Category Archives: Prose

The Hanged Men

By Owen Schalk

“The present conditions of the country are no more than the threshold of a profound…and most important examination of consciousness.

– Pasolini on the eve of the Italian Civil War (1943-1945)

They found a man with bricks in his pockets hanging under Blackfriars Bridge in London. His name was Roberto Calvi. He was the chairman of Banco Ambrosiano, which was in the midst of a historic collapse following revelations of financial irregularities worth billions of lire. The main shareholder in Banco Ambrosiano was the Vatican Bank, which led many Italians to dub Calvi “God’s Banker.” Some joked upon his death that his main investor had finally lost patience with his management.

Calvi had been missing for seven days, and much like Michele Sindona, it seemed like everyone who mattered wanted him gone: the Holy See, the Sicilian Mafia, the political establishment, and associates of Banco Ambrosiano ranging from Polish anti-Soviet groups to Nicaraguan drug traffickers. There were so many suspects that it took people ages to notice the clue right under their noses. Calvi was hanged from Blackfriars Bridge. “Black friar” in Italian is frate nero.  Frati neri was the internal moniker of members of the Propaganda Due (P2) Masonic lodge, a subcutaneous organism within the Italian body politic that sought an extreme rightist restructuring of the country’s political and economic life based on the model of another hanged man, Benito Mussolini. Its members included prominent businessmen, media moguls, military officials, intelligence officers, representatives from Southern Cone dictatorships – and Roberto Calvi himself.

P2’s Venerable Master was Licio Gelli, a financier and card-carrying fascist since his youth who assisted in the failed Borghese coup of 1970 and subsequently fled to Condor-era Argentina, where he built close relationships with many high-level junta officials. According to the P2 theory, the complete exposure of Calvi’s financial indiscretions would lead to the unmasking of the lodge’s long list of crypto-fascists, some of whom had public profiles to maintain. The organization covertly murdered Calvi and dangled him from Blackfriars Bridge as a not-so-subtle “keep your mouth shut” to other P2 members who might be thinking of abandoning the sinking ship.

Everyone had someone to blame for Calvi’s murder, and every suspect was connected by one or two degrees of separation. Nobody was on trial, but in the minds of the public, the defendant was both multitudinous and singular: it was the arcane, cabalistic, Svengalian knot of deep power that pulsed and steamed and continuously expanded in the core of postwar Italian society.

Susanna Betti was unique. She blamed someone nobody had thought to accuse of Calvi’s murder. She blamed herself. She’d never met Calvi or Gelli or any of the other revenants of fascism burrowed in the country’s power centers – what use would they have for a Friulian professor of Marxist literary theory? – but within her was a latent premonitory gift that had revealed the place and manner of Calvi’s death two weeks before he’d fled Rome. She knew he was marked for death.

The first time she saw tarot cards was at a street market in Testaccio. She was thirteen. She made her parents stop so that the fortune-teller could reveal her future. She later learned that he used a rare pack – the Tarocco Siciliano – in which l’appeso, the hanged man, was depicted as hanging from the neck, not the ankle. Susanna remembered the card so clearly because it was the first one he flipped after she asked, “Do I have the Betti gift?” He gave her a five-card reading. She didn’t remember if the hanged man was upright or reversed, and she couldn’t recall the following cards, but she was pretty sure that the final one was the Fool.

She thought of the hanged man once more, on the morning of May 28th, 1982, after a dream illuminated her hereditary clairvoyance. She was seated under an ebony bridge, watching the black water roll by. The glow of a streetlamp made faces in the ripples, an ever-shifting visage of light that occasionally rhymed with the features of a family member or friend but otherwise remained a stranger. She looked up and realized that the face was not actually a trick of the light but the reflection of the hanged man, who was dangling from the bridge. His face was turned down as though he was expecting Susanna to tell him something. “Well?” he asked, raising his hands inquisitively. There were bricks in his palms. “Am I upright or reversed?”

The upright hanged man represents reflection, growth, and the possibility of uncovering a new understanding of one’s place in the world, which is the ultimate goal of all fortune-telling, not just tarot. The reverse-hanged man embodies stubbornness, the intellectual blockage produced by over-analysis, the opposite of intuition. Susanna didn’t know what to tell him. To make him feel better, she joked, “You look pretty upright to me.” That only made him sadder. He stuffed the bricks into his pockets and closed his eyes. Then she woke up.

She didn’t realize that her dream was a premonition until it was too late. That was the Betti curse.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

Her family had long understood that one member of each generation would receive a preternatural awareness of the death of an epochal figure in Italian life. The recipient could either stop it or allow it to proceed – that is if they were able to figure out who the marked person was, which was a difficult task in and of itself. As far as she knew, no Betti had ever been able to stop the death. Her father, Luigi, claimed to have foreseen the shooting of Communist leader Palmiro Togliatti in 1948. According to him, he had waited at the rear entrance of Palazzo Montecitorio every day for three weeks until, one sweltering July afternoon, he spied Pallante creeping up behind the PCI chief as he walked to his car. He was holding a small, rusty revolver. Luigi dove into action, grasping Pallante’s wrist just as the would-be assassin put one bullet in the back of Togliatti’s skull. He wrestled his hand down, directing the next two shots at Togliatti’s torso and saving him from a fatal trio of headshots. Togliatti was rushed to a hospital and revived. Luigi ended up regretting his actions when Togliatti abandoned the factory workers who went on strike in his honour, urging them to stick to democratic means rather than wildcats and vandalism. “He’s a bureaucrat,” Luigi resolved. “He doesn’t want revolution. He cares more about getting invited to Stalin’s dacha than helping us proletarians.”

There were several problems with Luigi’s story. Firstly, Susanna’s mother Mira claimed that he wasn’t even in Rome at the time of the shooting but visiting his parents’ farm outside Tarvisio. By the time he hurried back to the capital, the strikes had already been broken. Secondly, Luigi was in his thirties at the time of the shooting. It was unheard of for Bettis to receive premonitions before their sixtieth birthday. And lastly, it had been accepted familial knowledge since the killing of Cola di Rienzo that only one member of each generation could experience a vision of an epochal death. His story was further undermined in 1978, two years after Luigi’s death from lung cancer, when his younger brother Pieri received a vivid forewarning of the kidnapping and murder of Prime Minister Aldo Moro. Pieri chose not to intervene, of course: he was the family’s fascism nostalgist, and he hated Moro for supposedly compromising Italian democracy by negotiating with the communists.

Growing up, Luigi and Pieri lived in the Friuli countryside on their father Jacum’s poultry farm. Jacum was a pragmatist, an antifascist liberal who had foreseen Mussolini’s hanging a la l’appeso and allowed it to proceed “for the good of the nation.” He didn’t like Togliatti because the Americans didn’t like him, and in 1948 he voted Christian Democrat to secure US reconstruction aid, which Truman vowed to withhold if the PCI won the presidency. Luigi called his father a coward and cast his vote for Togliatti. He’d been a communist ever since stumbling upon an outdated issue of l’Unità, the PCI newspaper, in a Tarvisio alleyway while delivering his father’s chickens to the butcher. He flipped through it, read a disquisition on the plight of rural workers that resonated with the struggles of his youth, and registered with the party that week. He briefly convinced his younger brother that communism was the only equitable path for Italy. Still, when Pieri turned eighteen, he fell in love with a girl from a staunchly Catholic family who lived in the hills around Udine. Her father, one of the city’s largest landowners, liked to talk politics with his daughter’s suitors. He imparted to the impressionable teenager a worldview that valued law, order, and rigid hierarchy above all else and romanticized the era of strongarm fascism over the turbulent electoralism of the immediate postwar.

