Against my better judgement, I pulled the quilt back from his face. And stared.

His hair was deep brown with auburn highlights, like mine. “Like redwood bark,” my wife would say. This little boy had the sweetest round cheeks, long eyelashes, olive skin. Eyes so dark I couldn’t tell the pupil from the iris.

Tears had cleared the dirt in long ribbons down his face, and he pulled one small hand from the swaddling quilt and wiped his nose, inhaled with a wheeze. Was he sick? Or just snotty from crying?

“Hey little man.” I realized I was swaying softly, bouncing him in my arms. “You’ve had a rough time of it. Did you wander off from your house? Huh?”

I’m not great at guessing kids’ ages, but I’d say he was around four or five, judging by his full set of baby teeth. Old enough to be talking, right? I couldn’t feel a diaper through the quilt so either he’d taken his off or he was potty trained. I was hoping for the latter.

“Here, Hank, see if he’ll eat this.” My wife handed me a plastic cup with dry cereal. “I will make something else, too, but I thought we should get something in his stomach. I’m making hot cocoa, too.”

She was trying to hide her smile but my wife has never been good at concealing her emotions. Joy was beaming from her like a halo. My suspicions resurfaced, even though I couldn’t quite believe she’d take a little kid from his family. Not intentionally, at least.

I decided to believe her. She found this kid on the side of the road. Maybe he’d been abandoned, maybe he’d wandered away from home while no one was looking. Either way, he was a kid and he needed help. We could do that.

I took the plastic cup from my wife’s hand, supporting the kid with my other arm. “You hungry, little man?”

He stared at the cup, then at me. Those black eyes were so dark.

“It’s ok. It’s for you. And Ramona,” I pointed toward my wife with my chin, “is making you some more food. Hot chocolate too! Do you like hot chocolate?”

One tiny hand snaked back out of the quilt. He moved so slowly, watching my face as he reached for the plastic cup. In a flash his hand darted into the cup, grabbing a handful of cereal and stuffing it in his face.

We’d had dogs who acted like this. Who’d grab offered food as quickly as possible, often running afterward so that it couldn’t be taken from them. The vet called it ‘food insecurity’. It was a reaction to past abuse and starvation.

“Whoa, kiddo! Slow down. This is all for you, you don’t have to be scared. No one is going to take it away from you.”

I sat on our battered recliner (the one that won’t recline anymore) and perched the kid on my lap. Both of his arms were out of the quilt now. They were stick-thin, covered in dirt and scratches. Under it all I thought I saw scattered bruises, round and long, the kind fingers would make if someone had grabbed him. A haze of red threatened my peripheral vision. I couldn’t stand when people punched down, targeting the most vulnerable. For a moment I was glad my wife had taken this kid.

But no. She had found him on the side of the road. Maybe he was running from abuse. The least we could do for the little guy was make sure he was safe for one night before he got tossed into the system.

“Ramona?”

My wife popped her head around from the kitchen. “Is he eating?”

“Yeah, poor little guy was hungry. Do you want me to give him a bath while you’re cooking?”

“Aw Hank, that’d be great. I think we may have something he can wear in the hall closet.”

My wife used to collect little kid clothes. At first it was tiny onesies, all pastel colors and cute animals. “Just so we’re ready,” she’d tell me. “So we don’t have to buy a bunch when the baby comes.”

Then, when there was no baby, she started picking up slightly larger pieces. Like she was dressing our imaginary child, one that was growing each day. She couldn’t acknowledge that our dream of parenthood was gone.

“They are just so cute,” she’d sigh, folding them carefully before tucking them on a high shelf. “I’ll find someone to give them to. They were a great deal.”

She’d always say that. Act like they were on clearance, or she’d found them at a thrift store. I’m sure sometimes that was true, but other times I noticed we ate a lot of beans for a week or two after she came home with a ‘great deal’.

The last few years she had lost the urge, and there hadn’t been anything added to the collection. But all the older pieces were still there, washed and folded, carefully stored in labeled bins: “0-6 months,” “7-12 months,” 1-2 yrs,” etc., all the way up to clothes that could fit a small teenager.

The kid had finished his cup of cereal and turned his big black eyes to me.

“I bet you’re still hungry, little man. We’ll take care of that. For now, how ‘bout we clean you up? You’ll feel a lot better.”

When I stood he dropped the cup and clutched his arms around my neck, burying his head in my shoulder. It may be a little soft to admit it, but in that moment a rush of warmth washed through me from my head to my toes. No one was going to hurt this kid again. I’d kill anyone who tried.

