The Carving Of War

By Somto Ihezue

Odili was a child when Nkeala, her grandmother, died. All she remembered of her were her braids, a tangle of clouds that reached for the floor. She remembered her eyes, how they swallowed her face. To look into them was to be lost in a vastness. It was to find eyes — owl eyes, bold eyes, brown eyes — staring back at you. Most of all, she remembered her kindness, an unending sea.

Nkeala had been dìbìā — keeper, to Idemili; the roaring python, they who drowned oceans, mother of mothers. At the birth of time, Idemili, like beads dancing on a fragile waist, had wound herself around the clans of Obosi. Out of her mouth, the Eke River poured, its brooks and streamlets giving sustenance to the corn in the farmlands, the antelopes of the wild and the Irokos that split the sky. Odili’s family was bound in perpetuity to Idemili. With her grandmother’s passing, the fanged staff fell to her mother, Adaugo. In the past, a few keepers had met their fate with defiance. Odili’s great-great grandfather, Agbadike, had refused the staff when it passed to him. Setting the shrine of Idemili ablaze, he invoked the ritual of blood in a bid to sever the bond that tethered his life to the deity. Three days after, a breadfruit fell from a tree and split his skull in half. (Continue Reading…)

The Husband

By P.C. Verrone

He has never taken a man for a wife before. This becomes clear as he introduces me to his other wives. The youngest wife bristles and the wife with the long, dark hair avoids meeting my eye. The tallest wife just looks from him to me and nods. Her face betrays no hint of hospitality. They are aware that he and I have exchanged vows, exchanged fluids. However they may feel, nothing can be done about it now. He has chosen me.

He wants a feast to celebrate. We order delivery. When the driver arrives, the youngest wife invites him into the house. She is beautiful and coy, and the driver is stupid. As soon as he steps inside, our husband sinks his teeth into the man’s neck.

At the sight of blood, my eyes fill with red. I leap at the body in our husband’s arms, but a sharp jab in my rib sends me tumbling to the floor. The youngest wife tucks her elbow back against her side as she devours our victim’s clavicle. I reach for a wrist, a thigh, but the wife with long, dark hair kicks me away. The tallest wife glowers at me, lapping at the driver’s neck, inches from our husband’s lips. I can only suck the capillaries from the man’s toes. If our husband notices, he does nothing. (Continue Reading…)

Ecdysis

by Samir Sirk Morató

My husband never got over being a lindworm.

Understandably. For over two decades, he was a serpent wider than an oak barrel and longer than a warship; for under two years, he’s been human. Had someone changed me from a shark-swallowing, black-and-blood-banded titan to a naked, knobbly beast with limbs, I would’ve killed them and myself, even if we were wed.

Yet wed we were. Our betrothal was as crushing as my husband’s past coils: because he was a princess-eating monster, he needed to be murdered; because he was a princely man, he needed to be married.

“My eldest needs a bride or a coffin,” the queen told my father. “He’s forbidding his younger brother from marrying before he does, and no more princesses will come. We’re out of options. Surrender your daughter.” (Continue Reading…)

The Golem Lover

by J.H. Siegal

I have learned of a lace that runs through my little village. Geilevska, nestled within the bosom of nearby hills, rests upon these strands, sewn around the fertile patchwork of letters learned in the men’s yeshiva, through the words traded by merchants, beneath the whispers of the crops waving in the fields. I speak, of course, of the hidden discourse of the women of Geilevska.

Every village in the pale has such a lace, to be sure. We are not the only people for whom a matron’s eyebrow may hold the fate of many, whether it raises or lowers, and the strength of the twinkle yet in the eye of an aged woman holds much solace for a young widow such as myself. (Continue Reading…)

On Snowflake-veined Wings

by Chip Houser

Amalia runs her finger around the inside of her Tupperware, wiping up the last of her leftover poutine. Her fall allergies kicked in a few days ago, so she doesn’t really taste the gravy. But she’d rather finger-clean her Tupperware at her table than go wash it because Jerry and three of his sales team flunkies are clustered by the sink watching a video on his gigantic phone. From their crude commentary and the video’s crashing waves, then the gagging, she can guess what they’re watching. Why they’re silent for once, too. It’s a clip of a woman in the Côte d’Azur, slim and tan in her pink maillot, running in slow motion into the waves. The man who’s filming keeps calling out Sirène! Amalia watched the video earlier that morning; it was all over her feeds. The video is like a Viagra commercial, until the woman vomits an impossibly long stream of brightly colored fish into the surf.

When the woman throws up, Jerry’s flunkies unleash a range of expletives. They’re all staring at Jerry, who looks quite pleased with himself. (Continue Reading…)

And in Rain, Blank Pages

by Lora Gray

It’s 1981, I’m nineteen and now I know the truth.

It rains in New York just like it rains in Indiana.

I’m wretched as a wet kitten and drunk, trudging through Brooklyn in a cardigan and combat boots. My lip is split. My left eye is beginning to swell.

I’m not even sure I know how to write poetry anymore.

Funny that I grabbed the notebook Tony gave me before running from his apartment, as if the potential of those blank pages was somehow more vital than an umbrella. A jacket. Fucking socks.

By the time I find an open diner, my feet are soaked and I’m shivering so hard it takes three tries to open the door. It looks empty and nobody greets me, but the stink of old grease presses over me like a damp palm. I sniffle, card my fingers through my hair, tacky with Aqua Net, and squelch my way to a booth. (Continue Reading…)

Diamonds and Pearls

by JL George

Diamonds are two a penny, but everybody wants them anyway.

At first, Osian thinks it’s because they hurt. Every time he speaks a new word in the common tongue and a diamond comes up, it feels like dying, like its hard angles will tear his throat open. Something you have to suffer for like that, you hold on to. You want to believe it’s worth something.

On the other hand, once you’ve brought it up, wiped away the blood and sucked on a lozenge to soothe the soreness, you can pretend a diamond didn’t come out of you at all. It’s such a sharp, mineral thing. Pearls are different — stubbornly organic. They roll out of the throat with ease, sticky only with saliva, and they come with the old tongue. Rounded, with a dull shine, they look like a product of the flesh.

At the end of each week, Mrs. Toms has the class empty out their handfuls of diamonds onto their desks, with a bar of chocolate or a book token for whoever has the most. The stones spill everywhere, and the classroom becomes a cold, bright place, an ocean of diamonds whose images glitter behind Osian’s eyelids when he blinks.

They don’t count up the pearls. Some of the other kids have strings of them, pale shimmering legacies from grandparents, worn discreetly beneath their school shirts. Osian doesn’t. Grandmother never passed the old tongue down. Her knuckles were rapped when she spoke it in school, and later, friends would hesitantly say, Well, I suppose we have to move with the times, and You want your kids to get good jobs, don’t you? and What’s the point? (Continue Reading…)