CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

PROSE

THE TECHWORK HORSE

M. H. Ayinde // 5582 words

A lowblood daughter of a washer-woman remains convinced that an ancient, powerful steed will awaken for her; no matter her family’s festering disappointment, and the growing threat of feverborn invaders.

BABY BROTHER

Kalynn Bayron // 3211 words

Morgan loves his baby brother. Even though he’s never acted the same since the shadows came, that summer night when the fire burned too low. Even when his parents fight over who is to blame, and Morgan fears it’s all his fault.

DELETE YOUR FIRST MEMORY FOR FREE

Kel Coleman // 3625

A targeted ad for a memory clinic sparks a circle of friends’ interest. Awkward Devin would rather fold laundry—or maybe get tattoos, like normal drunk people—but Fatima’s into trying it, and Devin’s into Fatima. What could they possibly lose?

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

Jade Stewart // 3663 words

Walker’s a confident, gifted, for-hire slayer, devoted to protecting humanity as they see fit. When the demon of the day turns out to be their biggest challenge, will a local coven convince them to join forces?

POETRY

RAINBOWS & NECKLACES

Martins Deep

A POEM IN WHICH SANGO HANGS LIGHTNING AND LULLABIES HIS CHILDREN

Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí

ERSTWHILE RAMELON

K. Ceres Wright

January 2021

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Welcome to the 17th issue of FIYAH Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction.

We made it, y’all. 2021 marks five years in existence for FIYAH. I’m beyond proud of all the ways our team has pushed this magazine forward, expanded our reach, and dismantled the status quo in this industry. This is the best staff to ever do it, and this year we’ll continue to trailblaze and establish opportunities for Black creators.

This issue also happens to be my first full year as Executive Editor. I’ve experienced my share of learning curves and growing pains, but looking back I believe the scales tip more to the side of successes. I’m humbled by all of the authors that entrusted me with their stories over this time, and endured my tweaks and tinkering to help make their work sing. If you’re reading this, drop me a line about your latest and greatest.

Now for this issue’s stories. “The Techwork Horse” by M. H. Ayinde features a child willing to cast aside all bonds for the chance to ride an ancient, mysterious steed. Love and darkness collide In Kaylynn Bayron’s “Baby Brother,” where a family is slowly torn apart by their youngest child’s mysterious affliction. In Kel Coleman’s “Delete Your First Memory for Free,” a peculiar clinic entices a circle of friends to unravel their past (and yes...they’ve been drinking.) Rounding out stories is “All in a Day’s Work” by Jade Stewart, where a confident slayer’s resolve to take on bigger and badder demons alone is questioned by a local coven.

B. Sharise Moore’s poetry selections include “Rainbows and Necklaces” by Martins Deep, “A POEM IN WHICH SANGO HANGS LIGHTNING & LULLABIES HIS CHILDREN” by Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí, and K. Ceres Wright’s “Erstwhile Ramelon.”

This issue’s cover artist is Nilah Magruder.

Thanks for starting out your new year with us. May you see all you’ve endured in 2020 restored twice over and then some. Let’s GO. So be it! See to it!

Peace,

DaVaun Sanders

Executive Editor

Executive Editor: DaVaun Sanders

Managing Editor: Eboni Dunbar

Poetry Editor: B. Sharise Moore

Acquiring Editors: Kaleb Russell + Danny Lore +

Genine Tyson + Emmalia Harrington + Tonya R. Moore

Art Direction + Layout: L.D. Lewis

Cover Artwork by Nilah Magruder

All material in FIYAH is copyrighted to the original authors and may not be reproduced without permission.

THE TECHWORK HORSE

By M. H. Ayinde // 5582 words

T he day the horses came to her town, Bola could think of nothing else.

She stood in the shade of the acacia tree while her little brothers clutched at her legs and pointed. Lord Kami rode at the head of the procession of nobles, standing high in the stirrups of his own horse. Three thousand years old, they said of his beast. Kami’s agbada flapped in the wind as he rode, and though his war-mask hid his expression behind the leering face of a jackal, Bola could tell he was grinning.

Kami’s warriors pulled the horses behind them on heavy wheeled platforms. Each beast shone a different colour from the last – some ochre, some turquoise, some emerald green. But one thing they had in common was their eyes. These gleamed red as the setting sun.

When Lord Kami reached the town gates, he stopped before the murmuring crowd. Bola pushed her way through the elders, heedless of the tuts of annoyance at her back, until she stood at the very front.

The whirr and hum of the horses’ bodies filled her ears like distant music. They stood still as statues, the sun reflecting off the angular plates of their bodies. But between those plates, silver veins pulsed, and glowing filaments cast a thousand colours into the air. Tiny lights flickered, now gold, now silver, now blinding white. They said the crystal body of a horse could weigh as much as fifty strong souls, and looking at them then, Bola could well believe it.

“Nine horses!” Lord Kami cried, addressing his crowd. “Nine horses liberated from the claws of the feverborn. Tomorrow, I shall hold a contest of choosing. But tonight, we feast!”

At dusk, Lord Kami’s servants built a towering fire, while drummers set up on a makeshift stage, and every soul in town – from Lord Kami’s noble sisters, to the beggars who slept in the dry creek – came out.

Bola watched them hoist up the bodies of the feverborn Lord Kami had slain in battle. Their metal limbs dangled at odd angles as Kami’s servants bound them to stakes. No light remained in their crystal eyes. There would be no more raids for them. Bola inched closer, trying to imagine herself facing an army of such monsters. Their silver faces seemed almost human, but the blue ichor drying on them was anything but.

Food came from the greathouse itself, brought down on golden platters by servants in white and blue. Bola sat with her back to the acacia, eating plantain and staring out into the darkness. There, black against the richness of the night sky, stood the horses. Even now, their eyes glowed red, like strange stars.

“Why aren’t you dancing?” little Ngabo asked, cartwheeling over to her, his round cheeks sticky with oil.

The rest of their family was down by the fire, drinking ogogoro or joining Lord Kami in his dance of thanks to the ancestors.

“Don’t feel like it,” Bola said.

Ngabo followed her gaze. “You think a horse will answer to you?”

“Lord Kami said anyone could try.”

Ngabo laughed and capered away, and Bola spent the rest of that night alone with her dark thoughts. Horses carried only highbloods – every child knew that. And yet Bola could not stop wondering what it would feel like to ride one across the plains herself. To charge into battle on the back of a creature so ancient, and cut down every feverborn who crossed her path.

Come morning, the contest began. Bola heard the drummers as she climbed the hill to the borehole.

“Five buckets!” Old Mama snapped at her from her rocking chair outside their hut. “And don’t be lazing around under that tree!”

“Yes, Mama,” Bola said.

She’d never made the journey there and back so fast. Each time she descended the hill, bucket balanced on her head, water slopping her shoulders, she saw highbloods in bright ceremonial dress, each lining up for a turn. Come high sun, Bola had finished her chores, and the contest was well underway.

“Mama, may I go and climb the acacia tree?” she said in her most charming voice. She made sure to bow all the way to the floor as she said it, but when she straightened, Old Mama squinted in suspicion.

“Climbing trees, is it? Aren’t you a bit old for that? Sure it’s not horses you want to climb?”

“I only want to watch,” Bola said.

“Ah-ah!” Old Mama snapped. “Child! Techwork is not for us-o. Only the highbloods. The minds of the working folk are not strong enough to command it.”

“They would be, if we knew the words,” Bola said, but she said it softly, and Old Mama did not try to stop her when she left.

The crowds were so thick when Bola arrived that she could only see the crystal tops of the horses’ heads. Nobles from all across Jebba had come. Northerners in their veils and kohl. Easterners with their ringed necks. Even some light-skinned outlanders. By turns, they bowed to Lord Kami, then approached the sandy space around the nine horses.

Each time, the crowd stilled. Anticipation rose in the air, like heat from the baked ground. Some brought offerings, which they placed at the feet of the horse they sought. Others performed dances, or displayed their skills with blade or spear. One outlander with white skin painted a ceremonial blue slit his arm from elbow to wrist, and let the blood fall upon the crystal body of the sapphire horse. But each time, the creatures remained immobile.

Then Lord Kami’s junior sister Agana came. Her braided hair shone with jewels and beads. She strode forward with her head high and shoulders back, and when she bowed to the horse she desired, the ruby, the crowd murmured with approval.

Then she began a chant. Not in the Royal Tongue of the king of the Nine Lands. Nor in any of the local tongues. Agana spoke in a lilting, musical language. Bola had heard it before. It was the secret tongue of the ancestors. And none but highbloods might speak it.

Bola watched, her lips moving. The words did not sound so very hard to say. Under her breath, she repeated each sound, trying to feel the fullness of it on her tongue. As Agana spoke, her chant progressed into a song, and the ruby horse lifted its head.

Every soul around Bola cried out at this, but still others hissed for quiet. The horse had moved, but had not yet accepted Agana as rider.

Slowly, cautiously, Agana held out one arm. Then the other. Then she reached forward and touched the horse’s long nose.

The beast whickered – a metallic, throaty sound from deep within its body.

The crowd cheered.

Agana leapt, clasping the horse about its neck and pulling herself onto its back. Her face shone with pride and triumph. The horse shook its head, face to the sun, and then it charged off towards the open plains.

Lord Kami leapt to his feet, laughing uproariously as the crowd scattered out of the horse’s path. He turned with the rest to watch his sister streak across the grasslands on the back of the ancient beast.

After that, they were claimed quickly. Two went to more of Lord Kami’s household, and one to the captain of his quartet. Two more went to the northerners, and one to a white-skinned outlander with hair the colour of sand.

The eighth horse stirred when a warrior with the straight hair and high cheekbones of the south performed his sacred dance, but when he reached out to claim the beast, it reared and then charged at the crowd, trampling one man beneath its crystal hooves before plunging eastward without pause.

“That beast has forgotten its sacred pact to bear riders,” Lord Kami declared, as the herb-woman and her apprentices carried off the injured man.

That left only one horse. An ochre. In the dying sunlight, its crystal hide shone like pure gold. It was smaller than the others and, Bola thought, seemed younger, if young could ever be said about such ancient creatures.

Many fine, brave souls presented themselves to it, even Lord Kami himself once the ogogoro began to flow.

“That horse has lost its mind,” Agana said, from where she sat at the feet of her ruby, eating from a banana leaf platter. “Perhaps it is dead!”

There was laughter at this, but Lord Kami circled the horse and said, “No. I can hear its muscles. It is alive. It simply does not deem us worthy.”

As the night wore on, the highbloods resumed their dancing and the ochre horse stood alone. Perhaps they were not worthy, but she was not like them. And even when Ngabo tried to fetch her home for pounded yam, she could not look away.

After a time, she felt certain the creature was staring back, and found herself imagining what it saw. A lowblood girl, destined for a life of chores and family. Certainly no warrior or leader of armies. Yet its eyes seemed to shine just for her. Goading her. Challenging her to stand.

Bola approached cautiously, pausing often to look left and right, to make sure that no one watched. As she drew closer, she realised she had been wrong to think the beast small. It stood taller than her father. Even there, she felt the heat of its body, like the great forge behind the smithy’s hut. A low, rhythmic thrum sounded deep within it. Roooo-ro, roooo-ro, roooo-ro, like a soldier swinging a flail.