A few months later, Pieri married and moved his wife onto the farm. Luigi argued with the couple so viciously that eventually, he couldn’t stand it. He packed his bags and marched off to Rome. Jacum died five years later, baffled and heartbroken that politics had the power to tear his family apart.

For a rural migrant, Rome of the late 1940s wasn’t a miracle waiting to happen. It was the home of crime and poverty and the borgate romane, wherein lived those whom Pasolini called the sottoproletariato (for his part, Luigi thought Pasolini was a degenerate and an individualist, and once said that if he’d been lucky enough to foresee the writer’s death, he wouldn’t have changed a thing about it). Susanna’s earliest memories of her father were of a weary, heavy-lidded factory worker coming home late to their ramshackle hut on the urban fringes and smoking at least a half-pack of cigarettes before dinner. He rarely spoke except to lambast Togliatti and Berlinguer as “sellouts.”

Mira was a communist too and a dedicated PCI supporter even after Luigi grew disillusioned with the party. She didn’t work outside the home. Like the PCI leadership, she believed that the Catholic nuclear family was the heart of Italian society. She did her part in this regard, staying home each day to make meals and to keep the shack in pristine condition for her husband’s return.

Unlike her mother, Susanna saw the appeal in earning her own way. She graduated high school and worked a variety of dead-end jobs, earning enough money to pay her way through one year at the University of Rome (her father covered the subsequent costs). Her first year was 1968. Bloody, sweat-soaked ‘68. The sessantotto. It was a pivotal moment for Susanna’s political development. Not only was it her first year at university, her first year of lucent left-leaning history classes, which gave structure to the communist doctrine she’d been weaned on as a girl, but it was also the year that her father told her of the Betti gift.

It was family custom to inform each generation once the youngest sibling turned eighteen. As an only child, Susanna didn’t have to wait for anybody. The gift was on her mind during those months of protest. She saw death everywhere: in the news of peasant revolts across the countryside, in the Molotovs of agents provocateurs, and in the snarling barrels of the policemen whom Pasolini defended. At the time, she misunderstood her father’s explanation. Susanna thought that she and her friends were all epochal defenders of the Left, and every time one of them approached danger. She envisioned the worst; she took credit for their survival. She didn’t realize until years later that “epochal” didn’t mean those with potential, those who might one day achieve something: epochal meant power, and power meant the knot. It meant Calvi, Togliatti, Moro, Mussolini – it didn’t mean Susanna Betti and her boyfriends Silvio and Alessandro, whom she’d met at a student club for tarot enthusiasts. Those boys weren’t powerful, era-defining figures. They made it safely through the summer of ’68 and settled into cozy teaching jobs at the University of Rome, maintaining their friendship, if not their relationship with Susanna. She had long ago accused them of being sellouts of the petit-bourgeois.

Susanna aged into comfort too. She graduated with honours and took a job as a teaching assistant in Naples to avoid the awkwardness of working alongside Silvio and Alessandro. Eventually, she became the head of the literature department. Every year, she taught a seminar called “Pasolini and the Making of Italian Neo-capitalism.” Now that she had aged out of youthful dogmatism, she had a new appreciation for his work – although she still held a grudge against him for “The PCI to the Youth.”

She was thirty-seven when her premonition of Roberto Calvi’s death welcomed her into the upper echelon of chosen Bettis. She felt lucky. She had often thought that it was cruel for her family to receive visions when they were so old and had so little time to comprehend the death in its broader historical context. That was how she felt about Calvi, her hanged man. His death was distinguished, epochal, but without a historical distance, she didn’t know what it had meant or how Italian history would have changed if she’d been able to stop it. She looked forward to understanding the death in its proper context in the coming decades.

While thirty-seven was unusually young for a premonition, the giver of visions must have had a keener eye for the future than she did. On December 23rd, 1984, Susanna was on the 904 express train to the University of Milan, where she was scheduled to deliver a lecture on Pasolini’s final film, when a bomb in the ninth car detonated, killing her and fifteen others and injuring over two hundred passengers. The perpetrator of the 904 bombing, Giuseppe Calò, was arrested the next year for ordering the murder of Roberto Calvi.

At the moment before the bomb tore her to pieces, Susanna understood something. Maybe it was the Betti gift, or maybe a religious epiphany courtesy of the God she’d shunned her entire life, but in the instant before her particulate evisceration, she understood the nature of the knot. She understood that Calvi, Togliatti, Moro and Mussolini, Luigi and Mira, Pieri and Jacum, Silvio and Alessandro and Susanna herself were all the hanged man. Power was the knot on the noose around their necks, tied by the hands of an executioner whose name they all knew. She saw ahead to the arrest of Giuseppe Calò and Licio Gelli, their trial for the murder of Roberto Calvi, and their surprise acquittal due to what the court deemed “insufficient evidence.” She didn’t care. She understood who killed Calvi, and even if it wasn’t the same man who killed her, she knew that their nooses were tied by the same hands.


Owen Schalk is a writer from Winnipeg. He grew up in the countryside surrounded by rural emptiness, abandoned houses, and farm-loving German Canadians who tried and failed to instil their love of farming in him. He found his artistic curiosity while reading the usual canon. He found his voice while reading Pynchon, DeLillo, Bolaño, and other authors who write with a critical eye for dominant social and political doctrines.

DOORS AND WINDOWS

By Nancy Christie

“Get away from the window. And close those curtains!” Melanie’s words came out harsher than she had intended, and hurriedly she tried to soften her tone. “It’s cold outside, and this house is so drafty. At least the drapes block some of that wind. And I don’t want you to get sick,” she added belatedly.

She felt rather than heard Carolee’s almost inaudible sigh, felt rather than heard her daughter’s rejection of not just the words but of the message behind them: He’s not just late. He’s not coming—just like last week, and the week before that and the week before that. 

“Carolee?” she tried again, but when the nine-year-old didn’t respond, didn’t even turn around, she moved away from the doorway and headed down the stairs to the kitchen. She’d make her daughter’s favourite Sunday afternoon snack: hot cocoa and cinnamon toast. And then maybe they can play a board game or watch a movie or… 

Or just sit and stare at each other, with Carolee blaming her mother for her father’s absence and Melanie wondering if her daughter would ever understand, would ever forgive her, or, for that matter, if she had done the right thing in the first place.


Carolee heard her mother’s footsteps and, for a moment, thought to follow her. But her bedroom window was the only place where she had a good view of the road. From there, she could watch for her father’s pickup truck and have enough time to slip on her winter coat and hat and be ready to run out the door as he pulled in the driveway. Everything was laid out on the bed: her jacket, stocking cap, gloves and scarf, her backpack with her homework… Sometimes when they were sitting at Bill’s Burger Barn, her father would help her with her math. 

