Neon Literary Magazine #40 Read online

  —I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with this thing. Hey, Gerry? Sorry, Gerry? Can you help me with this customer?

  —Do you know what happens when a man catches fire? What happens to his insides? Or his dermis?

  —I’ll be right back, sir. I just need to check something with the manager.

  —I’ll tell you. Listen to me, little girl. I’ll tell you what it is to burn.

  Jenny Blackford

  Image by “korry_b”

  Mirror

  "Mirror" was previously published in Midnight Echo and

  Ticonderoga's Best Australian Fantasy And Horror.

  She screamed each time, she knows

  she screamed, but no one came.

  Perhaps it was a dream,

  the mirror and those eyes, not hers,

  so many times. Perhaps

  it was a dream.

 

  Years on, grown up, she's still

  afraid. What if those eyes –

  imaginary eyes, not real –

  can find her here, look through

  the mirror on the wall

  in this new place?

 

  When she must close her eyes,

  must pull, let's say, a dress

  or jumper overhead,

  she checks the mirror once

  again. What's in it now?

  The room, herself.

 

  So far, so good. But whose

  eyes look from it at night

  when hers are closed?

  *

  An Afterlife Of Stone

  "An Afterlife Of Stone" was previously

  published in A Slow Combusting Hymn.

  The lumpy wrinkled flesh

  of some great ancient beast

 

  a woolly mammoth

  or elasmothere

 

  lies mummified beside the Hume

  near Gundagai.

 

  She must have strayed here

  so far south

 

  on long-lost sunken land

  or melted ice

 

  and never found her way

  back home.

 

  Her body dried to rock

  by endless sun and wind

 

  spreads wide

  across the plain.

 

  Distant sheep are maggots

  crawling on her lichened skin

 

  their new-shorn fleece

  the painful

 

  almost-white of larvae

  on raw meat.

 

  She doesn't seem

  to mind.

 

  Perhaps the warm

  quiet company

 

  of woolly beasts

  however small

 

  still comforts her

  in the long

 

  slow afterlife

  of stone.

  *

  Something In The Corner

  "Something In The Corner" was previously

  published in The Duties Of A Cat.

  The cat's convinced there's something in the corner,

  something bad, behind the heavy coat-rack of

  dark old wood and brass by the front door.

  The subtle scratching's hard to hear by day.

  Perhaps it's rats, or something even smaller – mice?

  Perhaps a nest of furry little mice, scrabbling

  like dead babies desperate to escape the walls;

  ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes scraping

  translucent baby fingernails...

 

  There's nothing in the corner, cat. What sort of people

  would they be, who'd shut a baby up inside a wall?

  We will not think about the skulls that builders

  used to plant under foundation stones.

  No one would do that here.

 

  It's getting dark. The scratching's louder now.

  The cat mews his discomfort. His ears are back,

  his tail fluffed. He hides behind my legs.

 

  It's getting darker all the time.

  I'd leave, if I were you.

  At night, the babies cry.

  Kate Wisel

  Image by Lisa Lippincott

  God And Me

  As you can guess I no longer care

  about god. Whether he is watching

  or not, logging on to some complicated

  system to check on me, I don’t

  care. It’s a free show. When I was a teenager,

  I cared deeply about god. I thought

  he could be proud of me. That if I buried my face

  in his jacket he would take me

  around the party and I wouldn’t

  have to introduce myself

  to strangers. God and I were like lovers

  who became jealous too easily. I asked

  people questions like Oh have you seen god?

  We were supposed to meet

  for coffee at two. And then, pressing

  the issue Has he ever done this to you? I obsessed

  over him and knew we could never

  be together ever again. Sometimes I would create

  tests, seeing if he might come back, by jumping

  off buildings or becoming far too dark

  for anybody to bear. It was a very bad

  time for me but now I don’t care. We’ve become

  like distant friends who still know

  the same people. The other day

  I casually asked my friend

  how god was doing and she said Great!

  God is great. If I see

  a photo of god’s kids

  on Facebook I will like it, to further

  prove I have no lingering

  feelings about god’s

  love and god’s authority.