“Oh mighty horse,” Bola said, holding her hands out as she approached. “I have watched you since you came here. Might you accept a simple washer-worker as your rider?” Belatedly, she bowed.

The horse stood unmoving, its body thrumming softly.

“Oh ancient horse!” Bola said. “You who have seen the aeons pass–”

“My sister was right, you know,” a voice said behind her. “That creature’s mind is gone.”

Bola gasped, then turned to see Lord Kami sauntering towards her. He had pulled his war mask up onto the top of his head. The eyes beneath regarded her with mirth.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Bola,” she said. “Bola from the washer-worker family.”

Lord Kami chuckled. “Horses do not carry lowbloods upon their backs. They answer only to those who speak the ancestors’ tongue.”

“Maybe this one is different,” Bola said, lifting her chin defiantly.

Lord Kami grinned. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen. Old enough to ride a horse.”

“Fourteen…” Lord Kami said, shaking his head wistfully. “At your age, you should be learning your numbers, and fumbling in the shadows with whomever catches your eye. Not chasing after horses. Techwork is dangerous, you know.”

“I know. Old Mama taught us.”

“Then stay away from it.”

Bola watched Lord Kami stride away, feeling both anger and sadness. He had spoken as though to warn her, but something in the tightness of his lips made her think she had irked him with her presumption.

It was all the encouragement she needed.

∙ ∙ ∙

The weeks grew hot and dry, and then the rains came, and with them, the departure of Lord Kami’s guests. As the creek swelled and burst its banks, the ochre horse remained, unmoving. The grass grew high around its legs. Coucals climbed onto its back, and it did not shake them off.

When the dry season came again, and with it Bola’s first blood, children had taken to throwing stones at the horse. Old Mama scolded them and said the ancestors turned from those who mocked the Old Ones, but that did not stop Ngabo and his friends.

Bola did not try to stop them either, but at night, she wove long garlands of violets and took them down to the ochre horse, to set about its neck.

“They laugh at you,” she said as she stroked its warm crystal hooves. “But I know how great you are. They don’t mean any harm. They just don’t understand you.”

The following summer, Bola met a boy from Lord Kami’s stables, a highblood in training with the farriers’ guild.

“When the rains come, I’m going to the city of Maadu,” he said. “I’m going to learn the ancestors’ tongue, and all the secrets of the Old Ones.”

He stroked her shoulder as they lay naked under the shadow of the acacia tree. “When I come back,” he said, “I’ll command that horse to take you as its rider, and then you can live with me in the greathouse.”

“I don’t want you to command it,” she said, and turned away.

The next morning, when she saw the boy whispering to the horse, she felt her stomach twist. He could return with all the knowledge of the ancestors at his command. He could return and take her ochre horse away. He, who had done nothing to honour the creature. He, who had not earned it at all.

∙ ∙ ∙

Bola was twenty-two when her firstborn, Echu, came into the world. The day after he arrived, Bola strapped him to her back and took him down to meet her ochre.

“Shouldn’t you rest?” asked Matani, her beloved. Steadfast, dependable Matani. He and both their families had been celebrating the birth all night. They sat around the fire, the remains of their feast feeding the lizards. Everyone was there, but Bola had never felt more alone.

“I’m not tired,” she said, patting his shoulder. “And the walk is good for the baby.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” he said, lifting to his feet.

“No! No, you stay. I won’t be long.”

Echu was still asleep when they reached the place where the ochre horse stood. The years had not faded the gleam of its crystal hide. The rains had not dulled the glow of its eyes.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” Bola asked her sleeping newborn. “Sunlight and warmth are all it needs. Imagine a creature so pure, not even food is needed to sustain it.”

She pressed her ear against the horse’s flank, just as she had done countless times over the years. The warmth that spread through her cheek, the gentle, ceaseless roooo-ro of its innards, were more comforting to her anything in the world.

∙ ∙ ∙

Echu was five when monks from the east came through their town. At their backs marched warriors and invokers from all over the Nine Lands, off to defend the north from the feverborn. But five of the holy ones came down to the ochre horse at sunset. They surrounded it with curious offerings – techwork, Bola realised as she watched from the shadows; gleaming boxes of silver, shards of black glass, and strange, bristling filaments. They donned their ceremonial masks, burned their sacred incense and danced from dusk until the sun crept over the horizon. But still the ochre horse did not move.

The day the invoker army left, Bola told Matani she needed to see the herb woman, and then came to the ochre horse at sunset. There she found a strange little man in robes of shattered metal dancing around the horse and laughing. He saw her approach and beckoned her over.

“I’ve seen you visit this horse,” he said in his singsong accent. “You think you can ride it?”

“Only highbloods may command techwork,” Bola said. “I’m just a washer-worker.” She smiled against the tightness in her throat as she spoke, and tried to ignore the stinging in her eyes.

“So why do you visit at all?” The man chuckled, his painted lips spreading wide. “Do you want to know a secret?”

Bola folded her arms and tried to look nonchalant. “Perhaps.”

“You’ve got to guess its name. That’s the trick. Call the horse by its name. Then it is yours to command.”

“And how am I supposed to know its name?” Bola asked, before she could stop herself.

“Listen, and watch. The ancestors will show you.”

Then he returned to his little ritual. Bola watched him for a time, hoping he would leave, wondering who he was. As he hummed and chanted, she thought she heard that same strange language Agana had used, the language of the ancestors. And though she listened to him all night, the words slid from her mind like sand between her fingers.

When she crept back into her hut at dawn, Matani did not ask her where she’d been. He never did; not any more. But the coldness in his eyes told her all she needed to hear.

∙ ∙ ∙

The rains came and went. Echu grew, as did his two sisters. Echu’s infant brother caught a fever in his first month of life, and soon returned to the ancestors. After that, Bola found herself spending more and more time at the feet of her ochre horse.

“Leke?” she said, hot tears streaking down her cheeks. “Is that your name? It’s what I named him.”

But the horse did not move.

Then one morning, just after dawn, Matani shook her awake. His face, so familiar to her, was lined now. As was her own. She could hear Echu outside, singing in his deep voice, while his daughter tried to join him in the sacred song.

“I thought you’d want to see,” Matani said. “Old Lord Kami is leaving.”

Bola followed Matani through the town, where households were slowly uncoiling from sleep, then past the wall and out onto the plains. There, beyond the stone expanse of the greathouse, a line of warriors headed steadily north. Lord Kami, stooped and white-haired now, rode at the head of the line.

“What’s happening?” Bola said to the young man on her left.

“Lord Kami has been called to war,” he said. “The king says all invokers must go to defend the border from the feverborn.”

“Are they growing stronger, then?” Bola asked.

The young man frowned, glancing at Matani. “She doesn’t know?”

Matani shrugged his great shoulders apologetically. “She doesn’t care for singers and their news.”

Rekeke, the old woman who ran the ogogoro inn, became their leader. Only servants remained within the greathouse. After two years, even the servants departed. Nobody visited the greathouse then, and the grasses and flowers took up residence within its walls.

Bola had seen sixty dry seasons now, but still remained strong enough to bring the water down each morning. And on one particular day, just before the start of the rains, as she descended the hill with her bucket, she heard distant shouts, and saw a number of figures streaking across the grasses just beyond the town wall.

By the time she’d deposited her bucket and hurried through town, it was over. She came out through the crumbling walls to see a circle of people gathered around a twisted body. Rekeke stood leaning on her stick, her wrinkled face grim, and as the crowd parted, Bola felt her pulse quicken. A feverborn. A thing of metal and flesh. In the shape of man, but somehow not human at all. Scratches crisscrossed its silver skin. The veins that spilled from its shattered chest still sparked with crackling lights. Matani tried to pull her back, but Bola shook him off angrily. She had no fear of techwork; not as a child and certainly not now.

“There will be more!” Rekeke said that night as they sat around her fire. “Lord Kami was due back years ago. His greathouse lies in ruin. It is time we face the truth. He has fled, or died in the war. And we are unprotected. The singers who come out of the north say all the towns there are empty. It is five days to the city of Maadu. They have high walls. Thousands of warriors. A dozen noble invokers to call the ancestors down to protect the people. It is time we took our things, and left.”

“We cannot travel during the rains!” someone called from the back, and there were murmurs of agreement.

“If we do not go now,” Rekeke said. “We may not survive the rains.”

That was when their town divided. Rekeke and many others packed up their homes and families, and left. Three hundred souls in total. Bola watched them from the hill, as the rains plastered her iro to her skin and ran in great washes over the ground. She watched them snaking off south, their whole lives on their backs, until they faded from view.

Rekeke had been right. Another feverborn did come. And then another. Then four, hunting for metal as a pack, and Echu was one of the brave souls wounded when the youngsters mustered to protect the town.

That night, he called all the family around him.

“It is foolish to leave in during the rains,” Echu said. “But Rekeke was right. We must go. I cannot walk on this leg, but come the first days of the dry season, we must head to Maadu. All of us.” He fixed Bola with his stare as he said that, and they all agreed.

But that night Bola slipped away in the darkness to sit at the ochre horse’s feet. It was as overgrown as Lord Kami’s greathouse now. Flowers twined around its legs. A nest of tiny birds lived on its back. Bola snatched off one of the garlands she had placed upon it. Her old hands crumpled the dried petals as she tried to find the words.

“Feverborn,” Bola said. “That’s your name, isn’t it? You’re not a horse, you’re a monster, come to destroy us all. Come to destroy me.”

And still the ochre did not move.

And when the last of the rains had fallen, and the last of the townsfolk had gathered their things, Bola found herself slipping away while they mapped their route and loaded the cart. She had only meant to say goodbye, but as she sat at the hooves of her ochre horse, she could not make herself stand.

It was near high sun when she heard a heavy sigh behind her.

“If I didn’t come for you,” Matani said, “would you even have joined us?”

She looked up and saw him watching her sadly.

“If you love me… love your children, your grandchildren, you will come,” Matani said. “Now.”

Bola looked away, could not meet his eyes. “I can’t leave it,” she said, her voice scarcely a whisper.

Matani nodded, as though he’d expected those words. “Of course. Because your love for this… thing is greater than your love for your family.”

He stalked away, and Bola wanted to call out to him, wanted to bring him back, but she couldn’t. Because a small part of her feared he was right.

Eventually, it was Echu who came and pulled her to her feet. She did not fight him as he steered her away. She took her place on the back of the last cart, so they would not see her tears, and watched her home slide slowly into the distance. How small it looked. How damaged. She thought she could even see the techwork horse, a bright golden speck against the brown of the grasses.

After an hour, they stopped so the children could empty their bladders and their guides could check the maps. Bola thought of her family shrine, back in their hut, abandoned now. She slipped from the cart to stretch her legs. There was a hill behind them. If she climbed it, she might yet be able to see the town. If she just walked back a little further...

∙ ∙ ∙

Old Mama had been right; if you were quiet, if you were still, you could almost hear the whispers of the ancestors. Six days now, Bola had been sitting at the ruins of her family shrine. Six days, and her only food the rotting scraps she had found in her neighbours’ huts. And yet as she sat, sharing what little she had with the shrine, she became certain that the ancestors were near. Always just out of sight, always just beyond hearing, but close.

Sometimes she thought Old Mama was calling to her, from far away. Once, she was sure she could hear Leke crying.