That’s why she hadn’t even opened her textbook. All her other assignments were completed, but she had saved math for last. In case they had time to do it. In case he came.

“And he will come,” she murmured, moving away from the window so she could rub her forehead. It was cold where she had leaned it against the glass. 

But she was only half-convinced. The court order defining the terms of the separation—the one she had found months ago when she was looking for a paperclip on her mother’s desk—had been clear: a visit each Sunday from noon to five and one weekend a month from Saturday at nine in the morning until Sunday night at eight. Each week she marked off the dates that she saw her father. If some months had fewer crossed-off blocks than others, she blamed it on the weather or her father’s work schedule or, if her parents had fought the weekend before, her mother.

But it was already half-past three, and she had been waiting since twelve. Her stomach was rumbling, and she was getting hungry, but she wouldn’t go downstairs and eat, even though she could now smell the aroma of the hot chocolate wafting up the stairs. Her mother made it the old-fashioned way with cocoa and milk and sugar, and since last Friday was payday, there might even be a tiny mountain of whipped cream swirled on top. And cinnamon toast, as many slices as she wanted. 

Carolee’s mouth watered, but she fought the urge to abandon her post. If she did, if she went downstairs and drank her cocoa and ate her toast, she would be admitting to a truth that she didn’t want to face: her father wasn’t coming. So she held firm, swallowed hard and kept watching the road, now coated with a thin sheen of ice.


It was the ice that was to blame, Rob said to himself. The ice and the truck’s more-than-slightly bald tires and the fact that he had to jump the battery just to get the vehicle started. Ever since the plant closed down and he lost his job, ever since the landlord finally kicked him out—not that he could blame him, since he was three month’s late with his rent—ever since he had moved into the shelter, he knew it was only a matter of time before the pickup would fail him.

Then he’d have to take a bus for the hour-long trip back to the town where he used to live, back to where the three of them once were a family. And when he got there, find some explanation for why he couldn’t take his daughter out for a three-dollar kid’s meal at the hamburger place, or why Carolee couldn’t come stay the weekend with him or why—this to Melanie—the check was late. Again.

The ice—that was the problem. As for the rest, he would have to tell Melanie the truth. He had run out of excuses, run out of reasons, run out of justifications for everything, even if not all of it was his fault.
But the closer he came to the highway exit, the more afraid he grew of what would happen next. What Melanie would say. What Carolee would think.

And so he had finally surrendered to the fear and pulled off onto the side of the road and sat there, shaking, wondering how everything had gone so wrong when all he had wanted was a job and a house and a wife and child. And love.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

It was quarter to four when Carolee heard, rather than saw, her father’s pickup: the sound of the exhaust escaping through the holes in the muffler, the grinding of the gears as he downshifted. She knew the sound of the truck as well as she knew her own heartbeat. Without waiting to see the vehicle, to hear the cab door creak open and then shut, Carolee pulled on her coat and hat, grabbed her belongings and headed downstairs.

But then she stopped on the last step, the anger emanating from the kitchen, an almost palpable force from her mother.

“You’re late! Again! Damn it, Rob! She’s been waiting for hours, and she wouldn’t even eat! Couldn’t you have called?” 

Carolee heard a low rumble of words and knew her father was trying to calm down her mother. It wouldn’t work. It never did. It didn’t work when they all lived together, and it wouldn’t work now. Best she go in so they would stop, and the visit—what was left of it anyway—could start.

“You’re right, Melanie, but wait. I need to explain. I need to tell you something—” Rob stopped when he saw his daughter in the doorway. He didn’t want to finish the conversation in front of her, didn’t want her to hear that her father was jobless, homeless, a failure as a man, a husband and a parent. 

So he pasted a smile on his face and opened his arms wide, and when she ran into them, he hugged her close and just kept saying, “How’s my girl? How’s my sweetheart? I’ve missed you so much!”

Melanie stood there, and then for a moment, she was suddenly back in her hospital room, watching her husband hold their newborn daughter—the child they had created out of love and hope—with a look on his face that was a mix of awe and fierce protectiveness. The same look he had now, except there was a slash of pain underscoring it, the same pain she felt each time he left, and she saw her daughter’s anguish at his departure.

She turned away, swallowing hard, and put on a pot of coffee. While they were gone for what little time remained, she’d go through the stack of bills, measuring the total due against her pitifully small paycheck, and wonder what she would do if the rumours were true and Wayside Market would shut down the first of the year. Unemployment wouldn’t be all that much, and her weekend work at Sam’s Bar & Grille would hardly make up the difference. As for the child support… 

And with that, her anger returned, and she pushed the start button on the coffeemaker with more force than necessary.

“I’m ready to go, Daddy.” 

Melanie turned at her daughter’s words just in time to see Rob shake his head. 

“Not today, sweetie,” he said and led her to the table where her now cold cocoa and toast were waiting. “The roads are really slippery, and the wind is sharp,” knowing even as he spoke that the excuses he offered weren’t enough. But they’d have to be. All he had in his wallet was a ten-dollar bill, and he needed that for gas.

“Tell you what,” slipping her coat off her shoulders, “let’s sit here and work together on whatever homework you have to finish. Okay?”

Carolee nodded, although it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t what she wanted: the three of them in the kitchen. The room was too small to hold all the emotions: her mother’s anger, her father’s fear that she sensed even if she didn’t understand its cause, and her own disappointment.

But at least he was here, she told herself as she pulled out her math book and paper and pencil. He was here, and that was all that mattered.

And while the two of them struggled through the calculations—Rob patiently explaining how to understand the problem and arrive at a solution—Melanie made a fresh mug of cocoa and more toast for her daughter. And then, almost as an afterthought, poured a cup of coffee for Rob—black with two sugars—and set it next to his elbow.

His shirt was missing a button, and his hair was longer than he usually wore it, she noticed, and there was a slight whiff of sweat from him when he moved his arm to pull Carolee’s book closer. And his face—something about it the way his cheekbones caught the light, the shadow on his chin where he had missed shaving. 

Unkempt. That was the word she was searching for. You would think he would at least make himself presentable, especially since he hadn’t seen his daughter for nearly a month.

She sat down across from them, trying with limited success to calm her anger.

“I’ll never get it!” Carolee said in frustration, as once again her father looked at her answer, shook his head and then slid the paper back to her side of the table. “I hate math!”

“That’s okay, sweetie,” Rob said, trying to console her. “Think how good you are at art! You draw wonderful pictures. Besides, no one is good at everything. I’m a terrible speller, and your mom wasn’t any good at math either.” Then he quickly glanced up at Melanie with a smile, hoping she wouldn’t take offence and, caught off guard, she smiled back.

It was true, Melanie thought. Each month, Rob would be the one to balance their chequebook because, try as she might, the figures never came out the way they should. But he never blamed her, just sat there with his hot cocoa and cinnamon toast—and was that where the Sunday afternoon ritual had started: cinnamon toast and hot cocoa?—and when the numbers finally worked themselves out, he’d close the chequebook with a satisfied sigh. Then two of them would go into the living room, and she’d settle herself on his lap, and they’d watch whatever was on television, content just to be together.

