It pokes its head around the door, and immediately spies the creature. It then emits an ear-piercing cry, its eyes popping out of its head in panic, and I realise then, with tears falling from my eyes, that the horse in front of me was once mine.

  Henry shakes me awake, and I end up head-butting him in the face. I spill wine all over me. Once again, I search for the creature, and once again, he is gone. But he's not...I can't see him, but I can still feel him, watching me, getting into my head. It's waiting for something.

  “Em, we really need to get you to a doctor,” he says.

  I wave his suggestion away with my hand.

  “It's just sleep paralysis, its normal, I've always had it.” That's a lie. Something triggered it, when I was little. Something only my subconscious remembers, I have buried it that deep.

  “But just lately it seems to be getting worse.”

  He's right, it is getting worse, and I have no idea why.

  “Maybe you could get some pills or something?” he offers.

  “Seriously, I'm fine,” I say. But I'm not fine, I know I'm not, but what is there to help me? I would be laughed out of a doctor's room, or sent to a counsellor. I have been there before, and it's never worked.

  “What...what did you see?” he asks me.

  I don't answer. Good question.

  ****

  For the first time in a long while, I go to sleep that night with thoughts of my mother in my head.

  She didn't simply die, you see, I could have almost forgiven her for that. I could have forgiven her for leaving me on my own, to deal with him, if it wasn't her fault. But in my eyes, it was her fault, her fault by default, because she did nothing to save me. She did nothing to save herself.

  She was what you would call nowadays a battered wife, a victim of domestic abuse, but back then, it wasn't really spoken about. Back then, a man could rape his wife and still be in the confines of the law.

  If it wasn't because she had tidied away something of his that he couldn't later locate, it was because she had said something out of turn, or made some mistake with the house.

  He would beat her with either his belt, or with his fists, and she wouldn't make a sound. When I grew old enough to realise this wasn't normal, maybe about six or seven, I tried to defend her, and I received a broken rib, or maybe a black eye, for my troubles.

  I know where my feelings should have lied, but my hate became directed at her. Why didn't she leave him? Why would she put herself, and me, in danger like this? We could have just ran away, just me and her, and left him behind. But she stayed.

  I didn't hate her as much as I hated myself, though. Because I was a hypocrite, you see. From around the age of nine, he no longer beat me. What happened instead...well, let's just say I would have welcomed a beating. For all those times he was violent and cruel to her, he became tender and loving to me. Too tender, too loving, but, as she did, I lay there all the same, night after night, too scared to move, and took it.

  He bought me a horse for my silence, and when he arrived with her on a bright day in June, I fell in love with her immediately. Finally I would have a friend, someone to keep me company, someone I could ride into the sunset with and never look back. I called her Winnie, and we kept her in the stables at the back of the house. I rode her every day in the fields, fed her, cleaned out her stable after school, and – I know this is sad – but she became my best friend.

  I had her for a total of three years before my Dad blew her brains out in a fit of spiteful rage. I screamed, she fell to the floor with a huge smack against the pavement. I'll never forget the look on her face, of confusion, of a trust betrayed.

  Four years later he killed my mother, for an 'affair' she was supposed to be having with the neighbour. He killed the neighbour too, a sweet man in his fifties who had only offered my mother friendship and the occasional bag of shopping. My Dad has been in prison ever since.

  ****

  That night I dream of Winnie, and it was a beautiful, loving dream. I rode her through the fields just like we used to, and we laughed...well, I laughed, Winnie whinnied, hence her name. But it was the most fun I had had in years. But in the corners of the dream, I felt the creature watching me still, and no matter how far Winnie took me away from it, it would still be there, waiting.

  ****

  The next morning I am up early, and as it is a Saturday, I enjoy the feeling of not having to get ready for work. Henry is already downstairs, and by the faint smell of paint wafting up the stairs, I can guess what he is doing.

  I make him coffee and bring it into the study, where he usually sets up his easel and paints. I bring the coffee in to him and place it down on the floor beside him. I sit down, unable to see what he is painting from my point of view.

