Love is a Disease by Sean Tigert

Gabe was left alone in his crib a lot while mom and dad were busy; that’s when his addiction started.  A needle in his arm or a bottle of pills hidden under his princess blankie—a hand me down from sis since mom and dad couldn’t afford new shit all the time.  Just shoot or swallow and those hugs came floating back, all warm all over.  The sun setting through the window in his bedroom prison was angelic as the loving eyes of mom and dad with his chemicals.

        When sis got all the toys and attention ‘cause dad was never taught how to love anything that didn’t have a vagina, Gabe forgave dad and took some pills that felt like dad holding his hand.  As sis was getting ready for school and mom and dad spent less and less time with Gabe, Gabe spent more and more time with his parents in a bottle and syringe.

        As Gabe grew, he saw how mom and dad took pills too, and he knew, they must also miss their moms and dads.  Gabe met doctors who prescribed him pills that numbed his emotions for when Gabe was alone, at school, work, but usually it wasn’t explained to him what the doctors’ pills should do, and Gabe would experiment until mom and dad were there, helping him up.  He had tried alcohol, but it always left him feeling like crap.  Dad was never a big drinker either.

One day, there was a knock on Gabe’s apartment door, he lay in bed and watched those sunset rays coming through, remembering mom and dad, as his girlfriend was sweet enough to answer it.  There was a loud banging sound. His girlfriend screamed.  Gabe lived in a bad neighborhood and he feared the worst; he grabbed his gun and ran to help his girlfriend.  The men in Kevlar were waiting for any sort of movement; four rounds from a military surplus MP5 tore through Gabe’s face and chest as he came out of his bedroom.          

Mom and dad buried their baby and wished it were them instead.  Mom and dad knew it could have been them, and when no one was looking, mom and dad took pills that brought their baby back.

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When not writing, drawing, or changing diapers, Sean Tigert gathers material for new creative projects by either escaping humans or stalking them.

Copyright 2013 Sean Tigert
Artwork by Juan Gris

Tree by Sarah Shaw

Roger had never seen the tree before. It didn't seem possible, since he walked through the woods every evening after returning home from work, but there it was. The tree loomed over the trail that cut through the dense forest near Roger's home; the trail that was frequented by hikers and berry-pickers during the summer, cross-country skiers during the winter, and Roger every day at around 5:47 pm.
    What the hell was a tall deciduous tree doing here amidst spindly spruce and birch trees, anyway? The trunk had to be at least seven, no eight, times the thickness of the oldest and healthiest spruce in the forest. Roger stepped off the path to investigate.
    As he circled around the tree, the glowing outline of an arch became visible on the trunk. Roger put his palm on the bark surface and, with a minute amount of pressure, the arch swung away from Roger and he tumbled in.
    "What in the goddamned...." Roger sputtered. When he pulled his knees in to stand, the door he had tripped through slammed shut. He frantically felt around the smooth curved wall around him, but his fingers didn't find a door.
    "Oh god, oh god, what the fuck..." Roger repeated, spinning around the circular closet. All that occupied the room was an electric lantern on the wall. Then he smelled it. A familiar scent wafted into his nostrils and he breathed it deeply. Roger would know that comforting smell anywhere. Oatmeal Cookies.
    Oatmeal cookies were his favorite. They beat out chocolate chip. Snickerdoodles didn't stand a chance against them. The smell lulled Roger until his eyes rolled back. He dropped to the floor in a heap and was too busy being unconscious to notice when the floor disappeared.
       
                                           ***

    "Wake up, Mr. Blue."
    Roger felt a light tapping on his forehead.
    "Wake up, Mr. Blue."
    Tap, tap, tap.
    Roger struggled to open his eyes. They felt glued shut, but he was able to manage it. He was lying on his back and the strong scent of oatmeal cookies was still present. A small, dwarf in a green jacket and pointed hat was leaning over Roger and smiling at him with an a lipless mouth full of gray and yellow teeth.
    "You're finally awake, Mr. Blue. That's just grand," the dwarf chuckled, "I'm so glad. It's your lucky day.”
    "Lucky?" Roger slurred. Whatever had knocked him out was still lingering.
    "Oh yes, quite lucky," the dwarf grinned.
    Roger looked around. He and the dwarf were in what appeared to be a hospital room and he was lying on a cot. Next to the cot was an unused monitor with wires hanging from it.
    "What happened?" Roger noticed that this particular hospital room had no doors or windows.
    "You happened, Mr.Blue!"
    "Who's Mr. Blue?"
    "YOU are Mr. Blue, Mr. Blue," the dwarf poked Roger in the chest three times with a gnarled finger. Roger looked down and saw that he was wearing his blue work shirt. When he looked back up, the dwarf raised one of his small hands above his head.
    "Macaroon!" the dwarf shouted and with a snap of his fingers, the hospital room was gone.