In the high grasses, her ochre horse stood still and silent. She could make a camp beside it. Perhaps build a hut around it, move the shrine there. But she was too tired to begin.

On the ninth day, a great storm came rolling out of the north to pound the land. Bola sat huddled in her family’s crumbling hut, wrapped tight in a blanket, waiting for the onslaught to end. But even when the rain ceased and the wind had exhausted itself, she could hear strange sounds without, and when she knelt to peer through the window at the road outside, she saw figures. Dozens of them, picking quietly through the abandoned town. At first, she took them for bandits, but then one turned her way and she saw they were not people at all, but feverborn.

Bola clamped a hand to her mouth, her heart pounding. The feverborn continued to stalk through the town, searching each building. A shadow fell across the entrance to her hut. Bola scrambled out through a back window, sure they would give chase. But as she stumbled from hut to hut, keeping low, she heard no sounds of pursuit.

At the edge of town, she saw that a group of them had set up a camp, with the ochre horse at its edge. They had got a fire burning, though its flame was an unnatural green, and they sat in a wide circle, chittering in their unfathomable language.

Bola crouched behind the remains of the town wall, watching. As dusk approached, the other feverborn returned, some carrying pans and tools and cloth they had found in her neighbours’ homes. They did not eat, nor did they dance and sing as the sun set. But several became interested in the techwork horse. One climbed onto its back, to the coarse merriment of the onlookers. Another pushed at the horse’s face. A third sharpened his sword on the ochre’s legs, and still another poked at its eyes, as though searching for signs of life.

Bola felt each movement they made like a cut on her skin. She knew she should run, but she could not make herself move. Something she had long tried to ignore was unravelling within her, slowly coming to life.

Finally, when three of them stood and pushed the ochre horse until it crashed sideways onto the grass, Bola could take no more. She rose from her hiding place and strode forward, no longer feeling fear.

“You!” she shouted, much as she might call to one of her grandchildren. “Get away from her! She’s mine!”

The feverborn were so surprised that they merely peered at her with their glowing eyes. Then one stood at the back – a female, from her look – and swept her cloak over one shoulder, letting her hood fall back. Her ghastly metal face leered in a mockery of humanity. She wore a motley of armour in a dozen different northern styles. A great iwisa club swung from her back, something an invoker lord might have borne. She grinned at Bola with pointed teeth.

“What did you say, old human?”

Bola decided this must be their captain. She spoke in perfect Royal Tongue. Bola had heard that feverborn could sometimes speak human languages, but had never imagined that they would sound so… human when they did.

“I said leave her alone,” Bola said, switching to the same language. “She is mine.”

They all laughed again, a curious rattling sound, and looked to their captain for response. But Bola was not interested in the captain. Behind, through the long grass, Bola could just make out her horse’s face. Its eyes were bright. The crystal edges of its flank shifted in a kaleidoscope of awakening colour. Bola took a step forward. Surely it did not mean to answer to them. Surely these were not the ones for whom it had been waiting.

“Yours?” the captain said. “A horse such as this does not belong to anyone. You cannot impress one so rare with dances and gifts. It might carry a king or a general, for a time. But what can a crone like you hope to offer?”

Bola felt her throat tighten. “Myself,” Bola said. “I offer only myself.”

“Fine. If she has accepted you, then call her to your side.”

Bola looked at her ochre horse, and the horse looked back.

“Well? Call her to your side, or let us carve her up for parts.” The captain drew a small dagger from her belt. “This is one of the oldest horses I have ever seen.” She traced the blade along the ochre’s back until she found a nook. Bola’s heart thumped in her ears as the captain worked the point beneath the ochre’s crystal skin. “We can make good use of what lies within it.”

“Don’t touch her!” Bola said, her gnarled hands balling into fists.

“Why?” the captain asked. She watched Bola closely as she slid the blade back and forth. “She feels no pain. Pain is a human concept. Call to her, if she is yours.”

Bola’s throat was dry. She stared as the captain worked a shard of crystal free, as she prodded beneath, like a thief in a highblood’s chest of jewels. Then the captain removed something from a plate in her own hand. A single vein of glowing silver. She worked it under the ochre’s skin, connecting them like mother and child. She tipped her head back, eyes blinking rapidly as though in rapture, and the ochre’s eyes blinked in response.

Bola threw herself forward, not thinking, not caring, only knowing that she had to make it stop. The feverborn captain spun aside. She stuck out one foot, sending Bola tumbling to the ground.

The feverborn roared with metallic laughter. But Bola scarcely heard them. Behind the captain, something stirred in the grass, glowing red-brown in the strange light from the fire. Bola’s pulse quickened. A smile creeped onto her lips as eyes like two red stars appeared above the grasses.

“I told you, she is mine,” Bola said again. “And I am hers.”

The ochre horse reared back on her hind legs, wonderful and terrible to behold. Vines and flowers slid from her glowing body and from deep within her came a rattling whicker. The captain turned in time to see the horse’s mighty crystal hooves crash down. Pinned, the dagger flew from her grip.

A human would have been crushed beneath those hooves, but the captain’s chest was not made of flesh and bone. She batted feebly at the ochre’s legs, trying to reach her iwisa. Her soldiers formed a tight circle, advancing slowly, drawing swords. Bola opened her mouth to cry a warning, but there was no need. With a final snort in the captain’s face, the horse leapt, passing clean over the heads of the three nearest feverborn and landing in a spray of mud at Bola’s side.

Bola was not as nimble as she had once been, but she could still climb the hill to the borehole. So she threw her arms around the ochre’s neck – so warm, throbbing with life – and hauled herself gracelessly up.

Then she was flying, or so it seemed. Past the angry knot of feverborn. Past the acacia tree and the grasses. North; the night streaking by, the wind snatching at her iro.

Bola had no fear of falling. Generals and kings wore saddles when they rode to war, but Bola would never demean the ochre so. Her ancient, proud ochre. Besides, a curious energy drew her skin to the horse’s crystal body, clamping her tight. And though the crystal of the ochre’s back was angular and hard as stone, it did not chafe or dig. It was as if her body had moulded to accommodate Bola.

As if they had been born for each other.

“How many have you carried, over the centuries?” Bola whispered, leaning down, though the ochre had no ears. “Not many, I’d guess. I never should have tried to claim you for my own. I should simply have given myself to you. You do not care about names or gifts, do you? I think you were waiting for me to be ready.”

Over the plains they streaked, Bola’s cheeks burning with her smile. It seemed no time at all had passed, but all too soon the sky to the east glowed red with the first light of dawn. Up ahead, the land fell away and down there, Bola saw a great mass of darkness. At first, she took it for a vast forest, but then the truth of it became clear. A host; thousands, perhaps tens of thousands strong. Their chittering carried to her on the morning breeze. This was no mere army; it was an invasion, and nothing would stand in its path.

Bola thought of Echu; of Matani and the others – safe, she hoped, behind the walls of Maadu. Or not so safe. Large and strong as Maadu was, it could never hope to stand before a host such as this. She had to warn them. Had to let them know what was coming. Had to give them time to prepare.

“Are you ready to run?” Bola said, leaning forward again.

The techwork horse lifted her head and whinnied.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT M. H. AYINDE

M. H. Ayinde (she/her) was born in London’s East End, and is a former video games reviewer and book publicist. She is a runner, a baker, and a screen time enthusiast. She writes science fiction and fantasy, which mostly involves making pretty spreadsheets and compiling music playlists. She lives in a house full of books and DVDs, with three generations of her family and their ageing feline overlord. WEBSITE

BABY BROTHER

By Kalynn Bayron // 3211 words

Morgan didn’t always hate his brother.

In the time before, they were close as brothers should be. Morgan was the older of the two. Wiser, according to Mama, more hardheaded to hear Daddy tell it, but Morgan loved his baby brother somethin’ fierce.

Two years separated Morgan and Ace in age and as children, they were closer than that in inches. What Mama bought for one, she bought for the other; shiny, hard-bottomed church shoes, winter coats a size too big for growing into, tall socks and underwear with their names stitched on the tags to tell whose was whose. They shared a room, and most nights a bed, because the three feet that separated them, across creaking wooden slats and shifting shadows, was simply too vast in the dead of night.

They spent humid summer afternoons discovering hidden trails and fishing in the lazy creek that carved a twisted path through the forest behind their house—pale soles in the cool clear water, sweaty brows and bare shoulders darkened by the sun. Daddy strung a tire from the bough of an ancient hornbeam in the front yard to make a swing for them. Morgan always let his baby brother have a little more time than he deserved.

They slurped red sugar water out of tiny plastic barrels, staining their lips and tongues. Daddy snuck them chips and they stashed the foil bags deep in the trashcan before Mama caught them spoiling their dinner.

Twinkling stars and blinking fireflies filled the hot summer nights, and outside under those nighttime skies Mama’s stories filled their heads. She told them of a strong man who wasn’t afraid of nothin’ except an old crooked house, told them all about how the gator got his mouth. They whooped and hollered when the tortoise beat that boastful hare in a foot race. But when the happy stories ended another tale was told. Ace clung to Morgan and Morgan held him tight as Mama reminded them that there are things in the gloom that were not to be meddled with.

“Keep your eyes up,” she said to Daddy. “The boys can’t see it for themselves. Not yet.”

Daddy nodded but winked at Morgan and his baby brother to set their minds at ease.

One night, when the heat was almost gone from the nighttime air, Mama sat them outside and Daddy dug a pit, filled it with old dusty logs, and set it alight.

Inside, the phone rang and Mama went to answer it. Mama told Daddy to keep the fire high and bright. Daddy poked at the logs as they snapped and crackled. The flames inhaled the air and made themselves taller, wider, hotter. They leapt up and bit Daddy on his chin. He hollered, cursing everything around.

That fire singed the hair right off the side of Daddy’s wide jaw. He stomped and cursed and held his hand to his face. Morgan stood but his baby brother took a handful of Morgan’s shirt in his fist.

“I’ll be right back,” Morgan said. “Promise.”

He ran inside and ran a dish rag under the cool tap. He wrung it out and headed back outside, but not before catching Mama’s eye as she held the phone close to her ear. She saw Morgan but then looked past him, out the back door, into the dark.

Mama put the phone on her shoulder. “Where’s your brother?”

“He’s still out there. The fire got Daddy right on the chin.” Morgan held up the rag. “I got this for him.”

Mama nodded and let her gaze drift to the doorway once more.

Morgan went out and after handing Daddy the cold compress, returned to Ace’s side and pulled him close.

Daddy nursed his wounds but had turned his back to Morgan and his baby brother as the flames settled in the pit. They were not meant to lay so low.

Shadows, long and thin, grew out of the dying firelight. They swiped at Morgan’s bare ankles like fingers, clutching at him. The fire continued to shrink and the shadows sprouted new arms, new hands. Morgan pulled his brother onto his lap as a specter in the opaque blackness snatched Morgan’s breath straight out of his chest, made his heartbeat falter. He opened his mouth to scream but the monster stole that too.

Mama came out and her cry split the air. Ace screamed, their voices mingling together like watercolors in a painting. Morgan found his voice and joined them. Mama stretched out her left hand and beat back the darkness with a turn of her tongue.

There were no more firepits in the late summer after that.