Until being together became a bad thing, a time fraught with tension and anger and disappointment. Until Melanie told him, she’d had enough, and she wanted him to leave. Although sometimes late at night, she wondered what was the final straw and whether that straw had really been enough, after all, to break it all apart. 

Carolee pursed her lips, erased the last two sets of numbers, recalculated the rest of them and then handed the paper back to her father. She wanted it to be correct so they could put the book away, and the two of them could go into the other room and just be alone for the little time remaining. Just half an hour, but even that was better than nothing. And next weekend she could spend two whole days with him. 

“See, you did it!” Rob smiled at his daughter. “It just takes a little time. Sometimes you have to go back a few steps and start over, and then it all works out.”

His words echoed in his mind. “Go back a few steps”—but it would take more than a few steps for him and Melanie. Miles, maybe, before they could get back to the place where it was all good, and they had plans for their future and then when she was pregnant, plans for the three of them.

Miles back and lots of detours that this time they would ignore: side roads they had mistakenly taken like the fight over the truck he had bought with what was left of their savings. Wrong turns like the time Melanie said—well, screamed, really, so loudly that she woke the baby—that she was sick of being poor and having to make do and couldn’t he get a better job. They would both be on verbal roundabouts during the worst of their fights, circling and circling with neither willing to give in or give up or do anything, just get off that endless loop of anger.

“Yay!” and Carolee quickly shoved the paper into her book and her book into her backpack before glancing up at the clock. It was a quarter to five. There were only fifteen minutes before her father left. But that would be enough time to plan what they would do next weekend. 

Maybe Saturday we could go to a movie, she thought. A movie, then back to his apartment where they could eat toasted cheese sandwiches with tomato soup. Then, on Sunday…

But before she could speak, before she could take him by the hand and go into the other room and talk about what they would do the next time they were together, her father stood up.

“Sweetie, it’s getting late, and I need to talk to your mother before I leave. So give me a hug and kiss, and then why don’t you go watch television or something.”

Carolee knew what that meant. He wanted to be alone with her mother. He had something bad to say, something that would make her mother angry, and for just a minute, she was angry, too. Couldn’t he just once not make trouble? If he made her mother angry, it would spill over to Carolee. And then, late at night, she’d wake up and hear her mother crying and bury her head under the pillow because she didn’t know what to do and only wanted it all to stop. 

But she couldn’t change anything, couldn’t stop the two of them from talking or fighting. So she gave him a hug and kiss and then went up to her room, pausing on the bottom step in the hope that he would change his mind and call her back. But it didn’t happen, so she continued on her way.


Rob heard her and knew by the way her footsteps sounded on the staircase that she was hurt and sad. But it had to be done, and squaring his shoulders, he turned to face Melanie.

“The plant closed down.” The words came out harsher than he had intended and struck Melanie’s face almost like a blow. “I didn’t want to tell you—that’s why I missed the last few visits. Plus I’ve been looking for another job. But you know how it is. No one is hiring at the end of the year.”

Melanie took a deep breath. Her first thought was the bills. How would she manage without what little money he sent her? And if he was out of work, then Carolee didn’t have health insurance. What if she got sick?

She sat down heavily in the chair and buried her head in her hands, too upset and frightened to cry.

“That’s why I haven’t been around and because,” here he swallowed hard but decided to go ahead and tell her everything, “well, my landlord kicked me out, and I had to move into a shelter. So I can’t take Carolee next weekend. As a matter of fact, I may have to miss the next couple of visits. I need to save gas to go look for work. But it’s not all bad news. One of the guys I work with—worked with,” he corrected himself, “said that a plant in Braden is hiring, but that’s two hours away. I’m going there on Monday. If I get it, I’ll let you know.”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll get something, Melanie. I promise,” and he reached over to put a hand on her shoulder. “And it will all be okay.” 

She heard the note in his voice, the mix of hope and comfort, and for just a moment, let herself believe him. But just for a moment, and then it all came back: the disappointment, fear, anger, pain, regret—but regret for what? For ending their marriage or for marrying him in the first place? For encouraging him all the times when things didn’t work out or for telling him it was all his fault: the lost jobs, the economic downturn, the reality that their life together didn’t at all match the fantasy she had held onto?

She stood up, faced him and took a deep breath, not knowing what she should say. And, with no words to express all that she felt, she reached out, picked up his empty coffee cup and threw it against the kitchen door, where it shattered into pieces, a physical representation of what her marriage and life had become.

“Just go.”

Only two words, but behind them, Rob heard all that she didn’t say and knew that the distance between them was now even greater.

“I’m sorry”—a futile response but all he could manage through a throat constricted by emotion. He pulled on his coat and then opened the kitchen door, letting in a rush of frigid air. “Melanie?” One last word, a question really, but when no answer came, he left, closing the door behind him.

Melanie stood there, heart pounding, tears forming, and swallowed hard. She knew it wasn’t all Rob’s fault. She knew that other families faced the same situation. But it was easier to be angry with him than to admit to the fear that overwhelmed her. She walked over to pick up the shards of china. When she reached the door, she could only lean her head against it, listening for the sound of the truck’s engine, hoping that he might come back and hold her and tell her it would all be okay and that she didn’t have to deal with it all by herself.

But all she heard was silence.

He stepped off the porch and then paused to light a cigarette, one of two he allowed himself each day. He wasn’t angry at Melanie, not really. He saw behind her reaction the fear and loneliness that clutched at her, the same emotions he faced each day, the same emotions that dogged his restless sleep.

He inhaled, held the smoke in his lungs, then released it, watching it drift upward through the falling snow. 

Things will get better, and he wasn’t sure if he was telling himself that or sending the thought to Melanie. 

The sound of the cup crashing against the wall was so loud that Carolee heard it from the top of the staircase where she had been sitting, hoping until the last minute that her father might call her down. They could have just a little more time. Ten minutes, five even—that would have been enough.

But then she heard the crash, followed by a silence that seemed to stretch forever, then finally the sound of the kitchen door shutting, she knew that he had left the house. She left her post and went into her room, pulling back the curtains to watch and hope. Maybe he had forgotten something in his truck and had just gone out to get it and then come back into the house. 

Maybe… But no. She saw his figure, shrouded in the darkness, pause on the walkway and then the brief flare of the match as he lit his cigarette. He wouldn’t be coming back. Not tonight. Maybe not ever again, but she pushed that thought back into the dark corners of her mind. 

Next week, she thought. He’ll be back next week. And the week after that, and maybe someday he won’t ever leave.

Standing there in the frigid air, Rob finished his cigarette and then headed over to his truck. Would the engine start, allowing him to return to the life he had now? Or would the battery finally be so dead that the motor wouldn’t turn over and he couldn’t leave but would have to stay—go back through the door and into the kitchen, go back in time and into the life they once shared?

But when it did start, he gave one final glance at the house, at the kitchen door still shut, then up to the window where he thought he saw his daughter’s outline. 

Maybe someday things will change, he thought as he shifted the truck into gear and backed down the driveway. If I could get the job and make enough money, Melanie wouldn’t have to work so hard… If I can just make it all turn out right…

Melanie heard the truck engine catch, then the sound of the wheels crunching the ice and snow as Rob’s truck made its way down the blacktopped driveway. He was leaving, and she wasn’t sure if she was glad that the fight was over or sorry that it had turned out that way again.

