Running Wild Press Short Story Anthology, Volume 7

RUNNING WILD PRESS

SHORT STORY ANTHOLOGY

VOLUME 7

Running Wild Press Running Wild Press

Running Wild Press Short Story Anthology, Volume 7

text copyright © 2024 remains with authors

Edited by Benjamin White

All rights reserved.

Published in North America and Europe by Running Wild Press. Visit Running

Wild Press at www.runningwildpress.com. Educators, librarians, book clubs

(as well as the eternally curious), go to www.runningwildpress.com.

Paperback ISBN:  978-1-960018-38-0

eBook ISBN:  978-1-960018-34-2

CONTENTS

Run, Sally. Run

Carly Popenko

Aftermath

Luke Hannon

Perennials

Caroline Shannon Davenport

Experiencing Experiences

Alexandra Gnesin

The Writer Within

Rod Gilley

The Scent of Orange

Eve Dineva

Wolves in the Woods

Ann Malaspina

The Badnjak

Lauren Lang

Harvesting the Stars

Samantha Carr

eros

Paweł Grajnert

They’ll All Be Waiting

Tetman Callis

A Cowboy Lost

Tom Marrotta, Jr.

Pumping Station Road

Christine Woodside

War Crimes

David Newdorf

Animal Husbandry

Jeff Fleischer

Bullyboys

Roberta Hartling Gates

Author Biographies

Editor Biography

About Running Wild Press

RUN, SALLY. RUN

A SHORT STORY

CARLY POPENKO

I am lying in bed with my husband, head nestled tightly in the crook of his chest, the scent of fermented grain lingering. He breathes in deeply and sighs, the energy from his nostrils wet and hot with disdain.

I cannot sleep, the night is haunted again.

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, yet I cannot help but feel paranoid as shadows dance along the moonlit walls.

Do they ever want to break free?

What would it feel like if a shadow could sleep amongst the living, hearts beating louder, legs intertwined.

I shiver.

When did it get so cold in here?

I snuggle up closer against my husband, searching for some semblance of warmth on my cheeks, moving my head back and forth to create friction between us.

He moves away.

Are you awake? I gently whisper, hushed lullabies in the dead of night.

He doesn’t speak, eyes wide open.

Hush little darling, don’t say a word...

What is it? he murmurs agitated at the disturbance, bits of sleep crusted over his eyelids.

I… can you tell me a story? I plead, looking around the room with uncertainty.

I would listen to anything to drown out the darkness.

Fine, but just this one, and then I’m going back to sleep, he yawns, rolling over slowly, monopolizing the mattress. I have to work in the morning, you know.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I love it when he uses his imagination.

He leans in close, his burly hair briskly grazing the edge of my nose. I crinkle my features in defense and cover my face with my fingertips.

He begins as he always did, lifting up the covers, tenting a vaulted quilt ceiling above our heads. Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a princess who lived in a castle under the sea ...

The intricate floral fabric pattern surrounds us, red and black seagrass drifting steadily into reverie.

He keeps me safe and warm.

You keep me safe and warm.

... But the Kingdom was no ordinary place, for its shore perimeters had been captured by a clan of Harpies, he continues, submerged into fantasy.

Envisioning the hybrid predator, I relax my hands, revealing my confusion. Harpies? I chuckle, perplexed.

He smirks, satisfied at the thought.

"Yes, ugly half-human, half-bird demons with enormous talons that cut deep into flesh without even trying." he says, tickling my side aggressively, fingers lunging into the craters of my ribcage.

I laugh, uncomfortably.

Even monsters can hide in kingdoms, it seems.

But what about the princess? I ask concerned, rubbing my side. Is she a Harpy too?

"Oh no, she is a beautiful mermaid, my husband coos fiendishly. With vermilion locks and ebony scales that catch the sunlight from deep down below. That’s why she is locked away inside the castle, to keep her safe from the outside."

The outside.

If only they could look in and see.

I look towards the bedroom window with yearning, stars shooting brightly across the violet sky.

Well, does she have any friends or potential prospects? Other mermaids, perhaps?

Maybe this time the ending would be different.

I’m afraid not, he shakes his head. Legend has it that Harpies destroyed the entire mermaid population decades ago. If they ever found the princess, they would eat her alive.

Eat her alive. Eat her alive.

Oh Child, are you ever satisfied?

But that seems awfully lonely, I shudder, hugging my husband closer to my chest.

As the evening light grew dimmer, I wondered if he could see the shadows too.

My husband looked at me then, cocking his head sideways, unsure of what to make of me.

What’s the matter… I ask, preemptively.

If I don’t ask, he’ll never tell.

He went quiet then, pulling down the blankets, staring blankly at the headboard wall.

... Did I say something to upset you?

He grunts with frustration, digging his knuckles against the cushions.

I am unhappy, he says, matter-of-factly, limbs becoming rigid and tense. But you knew that already, didn’t you.

And so it begins.

You know I would do anything you asked me to, right? I tell him with conviction.

I mean every word.

I love you infinitely.

I would drown if I could save you.