  “What are you painting?” I ask.

  If I am honest, his work isn't breath-taking. His paintings are no masterpieces, but they are his, and his work is better than anything I could ever do. So we hang a few pieces up around the house every now and again, a few of which are here in the study.

  I look back at him, realising that he hasn't answered me.

  “Henry? What are you painting?”

  He doesn't even look up from his work. He is holding the paintbrush against the canvas, and he makes long sweeps, his face pulled together in concentration. But he doesn't respond. I immediately think he is mad with me for some reason, and I rise indignantly, annoyed at his childishness.

  “Henry!” I yell. I make my way to him impatiently, and study his face more. I see now that sweat is pouring from his brow, and he has bitten his lip down so much that a trickle of blood appears and meanders down his chin.

  Oh God! He's having a stroke! Jesus Christ!

  “Henry!” His arm is still painting something, and I grab it to make him stop. But it's like trying to pull down a lump of metal that has been moulded into position, with both arms grabbing his own and pulling as hard as I can, I can't make him stop.

  I scramble for the phone, and as I dial 999, my eyes land upon the canvas.

  His brush isn't touching the canvas, it's about an inch away, dripping with paint. He makes the same movement over and over again. The canvas itself is blank, there is nothing there.

  ****

  I spend all day with Henry as he recovers in hospital. They think he may have had a seizure. He is still unconscious, and although I wanted to stay, I was advised to go home, have a shower, get some rest. They would call if anything changes, but apparently he is stable.

  I am lying in bed, unable to sleep. It feels strange without Henry there next to me, and I am more afraid than I have been in a long while. I know something is going to happen, I know that now I am alone, that creature will come for me.

  I try to tell myself that I am being stupid, irrational. A stupid, irrational woman; that's what I am. Maybe I really should see a doctor...

  I hear a strange noise, like scratching, or scraping. Terror fills my visual field, and I try to sit up, to stop all this shit before it begins again.

  But I am paralysed.

  No! I am not even asleep! Am I?! This can't be happening!

  My arms are stuck above my head, useless and limp. I look down at my body, and that's when I see the creature. It is sat on my chest.

  I try to scream, to get it off me, but my mouth is clamped shut, my body heavy, like lead. All I can do is squeeze tears of fright from my eyes. The creature sniffs the air, gets more comfortable on top of me, and then leans forwards.

  It is crushing my ribcage, it smells of death, and something else...something familiar. You know what it is, Emily. That creature sitting on top of you smells just like your father.

  It touches my cheek with its nose, and then draws away. As I half expected, the features of my father come into focus, and once again I am nine years old, and I feel him crushing me, something poking into my side.

  Then, Winnie comes bursting in through the curtains, frantic, her eyes wild. She knows I am in danger, she wants to help me, and for a second I allow myself to think that I am going to be rescued.

  But then someone else appears out of the darkness. Someone who could not possibly be here.

  Henry.

  He moves past me in a fluid, dreamlike fashion.

  Henry! What are you doing here? Help me, please! Henry!

  He ignores me, and picks up his paintbrush and easel. How did they get there?

  He sits a few feet away from me, and sets himself up.

  Henry! HELP ME! I am dying! I can't breathe!

  Unable to move, unable to communicate, unable to get this awful creature off my chest, I watch Henry wild eyed and full of horror as he studies me once more before looking back to his blank canvas.

  He starts to paint.

  Diamonds In The Midnight

  by M.R. Tapia

  “I’m not homeless. I’m houseless.”

  The youngster stopped upon hearing me bark at him. Here I was, minding my own business, and the strays bark first. We call them strays. These college kids come downtown to party, and every once in a while you see a semi-responsible one. One who drinks too much and knows they’re better off calling a taxi. Sometimes they’re too impatient and begin their walk back to their shared house or dormitory. You see, the University campus is just a couple miles away. Kids think they own the world and have yet to make a single payment on their loans.