I don’t understand, she thought wearily as she bent down to pick up the fragments of the cup. Where did we go wrong? Why did it have to turn out this way?

Carolee watched the truck slowly back down the driveway. Then the headlights flashed across the front of the house as he turned onto the street, the snowflakes glittering in their beam. She watched until he reached the corner and then turned again, watched until she couldn’t see the truck anymore.

Then she slid open the window, heedless of the cold, listening for the sound of the engine. But all that came in on the wind was silence and the faint smell of burning tobacco, wending its way up to where she waited.

She breathed it in deeply, holding her father in her lungs, in her heart, never wanting to exhale again.


Nancy Christie is the author of two award-winning short story collections: Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories (runner-up in the 2016 Best Indie Book by Shelf Unbound) and Peripheral Visions and Other Stories (Bronze award winner in the 2020 Foreword INDIES competition and finalist in the 2021 Eric Hoffer Award competition)—both published by Unsolicited Press, as well as three nonfiction books. Her short stories have appeared in numerous literary publications, with several earning contest placements. She’s also the host of the Living the Writing Life podcast and founder of the annual “Celebrate Short Fiction” Day.

Guys Like Him

By Maia Kowalski

My father started going to church again after he got divorced the second time. Whether it was because he felt guilty or suddenly pious, I’ll never know, but I was forced to go with him every Sunday morning. I don’t know why he wanted the company. We didn’t do a lot of stuff together. Maybe he couldn’t face the good Lord alone.

I had been put in Catholic school growing up. Still, at 16, I wasn’t really interested in whether God was real anymore, let alone sending a prayer to him. There was so much singing and sitting and standing. I refused to believe every service was only an hour because it felt so much longer than that. I didn’t think anyone really wanted to be there either. I figured they were just nervously mulling over all the things they had done in their lives, things they knew would eventually catch up to them. 

We never wore our Sunday best. In the beginning, I admit I tried. I wore dresses that I hadn’t worn since eighth grade, stuff that somehow still fit me because I didn’t have anything nice enough for service. Dad wore dress shirts and slacks. But as time went on and the weather got warmer, the both of us gave up. I’d be there, sweating under the church’s impossibly high ceiling fans, in denim cut-offs and a spaghetti-strap tank top. My father wore the same beige cargo shorts and a white polo. I was convinced he never washed them. Every week I swore I smelled last week’s incense, threaded in-between the cotton.

I’m not sure what my father prayed for. He seemed focused, diligently repeating prayers with the rest of the congregation and singing Alleluia with gusto. He kept his head down the longest in prayer once everyone had gotten Communion. I wondered if he was being honest with himself about all the missteps he had taken in his marriages. Sometimes, though, I wondered if he was praying for a third wife.

My father’s marriages were rocky at best. His first one, with my mother, was almost comical, the way they fought in front of and behind me, how they whispered venomous words to each other at bedtime instead of sweet nothings. It became routine for me to listen to their fights before bed. I pretended to be asleep as they tucked me in, and as soon as they left my room, I snuck behind their door frame and listened to the sharp tones and hisses, wondering if I should interfere. The thing I remember most was an argument at dinner, full of the same old yelling crap, me keeping my head down when my father suddenly stood up. His face twisted into something stupid when he was angry, the way the wrinkles in his forehead rolled into his browbone, and the overexaggerated frown lines around his mouth. He looked like a pug throwing a tantrum. But that night, he towered over my mother, who was still in her seat. He spat curses into her face and clutched his dinner fork in his right hand. Then the fork went down, past her, bounced once under the table and settled on the floor with a clatter. My father walked away from us; I heard the front door slam shortly after. My mother got up and cleared both their plates while I sat at the table alone. Then she went up to the bedroom, and I didn’t hear anything from her for the rest of the night. I pushed back my chair and went over to the place where my father had thrown the fork. You couldn’t see anything if you weren’t looking for it, but in a certain light, you saw the evidence: a shallow groove in the dark hardwood. I ran my fingers over it. It looked like it had hurt. 

That was the first time I realized I was scared of him. I didn’t creep out of bed anymore when they were fighting. I went straight up to my room after school and ate my dinners quickly. My parents divorced later that year. 

My father’s second wife, Iva, left my life as quickly as she had entered it. It was a few years after the first divorce and lasted only three years. But within those years, she had moved in, rearranged our apartment furniture, tried to bond with me by watching old episodes of Friends and then she was gone, without so much as an explanation from my father about what had happened. I was disinterested in his life by then, much more than I had been when he divorced my mother, so peppering him with questions about a woman I barely knew would have seemed out of character for me. He only spoke about it once, when we were in the car, waiting for someone to back out of their parking spot. He said it the same way you’d recite a badly-written riddle: “Sometimes, Evelyn, you meet people, and you think you’re on the same page. But then, later on, you find out that you weren’t the whole time.” And that was it. I just nodded and looked out the window. 

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

It was sticky and hot the morning we met Daniel. We had left the apartment in a rush, as usual: me, taking my time, hoping I would be so slow that my father would let me stay at home for once, and my father, rushing me along, snapping at me for not getting my shoes on fast enough or getting out of my pyjamas in time. On Sundays, church started at 9am. Neither of us ate breakfast, so the Holy Ghost was our appetizer before we went for our weekly brunch after service. The weather report that morning had said it was going to hit 30 by the afternoon, but at 8:45, it was already humid and felt like 25. When I opened my bedroom window, there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze; when I stuck my hand out, only stagnant, warm air surrounded it. My father and I threw on our usual summer-church outfits: cargo shorts and a polo for him, denim cut-offs and a loose tank for me. We slipped on our sandals and flip-flopped our way down the hall, into the elevator, through the apartment lobby and down the street to the church. Looking back, I’m not sure why we rushed. A lot of people in our area were rich — like, rich-rich — and I had seen more than a few minivans, and Range Rovers with canoes strapped to their roofs pass by on their way to cottage country. In the last few weeks, I noticed the average churchgoer change from couples with young kids that ran up and down the aisles during service, who sometimes had to step outside to soothe their screaming baby, to seniors that smelled like sunscreen and mothballs, wearing sun visors indoors and who only sat in the front pews.  In the winter, pews were packed. It wasn’t uncommon to stand in the aisles during service. Even in the spring, with all the holidays, there were times when the church was at its capacity. But in the summer, people took a break from school and work and, evidently, their faith, to bask in the sun for a while. I didn’t blame them. I’d want to do that too if that was the kind of family we were. 

But since there was a great migration up north to swim and kayak and roast marshmallows over the fire, there was no need for my father and me to rush to service that Sunday. The double doors were open to allow airflow. As we ran up the steps and into the foyer, hastily dipping our fingers into the dish of holy water to bless our arrival, we were greeted with the heavy sounds of the church organ and rows upon rows of almost empty pews. My father and I walked over to the side aisle and halfway up the floor before slipping into an empty row. I saw the usual seniors kneeling in the first three pews, all single patrons, their balding heads or perms a dead giveaway. Dad and I were dishevelled, to say the least. We were both panting, catching our breath from running straight from the apartment, and I wished those ridiculously high ceiling fans spun closer to my body to give me a more satisfying cooldown. The organ was still playing, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the altar boys and priest walking past us down the middle aisle with their holy books and crosses. I slowed my breathing and tried to pull my shorts down a little in an attempt at modesty. Dad smelled like sweat, dark circles growing underneath his armpits. 

