“SHOTS”
Nolan Knight
The flagrant foul called was less about a basketball court violation than Referee Thompson’s mother, Doris, admitted to Evergreen Hospice that day. Neither team knew this, of course. A mist of sweat shook from Charlie Ferguson (charged with the foul) as he protested in earnest, pent-up from an afternoon in detention. Charlie’s father shouted expletives from the bleachers— ones he’d heard during his employee performance review. The visiting coach laughed, watching his center—Manny Torres—take free throws; he recalled being tossed from a similar game in high school. Shoes squeaked atop polished wood. Manny dabbed a plump lip, checking for blood, knowing his pops smacked much harder: an easy two buckets. The ball launched toward the rim. Referee Thompson bit his whistle; Charlie steadied to box out; Charlie’s father seethed as the visiting coach contained a chuckle. And Manny Torres grinned, taking in the sight of another splendid swish. As the crowd cheered a final buzzer, Doris—bedridden and sore in Pico Rivera—dreamed of days long past, her boy’s first steps, then struggled to recall her only baby’s beautiful name. There would be no more rebounds.
“DROWNING”
David Mulry
As his kayak cut through the murmur of water, he tried to forget, but it was hard. He could do it for stretches of time. Short stretches.
He stared at the long flowing water weed as he passed. On the surface, white blooms of hawthorn blossom scattered near the bank like confetti from old vows. Below, the green strands heaved in the current, slick and sinuous, reminding him of eels.
Kingfishers clung to low branches, watching, their eyes following sharp hungry beaks. They understood the predatory eddies and the pools where life hid and quivered and spent itself in a flash. There they dropped, iridescent, exploding into movement with a snap of wings and a coiled plunge.
Where the weed trailed off into blooms of space, fish hung in the current. Here a heavy chub, there what looked like a trout, speckles across its flanks, and every so often a marauding pack of silver dace, scattering like splinters of light.
At the slightest provocation they would shiver apart in quick fragments, then find their way back again, through winding coils of green river weed. He wished he could come back together like that.
The river was uneventful until they reached the weir. It wasn’t particularly big. Just enough to form a thick wave powerful enough to play in. Sunshine, tricks and acrobatics, and a test of skill. Worth the paddle for an hour or two of distraction.
There, the water curled across the lip and plunged. Where it fell, it turned back on itself the way water does—and held balance. The current above and the returning water below met in a churning trough at the lip. Everything stopped there.
That’s why they had come. There, you could dip the nose of the kayak and stand the boat up and pirouette lazily. You could hang the blade of your paddle in the water and surf across the wave, buffeting on it. Cutting across like a skater caught mid-glide. You could laugh, and play, and forget there.
He had lost himself, for a moment. The words, the noise, the resentment all gone. Surfing the swell, smiling, he made the unfamiliar boat pop out of the wave, laughed with the others, and punched clumsily towards the slack water near the bank. He leaned into the cut of the kayak’s sharp belly, but the paddle stroke that was meant to set him aright dropped into thick, binding weed.
He tipped fully before he realized what was happening. The paddle was stuck now between his body and the weed, but he didn’t need it to roll, even in this unfamiliar boat. Instead, he angled his hips to orient against the water, one hand searching for the water’s resistance. His fingers sank into the slick windings of weed.
It swirled about him. Long, undulating, hungry.
He tried again, even though he understood now that he would not make the roll. He was too bound up. The slack water where the hawthorns wept white confetti, where their blossom would, in time, rot and turn brown, was choked with heavy coils. Weed, thick enough to walk on almost. Thick enough to bury him.
Even then he didn’t panic. He reached for the release strap on his deck. The others would laugh at him when he came up wet and coughing, forced to capsize like a novice.
But he was no stranger to the inelegant exit. He had capsized his boat the very first time he had tried kayaking, years before. It had been a winter day. The water was swift and brown, not like this crystal water, bejeweled in the sunlight, summer-warm, and thick with weed, like hair from a folk-tale.