Daddy took to asking Mama to forgive him. He said he should have kept his eyes up. Mama told him he was right. He asked if that meant he was forgiven and she told him there was no forgiveness to be had. She could offer him none. “Go ask Jesus,” she said. Then he would rant and rave, settle into sullen melancholy, and then he’d get to begging all over again. Morgan hated the fighting, the angry words spoken when Mama and Daddy both seemed like they were full up with hurt. Morgan only wanted them to speak gently to each other, the way they used to. He loved them both so very much.

That’s when it started — when Morgan began to hate his brother. There was pity in the beginning. Of course, there was. His baby brother didn’t speak — he couldn’t. Not right at first. There were frightened gasps from Ace’s side of the room in the dead of night. Was he scared? Morgan murmured comforts into the darkness until his breathing fell into the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Eventually, his baby brother found his voice again. Morgan thought he would use it to speak to him but instead, he cried more than he ever had before. All through the night even as Mama tried to soothe him.

Ace clung to Daddy. Mama said it was a good thing. Morgan thought she sounded happy when she told Daddy it was what he deserved. He should have to see it with his own eyes, hear it with his own ears. Daddy tried to convince him to come back around to being the way he used to be.

“C’mon Ace,” Daddy said. “Remember when I gave you that name? Couldn’t walk around calling you Anthony Christopher Edmond all day, could I? You were my Ace. Still are.”

But the old nickname didn’t work and Daddy ended up pushing baby brother away. Confused, Ace went to Mama. Clung to her even more fiercely than he had to Daddy, and Mama let him.

Daddy took Mama aside and told her not to coddle baby brother. If there was ever going to be any hope of moving on from what had happened, she had to let him be. Mama almost stretched out her left hand on him and he acted like she’d struck him. He was wounded. Not as hurt as he would have been if she’d actually done it, but wounded all the same.

“You’d do that to me?” he’d asked. His face tight with anger, with regret and all the things unspoken between them.

She reminded him that this was all his fault. That baby brother wouldn’t be like this if he had kept the fire high like she’d told him to. If he’d kept his eyes up.

“Maybe you deserve it,” Morgan heard Mama say. Her tone was like a knife—sharp unforgiving and able to draw blood.

Daddy had sighed so hard Morgan thought he might blow the house down. “Maybe I do.”

Mama did what she always did… just what she pleased. Daddy couldn’t tell her nothin’ because he knew she was right. She didn’t care what Daddy thought she should do. She didn’t care what was best.

Morgan spent most of his days trying hard to block out his brother’s constant cries and trying even harder to make himself believe that Mama still loved him. He shut himself away in the room he shared with Ace and busied himself with their unfinished game of jacks. His brother’s rubber ball was red, Morgan’s was blue. Ace had already collected six of the twelve silver jacks and they sat just as he’d left them. Morgan bounced the ball and scooped up three pieces. A ripple of anger pulsed through him. Ace should have taken his turn by now. They should be on to the next game by now. He threw the jacks against the floor and watched as they scattered.

Morgan caught glimpses of his baby brother following Mama from room to room, clutching at her skirt. She told him he was being silly, that there was nothin’ to worry about, nothin’ to be afraid of. She sat in the rocker by the big window and cradled Ace in her lap. Morgan pressed his fingers, the nails dirty and jagged, against his lips to stifle his cries. Mama cared about his baby brother more than she cared about him, and Morgan couldn’t remember a time when that had been true. She’d always been fair in her love — and her switch — but now there was only Ace’s wants and needs and demands.

Morgan hungered for what had been denied him for nearly two months; his mother’s affection, his father’s once undivided attention. And, as hard as he tried, he could not wring those tender feelings from them. Their time was spent, in its entirety, on his baby brother, leaving Morgan wanting.

Morgan clipped his own nails. Daddy helped him wash up. Morgan dressed on his own, went to the bus on his own, came home on his own; one day returning with a note pinned to his shirt from Teacher. Morgan opened it even though it was not for his eyes. Teacher said she had a son like his baby brother. She said she knew it was hard but that Mama should be strong. Mama tossed the note in the trash.

When the cold stripped the leaves from their branches, the snow came and laid across the ground like a thick blanket. The shadows stayed, crowding out the light and the warmth. The nights grew long and Morgan’s fears also stretched into the dark. Mama used to keep the light on for him, but she had allowed it to burn out much the same way Daddy had let the fire die in the pit. When Morgan huddled beneath his blankets — teeth chattering, hoping sleep would find him — Ace joined him there. But Morgan no longer took any comfort in it. Had so much changed between them? Morgan supposed it had. He did not embrace his baby brother. Ace’s incessant crying drove him to tears.

“Stop!” Morgan pleaded. “I can’t sleep with you carrying on like this!”

Ace snatched the covers away and kept him up till morning pacing the floor, the boards creaking under him. He toppled Morgan’s tower of wooden blocks, and defeated Morgan’s last ounce of sympathy. It went on and on that way. At all hours of the night his baby brother woke the whole house with his tapping and humming, his crying. Morgan knew no peace.

Fear and pity had turned to loathing. Morgan never thought he could hate his baby brother. He remembered how things were before, how close they had been, how there was nothing he wouldn’t have done for Ace. He wished he could have saved him from this terrible existence. If he hadn’t gone to get Daddy a cool rag to soothe his burn, maybe he would have seen it coming. Ace had clung to his shirt, a silent plea for him not to go, but Morgan went anyway. He’d returned to his baby brother’s side just as he’d promised, but the fire was already too low, the shadows too close. Morgan let those feelings pass through him and away like the receding tide. His baby brother could sense it and was having none of it. His wailing and crying and clinging turned to violent, destructive malice.

Ace hid Morgan’s shoes, always the left ones. Morgan heard him laughing, giggling when he thought no one was listening. He grew to enjoy Morgan’s suffering. He pulled Morgan’s shirts off their hangers, tossed his books onto the floor. He smashed Morgan’s toys to pieces.

“Ace smashed my toys, Mama,” Morgan told Mama. “He did that.”

“I’ve never seen him do that,” she said. “Morgan, baby, you sure you didn’t do that yourself?”

Morgan wanted to scream. He wanted to yell. He did neither.

Daddy kept his silence, too. Morgan heard him telling somebody on the phone that he thought speaking up would be the final straw between him and Mama and she’d send him on somewhere. Morgan heard him say they might be headed for a ‘dee force’. Morgan didn’t know what that was but it made Daddy hang his head and cry like a little boy.

It shouldn’t have been that way. Nothing should have been different between them despite the change of season but they were all changed after the night of the bonfire. Daddy knew it. Mama knew it. Morgan knew it most. Baby Brother knew nothing at all.

Daddy asked Mama to call up Big Mama. Maybe she could speak to his baby brother. Mama didn’t like it but Morgan couldn’t see why. Big Mama had a way about her. Morgan knew Ace would listen to her if he didn’t listen to nobody else. Mama learned to stretch out her left hand from Big Mama. It was the best idea of anyone yet.

Morgan knew there was a chance Big Mama could set Ace straight but as he watched Mama press her lips together and fuss with the ties on her apron, a terrible and thought pushed its way to the front of his mind — she didn’t want Big Mama to set him straight and that hurt Morgan in a way he couldn’t fully understand. She would choose this? She would allow this to continue?

When Big Mama called out to Ace, he hid himself away, folding himself into the corners of the house where the shadows were deepest and darkest. Morgan sat quietly in the hallway. He chewed away his nails until nothing but nubs remained, the exposed quick pink and soggy. It stung when the air touched it. He listened to his baby brother pad from room to room, refusing to do as he was told.

“Why don’t you ever listen?” Morgan said softly, words spoken like a prayer. “Just listen. Please.”

A sound, like a whisper carried in on a breeze drew Morgan’s attention up and he saw his baby brother. Ace stood at the end of the hall. Light filtered through the narrow window at the top of the wall and lit his face. Morgan had spent so much time trying to ignore him that seeing him that way, all lit up, the sunlight radiating through him — it was almost like before.

Almost.

Morgan glared at him, angry. “Go away.”

“I won’t,” Ace whispered, his voice like a memory of a sound Morgan had almost forgotten. He stepped out of the rectangle of sallow sunlight and went into the hall closet. He started the tapping. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then came the laughing and giggling and taunting — the wailing and angry thumps.

Morgan cupped his hands over his ears and stomped downstairs. “He won’t come down, Big Mama. He won’t listen to you or Mama. What are we gonna do?”

“Hush,” Mama said, pulling Morgan close to her. Morgan’s heart leapt at Mama’s touch but there was no affection, only the roughness of hands quieting him. “We’re not gonna do a single thing if we don’t want to.”

Big Mama huffed and stuck out her chin, shoved her hand down on her hip. “I will come up there,” she said sternly, her voice booming with all the power she held in her chest. “Do not test me.”

Mama started to cry. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks and dropped on Morgan’s shirt. He hoped this meant the wall she’d built up was crumbling. If she could cry, the way Morgan had cried, if she could let herself feel the way he did, maybe she could understand. But when Daddy put his arm around her and she turned away from him, and away from Morgan.

“We can cast out the things that lurk in the dark,” Big Mama said. “But what stays behind will be what you’re most afraid to let go of.” She filled her chest with air and let it slide out between her teeth. She touched Mama’s shoulder. “It’s time, baby.”

Big Mama told Mama and Daddy to make Ace his favorite food, to set it at the table and let him come to it in his own time.

“Talk to him gently,” Big Mama said. “Tell him he’s changed. Tell him you can’t go on like this and he can’t either. Once you’ve said what you need to say, take the food away and don’t offer him a single bite more.”

Mama did what Big Mama told her to. That same night, she put out a plate of food, made special just for Ace and set it on the table in the spot where he always sat. Daddy closed his eyes when Ace pulled out the chair and sat down. Mama spoke to him gently. But when it was time to take the food away Mama could not do it. She would not. Morgan’s stomach turned over. He worried he would be sick. Daddy got up and left. Morgan stared at Mama.

“Mama,” he said, tears stinging his big brown eyes, the eyes that were so much like hers and his baby brother’s. “Please, Mama. Please make him stop.”

She pressed her palms to the table and sobbed. “You asking me to let him be but you don’t know what you’re talking about.” She breathed deep, settling herself. “You want him to be the way he was — before — but he can’t.”

“Big Mama said you could let him go another way,” Morgan said, his voice small and scared. “You could do that, right Mama?”

Mama shook her head. “You want me to be the way I was before, too, but I can’t do that either.”

She and Morgan sat in a silence filled with unsaid things.

His baby brother grew weary of their quiet denial and shattered it with a mournful howl. He ran through the rooms upstairs, the soles of his bare feet slapping against the wood floor.

Mama straightened up and wiped her tears. She went to Ace — to console him, to coddle him until he quit his fussin’. Morgan knew then that she wouldn’t take his plate away. She wouldn’t tell him how they couldn’t go on like this. She couldn’t.

Morgan didn’t always hate his brother but he did now. There was no sleep without his incessant tapping, no dreams without his face, no bed he did not crawl into. His weeping filled the night, his giggling, his tapping, his footsteps.

His baby brother, dead for half a year now, would not rest.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT KALYNN BAYRON

Kalynn Bayron is the bestselling author of the award winning YA fantasy CINDERELLA IS DEAD. She is a classically trained vocalist, horror movie fanatic, and musical theater lover. Originally from Anchorage, Alaska she now resides in San Antonio, Texas with her family. WEBSITE

DELETE YOUR FIRST MEMORY FOR FREE

By Kel Coleman // 3625 words

The bus jerks to a stop and I tighten my grip on the smooth, metal bar. Doors open. More passengers.