When the priest reached the altar, he bowed, walked up to it and kissed it. That was when we heard running footsteps, huffing and puffing, and sharp whispers of “Hurry up!” coming from the side aisle. Nobody turned around but my father and me to see a blond-haired, blustering mess of a man running with a small child. They stopped halfway up the church and shuffled into the pew in front of us. The priest hadn’t sat down yet, so neither had any of us. These two latecomers did, though, and groaned in relief as soon as their butts hit the wood. Then the organ stopped, the priest sat down, and so did the rest of us. The blond-haired man wiped his forehead with the front of his shirt and fumbled in the pew shelf in front of him for the right book. He passed the child a copy of the missal and opened one of the songbooks himself. The child kept his head down and started sifting through the pages.

The blond man turned around in his seat. “What book are we supposed to be using?” he asked me. He had a babyface but wore glasses that made him look considerably older and made his eyes look smaller than they should’ve. They were half-fogged up from all the sweating. Then his eyes shifted, and he saw my father. His face broke into a grin. “Patrick?”

I looked at my father. He was smiling, too. “No way. What are you doing here?”

“Church shit,” the blond man said. “Whoops. Not supposed to swear in front of the kid.”

“I didn’t even recognize you,” my father said. 

“Are you calling me fat?” was the blond man’s reply, and while my father laughed quietly, he still got shushed from the handful of seniors that sat around us. 

The blond man rolled his eyes. “Bunch of sticklers,” he said. “Hey, what are you doing after this? We should catch up.”

“I’m –” my father began, but Lorraine, one of the weekly older ladies sitting in front of the blond man, turned around and glared at him. 

“If you must talk, go outside,” she said, her red lips pursed. 

The blond man sighed loudly and looked back at my father. Later, he mouthed and turned back to his songbook. 

The priest stood up again and recited the opening prayer. All the churchgoers repeated it in a deadpan unison. When the choir began to sing Gloria, my father leaned over to me. 

“I knew him in school,” he whispered. “His name’s Daniel. And I think his kid’s name is Ethan, but I could be wrong. It’s been a while.”

A man with wiry grey hair and circular glasses that made his eyes look like an owl glared at us from across the aisle. We looked over at him briefly before turning back to the choir. 

“Anyway,” my father continued in a quieter whisper, so low I could barely hear him beneath all the singing. “He did gain weight, so that’s why I didn’t recognize him. But don’t tell him that.” He grinned at me then, as if we were sharing an inside joke. I gave a small smile back and then dropped it because it felt weird to do it while we were supposed to be listening.  

Once the hymn ended, the first reader stood up from the front pew and walked to the podium with a book in his hand. He read the first reading of the mass to silence. Daniel, in front of us, was still sweating. I could see small drops of it slowly dripping down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. When we all stood up to sing another hymn, his knees cracked, and he groaned loudly. The seniors across the row glared at him again. 

It was usually by the second reading that I started counting the minutes until church was over. There wasn’t much after that except for more singing, a couple of peace be with you‘s, communion and church news. Some days we slipped out right after getting our daily bread. Other times we stayed behind, just in case the church news contained some gossip. But it usually didn’t.

During the priest’s homily, Daniel hunched over on his phone. His phone volume was low, but I could hear the clicks of a keyboard and the swoosh sound of messages being sent. Ethan swung his legs underneath the pew, sometimes hitting the pew in front of them. Lorraine turned around, a frown on her face, and looked Ethan up and down. Daniel put his hand on Ethan’s leg and hissed, “Stop,” causing Ethan to sit abnormally still. From where I sat behind them, it barely looked like he was breathing. 

They didn’t shuffle out of their pew for communion like we did. When my father made eye contact with Daniel, Daniel just shrugged comically at us. We lined up behind the other patrons to take the bread of Christ from the priest and then looped our way back around. Once we knelt to pray, uncomfortably close to Daniel and his neverending sweat, Ethan looked over at his dad. 

“Why don’t we get that?” he asked, in a stage-whisper.

“Ask your mother when you get home,” Daniel said. He was still hunched over his phone.

“But I’m hungry.”

“We’ll get McDonald’s on the way out. Be quiet.”

Everyone was in their pews. My father and I sat back. The priest walked to the altar to deliver the church news. Nothing interesting to report. 

I spent about half of the mass watching Daniel’s sweat dot his collared golf shirt, and the other half checking in on Ethan, watching the way his shoulders rose and fell, how his breathing quickened whenever his father glanced over at him. This mass passed by quicker for me than others, for which I was grateful, but not by much due to our companions.  Still, I was happy when I heard the concluding hymn and the closing procession. The priest followed the altar boys down the aisle towards the back of the church. Ethan arched his head out around his dad to catch a glimpse of the procession. As they walked by, Ethan’s eyes bounced between the sparkly gold cross held by the altar boy, to the Bible held by the priest, to the priest’s face. It was almost as if the priest knew because as he walked by, he looked over into Ethan’s pew and smiled at him. Ethan smiled back. Daniel noticed and looked down at his son with a scowl. Then he turned to us with a disgusted look on his face. My father raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, holding in a laugh. I looked at Ethan, who was fiddling with his shirt again. Once the full procession had gone, my father and I did a half-hearted genuflect in our pew and filed out to the side aisle. Daniel and Ethan didn’t even bother pretending to do one before following us out. We merged with the handful of seniors coming out of their pews to leave the church. Daniel sidled up to my father and swiped his arm. 

“Since when do you live around here?”

“Since…how long has it been?” My father looked at me, and I shrugged. “Maybe six months?” 

“I had no idea. I thought you were more uptown.”

“I was, but Iva kept the house. So, here I am.”

“You and Iva split up?”

“Just last year.”

Daniel whistled. “Strike two, eh?” 

“It happens.”

“You found God or something too, then?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

I didn’t know where Ethan was until Daniel pulled him out from behind his legs. He stumbled over his own feet, and Daniel held his arm tight in order to prevent him from falling forward. 

“This is Ethan, by the way,” Daniel said. “Rebecca put him in a Catholic school this year, so we have to do this kind of stuff now. They don’t really give us a say once the papers are signed, eh?”

“You’re telling me.”

I wasn’t surprised that my father got along with Daniel so well. He was good at the whole chummy-chummy social thing, especially with people that were similar to him in personality: unabashedly arrogant, know-it-alls with a hint of aggression. Sometimes I felt like I was watching a movie the way he interacted with people like this, the way his facade wouldn’t slip for a moment until we were home. I didn’t know who my father was in these moments. It was fascinating to watch. 

Daniel tapped his son on the head like a dog. “Say hi, Ethan.”

Ethan looked up at us, eyes wide, with an intention to wave but without the courage to follow through. With a drop of the head and eyes to the floor, he hid behind his father again.

“Shy, of course,” Daniel said, a note of distaste in his voice. He tried to coax Ethan back out from behind him. “Must have gotten it from his mother.”