He had come up in that cold, brown river, clutching at the hard toggle on the back of his boat, grinning and choking. She had been with him then. She laughed out loud, and he had flashed a wet smile in her direction.
Now he was alone, and he knew it was over.
He knew it for sure when he pulled the neoprene deck cover free and gripped the cockpit of his borrowed kayak and pushed. And pushed. And his left foot stuck fast, caught on something deep in the guts of the boat.
His hands fumbled. He pushed against the footrest again—remembered it hadn’t adjusted properly, but he hadn’t paid attention. He hadn’t cared enough to check it when they set out.
He wrenched his leg. Nothing. Still, he did not panic. Instead, he twisted sideways to see if the buoyancy jacket would be enough to tilt him towards air. Sunlight, fractured, prismatic, was just beyond the surface of the water, near and impossibly far away, out beyond the coils of mussed and tangled weed that wrapped about him like lover’s hair.
***
He was still in the water when the first kayak hit him. He barely registered the hands, but someone reached urgently across and down and pulled at him. Another was there too, helping on the other side, against the weight of water, and the heavier pull of weed.
The river released him reluctantly, and clumsy, unfamiliar lips closed on his. A moment later he coughed and spluttered in the bright sun, retching as others held him.
On the bank, he sat in the sun breathing in and out, his paddle and upended boat some yards away. Someone was at his back, their arms still wrapped about him protectively, while he picked absently at green strands clinging to his wetsuit, at thick weeds draped about his neck.
He leant into the person behind him, and felt their grip tighten. Wordlessly, he turned his gaze to the dappling river and the perfect hungry geometry of the churning swell where he had drowned. Nearly.
There, he thought he heard something, a susurration, a whisper, and for a moment, for the smallest stretch, the water and the winding weed sighed of heart’s-ease, or something very like it.
“Trust Me”
Kami Horiuchi
Deep green.
Pine-scented air.
Trees rustled.
A gust of air sent a shiver down my spine. A cold coin sat in my pocket, heads up. My heart thumped. Darkness waited inside.
The night sky shone deep blue, veiled by pale clouds. The moon shone bright. A dense forest of green pine trees stretched to my left. Snowflakes fell one by one through the thin air, drifting past the trees to the white-covered ground. Wind brushed my bare cheeks.
His warm fingers intertwined with mine. He glanced at me and smiled gently. His hand slid to my waist, pulling me close. My body was wrapped in his. I rested my head against his chest, warmth seeping into my cheek as we walked side by side.
I gazed into his emerald-speckled eyes that I loved. A flash of fire crossed them. I shook the feeling of unease away.
He tugged at my arm, guiding me towards the forest. A snowflake landed on his cheek and melted against his skin.
For a moment, I resisted. But why? I knew I trusted him.
He looked at me again, that familiar smile softening everything.
“Trust me.”
I gulped, and he led me forward.
He moved through the forest with ease, his pace quickening. No branch or rock slowed him. He knew where he was going.
I stumbled over a thick branch, my knee scraping through my jeans. Dampness seeped through the fabric. I couldn’t keep up.
He yanked my body upright. He didn’t look back at me and pulled me deeper into the maze. Branches scraped my cheek, my thigh. The clearing was long behind us. I caught a glance from behind me, but there was nothing. Nothing but darkness.
I walked until my knees began to give out. My head swirled. I tried to speak, but my jaw was locked tight shut.
His pace quickened.
I looked ahead. I wanted a clue. A hint. Anything. Nothing showed.
I glanced up. A full moon. Thin slivers of light slipped through the branches.
I could barely make out his figure. His grip tightened around my wrist, bruising. Pain radiated. My body ached.
My lungs burned. I struggled to grasp each breath. I coughed, and a hopeless feeling crept into my chest. Dread radiated into my bones.
He came to a sudden stop.
The shock sent me to my knees.
The forest ended.
Moonlight lit the earth like a soft sun. The view was suddenly clear.