Bodies hem me in, which makes me anxious, which makes me bite my nails. I maneuver the shredded bits with my tongue, push them out past my lips, pinch them between my fingers, slither my hand down to my side, flick the moist clippings to the floor.

I feel eyes. I think it’s the lady in the beige knee-high boots. She must get on at one of the first stops ‘cause she always has a seat. She’s looking at her phone now, but she probably saw. White women are always pretending they don’t see me.

I make myself stop biting my nails, look at my phone. Pull up Connext and expand my web of friends. Accept a request from Ava. The new link tugs the existing ones with Max and Ye-jun closer. A recommendation pops up. The picture makes my heart race:

Fatima. Sitting on a park bench, looking off to the side, light-brown skin warm in the sunlight. She’s almost smiling.

I close out the pop-up, minimize the web, spend the rest of the commute trawling the feed for jokes. Trigger an ad that interrupts my music. A breathy voice, bland as pastel, offers a discount on my first visit.

“You have nothing to lose, Devin. Try what some are calling ‘detox for your mind.’ Satisfaction guaranteed.”

∙ ∙ ∙

I’m early to work so I can eat breakfast alone in the breakroom.

Someone says, “Hold the elevator!”

FUCK.

I press hold.

Nancy fast-walks over the threshold, smiles. Ugh. Every time I see her, I think about that time I joked about smoking pot. I know she remembers. Old people love it when you prove them right and–

Shit. She’s saying something. Can’t she see my earbuds?

“Sorry,” I mutter, press pause, lose my bubble. “Didn’t hear you.”

Nancy laughs, quiet. “Oh, just good morning.”

“Oh, yeah. G’morning.” Not polite enough. I say, “Going to the karaoke thing later?”

“Yesss,” she says, eyes bulging. A snake spotting a nest of eggs. “Are you?”

I would rather down a jigger of pus than hang out with my coworkers. “Can’t. Already have plans.”

∙ ∙ ∙

I stopped trying to be New Devin after summer, when everyone was showing off their Cancun pics and telling me, “You just have to see Alaska someday,” and, “You don’t know how much you don’t know until you’ve traveled abroad.” So I hide in my cubicle and no one invites me to lunch anymore. That’s good. And that’s bad.

I eat a rushed breakfast at my desk since Nancy is in the breakroom digging through the fridge and tutting about expired food. Brush crumbs off my keyboard, crank up the volume on my earbuds. The music turns to syrup in my brain.

Transferring data from one spreadsheet to another and digging up gold for some blue blood motherfucker isn’t saving the world, but I actually like my job. Minus the meetings.

I find an excuse to work through the first one, but the second one, just before end-of-day, is mandatory. Nancy and a guy whose name I can never remember talk about quarterly goals. I watch myself doodle on a notepad. Monster faces. F inside a heart. And PANIC PANIC PANIC stacked like bricks in the margin. The meeting finally ends with an enthusiastic reminder, “Everyone gets two free drinks at karaoke!”

On my way out, I tear the page from my notebook, ball it up, toss it in the trash, then pretend I need something I wrote on there, pluck it back out, pocket it to throw away at home.

I wanna bail on my plans. They’re my friends so they’ll understand, but since they’re my friends it’s good to spend time with them, right? And Fatima will be there…

That could be good. Or bad.

I leave work without saying goodbye to anyone. Bite my nails on the bus, skim the news for conversation starters, stress about happy hour.

∙ ∙ ∙

“Hello,” the hostess says. “Dining in?”

I nod.

“How many in your party?” She takes out one menu.

“Four. No, five.”

She hides her shock, grabs four more menus, leads me to a table.

“Sorry, can we have a booth?” High backs so I can’t feel the eyes.

She smiles and pivots to a booth. She’ll tell the server I’m difficult.

I sit where I can watch the door and say, “THANK YOU.” Too much.

She leaves the pile of menus but I ignore them. Checked yesterday when Ye-jun sent the address.

The server appears. I stare at the table, ask her for water and house vodka on the rocks. When the drinks come, I watch the door harder. Maybe they changed the plan and forgot to tell me?

I grimace through the first half of my vodka. Pull up Connext. Get hit with the ‘clear your mental clutter’ ad again. Am I getting this ‘cause I searched for therapy? Check my messages. He said 5:30. It’s 5:30. I should text him but don’t want to seem desperate.

I know Ye-jun from high school. We weren’t friends or anything, but we had that part-of-the-minority awareness of each other. Me and a few other black kids even let him in on ‘the nod.’ We went to different colleges, but linked through Connext. We both moved here around spring. Random. He invited me to a hangout at his place. I was trying to reinvent myself, so I accepted. All that’s left of New Devin is an updated wardrobe, but Ye-jun keeps inviting me out and I don’t want to fuck it up.

I finish the vodka. Chug the water. Play a puzzle game on my phone ‘til 5:55. Time to text him.

Hi! — No. Hola — NO. Hey. I’m here and — backspace. Hey, I’ve been here since — backspace, don’t be that person. Hey, I’m at the restarant, but I haven’t seen y’all come in. Did I get the time wrong or something?

Reread. Nonchalant enough? Yeah. Hit send. See the typo and my heart does its favorite wiggle-out-of-my-chest dance. It blossoms, blooms, sends tendrils to steal my breath like that guy who grew a tree in his lungs. My worries are oak trees. Or maybe one of those paper trees with the peeling–

“Devin?”

I look up. Ye-jun is staring down at me, puzzled.

I can’t find words.

“We’re in the back.” He points unnecessarily.

“Oh.” I scramble to my feet. “I didn’t…” Course I didn’t.

I follow Ye-jun, cross paths with my server. She makes eye contact, but, again, I can’t find words. I gesture at Ye-jun’s back like ‘ain’t this the darndest?’

She nods, says she’ll tell the other server. I should tip extra.

My friends have a six-seater and of course Ava and Max left a seat between them, and of course Fatima is across from them but in the corner and Ye-jun has the seat next to her so ahhhhhhhhhh. I take the seat next to Ye-jun. The note from work is a rock in my pocket.

I’m outside of myself. Maybe I should’ve eaten before the vodka.

I say, “Hi. Hi,” to Max and Ava, who look like a department store ad for his-and-hers knit sweaters. Lean forward to look past Ye-jun. Fatima’s staring into her water like it’s doing something fascinating.

I give her a tiny wave even though she isn’t looking. “Hey, Fatima.”

She glances up, says a quick, quiet, “Hey, Devin,” then goes back to her water. A lock of shiny dark-brown hair falls into her face.

I made a terrible joke the first time I met her. I don’t remember the lead-up, but the punchline was naan-sense. Fatima gave me that almost-smile, but I have a feeling she was offended. It’s been four or five hangouts since then. She doesn’t say much to me.

“You didn’t see us, huh?” asks Max. Lieutenant Obvious. Give the man a medal.

I shake my head. “Yeah, no.”

Ava makes a sound like a laugh got stuck in her throat. “Glad we found you! I told Ye-jun to message you. You’re never late. Didn’t I say that?”

Ye-jun shrugs. “We got off work early. I figured you would spot us.”

“He should’ve messaged you.”

“Ava…” says Max.

I mumble, “S’ okay.” Please drop it.

They do. Thank God. But all four of them work in education, so I’m stuck doing my spectating thing while they talk shop. Every so often Ye-jun tries to steer the conversation to a different topic, but it always circles back around.

I don’t fight it. It’s just nice to be around people. Sometimes. And I notice things.

Max looks at Ye-jun like he’s candy. Or a sunset. Meanwhile, Ava looks at Max the same way he looks at Ye-jun. Max is bi so she’s not totally off-track, but his eye twitches whenever she spatters us with giggles. Ye-jun acts like he doesn’t see any of this. I think he knows he’s the center, doesn’t want to throw the group off balance. And Fatima… well, I can’t look at her without being too obvious, but she’s quiet. Makes me feel less alone.

The food comes. Max blows on a steaming french fry while Ye-jun and Ava talk about video games. Every time they mention one I’m familiar with, my mouth opens, I suck in air, but nothing comes out. By the time my words are right, they’ve switched topics.

Eventually, Max catches my eye. “Have you ever gotten one of those?”

I frown. “Huh?”

“Fatima and I were talking about Connext ads. You know, the ones that are obnoxiously targeted?”

I blurt, “I keep getting ads for memory deletion.” I should stop drinking.

“That’s weird,” Ava says.

Fatima speaks low, but my ears are tuned to her frequency. “I’ve seen those too.”

Ye-jun asks, “What is this?”

“It’s like a brain spa,” says Max. “They attach wires to your head, you think of a bad memory, and they delete it.”

“What?” Ava asks. “That can’t be good for you.”

Max rolls his eyes. “It would be illegal if it was dangerous.”

I want to ask him if he’s heard of cigarettes or alcohol.

“Guys,” Ye-jun says, looking at his phone, “there’s one not too far from here. Does anybody want to check it out?”

Ava gasps. “No.”

Max makes an affirmative sound around a mouthful of fries.

“Y’all have fun with that,” I say. “Gotta fold laundry.” Don’t wanna prove those ads right.

Then Fatima says, “I’d like to go.”

Ye-jun leans forward to show Max something on his phone and suddenly I can see her. A thought escapes before I can finish it.

“So, you’re uh... this is your kinda thing?”

Fatima shrugs. “It might be fun, to go as a group.” Pause. “Are you sure your laundry can’t wait?”

∙ ∙ ∙

Health In Mind has a punch-you-in-the-face modern storefront. It’s all gleaming silver and white granite and fuzzy chairs that hang from the ceiling like spider sacs.

“You guys sure about this?” Ava asks, eyes skittering over the window displaying posters of grinning, presumably satisfied, customers and the ‘menu’ of options. I wish she’d chill. Her nervousness is making me itchy.

Max puts his arm around her shoulders and I watch her thoughts scatter. “You don’t have to do it, Ava.” He sounds sincere.

“No, I said I would. It’s weird, but I’ll do it.” Then, more mumbly, “I just wish we were getting tattoos like normal drunk people.”

As we all enter the ‘brain spa,’ me and Fatima exchange a glance. Her mouth is a tiny O as she takes in the decor. I ask her, “Ever done this before?”

“No,” she says, “but I’ve thought about it.”

I start to ask what memories she wants to get rid of, but it’s my turn to check in. I sign a waiver that amounts to ‘this procedure is totally safe, but it’s not our fault if you break your brain,’ then show the coupon from the Connext ad and leave a credit card for my tab. Even with the discount, I can only afford to delete three memories. I’ll have to live with the rest.

A woman in gray scrubs, who I’d bet good money is not a medical professional, leads me to a private room with soft, blue overhead lighting. She puts a swim cap on my head — it’s not really a swim cap but it fits like one — and has me lie down in a white, oval pod that’s basically an oversized tanning bed. She tells me I can get out or ring for help at any time, then closes the lid.

It’s surprisingly roomy in the pod. Cushy too. Feels like I’m resting on a stack of pancakes.