  “What you say, ol’ man?”

  Then you get cocky strays. This one doesn’t even know what the midnight hour brings.

  “You called me a ‘fuckin’ homeless piece of shit.’ So I said, ‘I’m houseless, not homeless.’ If you knew any better, you’d know you were trespassing.”

  “Whose territory, huh? You and some more bums gonna jump me? Huh?”

  He giggled, but I knew he didn’t know any better. They never do.

  “I’m alone. No more bums here.”

  “Then whose territory? This is downtown, stupid. This is the city.”

  “Doesn’t matter whose territory. I feed the shadows respect, and they allow me to carry on. Them and their diamonds bright eyes, they clothe me. Stuff bills into my pockets. Almost a protection order. You should show respect, too, stupid. You’re the visitor.”

  My calling him ‘stupid’ didn’t sit well with the youngster. His chest doubled. His breathing shallow, his steps cut towards me, doubling the pace. His fist gripped my knitted sweater before I could take my own breath.

  “Who the fuck you call stupid, ol’ man? I’m in school, what the fuck you ever done besides dig in this dumpster, huh?”

  My chest ricocheted within his grip. My bottle of tequila slipped out from my front pouch. It clinked against the concrete pavement. They take care of me, though. It received a couple scrapes, but nothing more.

  The youngster held me still. He peered down, surprised. “Shit, you drink the good stuff, don’t you? Let me see what you’re workin’ with here.”

  He shoved me backwards a couple steps. He picked my bottle up from the floor, dusting it with his sleeve from his sweater. His sweater looked as if it would fit large on me, but, beggars can’t be choosers, eh?

  “The Boss, huh? Where you steal this Patron from, ol’ man?”

  “I bought it.”

  “Yeah, right. You’re here diggin’ through the Salvation Army’s dumpster and you expect me to believe you bought it? This is brand new, still sealed.”

  “I told you, I’m houseless, not homeless.”

  “Then what’s with the threads you’re wearing? Only bums wear that shit.”

  My bottle raised by his arrogant hand, pointed towards my garments.

  “My clothes are warm. They keep Johnny Law off me. And this here dumpster? Well, if you hadn’t noticed, it’s autumn. It’s starting to get cold. I’m looking for a blanket or something of the sort.”

  The youngster sucked his teeth, studying me. “Bet your threads come from the same dumpster, huh?” he said.

  “No, youngster, I get my threads from college strays like you.”

  “Yeah, whatever. Well, if you don’t mind, I feel obliged to baptize this here bottle.”

  He twisted at the plastic wrapped cork, crinkling as the dying leaves breezing in the gutter.

  “On one condition, tell me what time it is, youngster.”

  “Hmmph,” he snorted at the frost in the air, pulling a phone from his pocket with his free hand. He looked as old as I felt within the glow of the screen. “Fifteen ‘til midnight. Now, excuse me.”

  I grinned as the clear liquid gurgled in tune with his snuffed breathing.

  “That’s good, huh.” My words stretched long.

  He lowered the bottle patiently. His lips pursed and he inhaled a whistling through his teeth.

  “Yezzir,” he said, emphasis on the z’s. “You would think you would know better. You gotta watch out. They say things go bump in the night. Never know who you’ll meet up with, ol’ man.” He gave me a condescending wink.

  “Oh I know. It’s the diamonds in the midnight you really have to watch out for. They’re enough to steal your soul.” I stepped forward, reaching for my bottle.

  “Ha-ha. Diamonds in the midnight, you say. You must be gone.”

  He floated the bottle round my outstretched hand, mocking me.

  I kept my hand still. My eyes just as still, peering into his soul.

  “I was just like you, you know. Full of empowered arrogance. Running wild throughout the night. But I learned.”

  “You’re nothin’ like me, ol’ man. You don’t know my struggle. I’m the first to make it to college from my family. You’re probably the first to sip on top shelf liquor from yours,” he said, shoving the corkless bottle into my hand.