“I know, I know.” I patted his back, swallowing the lump in my throat. “You’ve had a big day. But you’re safe now.”

He clutched me tighter, sniffling. I could feel his breath on my neck, how he shook inside the quilt. He was so tiny. Defenseless.

I thought it was his fingernails at first, digging into my neck. But then he bit down harder, nipping my skin.

“Whoa there!” I pulled him away from me, laughing to hide my surprise. “I get that you’re hungry, but I’m not for dinner! Ramona is making you something good, I promise.”

He stared up at me, one of his pearly tiny baby teeth worrying his lip. His black eyes welled with tears.

“Hey, don’t cry.” I patted him on his back, rocking him again. Since I’m not a fool I kept him away from my neck, perching him on my hip. “I’m not mad. I’m just surprised. But we don’t bite each other here. That’s not nice.”

“He bit you?” My wife appeared from the kitchen, her eyebrows knit together in concern. “Did he break the skin?”

“Nah, it was just a little nip.”

Turning her attention to the kid, my wife smiled. “Like Hank said, we don’t bite each other here. Do you have words? Can you use your words to tell us what you need? Or your name?”

The kid stared at her blankly.

“It’s ok, little man.” I bounced him one more time. “We’ll still feed you.”

My wife’s smile was a little thinner than it had been. Behind her, I could hear the sputtering of fat in her old iron skillet. “I’m reheating those pork chops from last night. I’ve got ketchup to go on them. All kids like ketchup, right?”

“You hear that?” I exaggerated my features, widening my eyes and smile. “Pork chops and ketchup! Yum.”

The kid looked at me, sniffed the air. His face paled under his olive skin.

I lowered my voice. “You don’t like pork chops?’

In the kitchen the skillet rattled on the stove. In my arms, the kid stiffened like a board. Something was scaring him. That old iron skillet that Ramona had inherited from her grandmother did have a particular scent when she was cooking, but most cast iron did.

“Tell you what,” I whispered, “you give it one bite and then if you don’t like it I’ll get you something else. Deal?”

The kid just stared at me.

I hoped he’d eat. It would break my wife’s heart if he didn’t.

From the kitchen, I heard her call. “Food’ll be ready when you’re out of the bath. And Hank?”

“Yes, my dear?”

“Use the baby soap and shampoo. It should still be good; it’s on the same shelf as the clothes.”

“Will do.”

I’ve bathed a lot of dogs in my life. A few cats. Even a chicken once, and the smell of that experience will haunt me the rest of my days. But I’ve never bathed a kid.

Men in this world aren’t allowed to be trusted with kids. I’ve internalized that. Not that I’m a creeper or a pedo—the idea disgusts me—but I know that to most people out there, the idea of a grown man bathing a kid is a little suspicious.

Here’s the thing: just like when the cat got covered in motor oil, or the dogs had fleas, this kid needs a bath to feel better. Cleaner. More comfortable. And that’s what we’re going to do.

The kid wouldn’t let go of me as I collected clothes, a towel, the shampoo, and soap. When we stepped into the bathroom his entire body tensed, and I felt rage at whoever had hurt him flare up again.

“We’re just going to clean you up. Nothing to be scared of, little man. You’re going to feel so much better. How about you help me with the water? How warm do you like it?”

He still wouldn’t let go. I knelt down by the tub, turned on the tap with one hand while balancing him with the other.

“Here, give me your hand.”

I pried one of his hands loose, held it toward the water thundering from the tap. “Is this too hot? Too cold?”

The water splashed over his hand and his entire body stiffened, and warmth seeped through the quilt. His bladder had let go.

“Whoa, okay buddy. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

He wasn’t crying. He lay rigid in my arms, his eyes wide and staring. Water dripped off his hand, and the skin had turned fiery red.

Had it really been that hot? Had I burned the little guy? Shit!

“Oh little man, I’m sorry! Was that too hot for you?” Balancing him on one arm, I reached out to turn off the tap, but passed my hand under the splashing water first.

It was barely lukewarm.

My face creased in confusion. What had happened?

A grinding sound drew my attention back to the child in my arms. His mouth was working, teeth gnashing. His eyes rolled up in his head, the whites pearlescent and shining. We had an epileptic dog who did this right before he had a seizure so I felt prepared for what might come next.