The screen built into the dome lid comes to life and a pleasant voice runs through the rules with accompanying animations: Stay relaxed. You’ll be asked twice before anything is deleted. It’s basically impossible to delete anything vital but if you’re worried you might have, call for assistance. Brains are tricky, so we can’t promise results will last forever. If you know what’s fucking good for you, you’ll stay relaxed.

I spend a few minutes fidgeting. Tell myself to relax. Fidget. Shove open the lid. Get out. Pace around the room. How do people relax? Should’ve kept drinking. Why isn’t there a fucking chair? Sit on the floor, cross-legged. I need to clear my mind. Close my eyes. Fatima’s face. “Naan-sense.” Open my eyes. Get back in the pod. Close the lid.

Fatima? High school? No. Smaller. Press ‘Ready.’ Think of Nancy and the Pot Incident. Wouldn’t miss that one.

The pleasant voice says, “Please repeat memory.” The words appear on the screen too.

I think about that day in the breakroom again.

“Verification.”

The memory rushes through my mind, unprompted.

“4/20 should be a holiday if you ask me.”

Nancy’s pinched expression. She looks up from her tablet and says, “Hm?”

I take a bite of my sandwich.

I try to think about something else, but it clobbers its way to the front.

“4/20 should be a holiday if you ask me.”

Nancy frowns, looks up from her tablet. “Hm?”

I bite into my sandwich, pretend I didn’t say anything.

How is it–

“4/20 should be–”

“Yes!” I tell the pod. “That’s it! Jesus…”

“Would you like to delete this memory?”

“Please.”

“Yes or No?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

A pause. A quick, almost painful shudder in my skull. The pleasant voice says, “Memory deleted.”

My heart does its dance and my hands search for something to grip, slipping along the sides of the pod with a streaking sound.

“Would you like to delete another memory?”

The pod is too small, the dance is frenetic. This feels like when I wake up and expect the object I was holding in a dream to still be in my hand. I squeeze and grasp and grieve for the empty space.

“Would you like to–”

“Stop–”

“–recall the last memory you deleted?”

“Oh. Yes!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“There will be no additional cost should you choose to delete this memory again.”

My brain gives a shiver and the memory rushes back. Nancy, the 4/20 joke. I break the surface of my panic and gulp the pod’s filtered air. As if it knows I need a minute, the voice says nothing. The joke plays over and over in my mind. I wish I’d let it go, let it stay gone.

I say, “Hello?”

“Would you like to delete another memory?”

Now that I know what to expect… “Yes.”

I take a deep breath. Press ‘Ready.’ Think of tenth grade.

I see the freshman I have a crush on. Maddy. Smart, funny. Pretty too. There’s a five-minute break between periods so I pop into her classroom. She smiles at me, indulgent.

“Hey, D.”

“Hi.”

We chat. I’m awkward, but she laughs at the right moments.

Another freshman comes over, steps between us. I know him as Smug Prick. He cocks his head, gets in my face. “Why are you always coming in here?”

I can’t find a witty response. “Why do you care?”

“Because you’re always in here being weird. You’re not even in our grade. What kind of loser doesn’t have friends their own age?”

It goes unspoken that kids from his and Maddy’s demographics don’t typically socialize with kids from mine.

“I-I do.” Glance at Maddy. She bites her lip.

Smug Prick steps closer. “Yeah? Then go hang out with your ‘friends.’” He air quotes the last word.

I look at Maddy again. Thought we were friends. She finally puts a hand on Smug Prick’s arm. “Come on. Stop it.”

But my eyes are hot and I can’t cry here. I say, “Whatever,” and leave.

“Please repeat memory.”

I run through it again, then tense up, waiting for the computer’s intrusive repetitions.

Instead, there’s an animation of a corkboard. Reminds me of my Connext web when it’s all zoomed out, except the hundreds of links are colorful pins attached by thin yarn. Some of the pins have only one or two threads, others a handful. The green pin labeled ‘Your Memory’ has more threads than I can count.

The pleasant voice says, “Our patented system works by blocking pathways leading to and from the targeted memory. I apologize, but this memory is too interconnected to be safely or effectively deleted. May I email you a list of Deep Memory Removal clinical trials that are currently enrolling subjects in your area?”

“Jesus.”

“Yes or No?”

“Uh… no.”

The animation fades out. “Would you like to delete another memory?”

A stubby fingernail finds its way to my lips, but I decide to try the Pot Incident again. At least I know that one works.

When the voice says, “Memory deleted,” there’s a hole but I don’t panic. I recall the first time and I have to believe I got rid of something I didn’t need or want. Feels like right after throwing up. I’m shaky, but it’s a relief.

“Would you like to delete another memory?”

∙ ∙ ∙

Back outside of Health In Mind, the five of us compare notes.

I deleted three memories, Ye-jun and Max two, Ava one. Fatima tops us all with six. That sounds intense, but if I had the money I would probably delete dozens.

For real, I should get serious about finding a therapist. I’ve been scared they’d tell me I was hopeless, but… maybe there’s a chance. I’m feeling calm. At least, calmer than usual, and when I listen for it, the hum of my worries is so low it almost freaks me out.

Max reminds us that, as a test, we all agreed to forget his full name. I’m not surprised when he says the computer wouldn’t let him do it. Identity is everything.

Ava punches his shoulder. “So what is it?”

“No way I’m telling now,” says Max, laughing louder than usual. We’re all louder than usual, even Fatima.

“Come on,” says Ye-jun. “You have to tell us. For science.”

Max groans but he can’t resist Ye-jun, so he tells us. The name doesn’t ring a bell for me, but Ava says, “Oh yeah. That time I stole your wallet.”

And just like that, I can find it again. Not just the name, but the memory and agreeing to forget it.

Ye-jun’s apartment. Ava playing keep-away with Max’s license, shimmying and giggling and shrieking, “Maximillian Keene?” The rest of us laughing our asses off.

I should be disappointed — so many things I’d like to forget forever — plus something about the memory tingles like a sleeping limb, but now the hum is stronger, familiar. Though it’s still quiet enough I can smile at Fatima. She gives a little smile back. I convince myself she means it.

I say, “You live east of the city, right? Does the 32 go your way?”

She nods.

“Wanna ride together?”

∙ ∙ ∙

Me and Fatima pick inward-facing seats near the front of the empty bus. We leave a seat between us, and Fatima — who’s not so quiet now — finishes telling me a story about college and an ex of hers.

“I don’t have any exes,” I say. “Only been on a few dates.” Fuck. What made me say that?

“Really? But you’re so...”

I risk meeting her eyes, begging her to keep going.

“Nice. And cute.”

“Uh... so are you.” The hum is SO loud.

She looks down. Mumbles, “Thanks.”

Silence. The bus rolls past three empty stops.

Time presses on me. I don’t want the night to end like this.

“That was weird, right? The memory place?”

Fatima perks up and we try to share our experiences at Health In Mind. We go over our decision-making processes. Follow thoughts that are like smoke. Conclude that maybe — possibly? — we both deleted something from the first time we met at Ye-jun’s. At first we think it’s Max’s name, but no? No. The tingle’s still there. I’m half-scared, half-excited to remember ‘cause what if we deleted the same thing?

“I probably did somethin’ foolish,” I tell her.

“It could’ve been me,” she says, shrugging. “I have a serious case of Foot-In-Mouth disease.”

I bark a laugh, which startles her. “Sorry, it’s just… I get that.”

Fatima smiles. There’s nothing almost about it. “Then let’s forget it.”

We ride in silence for a while. Whenever I look up, I see her reflected against the dark city beyond the window. A few times, I catch her peeking at me. I start to bite my nails but make myself stop. I put my other hand, palm up, a few inches into the space between us.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT KEL COLEMAN

Kel Coleman has been making things up since their mother bought them a Windows 95 storytelling game. They have a degree in biology that landed them a stint as a laboratory assistant and, more importantly, fostered within them a fascination with science—especially the weird stuff. They live in a Philadelphia suburb with their husband, tiny human, and stuffed dragon named Pen. Their work is forthcoming in Diabolical Plots. You can find them on Twitter at @kcolemanwrites and Instagram at @kelcolemanwrites

ALL IN A DAY’S WORK

By Jade Stewart // 3663 words

A melodic chirp disturbed Walker’s sleep.

They rolled over for their phone, eyes snapping open at the message: We’re being haunted. HELP!

The profile photo displayed an interracial couple, possibly in their early thirties. The map pinged them at The Hills, a few blocks away from Walker’s latest motel. Roger, the one who sent the request, paid four hundred bucks upfront, double the amount Walker usually charged. More than enough to pay for their last day in Ober and travel home. By bus or by train, they hadn’t decided yet.

Walker sped into the bathroom to do their morning — now afternoon — routine and put on clothes. They laced up their black Converses and quickly threw on their green bubble jacket. They snatched the key off the chipped nightstand and grabbed their light blue duffle bag, whistling as they left the motel.

Demon slaying was a noble profession, like teaching or working at the post office. Didn’t hurt that it paid well. After graduating from St. Croix School of Defense Against Demons six years ago, Walker received acceptance letters from a few prestigious slayer covens in New Orleans: Rex — like the Mardi Gras krewe, Little Crown, and Chat Grand. Flattering, but the goal was never to join a coven. That would bring notoriety and fatten their pockets more, but they wouldn’t be able to travel freely in anonymity across the country. Which meant no chance to see weird monuments, meet new people, or vanquish a variety of demons like prankster imps and dreameaters.

Walker just hoped the demon-of-the-day wasn’t the kind that oozed.

They rechecked the address on their phone; the red-bricked apartment building appeared on the left. Walker typed in the apartment’s number, and the door clicked open. Walking inside, they flipped up the tinted lenses on their glasses. Marbled floors and lots of small windows; not super swanky, but not run down, either. Walker stepped up to the front desk and smiled.

The lady behind it glanced up from her book. “Yes?”

“I’m here to slay a demon. For apartment 712?”

She looked Walker up and down. “You’re not dressed like a demon slayer.”

“Not really a fan of all the faux leather.”

“Coven?”

“None. For hire.”

“Badge?”

Walker unzipped their duffle bag and pulled an oval badge out of the inside pocket. One side held Walker’s photo while the other had their badge number and a metal cross with the motto “Defend All Humans,” etched beneath in Latin. She typed in the number and waited for Walker’s information to load.

“You only go by one name?”

“Yeah. Like Beyoncé, Cher, Prince...”

“You’re the weirdest slayer I’ve met,” she said, handing the badge back.

“Thanks...”

Walker took the elevator to the seventh floor. When they exited, they spotted two people standing outside of an apartment, worried and frayed. The universal sign of needing help.

“Hey,” Walker said. “I’m here to take care of your demon problem.”

“Thank God! This is my fiancée, Elise. She felt something hover over her inside.”

Elise looked different from Roger’s profile picture, smiling and loving life, the epitome of “long hair, don’t care.” Now tiredness cloaked her face. Dark circles, bags under her eyes, stress acne.

“Are you all right?” Walker asked her.

“Definitely,” Elise said. “Just tired. I’m studying for my PhD, and this doesn’t help.”

Walker hesitated. “Before I enter your space, do I have permission to use my sword?”

“Do what you have to do.”

The last time Walker used their sword, the client took two stars off their rating for “the damage done to the bathroom wall.” That one crack ruined Walker’s perfect five-star rating – never mind that it eventually spread across the wall like tree branches.