  *

  Bad Behaviour

  It starts before

  your company holiday

  party, our first fancy

  invitation on the fridge. You come in,

  with a thirty and a few snowflakes

  on your shoulder. I’m clapping

  under my chin, in the kitchen

  by the ironing board. You kick

  the door shut then twirl

  me to the counter where we crack

  beers, the iron hissing through teeth

  behind us then burning. I turn

  Arvo Pärt up on the speakers

  and say mood music when you ask

  what the hell this is. You lay

  ties out on the bed, then

  me, your neck wet with cologne

  where I bite it. We fight

  for the shower,

  and the mirror, our arms

  scribbling on fast forward with blow

  dryers, combs, and cans, holding up

  hangers and chapstick, twisting

  to zip. You’re mouthing we’re

  late! on the phone

  with the cab as you slur our address

  and I shrug, make like I’m slitting

  my throat, run over to

  squeeze you. You watch the clock

  on your wrist by the door

  as I click around with a blank

  look, searching for better heels, tearing

  through closets, tilting

  to stab earrings into closed

  holes. Christmas is

  coming, I want more

  than you know.

  *

  The Dream

  If I squint I can see

  you at the end

  of the aisle, with your skinny

  tie and your chewing

  gum and your tilted

  fedora. It’s taken me

  twenty hours


  to get ready. Heel

  by heel, lash

  by lash I come

  to you. The crowd

  gasps. I bow my head

  so we can whisper. Negotiate.

 

  For dinner, Rice Crispies

  and every guest must take the GREs

  on a damp napkin. I forgot

  the DJ we hired was from New

  Jersey and the cake we bought

  was a burlesque show

  as the photographer

  snaps you winking. A slow

  song comes on and our grandparents

  lean into each other

  then die on the dance floor. The wind

  from the helicopter blows

  my dress up over my head. We make

  my heels like ice picks and chip

  and climb, noticing how things are

  from far and farther away.

  *

  What Counts

  1. Let’s get Everything

 

  You like these? you ask

  tossing chips in the cart.

  Then we stride down the aisle

  kissing, but with your ten million

  arms whirling in more, like a fan

  in motion so I barely notice.

 

  2. Taxes

 

  They take out a little each month

  but because your job

  is real, a little is a lot. But isn’t it

  relative? I say If everyone has to pay? I can tell

  you’re still thinking about it like a pie

  chart and what’s missing

  which reminds you to surprise me

  with some kind of next-level dessert soon.

 

  3. You Look Good

 

  With your fresh cut and your aviators

  and your Burt’s Bees lips. No argument

  here. I’m waiting for you

  to come out of the dressing room

  in your tangerine pants. You look

  so happy. Like there’s a monkey

  on your shoulder. I can see you

  in your swivel chair. How do you pronounce

  BVLGARI? I ask, fingering

  the glass over the glasses. You don’t.

  4. I Don’t Get It

  It’s like we’re a special effect.

  I don’t know why

  you took us here. I’m checking

  my savings under the table

  and it’s not saving anybody.

  You say, we’re on vacation. I say No

  we’re not. I’m confusing

  the waiter, I’m great with water!

  Which is horrifying you, just get

  the drink. I don’t get it

  but I do. On our walk home

  I pick up lucky pennies

  to embarrass you. Another one!

  One more. Every

  second counts.

  Paul French

  Image by Mariola Streim

  The Lotus Eaters

  The endocrines are absorbed by the altered receptors of the brain.

  Therefore the rodents start to cuddle.

  It is deeper than the sea, even if it’s a rodent’s brain.

  Though all mystery can be measured.

  There’s nothing in the body a surgeon’s knife can’t find.

  The subjects I’ve observed don’t even notice the needle anymore.

  We’ve put them in so much love.

  Don’t worry. I’m just like you.

  I too want that experience to be godly.

  And maybe, like you, I’ve felt it already. And maybe, like you, I haven’t.

  Want remains either way a problem.

  And what about those who’ve lost or never held it?

  Can anything be too sacred for medicine?

  Take a look at this century’s Want.

  He’s right here, wearing his lab coat.

  So the dosage is increased, the receptors enhanced. Suddenly, you’re

  finding forever-bliss in a friend, a wife, a stranger, a dream.

  It’s not like Soma, either. What we use is completely natural, endogenous

  peptides in the brain, the source of it all.

  Worst case scenario: one day, we’ll wake unmedicated in our tightly

  shared bed and realize that there’s irony in paradise.

  So be it.

  *

  Stage I Testing

  He imagines how she looks in her too-far house, also a cage, bars only a bit thicker than her bones, but stronger.

  He hates the form that sometimes comes to stick its white arm into her home and steal her. The arm will play with her body. She squirms and he hates it. The form cooes, There, there, MINNIE. There, there, and he glimpses her for a second and hears her name.

  One day, he himself is rising. He sees her from above, noticing his body held like an egg by the form – the same way it took her, and the thin spear slips into his gut a sensation. He’ll warm in the hand of the form who says his name.