  “Ha, arrogance, I tell you. Indeed. But, no. I went to college. The same one I assume you go to now.”

  “Either way, you’re a dropout, I won’t be. I’ll—”

  “I survived, I didn’t dropout. The diamonds in the midnight, they allowed me to keep on. But there’s no way out. Just survive now. Keeping an eye out for strays like yourself.”

  “Strays like me? Maybe you should go back to drinking the shit below the well liquor, ol’ man.”

  “As long as I survive, they’re surviving. You ever hear about those random college kids gone missing in the city? They seen those eyes. Them glowing eyes. They like your kind. Stray puppies.”

  “Whatever, ol’ man. Gimme another drink before I slap you. That way I can get on my way home.”

  “You’re walking, I take it?” My grin resurfacing, I’m making points tonight. I had been running short. Getting nervous I’d see the diamonds soon. Anxiety worked through my nail as I picked at a Degeneration-X sticker on the dumpster.

  “Yeah, I’m walking. So what? What is it to you? You gonna offer me a ride in your grocery cart? Ha-ha.” He reached for the bottle, I obliged.

  I survive.

  “It’s nothing to me. It’s everything to the darkness, though. The shadows with the eyes. They shine like—”

  “Like diamonds? Yeah. I heard you the first dozen times. Pfft.” He hissed as a punctured tire. Raising the bottle, he stopped that leak.

  “What time is it, youngster?”

  He growled as the bottle descended.

  “A couple minutes til midnight. Now, I’m gone. Thanks for the bottle, ol’ man.” He turned, laughing as he crossed the street, bottle in hand. “Oh, and watch out for them diamonds, huh?” His free hand fingered the air by his ear as he made his way down Lincoln Park’s dimly lit path.

  I had given my word in exchange for mercy upon my life. I would lead strays their way, as long as my body allowed. They let me live, but they don’t let me leave.

  I wasn’t worried about the tequila. He couldn’t drink it quick enough to forgo any pain. And if he could, I’m sure his wallet was not empty.

  I reached into the dumpster and finished pulling out the tattered comforter, throwing it over my shoulders. I gripped the handle of my grocery cart, and twisting into the park’s direction.

  The lamps flickered, shutting off completely as he passed. Traffic lights flashed threateningly, marking the midnight hour.

  Shadowed silhouettes crisscrossed behind the youngster, gaining ground. Now and then they’d look back, their eyes malicious diamonds in the midnight, leading me to survival. I feed the shadows and they allow me to carry on.

  Grapes Of Humanity

  by Robert Allen Lupton

  “You have to stress the vines to produce the best wine,” said Mario. “We’ll limit the water and plant the vines in poor soil providing minimal nutrition. The harder the vines work to survive, the better the grapes. The better the grapes, the better the wine.”

  Mario and his helpers adjusted the drip irrigation. They didn’t add artificial fertilizer, because it changes the wine’s taste. They didn’t use manure, people won’t drink wine that tastes like crap. They used organic compost, made from grasses cultivated between the rows of vines. The trimmings from old vines were saved, mulched, and added to the compost.

  While Mario tended his vineyard, Marque and his sons popped out of light speed and into orbit around the third planet from the dwarf yellow star. Marque summarized from his data screen. “It’s been a while since we changed the tilt of this planet to causing an ice age. The privations caused by the centuries of cold should’ve caused the upright mammalian species we seeded here to increase in physical strength and mental acuity. Let’s check the progress.”

  After studying the planet, Marque observed, “Our mammalian candidates have developed speech, writing, an aggressively combative civilization, and even rudimentary space travel. They’ve sent members of their species to their moon and unmanned probes to other planets. Some of their armaments are moderately impressive.”

  One son, unimpressed with the mammals, said, “They’ve made no significant progress in physical strength. These creatures aren’t as strong nor as hardy as they were before we caused the ice age. They learned to shelter from the cold, not to endure it. They only live longer because of progress in medical treatments and nutrition. Their only significant progress is their mental capacity.”

 

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