Walker entered the apartment slowly and placed the duffle bag down. Something felt... off. Not a “showing-the-wrong-time-on-the-clock” off, but a “something-is-watching-them” off. A demon definitely lurked nearby. They walked through the kitchen, but when Walker stuck one foot into the living room, the temperature immediately dropped.

Walker returned to their bag and grabbed a small pouch of salt. They poured a line of it across the bottom of the front door, the kitchen doorway, and windows. Sealing the rooms kept the demon from escaping. They strapped their broadsword on their back, then plucked out a strip of paper and lighter from their duffle bag.

Rolling the paper strip, Walker surveyed the couch, the entertainment center filled with video games, and a coffee table. A gray armchair sat across the room. Walker lit an end of the rolled paper and slowly waved it. Violet smoke drifted through the space. A silhouette appeared behind the chair.

“Corporeus!” Walker commanded.

Waves of purple energy shot across the floor. A long and crooked demon that smelled like sulfur lunged from behind the chair. Its head moved slowly, disoriented from Walker’s spell.

“You’re no good. You’re no good,” it growled. “You’re no good.”

“Is that right?” Walker asked, hand on the grip of their blade.

The demon turned its head and snarled. Its piercing yellow eyes fixed on Walker. Crouching low, it leapt. Walker whipped the sword over their head, brought it downward, and struck high through the demon’s torso.

“Ire in gehennam!” Walker shouted.

Light perforated the demon’s gray body until it exploded. No noxious goo, but it did leave a scorch mark on the floor. Walker groaned. They wished demons just disintegrated after being vanquished. Why did they always have to leave a mess? Walker couldn’t clean up the mark, but they did at least remove the salt lines.

Bag in tow, Walker left the apartment. Roger and Elise rose from the floor.

“Is it gone?” she asked.

“Yup,” Walker responded. “You can clean the burn mark with polish remover.”

“That’s all? Wow, you’re good!” Elise said.

“I do my best.”

“You ever thought of joining a coven?”

“Nope. A slayer-for-hire can help whoever they want, and not just certain people.”

“And we absolutely appreciate it,” Roger said. “Did you recognize what kind of demon it was?”

“At first, I thought it was a possessor, but it would’ve hopped into one of you to leave the apartment. When it kept saying “you’re no good,” I figured it out. An inner demon. They start off in the mind, barely noticeable. But the more negative energy they feed on, the more they grow. This one consumed enough to become tangible at will.”

“That’s terrible!” Roger spluttered.

“Its host wasn’t present to feed on, so it hid behind a familiar object. The armchair.”

Elise flinched.

“The armchair? That’s where…” Roger’s voice trailed off. “Hun? You know you can talk to me.”

“I didn’t feel like I could.” She sighed. “I’ve been so overwhelmed with my studies and just... felt like an imposter, like I don’t belong in my med program—”

Roger embraced Elise as she began sobbing.

“You are so much more,” he said. “You deserve to be in that program. You deserve to be here.”

Elise’s sobs became louder. Walker’s heart ached for her. Still in a hug, Roger ushered her back into the apartment. He poked his head out and mouthed “thank you” to Walker. They gave a thumbs-up in response.

Walker took the elevator down to the lobby.

As they walked past the front desk, the lady peeked from behind her book again. “You’re back? That was fast! Maybe a coven would’ve held you back.”

“Trust me, it would have.”

“Someone’s cocky…”

“Not cocky. Confident.”

Walker winked at her as they exited the building. Demon slaying paled in difficulty to conquering the human mind. They weren’t trained for that monster, and hoped Elise would be okay.

Walker knew all too well about pressure. They didn’t come from a legacy family like some of their classmates at St. Croix, and had to prove thousands of times over that they were good enough to become a slayer. The psychological tests. Physical trials. Reciting glyphs and their functions until their mouth fell off. Not one mistake could be made; Walker had to be better than perfect.

The only thing Walker wished was different during their time at St. Croix was having a supportive partner like Roger around. None of them had understood how much work Walker needed to put in to be a certified slayer, especially being the first in their family. Classmates laughed at them for wanting to help and protect people, instead of focusing on the money and fame. Those reasons were low on their list, right behind fighting demons and traveling across the States. A mismatch in priorities. Maybe one day, when they could no longer hold their broadsword, Walker would find someone who understood them and settle down in domesticity.

But right now? Romance was overrated.

A growl caught Walker off guard. Not a wild animal or demon lurking around the corner, but their stomach. They chuckled in relief. Not too far away from The Hills, Walker locked eyes on a fast-food restaurant and a sandwich shop. As much as they wanted the grease and fat, if Walker received another alert, they would be sleeping instead of slaying. Sandwich shop it was.

∙ ∙ ∙

Plopping into a booth near the window, Walker tucked their duffle bag on the seat next to them and unwrapped the foil from their sub. A spicy Italian — salami, ham, tomatoes, sliced pickles, pepper jack cheese, jalapeños, black pepper, light on the olive oil, heavy on the chipotle sauce, and extra iceberg lettuce on a toasted bread roll. It smelled as good as it looked.

Not even two full bites in, Walker’s cellphone rang. They let the call go to voicemail, but the shrill ring interrupted again. Groaning, Walker picked up their phone. “Triple G” flashed across the screen.

They answered immediately. “Hey Grandmom Gigi!”

“What’s good, be-bay?”

“Oh you know, doing my second favorite thing in the world.”

“Eating?”

“Exactly. What’re you doing?”

“Getting groceries.”

“Today is Sunday, huh?” The days ran together when Walker was traveling. “What’s on the menu? Jambalaya? Gumbo? Alligator?”

“Crawfish boil.”

Walker would annihilate every demon on Earth and in Hell for a crawfish boil, especially Grandmom’s crawfish boil. The andouille sausage, the red potatoes, the crawfish, and more, seasoned to perfection… just thinking about it made Walker salivate. “I want some right now.”

“You could have as much as you want if you came back south more often,” Grandmom said slyly. “Where are you now, Mx. Slayer?”

“I’m in Oregon, but I plan on heading to the South next week.”

“You’re not just saying that to make me feel good, are you?”

“Nah, I’m dead serious. That’s my plan.”

“I’m about to head to checkout. Call me when you hit Houston.”

“I will, and I’ll probably call you before then.”

“All right now. Love you. Be safe and watch out for those demons.”

“They better watch out for me.”

The call ended, and Walker resumed eating their sandwich. Even miles and miles away, they felt her warmth. Speaking to Grandmom Gigi always put Walker in a good mood. They were definitely looking forward to being back in the Big Easy.

A sudden impact shook their booth’s window. Walker spun. A man had smashed against the glass. A dark purple tendril, thick as a log, slid free of his shoulders and out of sight. The cashier screamed as he dropped his phone and cowered behind the counter.

“Crap.” Walker downed one more bite of their sandwich and grabbed their duffle bag.

They sprinted outside. Fear and excitement flip-flopped within them. Never in their six years as a slayer had they laid eyes on this type of demon: a ravager. Books and photos were Walker’s only references, but there it hovered, a high-level demon in front of them. It possessed a beastly face, and a translucent body. It snatched anyone in its way. Running citizens. Frightened citizens hiding behind parked cars or hedges. Dumb citizens who tried to take selfies. The ravager’s eight tendrils struck with no discrimination. One touch, and the light disappeared from peoples’ eyes.

Walker flung their bag on the ground and opened it. They had to choose their weapons wisely. Sword or gauntlets? What about glyphs? Should they even use them? If so, which ones? Confuse? Freeze? Walker couldn’t reach that thing at a safe distance. They wished they had a bow to shoot it with a vanquish glyph, but it would take more than one. They didn’t have that much paper left. Indecisiveness sucked them in, frustrating Walker.

This was not the time to panic.

As Walker stewed, a group of leather-clad slayers around their age dashed by, straight for the ravager. Walker’s ravager. One sliced two tendrils off. It slapped the ground, sizzling. The demon defended its body with two tendrils as the remaining four speared into the slayers. The attack knocked them down like bowling pins. Walker seized their random assortment of tags and sword and sped towards the fight.

Three slayers remained. Walker prepared a glyph in one hand and their broadsword in another. One of the slayers, who yielded a scythe and wore a bob just as sharp, noticed Walker and quickly maneuvered away from the demon to stop them.

“O! Where do you think you’re going?” she said.

“I’m here to — ooh, is that scythe made of silver? Is that a grappling hook on your arm?”

“Who are you?”

“Someone who appreciates high quality weapons, but specifically? Walker, a slayer-for-hire.”

“Ugh, a freelancer…”

Every slayer Walker met, without fail, owned this same attitude about non-coven slayers. Major superiority complex. Walker would eat their shirt if they ever met a slayer that didn’t possess it.

“You’re literally about to turn down help because I’m covenless? You’re down seven people.”

“We have everything under—”

“Honoraaaaa!”

A slayer sailed over their heads, crashing into the side of a chicken and waffle truck. Honora grimaced. Walker whistled. “Dang. Flipped her like a pancake in a skillet. That’s eight teammates now, right? Or is my count off?”

Honora’s grip tightened on her scythe. “Fall back, Mako!” she shouted. Gauging from her face, Walker bet she had never faced a beatdown this bad before. Eighty percent of her team lay still, along with more than a dozen people, devoid of their souls.

All in front of a freelancer.

Honora squeezed the bridge of her nose and scowled at Walker. “You have something in mind?”

Walker turned over the glyph tag in their hand. It wasn’t enough, but an idea clicked in their head. “The glyphs will work, but we need to go big.”

“What?” Honora said.

“Bring it in my direction!” Walker said before running to their bag.

“Are you insane?”

Walker took a can of black spray paint out of the bag and ran to the middle of the street.

“This is not the time for arts and crafts!” Honora said. “Black paint on asphalt? That’s idiotic! You can’t even see what you’re doing.”

“Don’t worry about what I’m doing.” Walker shook the can and started spraying. “Just bring it this way!”

Mako and Honora headed towards Walker, jumping over still bodies. The ravager trailed after them. Walker subconsciously patted their back pocket. The salt pouch! They hurled it at the demon’s face. Salt pierced the demon’s two-toned eyes. The local slayers escaped as it howled and shrieked in pain.

Walker sprinted a few feet forward. “I would be, ahem, salty too if I had a face like that.”

Parts of the ravager’s face bubbled and flaked off. It charged wildly at Walker. This would be so cool if it wasn’t trying to kill them. A tendril flew out at Walker. They parried, but another almost struck their left foot. Walker lost their balance, hitting the ground. The ravager floated a foot away. Their time on this planet couldn’t end like this.

Tendrils snaked for Walker on both sides. Walker dug into their pocket and prayed to God that they could hinder this monster with a glyph. Piercing the paper with their sword, Walker held it out towards the ravager.

“Coruscare!”

A blue flame burst from the glyph. One of the tendrils caught fire, forcing the demon to recoil again. Walker jumped back to their feet and ran. The ravager roared.

Twisting into a backflip and dodging the remaining tendrils, Walker landed a safe distance away. They brought their sword across their body, poised to strike, and then… tapped their left foot on the ground.

“Captarent!” they screamed at the top of their lungs.

Energy beams ensnared the demon’s body. It struggled, but the glyph held tight. Walker rested their hands on the pommel of their broadsword.

“What’s good?” they snickered.

The demon flexed one last time against its bonds, but Walker’s work held.