You must drown to set him free.

I wish I could believe that Sally, I really do, he says, stroking my hair forcefully. But you and I both know that you can’t accomplish anything without falling. You are just too... clumsy.

Stumble and fall. Stumble and fall.

Oh dear Child, you could have it all.

I’m sorry, I reply, gravel forming in the pit of my stomach. I’m not sure what to do. I… I don’t know how else to be.

Silence.

Do… do you still love me? I find the fortitude to ask, tears welling up at the back of my throat.

He blinks four times, unaware.

Hollow bodies. Hollow souls.

Hollow minds. Hollow hearts.

I wait for a response, but he ignores the question, turning around to face the window. Within moments, his chest eases with the uniform rhythm of slumber, a stale wasteland of forgotten desire.

I was left alone again, twilight phantoms lingering by the banisters, shadows dancing freely as their fainted cries echo into morning.

He sleeps soundly, undisturbed.

I remain still.

You’re alone now, just breathe, I thought as the front door clicked closed, a wooden barrier between us, a temporary solitude.

Eight hours was never enough, but I appreciated the time.

Oh Child, tomorrow is the same.

I lay back in bed, the sunlit room a warm refuge from the darkness that devoured the night before. My eyes steadily flutter as rainbow freckles reflect off of stained-glass panes.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Oh dear Child, just close your eyes and dream.

The scent of lemon detergent stains the bed sheets, a sour comfort I have grown accustomed to. I want to sink into the ease of sleep, but my body feels weak, my aching legs stubborn in their cripplings. I should get up and start my day.

After all, he won’t like it if I lie around.

I decide to make my way to the bathtub, a clawfoot luxury I know is mine alone. Maybe here I can find relief, scalding water blistering my veins.

Boiled alive, slow from the inside.

A dream is a wish your heart makes.

The water hugs my body, warming my center. I decide to submerge my head to encapsulate the feeling, hair floating above my eyes. Salt stings my corneas, blurred strands of golden light.

Hurry now, before it’s too late.

Hurry now, desires can wait.

I hold my breath for as long as I can, bubbles escaping my nostrils in rapid succession.

But there isn’t much time now.

I can’t disappear.

Chest compounded, lips wound tight, I quickly raise myself above the barriers of my liquid shield. The stark air hits my throat with an onslaught of tempered aggression, panic choking my quaking lungs.

Here I am, until death do us part.

I slip on a robe, and whisk my way back to the bedroom, droplets pooling beneath my feet. The hardwood expands on alternating steps, remnant markings of history unmade.

I open the window and look outside at the world below. The street is quiet and longing, gloaming melodies of a suburban road. A melancholy reminder of what could have been.

Smile pretty like a good little girl.

It’s important to look like the rest of the world.

I glance at the clock, a countdown until evening, the last scheduled stop on the laneway to dread.

He’ll be home soon, I say aloud, startled by the volume of my own voice.

Come what may.

Suddenly, I am hit by a wave of nausea deep within my gut, sickness steadily working its way upwards to the apple of my throat. My body starts to shake uncontrollably, numbness overtaking every joint of my limbs.

Not now, not now.

Not again, not again.

Oh Child, you’ll be sorry this time around.

I run back to the bathroom, pursing my lips with determination as bile burns my tongue. I get on my knees and violently release my insides into the tub's lukewarm water, Epsom salts with a side of breakfast.

He would leave if he saw me like this.

He would leave if he saw you at all.

Hold on, hold on.

I rush to drain the mess, particles swirling deep down into the bowels of the pipes below. They are the keeper of my secrets now.

Hush little darling, don’t say a-

Without warning, I hear the door unlocking downstairs, my husband making his way through the house in routine fashion.

How did this happen so soon?

How did I lose track of the daylight moon?

I’m home! he bellows. What’s for dinner?

Oh no, I thought.

I hadn’t even started.

You’ve had a long day, I say. Why don’t you rest your eyes and take a quick nap? I’ll call you when it’s ready.

He reluctantly agrees and walks upstairs, the weight of each step creaking the treads as he gets closer to the bedroom door.

I have bought myself a little more time.

Oh dear Child, hurry, hurry, hurry.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

Tick tock.

I hastily make my way downstairs to the kitchen. Decor authentically vintage, wood panels and velvet chair cushions.

There is a tube television playing in the background, stuck on its regularly scheduled programming. There are no moving colors, no moving pictures. Just static white noise and static white particles, tightly packed clusters sporadically losing their way across the silicate screen.

My husband has awoken and groggily stumbles into the living room.

I’m midway through preparing dinner, can opener and pre-packaged tomatoes in hand. I have decided to make chili to warm us up on this cold October night.

Want some cornbread? I ask, stirring the pot.

A muffled reply and clinking lowball glasses sound in the distance.

... I guess the answer is no.

In the rhythm of our evening routine, I can hear the restless rattling of the family bird inside its cage.

A vulturine parrot, highly prized for its vibrant feathers. Over time, it had developed a taxing, volatile temper. Now it spent its days screeching with urgency, demanding to take up space.