I laid him down on the thick bathmat, figuring it was safer for him if he started seizing. He’d already wet himself so I didn’t have to worry about that, but I did roll him on his side, so he wouldn’t asphyxiate on froth. I steadied him with my hand on his bare, bony shoulder.

“Shhhhh, it’s ok. You’re alright. You’re safe. No one will hurt you here. Breathe. In,” I drew in a long breath as an example, “and out.” I noisily exhaled.

The kid didn’t react. His eyes were trembling in their sockets, still rolled back and white. His tiny teeth were grinding, and I swear I could hear squeaking like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“Ramona!”

“What?”

“Get in here, something is wrong!”

“What?”

“Ramona!”

She must’ve heard the panic in my voice because I heard her running toward the bathroom. Our house is old and rickety, and her footsteps shook the floorboards.

“What’s going on, is he ok?”

I caught the door before she could fling it open and brain the poor kid.

“No, I think he’s having a seizure. Call 911.”

She paused. “We’ll get in trouble for keeping him.”

“Ramona!” I never yell at my wife, but I did that day. “Call them.”

Her eyes widened and she scurried away, leaving the door ajar. After a few moments I heard her say, “Yes, we need help. A child is having a seizure.”

The kid was still gnashing his teeth, but at least he’d started blinking. It was better than that vacant white stare.

Or at least it was, until his eyes rolled back down.

Where before the pupil and the iris were black, now his entire eye was black. Sclera too. Like ink had flooded under his lids, dyeing the jelly of his eyes.

I couldn’t help it. I scrambled back from his little body.

The quilt had fallen away and I could see that the redness from where his hand had touched the water was creeping upward, sending spikes of fiery color up his tiny arms. The bruises and dirt were fading under the redness, but whether they were simply being covered or if they were disappearing I couldn’t tell. I’ve seen blood poisoning before, watched it do the same thing. But it took days to advance like this. It certainly didn’t move so fast I could watch it spread in real time.

“What…” The kid’s voice was garbled, rough. Deeper than his little chest should’ve been able to hold.

“Is…”

I had pushed myself into the corner of the bathroom, the edge of the toilet cutting into my spine.

“In…”

He rolled over, tried to sit up. Fell backward.

“Your…”

When his head turned toward me, black streaks were bubbling from his tear ducts and running down his face. His eyes had widened, morphed into massive almond-shaped shadows. His baby teeth had elongated, sharpened.

“Water?”

He leaned to the side, vomited up the dry cereal. The mealy mass was tainted with black phlegm, thick as tar.

The quilt fell away when he rolled toward me, his little chest nearly concave, outlining ribs.

Too many ribs.

And hipbones that didn’t make sense; they jutted from his skin in terrifying knobs and bows, stretching skin that was fast becoming a network of snaking red lines.

The door pushed open, and my wife stuck her head in.

“They’ll be here in—oh my god!”

She leapt backward, dodging the weak swipe the boy aimed in her direction.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?”

“I don’t know!” I wanted to wrap this thing back up in the quilt, take him back to where she’d found him. Leave him on the side of the road.

I also didn’t want to get any closer to him.

“Did he hurt you, Hank?” My wife inspected me, her eyes assessing for damages.

“No, but I think he’d like to.”

In answer, the kid rolled toward me and clicked his teeth together. Wanting to finish what he’d started with that little nip on my neck earlier.

“Stay back, little man. I don’t want to hurt you.”

He garbled a rough laugh. Again, too deep. Too thick for that twisted chest to conjure. “Hurt…”

“Help is on the way.” My wife’s voice still had that touch of motherliness. The instinct to protect. Even as she kept her hand on the doorknob, ready to slam the heavy door into the kid’s head if he made a wrong move.

My wife is kind, not stupid.

“Bite…” The kid gnashed its teeth at me again, black tears still spilling down his cheeks. “Help?”

“You stop that right now. You can’t bite him.” My wife was fierce, strict. She protected what was hers. She would’ve made a great mother.

The kid’s face fell, and for a moment he looked like a scared little boy again. My heart flipped over in my chest.

I would’ve made a great father. I’m a softie. A foil to my wife. I’d be the one who always gave in to a child’s demands.

“Ramona, I think he needs… something. Or he’s going to die.”

“He doesn’t need to bite you.” She began to open the door. I stuck my foot out to stop her from advancing further. “Hank, don’t be stupid. Look at its eyes. This isn’t a child. Let it die.”

I ignored her. I didn’t have time to explain that keeping this thing alive until the paramedics arrived was protecting her. If they found what looked like a dead kid here, we’d both end up in prison.