A desert stretched before us. We were standing at the edge of a chasm. Cold air lingered behind me. Sunbaked stone in front of me.
I looked into the eyes of my love. They bore down with a menacing fire into mine. His smile was wicked.
Terror swelled in my chest. The veins in my neck pounded.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Blood emptied from my face. Fear screamed from inside, but my mouth wouldn’t open. I struggled to breathe. My body froze.
He stepped behind me.
His fingers brushed slowly along my cheek.
A light kick to my back, and I was falling.
I reached for him, too late. I caught one last glimpse of him. Amusement flickered in his eyes.
The coin in my pocket flipped.
Tails. Betrayal.
Air wrapped around me, slipping between my fingers. Nothing could stop my stone body. My heart lurched into my throat. I choked it out, leaving an empty hole in my chest.
My skin cracked. Blood seeped out, trickling down my arm, across my wrist, to the tips of my fingers. Wet. Sticky.
The moon shone down, frozen in time. The same moon that lit up his speckled emerald eyes this very night. The eyes that bore lovingly into mine. The eyes that smiled at me when he took my hand in his.
The same moon that lit his blazing fire eyes.
The coin flipped.
Heads. Tails.
Pain grasped at my throat. My chest constricted, and I couldn’t breathe.
I glanced at my wrist lifted above me in the wind. Bruises shone where he had held me.
I had nothing left to give.
My core was hollow.
Empty.
Thud.
I smashed on the sandy floor. My body shattered like glass into a million pieces. Crystals scattered like snow atop the desert sand.
I closed the fragments of my eyes in defeat.
A faint pine scent. Leaves rustling. Cool air brushed my shoulder. A warm breath touched my cheek.
My eyes opened.
The window beside my bed stood open. Snowy pine trees huddled together in the forest beyond the clearing. Wind gusted through them.
He lay beside me.
His eyes caught the moonlight that trickled through the window. His forgiving smile. He looked into my eyes. They were speckled emerald.
I glanced down at my arms. Whole.
My heart echoed in my ears. Sweat covered my back. My hair clung to my face. Drops were sliding down my neck.
I sat upright and threw the blankets off me. The heat from my body escaped. I took in a breath of winter air. The cold brought me back to the present.
I turned to him. Our eyes met, and time slowed.
“Bad dream?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, his arms wrapped around me, his fingers threading through my hair.
On the nightstand beside me, the coin from my pocket lay.
Heads up.
“THE KEY”
Casey Flynn
It isn’t at all clear that the meat lives in a drawer when I bite into it.
Tiny crunchy sacs burst between my teeth like tightly-woven fluid-filled bubble wrap. It’s a suspicious texture for meat, for sure, but I eat what is offered. The hunk sits on a lightly soiled plate, waiting to go home. After the meal, the temple caretaker opens a dresser drawer and places the meat inside.
Someone said the key to the mountain is here at this temple. I don’t really know what that means but I’m going to the mountain, so might as well bring the key. Maybe it’s the meat.
Later, the meat inside me wants out and succeeds by way of mouth and anus. I make it outside before many-colored fluids grace the ground beneath many-colored flags fluttering from branches and splash stacked stones etched with prayers. Inside a monk plays a hand drum and chants. Later he watches TV reruns of Chinese children outwitting Japanese soldiers—if it wasn’t for those meddling kids!—and laughs. I sour-curl on the floor.
Earlier, I read of three ways to walk around the mountain, three ways into its secrets: outer, inner and ultimate. Most go outside in, a gradual revelation. A sensible method. But perhaps there’s also inside out, a volcanic approach, the violent eruption of innards in which acid lava secrets burble out of burning bodily fluids. All you need is the key, the drawer meat, the ultimate shortcut.
Retch defecate desecrate. I am now empty of everything. The temple floor and walls escape the paint of my insides coming out. The grounds do not. What secrets I leave behind in those chunky puddles is unknown; I don’t go digging. Since I can’t eat, I walk. Swallow the key it sets you free, the mountain says in my fever dreams. Or not. We’ll see.