I was very uncomfortable. I hated conversations like this, ones that rebuked the parent who was absent for traits their children couldn’t control. Maybe you made him like this, I wanted to say. Maybe he’s too afraid to be anything else than shy. I knew that feeling all too well. 

“And who’s this?” Daniel asked, looking at me. I didn’t like looking into his tiny eyes, so I focused on his nose: small and unassuming. 

“Evelyn,” my father said. He was smiling as he said it, which I found unusual. 

“Evelyn,” Daniel repeated. He studied my face for a while longer. “You look just like your mom. Thank God, too.” He gave a hacking cough of a laugh that made some of the seniors around us turn around.

My father said, “Hey!” and playfully slapped Daniel’s shoulder. “Speak for yourself.”

“I am!” Daniel said. “My kid didn’t get that” — he pointed at Ethan — “from me.” He laughed again, and so did my father. I pointedly looked outside, past the open double doors. 

“Well, Pat,” Daniel said. “We should grab a drink sometime. Not weekends, though. That’s when I have this guy.” He tapped Ethan’s head again. Ethan winced.

“Sounds good.”

“I’ll bring Mark with me,” Daniel added. “You remember Mark, right? Psych 101?”

“Course I do.”

“He just got divorced, too,” Daniel said. “He’ll probably need a drink.”

Another laugh between the two of them. 

“You have my number?” my father said. He took out his phone, and they swapped numbers, grinning like two kids during frosh week.  

Daniel gave him a salute, and me, a wink. “Cheers,” he said. 

Then he turned towards the exit and put his hand on the back of Ethan’s head, pushing him gently ahead as he began to walk. Ethan dragged his feet until Daniel awkwardly leaned over mid-step to grab Ethan’s hand. They went down the church steps together, Ethan stumbling on the cracks. When they were out of sight, my father put his hands in his pockets.

“Huh,” he said, letting out a sigh. “I never liked that guy.”

I stared at him. He didn’t seem to be joking. “Really?”

“He’s so loud,” my father said. “He was like that in school, too. I thought Lorraine was going to kill him when he arrived late today.” 

“She was pretty close.”

“I almost wanted to warn him, but I figured he deserved it if she said something. He didn’t even go up for communion.”

“I don’t think he knew how.”

My father laughed at that. “I guess not.” He paused. “Did you like him?”

“Not really.”

“Good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want you around guys like him.”

I stared at him again. “Yeah. Me either.”

On our way out, we dipped our fingers into the bowl of holy water again, blessing ourselves. We walked out the doors and into the heat, the humidity building up on our skin. Our sandals slapped the pavement in an irregular rhythm as we walked back home.


Maia Kowalski (she/her) is a writer from Toronto, Canada, and has degrees in journalism and creative writing under her belt. She has been published in Yolk Literary, and Montréal Writes. She is currently putting together her first short story collection. Find more of her work on her website.

A CLUMSY LITTLE STORY

By Fereshteh Molavi

Let me tell you a story, a clumsy little story. 

Not once upon a time, but this very day, or precisely yesterday, or surely tomorrow, a newcomer joins the old-timers of our city who were once newcomers too. Well, that’s just the way things happen – not that the oppressive powers of a poor country imposed it or the thoughtful policymakers of a prosperous country planned it. Strangely enough, the newcomer of our story is a novelist who is not lucky enough to write in the pachyderm language of the world or even in this country’s second official language. Yet, more than other immigrants, he lives in a world of imagination and dreams of what might be possible in the land that gave the world Anne of Green Gables. I suppose you don’t want to ask me, “Why?” Or do you?

People always say that immigrants go through a hellish ordeal in order to gain future benefits, either for themselves or for the next generation. That’s just the way things are – not that there is a pre-planned pattern for it. It’s simply the price of living in the Promised Land. Strangely enough, our immigrant writer in the honeymoon stage would be more than happy to pay any price to live in a Wonderland where he could write his novel, A Middle Eastern Double Bind, without worrying about censorship and other restrictions. 

Despite the fact that our writer comes from a land haunted by magic realism, he is realistic enough to expect that it takes time to get established in a new place – no matter whether it’s hell or heaven. After all, the fact that Canada has room for all comers doesn’t mean that immigrants get treated to a red carpet. Furthermore, our writer’s ears are sharp enough to hear the first lesson: “An immigrant is an animal without Canadian experience.” So he has to forget everything other than “Canadian life experience,” which means, first and foremost, finding a foothold in a city constantly stretching to accommodate more and more immigrants. Moreover, our writer’s memory is fresh enough to recall that even in his native land, the answer to the question “What do you do?” should be anything rather than “I’m a writer.” Because if he answered that, the next question would be, “Wonderful, but what’s your job?” Our immigrant novelist decides to temporarily sacrifice the Double Bind he longs to write in order to get bread, if not butter. Strangely enough, hunger and lack of a roof over the head have a way of defeating the pen. That’s just the way things happen – not that anything’s wrong with any particular social system that doesn’t treat writers well. 

Soon it turns out that what at first looks like a mere hiatus is going to become a life sentence. Our protagonist works hard, jumps from one survival job to another, improves his English as a Second Language, takes a never-ending series of evening courses, and grabs any kind of Canadian experience in the hope of getting a better-paying job and finding the luxury of enough free time to read books instead of newspapers or flyers and, most of all, to finish his poor Double Bind. Strangely enough, our hero, still optimistic, tries to write the novel in his mind while running to work or to school or while labouring at an assembly line or in front of a bakery oven. Time passes and brings about a change of status and a few extra bucks, at least to the extent that our new citizen can indulge himself in a cup of coffee in a Starbucks, read news about literary events and, if it doesn’t conflict with his work schedule, even attend an arts event — if it’s free. Yet, these aren’t the only changes. Rapidly his physical energy and health are being undermined. The more our former novelist experiences the Canadian lifestyle, the harder it is to call himself a writer and to remember that he had wanted to write A Middle Eastern Double BindWell, that’s just the way things are – not that the new country or even the old one has any hand in that.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

If the first lesson for the immigrant is that he lacks “Canadian experience,” the second one is that he must develop the hide of a rhinoceros. Strangely enough, the immigrant writer of our story is determined to get back on track and reclaim his literary identity. He then encounters the roadblock question, “Do you have any books published in English?” Blaming himself that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be trampled by the elephant of English, our immigrant writer summons enough energy to translate some of his works into it. From the start, our suspect writer knows that this, at best, cannot be anything other than a long shot. What becomes frustrating is that the time he squeezes in for translation means that time is stolen from finishing his Double BindBut that’s just the way things happen – not that the policymakers of Canadian arts and culture disregard the golden “Multiculturalism Act.” 