Why he ever wanted that thing, I will never know.

Oh dear Child, it is better to be seen and not heard.

Could you give the bird some seed? I plead, hoping to appease its cravings.

Soon enough, the iron-clad cage door is unlocked and open.

Its wings take flight.

My husband releases the Archaeopteryx-like fowl into the kitchen, its crimson and black feathers flying frantically around, encircling me. It's too close for comfort and I am uneasy.

Soon it flies directly into my face, eyes wide, beak hawking.

I look down and try my best to continue with dinner.

Caw! Caw! it sings, synchronically. Want a cracker, want a cracker?

I focus on mixing the medley of ingredients, a Crock-Pot dinner for two.

But the game is relentless, its song looping on repeat. I feel a sting on my upper chest, a weight on my shoulder. Target ready, weapon aimed, claws anchored into the layers of my flesh.

I stumble, thrown off balance.

I pat the feathered creature on the head, stroking its wings, and coo, Shush now, it’s all right.

Shush now, please don’t fight.

Shush now darling, don’t say a word.

The parrot continues its chirping, the chili heating steadily in the pressure cooker as blood trickles down my breast.

Shoo! I cry. Please leave me be!

Is it enough? Is that enough?

Will it ever be.

Cocking its head, satisfied, the bird takes flight again, circling around the room waiting for the next opportunity to strike.

I rub my shoulder and wonder how long the marks will take to heal this time around.

Suddenly, I hear the sharp sound of breaking glass, followed by a thump and a painful cry.

Something has fallen to the ground.

Of course it did.

It was inevitable, it seems.

I turn around.

On the floor I see a bloody bundle of feathers. The vulturine dead, head decapitated from its body, jagged edges roughly sawed across its neck.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

I tiptoe towards the corpse quietly, covering my mouth careful not to make a sound. The floor is spattered in gore, shreds of mismatched organs puckering wildly between carpet fibers.

I bend down on my knees to pick up the remains and cradle the bird in my hands.

Where is your head, little one?

Oh Child, why have you fallen?

Looking for this? I find my husband standing there hovering, holding the parrot’s bludgeoned skull by a feather between his fingers. Its beak moves wildly up and down, tongue clicking, eyes blinking.

Movement in stillness.

But there is no sound and there are no tears.

Look what you did this time, Sally, he sneers with disgust. Just look at what you did.

It’s always you.

What do you mean? I say, bewildered. I was turned around the entire time. I didn’t even see what happened...

Did I?

You were holding a can opener before weren’t you? He declares accusingly. That’s an awfully sharp object for such a pretty little thing to hold.

To have and to hold.

Get on your knees, do as you’re told.

I, I don’t –

"I know you did this, Sally. After all, the weapon was right in your hand."

Right in my hand.

Left from your hand.

Sharp objects cut deep.

Too young to understand.

I gaze at the crumpled body resting between my palms.

Oh dear Child, what have you done?

No… I swear it wasn’t me... I would never…

I don’t know what is real and what is true.

But if he says it, it must be so.

Fact and fiction intertwined.

Shadows dancing on moonlit walls.

It’s okay, I can fix it, he gloats, beaming with conquest. I always have and I always will.

My husband takes out a sewing kit and haphazardly starts to stitch together the vulturine’s head to its body with thick, black lace.

But his technique is careless, the stitches are too loose, juices flowing between each thread. There is no way it's going to stick.

There! he proclaims triumphantly. All better now.

The parrot, once coloured in speckled black, is now bright burgundy red, its loose veins pulsating plasma, thickly staining its armor of feathers.

The sight of it all makes me sick.

But don’t you see, dear Child?

It’s what you deserve.

Miraculously, despite the odds, the Frankensteined fowl seems to be alive with movement, slowly rising, intestines contracting, turning its head in my direction with haunting detail.

Anything can be saved.

Grace heals us all.

But just as I had feared, with each passing degree, the stitches ooze and separate, popping out of the creature’s neck one by one with bloody precision.

Snap.

Crackle.

Pop, pop, pop.

Sally want a cracker?

The white noise on the television is getting louder now.

I look at my husband peering at me from the ground above. His eyes see right through me, daggers pierce my tongue.

Speak now, or forever hold your peace.

I do.

I do.

I do.

I look at the bird, undead, eyes gone cold, auburn jelly hanging loose from its sockets.

The white noise is overwhelming.

But if it gets too loud maybe I won’t hear it at all.

I try to avoid their gaze and look anywhere I can, but their eyes follow me, irises still, pupils deep, casting their spell to take me in as their own.

Oh Child, why are you so clumsy?

Static noise, black and white, louder and louder.

Trapped, I find the courage to scream.

It echoes, unheard in the distance.

I’m drowning. Ebony scales rot to gray.

Their eyes cut through me, tearing at my skin.

All I can smell is burning alive.

There is no way out now.

And it is at this moment that I know for certain…

I am afraid

of the man I love.

AFTERMATH

LUKE HANNON

He was still covered in her blood. And he was shaking badly. What the hell was he going to do?