  I watch the pattern continue for three days. Soon the receptors are reopened and enhanced.

  With an increased addition of the hormone complex, the voles develop an exaggerated form of their naturally intimate bonding.

  I watch the interactions intensify. Even their fur is softer, I think.

  These two are healthier than the control group, more active. Their bone density’s higher, and, notably, when wounded, they recover at an accelerated rate. Just as I thought, nothing suggests any negative side-effects.

  They are gentle animals, but sometimes I find myself holding my fingers next to their mouths, hoping they’ll bite.

  *

  Love Drug In The Feed

  Alex and Tom roll the beat teal F-250 up to the main gate by the medical barn. The light comes off in a skim from the horizon, like a grin from a half-gotten joke. It washes against the bodies of the cattle as Alex brings a cigarette up to his lips and looks to his brother.

  So, it’s here, huh? Valentine’s Day.

  Tom scoffs.

  Yeah, regular love-fest out there.

  They can hear the cows lowing. Tom listens to see if it’s any different.

  Sparks in the air, Alex continues dryly, but Tom does feel that it’s something like that – a hum, maybe, the air is humming. The cows move in huddles like bees.

  I can’t help but think we’re in the way somehow, Tom says. For hours, they sit on the hood of the truck and listen together.

  That night, when they return home, their wives ask about the awful stink they’re wearing, deep-set in their shirts and pants.

  Smells like money to me, they both say, right before leaning in to plant one on their wives’ cheeks, miles away from each other.

  *

  The Love Drug Enters The Meat Supply

  What? she said.

  Nothing, you’re just pretty.

  What’s gotten into you?

  She sensed he wanted to leave. His arms were stiff, bolts in his shoulders, his mouth stiff also like a gusted flag. He took her hand and kissed it, right there in the yellow and brown booth, like they were in high school –

  his face shiny by the lips with grease from the three burgers he’d just wolfed down, as her fingers squirmed next to the wet crease of his smiling mouth. I am going to devour you, she thought he could have

  said, as his grip tightened, pinching her long middle finger and holding it above the centre of the table, above the bunched rolls of waxy yellow paper and thumby swipes of red ketchup.

  She hadn’t said anything about him eating too much. He’d seemed so sure about it. I’ll have a Number 1, a 2, and a 3, he said like he was cueing a band, in a way both dramatic and expected.

  I am going to devour you, he said,

  kissing up her fingers and hand as far as he could while the other customers watched from a litter of surrounding tables.

  He seemed not to care about them.
He kept forcing his mouth up her knuckles, waiting for her to say something back or do nothing at all.

  The air buzzed with noise: warm saxophones, the cash register, the fryer alarms, and the faint bubbling of wire baskets inside them.

  I know I’ve been distant. And I’m really sorry about that. From now on things will be different,

  he told her through the kissed fingers he’d fanned over his mouth like a mask. PAUL,

  you’re acting really weird. She was about to leave. She felt assaulted, even though the look on his face was so dumbly open, like a cartoon cow. Suddenly there was an odd noise behind her, a half-stertor, a cardboard chuckle.

  She turned to see a large man choking. His hand swept in a panic his table’s paper, cups, and crumbs, clacking the floor like the guts of a dropped purse.

  In an attempt to unclog the pipe, he rapped his chest like a gorilla, his enormous coat swallowing his hand with each fist-pound against the wool. His body convulsed; his spine bent back and forth. Oh God!

  she cried, but no one shuddered, all just gazing dumb and drunkenly from their tables. And PAUL still had her hand on his mouth.

  She yanked it away, scratching him. She darted to the man and braced herself against his back, her arms barely reaching around his body. He looked desperately to her and breathed a sound like paper curling in fire.

  A few people in the restaurant were finally speaking around her, trying to will something to happen. She thought she heard, You can do it, and a kind of soft cheer.

  She squeezed at the man’s middle, hard as she could, the backs of her thumbs digging deep into the fabric of his coat. She squeezed again, violently, until a knuckle of brown popped out, a piece of meat that dropped dead centre on the table.

  He collapsed with a heave, chest shelved on the table’s metal edge – breathing with relief. Goddamn it!

  She yelled at the customers around her. No one had gotten up. She was surrounded in the a room by warm murmurs, a soft Thank You falling like downy paper thrown into a box.

  Thank You,

  the saved man said, as his baggy short body lifted from the table to hug her, his forehead flush at her neckline. She cringed at his chin, moist on her chest, and felt his heavy breath let out against her skin, pressing, like wind against a pane. She pulled away and there were his eyes.

  Thank You!

  Thank You!

  I thought I was gone!