                                          ***

    Roger and the green-clad dwarf were in a lush meadow, surrounded by stone ovens and wooden tables. Working busily all around them were brightly dressed dwarves in matching pointed hats. The wonderful and intoxicating smell was even stronger than before. Oatmeal cookies.
    "I'm Bertram, bye the bye," said the dwarf in green," and I told you that it was your lucky day! It's Oatmeal Cookie Day! Every day is a different cookie and you just happened upon us on oatmeal day, Mr. Blue. Would you like to try one? Or five?"
    While Roger had no idea how much time had passed since he first fell into the tree, he did know that he was hungry. All of the fear that he felt had dissolved. He didn't even care where he was. All that Roger could focus on was the stack of neatly piled oatmeal cookies that sat on one of the wooden tables. He snatched a cookie and sniffed it. He took a bite of the cookie while Bertram looked on, rubbing his bony little dwarf hands together.
    The cookie was the best cookie that Roger had ever had. The flavor was familiar, but so unlike anything he had tasted. Sweet, with a hint of cinnamon, and a savory undertone that Roger wouldn't have believed possible if he hadn't experienced it. His body buzzed in sexual arousal and Roger fought the urge to touch himself. He wasn't so enraptured that he forgot about Bertram and the other dwarves staring at him.
    "Hmmmm...." Bertram muttered and sounded very distant to Roger, "usually this is where they fall down. Guess I should take care of that."
    Roger was swallowing the last bite of his cookie when Bertram hit him in the head with a wooden rolling pin.

                                        ***

    Roger was awakened by a hard slap with a spatula. He tried to voice a protest, but someone had stuffed cloth into his mouth. Bertram stepped back from the table that Roger was bound to, grinding his nasty little teeth and tossing the utensil over his shoulder. Roger couldn't move, but could see that they were in a shack with a door and two curtained windows..
    "You can't move, Mr. Blue, so don't even bother to try. You're tied to that table and you wouldn't get far without any feet anyway." The dwarf gestured to a counter along one of the walls. On the counter, a foot stuck upside-down out of a meat grinder. Roger looked down the length of his prone body and saw that his legs ended in charred, black stumps right beneath his knees. His eyes teared up and sweat started to streak his forehead. He twitched as he stared at a pile of bloody ground meat that sat on the counter. He realized that the air didn't smell like his favorite cookie anymore.
     "When I said that it was your lucky day, I meant it," Bertram started turning the crank on the meat grinder and a crunchy, squelchy sound filled the room. Roger fought the vomit that threatened to come up his throat and choke him.
    "That was the best damn cookie you ever had, I betcha. And don't worry, Mr. Blue. You'll have some more. Can't promise that they'll be oatmeal, but they'll be good just the same," Bertram waved the aroma of the bloody pile of meat and bone to his nose.
    Roger tried to scream. Bertram didn't notice.
    "Ah yes..." the dwarf inhaled deeply, "I think that you will be quite wonderful in a ginger snap. You seem to have just the right bit of tang to you. These feet are plenty enough for a big, fine batch of baked deliciousness that will last us awhile." Bertram swiveled back toward Roger and snapped his fingers. "You must be famished, eh, Mr. Blue! I'll go fetch you some cookies. Got to keep your strength up. Can't have you dyin' before we've used every last scrap of you. The ingredients have to be fresh and no meat is fresher than meat that was just alive!" Bertram shuffled quickly through the door and closed it behind him.
    Roger wept.
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Sarah Shaw lives in the middle of Alaska where she thinks up stuff and writes it down.

Copyright 2013 Sarah Shaw
Artwork by Juan Gris

Rat by Darrin Naill

He spent his morning trying in vain to keep the bread from copulating with the toaster. Each time he would leave the room, he would hear the click of the toaster going down. Each time he returned, a new set of twins lay on the counter covered in butter or jam or, on one occasion, honey.

The radio in the basement was supposed to be off, but would come on of its own volition each time he passed by the closed door to the basement steps. He would hear the white noise tune itself to an all-Spanish station and then fade to pops and buzzes only to go quiet as soon as he would open the door.

The window unit air conditioner in the upstairs bedroom played country music in faint bursts as he walked by the landing.

It had been weeks since he had heard from his cousin, who had, months before, been abducted and transplanted into the television. He always told him what to do to keep the appliances in order, but now, he was increasingly lost. So he did what any sane person would do: he sat in his cat-eating recliner and stared at the blank screen to wait for the next episode of his cousin.

He called for a glass of sweet tea, and it came (though he should have requested "iced" sweet tea, as what he got was lukewarm).

After his tea, it was time to hunt. The rats, at times, rolled across the floor like giant dust bunnies. If he could manage to stand in the right spot, then the corner chair, which always tried to kill him, would slide across the floor and run over the little buggers.

Just as the chair was zeroing in on him, the TV rang. That had never happened before, so he was a little put off. He kicked the television, which made it slide across the floor, crushing the corner chair, and ending his hunting trip.

"in a moment" the television shouted "will be the end".

He looked at the television. No picture. The floor began to tremble.

"there's a hole in the bottom of the sea" a passing rat sang.

The floor gave way, folded, and swallowed. All stop.

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 Darrin Naill. 70s born, father of 3, husband of 1. Eater of meats and cheeses. Hunter and Fisher; general killer. College degreed, yet employed at a bargain. Acquainted severally, friended fewly. Bourbon.

Copyright Darrin Naill
Artwork Juan Gris