Honora and Mako made their way back to Walker.

“That went better than expected,” Mako said.

“We’re not done yet. Call paramedics and go check on Cherrie,” Honora said.

“What about everyone else? Should I call retrieval?” Mako said.

“They’re not dead. Having their souls ripped out has left them in stasis. If the ravager had left the area…”

“The souls would be gone for good,” Walker finished.

Mako ran off.

“That was… wow,” Honora said. “I can’t believe your plan worked.”

That was as close to a compliment that Walker would probably ever get. Probably ate Honora up on the inside. “I’m a fan of the hack and slash too, but every now and then you gotta switch it up. Give the enemy a surprise. Make them regret coming topside.”

The ravager spoke, but the words — if they passed for that — were warbled.

“I didn’t take translation as a minor. Can you say that again?” Walker said to the demon.

“You smile now, but not for long. Time is eclipsing.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Walker glanced back at Honora. “Do you want to do the honors?”

“No. It’s your catch. Bring the lost ones back.”

Walker slowly twisted the sword between their fingers and tightened both hands on the grip. They positioned the tip of the blade at the ravager’s forehead.

“Here, a trespasser in the human world. Return the souls to their true owners and strip this evil from existence.”

The blade pulsed, shining like the sun. Wisps of smoke floated from the steel. The ravager shrieked as Walker lifted the sword high, light reflecting off their glasses. “Et putredo in infernum!”

Walker plunged the sword into the demon’s head. Its skin boiled. The eyes and mouth filled with light. The ravager raged and bellowed in its language, as its form swelled and burst, covering the street and nearby storefronts in purple sludge.

“Ew.” Walker wiped goo off their jacket. “Guess it was bound to happen at some point…”

An ambulance siren sounded in the distance. Honora dashed away to retch on the sidewalk. The snare evaporated, dropping the remains of the ravager on the ground.

Something moved underneath the putrid slime. Multiple somethings. Iridescent souls, big and small, gradually phased through the gunk and grouped together. A light show of souls. They dispersed and returned to their bodies.

The victims woke up confused, even more so given the icky demon muck on them. The revived slayers rejoiced. Some citizens cried, some hugged, and then there were those who took out their phones and started snapping pictures. Not even soul removal could stop them from posting on social media.

Walker sat down on part of the sidewalk not saturated in the ravager’s remains. Their hands shook. One misstep, and Walker would have become the demon’s next meal. They were always aware that danger was part of the job, but combat with the ravager reminded them that death was, too.

Just like there were better slayers, there were also more powerful and durable demons. It would take more than a little salt and words to defeat them. Walker survived their test with a ravager, but what about with one higher on the food chain? And the one after that?

Grandmom Gigi appeared in their mind. This statuesque and powerful woman, smiling at them. Walker gripped their knees. As long as there were people who needed them and people who needed protection, they would continue fighting. They would learn new methods. Being out of school didn’t mean gaining knowledge stopped. Evolution over stagnation. This was the job Walker signed up for.

To be a defender of humans.

Honora, no longer nauseous, strode back to Walker. “That’s the second time I’ve gone against one of those monstrosities, and I still haven’t gotten used to the smell,” she said.

“I’ve come across a bunch of demons that explode, but that was a lot.”

“So Walker, correct? How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing.”

“What?” Honora exclaimed.

“That was free of charge. My good act for the day.”

“You are a weird free — slayer.”

“I get that a lot.” If Walker had a dime for every time someone said that, they’d be living in a condo in Miami Beach. “Actually, there is one thing I want to ask of you.”

“Is it about joining a coven?” Honora asked excitedly. “After today, it’d be easy to transfer you into the New Revolution.”

“What happened to the Old Revolution?”

“Huh?”

“Nothing. I’m being silly.” Walker cleaned their glasses on the collar of their shirt and put them back on. “I was gonna ask what’s the quickest route back to Louisiana, bus or train?”

“Bus down. Take a train from Texas.” Honora shook her head. “Are you sure you don’t want to change your mind? Because it wouldn’t be hard to convince my superiors.”

Walker was shocked, and a little flattered, that she kept asking. “Freelancers” didn’t matter to coven slayers until they showed how they could boost a coven’s power.

“No thanks. I’ll always be a slayer, but I want to do it on my terms.”

“Okay. Suit yourself.”

Walker saluted her and retrieved their duffle bag off the sidewalk. They exited the street as they had entered it, on their own.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT JADE STEWART

Jade currently lives in New York. She is a graduate of Columbia University and Loyola University New Orleans, receiving an MFA in Writing and a BA in English Writing, respectively. When she’s not writing, Jade’s either reading, playing video games, or catching up on the anime in her queue. WEBSITE

RAINBOWS & NECKLACES

By Martins Deep

among the hundred ways

to become stone in the chest

is sniffing the scent of a necklaced body

and helping God— his bioluminescent body seated in a prism—

savor every wisp; play butler with ashes

of two black boys burnt to flavor

his chalice of saltwater.

if a boy is caught drinking the fragrance of bloom

— between the thighs of another boy—

burning tires is the incense to cleanse the atmosphere.

in their screams, through the thickness of the smoke,

you’d see a white dove fluttering towards the ears of God,

an olive branch in its beak.

once, i watched this smoke

dye straying furs of llamas

into the color of rain.

my kid brother lifted my head— his index finger

pointing to the north of nowhere

“chike, see. the cloud— it is covering the sun”

later, i asked God, ‘’how’re you, today?”

and it began to rain rosary beads unstringed

from the hands of that boy cut halfway in prayer.

through my blown roof,

a rainbow adorns the sky.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT MARTINS DEEP

Martins Deep (he/him) is a Nigerian poet, artist, & and currently a student of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. His works deeply explores the African experience, & tells stories of her young. His creative works have appeared, or are forthcoming on The Roadrunner Review, Covert Literary Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Hellebore, Chestnut Review, Mineral Lit Mag, Agbowó Magazine, Surburban Review, IceFloe Press, Kalahari Review, Variant Literature, Typehouse Literary Magazine, IceFloe Press, & elsewhere. He loves jazz, adores Bethel Music and owls. He tweets @martinsdeep1

A POEM IN WHICH SANGO HANGS LIGHTNING AND LULLABIES HIS CHILDREN

By Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí

when Aganju denied me,

when he claimed my face was foreign

& he handed me a matchstick,

I gave him a forest in flames.

when Olowu sent me a live arrow,

I planted twelve arrows in his bones.

when Gbonka fed me the tongue of lizards,

I fed his body to fire, & when

his ash rose, I fed it to the wind.

no one looks me in the eyes & lives.

the one who did yesterday, today is

a heap of sand in Ajaka.

what child touches candlelight once

& yet considers it a plaything?

what man dares turn his back on water & live?

what river does not pay obeisance to the sea?

the same sea who betrayed the sky,

the same sea who baptized my children,

who washed their tongue off their tongues—

the same sea tried its hand on their minds

to wash my name off their hearts,

but only a god of wood is eaten by the moths of Time.

so when the white swallows, led by

one Captain Bole, whose nose looked

as if it were chiseled wood hinged into his face,

whose cheeks wore bloody patterns too often,

when they fell upon the field, during Abiodun’s reign,

harvested my sons & daughters,

& filled their ships—the Sao Jose Paquete, the one

that at last fell in the mouth of ’Lokun, the Brookes

long like half the generation of Ooduwa, the Catilda,

that one on which the Orishas said never, never again—

with my worshippers,

when they dried my shrine of songs and left my plates empty of amala,

when the red cloth around the waist of my sons became rags

& the white wrapper around the bodies of their wives became

the skin color of hot pepper, I knew

it was nothing but the happening of the Wind.

so I laid down thunder,

I hung lightning on a tree and told both,

sleep, sleep, it is not a time to wrath.

& I watched them.

I watched them

the way a hen watches its children.

I watched them feed the skin on the backs of my sons

to the mouth of whips, I tendered my palms

to collect each drop of tear, and for each drop

I gave them a tune, a song. I watched them

peel joy from the faces of my daughters,

I watched them throw it to the dust,

& I picked it up and washed it clean

with my own tears. or tell me,

what mother wears a hard face

when her daughter’s daughters are

daily offered to the back of the mule,

when her son’s sons rise before the sun

to grow sugar on large fields

& are too broken when night falls to hear her

tell her tales? tell me,

what mother sleeps when

her children’s eyes are half-closed,

irises the color of burnt coal,

the color of just harvested honey,

shining in the oil lamps

of rooms covered in hardwood for bed?

what mother?

I watched them cut

the beaded chain around my neck,

I watched them lay it in the bosom of the Wind,

I heard them tell the Wind to lay

each bead wherever it wills.

I watched because I knew each bead would seed,

would grow, would become

something,

even if shy trees, like my name

on their diverse tongues today, shy,

they say, Xhango,

they say, Chango,

they say, Siete Rayos,

the same sons of the sea

who tried to bury it.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT ERNEST O. ÒGÚNYẸMÍ

Ernest O. Ògúnyẹmí is a writer and editor from Nigeria. His works have appeared/ are forthcoming in Joyland, Tinderbox, Journal Nine, the Indianapolis Review, Down River Road, Capsule Stories, No Tokens, the West Review, the Dark Magazine, 20.35 Africa: An Anthology of Contemporary Poetry III, Agbowó, Isele, and elsewhere. He is the curator of The Fire That Is Dreamed of: The Young African Poets Anthology. A finalist for the 2020 Dan Veach Prize for Younger Poets and second-place winner in the No Tokens Young Poets’ Prize, he is on the editorial board at Palette Poetry, the Masters Review, and Counterclock Journal.

ERSTWHILE RAMELON

By K. Ceres Wright

The sky city of Ramelon fell

In a swirl of stardust and despair

Flames quickly extinguished but

Domiciles had spun off into the darkness

Universities cleaved in two

The Planetary Union Headquarters sliced into thirds

Reflecting the tripartite group of powers that stood against her

Their long, sleek ship stood sentinel over her fruits

As Ramelon’s docking bay wrenched away from its moorings

And ship workers floated, flailing, then still, from the wreckage

Calandra watched from the gaping yaw of her former bridge

Its bulkheads now twisted metal and jagged edge

As military press, she imaged The Fall of Ramelon and pincasted

It to Earth Central, cc: to Galactipedia, Oxford, NYU, and the

Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Church

Let them, in 5 years’ time, survey the frozen scrapyard

And bemoan their loss, for Earth’s brightest and best

Fell to their creations

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT K. CERES WRIGHT

K. Ceres Wright received her master’s degree in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University and her published cyberpunk novel, Cog, was her thesis for the program. Her short stories, poems, and articles have appeared in Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler (Locus Award winner; Hugo Award nominee); Sycorax’s Daughters (Bram Stoker Award nominee); Emanations: 2+2=5; Diner Stories: Off the Menu; Many Genres, One Craft (Best Non-Fiction London Book Festival); The City: A Cyberfunk Anthology; The Museum of All Things Awesome and That Go Boom; among others. Ms. Wright is the founder and president of Diverse Writers and Artists of Speculative Fiction, an educational group for creatives; served as the Director of Science Fiction Programming for the first MultiverseCon; and is on the WorldCon 79 Inclusion and Planning Committees. She works as a publications manager and writer/editor for a management consulting firm. You can find her online at kceres.net, @kcereswright, and dwasf.org.