I also knew she’d never understand that I couldn’t just watch a kid die in front of me. Even if he wasn’t human. Wasn’t mine.

“Little man,” I kept my voice gentle. The kid rolled toward me. “What do you need?”

His breathing was becoming more labored. The tendrils of red were moving up his neck now and I had a feeling that when they reached his eyes, he would be gone. If I was right, we didn’t have much time. He was tiny, and he needed help. Like I said, I’m a softie.

“Bite… Small…”

I shuddered. My wife pushed against the door, but I’m much bigger than she is. I was able to keep her out easily.

I heard sirens.

“Ok little man. Do you need meat or blood?” I felt ill. My stomach washed with acid, my eyes blurred. Alarm klaxons were sounding in my head. My wife was crying on the other side of the door.

“Hank, please!”

“I’m not dumb, Ramona. It’ll just be enough to keep him alive for a few more minutes. Then he can be the county’s problem.”

“They’re almost here, just wait!”

“Meat.” The kid’s voice still warbled, but sounded more solid. Hopeful.

I hate how in the movies the character will offer the wrong part of their body for sacrifice. Like how, when drawing blood for some rite, they will slice right across their palm. Who does that? So when I offered the kid my arm, I turned it, presenting him with the chunk of muscle on the outside of my forearm. No major arteries, no way to bleed out. It’ll hurt, but not be fatal.

His teeth had grown even longer, sharper. Monstrously huge in his mouth. I saw them too late, gleaming in the light before he bit down, tearing a hunk of my arm away.

I don’t think I screamed. I think I keened.

His saliva burned me, dripping into the open wound like acid. Before I could draw away he twisted my arm and sunk his teeth into my wrist.

“Hank!” My wife’s panic and my surprise at the kid’s attack allowed her to slam the bathroom door open, hitting the kid so hard he was flung away from my arm.

He crouched on all fours, blood dripping from his tiny baby fangs. His eyes were still black.

He was smiling.

Blood was pouring from my wrist, gushing in waves that synced with my heartbeat.

A pounding from outside. “Paramedics!”

My wife screamed for help.

The front door crashed open.

The kid sprang. I think he meant to make one final attack on me, hoping for a last few drops of blood before he was taken away.

I watched my wife kick out and connect solidly with his rippling ribcage. His slight body flew across the room, landing with a splash in the tub.

The kid thrashed and groaned, his skin red and blistering.

I had turned off the tap. But I hadn’t drained the water that had already collected. He tried to pull himself up from the water, but my wife stomped his little hand, sending him back into the tub.

Thankfully the paramedics didn’t see that bit, or we would’ve been in big trouble. As it was, the only reason we didn’t get charged with abuse—since the kid looked like he’d been boiled alive—was that the paramedic who pulled him out attested to the water being nearly cold. It was agreed that the kid must’ve had a reaction to something in our water.

It wouldn’t have been unheard of. We live out in the country where the town meets the forest, and we have well water, so of course anything can leech into it. Filters get out of most of the bad stuff, but occasionally we’ll turn on the tap and it’ll have an odd smell. Sometimes like sulfur. Sometimes like roses.

We only knew that we drew our water from a little well that used to be dedicated to St. Brigid because a demolition crew found that old historical site marker in the ruins of an old barn. They’d been finishing up the day the realtor showed us around, and that man didn’t miss a beat when he saw an opportunity to sweeten the deal on the property.

“I’ll bet this well has been blessed so many times that the water here is permanently holy,” the realtor had laughed at his own joke. Apparently he had been right on the money.

I lost a lot of blood, but I survived. We weren’t charged with anything, seeing as we’d had the child less than an hour and had planned on turning him over to the county in the morning.

We were told he survived, that the paramedics stabilized him, and no one mentioned weird black eyes or too-sharp teeth. I felt good about that. My wife did not. She was scared he’d come looking for us.

I don’t think he will. I think he’ll find someone else. He got what he wanted from us.

Sometimes late at night when I get up to go to the bathroom, while I’m washing my hands in water that has begun to tickle more than it should, the mirror tells me a story I don’t want to hear. One that includes black ink staining the whites of my eyes when they are still heavy with sleep.

But then I blink and it’s gone.

Editor’s Note

I picked this story because it made me feel everything the family was going through and their want to have a child. That, and the characters (and animals) just feel so homely that you can’t help but get sucked into the tale.

I spoke to the author which you can read here.