Well, if you expect a neat ending to this clumsy little story, I’m sorry to disappoint you. Strangely enough, the story of an immigrant writer whose first language is not one of the major European ones is at best nothing but A Canadian Double Bind. This immigrant, who was once a writer, takes refuge in Canada to escape from an authoritarian regime that didn’t let her be a writer by making his homeland a cage. He chooses Canada as a new home because of its fame, not only as a democratic peacekeeping country but also as a land of multiculturalism. Alas! It turns out that lack of censorship doesn’t necessarily guarantee writing and living as a writer. It also turns out that the chosen land cannot be anything more than a purgatory, if not a hell, for a writer who doesn’t write in English or French. Besides the challenges of immigrant life, which can be overcome in a way or another, this writer likely encounters a high risk of losing his professional identity. To overcome the latter, the possible scenarios are: (a) He ignores the English market and keeps writing in his mother tongue, being content with getting published abroad by small publishers with no distribution system and a tiny, random readership. He thus remains a stranger on the CanLit scene. (b) He quits writing in his first language and starts writing in English. In this case, he sacrifices his mother tongue to English and proves that multiculturalism is nothing but a myth. And, even if the writer succeeds in producing a work of quality in English, he is unlikely to compete well in the market with English- speaking, Canadian-born writers. (c) He strives to keep a balance between his dual identities and languages and chooses translation as a medium. In this case, because of the lack of institutional support, the writer has to bear his own cross and function as a translator. 

Anyway, one may say, “That’s just the way things are.” — not that anybody is wrong, other than the person who wants to live and die as a writer. 


Fereshteh Molavi was born in Tehran in 1953. She lived and worked there until 1998, when she immigrated to Canada. She worked and taught at Yale University, University of Toronto, York University, and Seneca College. A fellow at Massey College and a writer-in-residence at George Brown College, Molavi has published many works of fiction and non-fiction in Persian in Iran and Europe. She has been the recipient of awards for novels and translation. Her first book in English, Stories from Tehran, was released in 2018; and her most recent novel, Thirty Shadow Birds, was published by Inanna Publications in 2019. She lives in Toronto. You can find her on Twitter or on her website.

LOST SOULS

By Brittany MacBeth

I looked out across the eerie, placid waters.

“Well, gentlemen, here we are,” I said, excited and nervous to start this new chapter.

Thomas and Issac were settling in and unpacking their things.

“I never envisioned myself becoming a lighthouse keeper,” Thomas replied.

“How hard could it be?” Questioned Issac.

We had only met each other on the boat ride in. I didn’t know their past, and they didn’t know mine.

Hell, we were only on a first-name basis at this point. We finished putting away what belongings we could fit into our small bags and headed out to investigate the terrain surrounding the lighthouse.

Jagged rocks outlined the perimeter, and the lighthouse itself sat on a cliff. To describe it as dangerous would be an understatement. The view, however, was breathtaking. The ocean was oddly still and could be seen for miles. It was almost hypnotic, allowing thoughts I was trying to bury to resurface.

“It’s getting late,” Thomas yelled, breaking me from my trance.

“Let’s head back for dinner,” I shouted back.

On the menu tonight was rice and dried pork. We sat together at a makeshift table and made small talk, getting to know each other better.

“Thomas, what’s your story? Wife? Kids?” Issac asked.

“Neither. I lost the love of my life a few years ago. I haven’t been the same since, can’t bring myself to move on.” Thomas hung his head.

“You aren’t alone there. I just found out my wife has been having an affair for at least the last few months and that the baby I thought was mine is most definitely not.” Issac said, shovelling rice in his mouth.

“What about you, Ben?” Thomas asked me.

I froze. I haven’t talked to anyone about my past, let alone to people I just met on a boat.

“Actually it’s bizarre how we all have suffered trauma in different ways. I lost my entire family in a row boat accident. Throwboated out too far, while a vicious storm was rolling in… I tried so hard to get to them but, there was nothing I could do, I swear!” I surprised myself with how defensive I was getting.

The others just stared at me. Trying to conceal my trembling hands, I cleaned the few pieces of pork I still had on my plate and excused myself from the table.

My sleeping arrangement was small but sufficient, and I laid on the bed gazing at the ceiling.

I really did try to save them. I’m trying to start fresh.

Even though I could still hear my wife’s cries for help, I drifted off to sleep. As always, my slumber didn’t last long; after tossing and turning for an hour, I decided to take a walk.

The air was cool, and the wind was picking up. Maybe the waves hitting the shore would be soothing? Buttoning up my trench coat, I headed towards the water’s edge. To my surprise, the ocean was completely still. Not a wave or even a ripple. But the wind was intensifying. The hair on the back of my neck started to stand up. Then she appeared, walking across the top of the quiet ocean. It was my wife, but she no longer had a face. The outline was there, but it was all a pale white canvas. But yet without a mouth, she was still screaming!

I awoke the same way I always do, in sweat from another nightmare. It was part of my routine at this point. It’s been two years since the accident. I thought taking this job would feel rewarding. Like somehow, if I could do my part to save others out here, I would feel better about not saving my family. So in a way, I was excited to start this job to maybe silence the voices that haunted my dreams. To maybe forgive myself?

As I walked outside, I realized there was a storm rolling in. Great. This was it. Testing us to see if we could handle this job or not. The three of us strapped down anything we thought could be taken by the wind and made sure we were on high alert to warn any ships out there.

As the night passed, the wind howled, and the water still didn’t so much as ripple. Thomas and Issac didn’t question it, so I just kept this observation to myself. We ultimately saved some ships from the wreckage throughout the storms, risking our lives for strangers, but the voices didn’t stop. The nightmares didn’t stop. All three of us were damaged, lost souls just trying to feel whole again.

Days passed, then weeks, then months. The isolation on this island was harder than expected. We did our best to be good to one another but being stuck with the same people for months at a time was getting to all of us.

“It was almost like this lighthouse was cursed.”

Things started to fall off the rails the night that Thomas walked into the cold, motionless ocean. Thankfully Issac and I caught him and convinced him to come back to the lighthouse. I have never seen a man’s eyes look the way his did. So empty and unemotional. He told us a lady in the water beckoned him to follow her into the icy depths. The craziest part was that he claimed that this woman looked just like the love that he lost. He was so adamant it was her. Thomas wasn’t the same after this incident; he barely ate and didn’t rest. Just pacing the shoreline looking for his love.

We chalked it up to just hallucinations until he took his life; I mean, we can only assume. Yet again, he was convinced he saw this woman out in the ocean, and he left in a rowboat, vanishing into the night. There was nothing we could do to stop him; he threatened to harm us with a knife. In his deranged state, there was no way he made it to the desired destination.

It was almost like this lighthouse was cursed. Like the souls we couldn’t save, or the ones we had lost were calling to us. Taunting us.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

Issac fell to the madness next, kept claiming that he heard a baby crying every night. I tried to reassure him it was only the wind. We’ve had so many storms, yet the waters lay still. He, too, became distant.

I found him floating, face-up, eyes black, along the rocky shoreline of the island. I assumed he drowned. When I radioed out, dispatch said they wouldn’t be able to reach me until the morning because of an anticipated storm and that I would have to ride out the night with my dead coworker’s body.

That night the voices got louder; the wind was screaming. How was I supposed to endure this storm with a rapidly decaying body? I needed desperately to get off this island.

Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse- it started,

“Daddy, daddy, please help us.”

I wasn’t dreaming this time; I know I wasn’t. Again, I heard my daughter’s little voice. I wasn’t about to let this lighthouse take me down, to fall to its curse. Not like the other men, letting those unsaved souls take me away. I TRIED TO SAVE YOU, DAMMIT! I screamed into the lighthouse, my voice just echoing back to me.

Abruptly my wife was there, slowly descending from the staircase. This time she has a face, eyes hollow, skin hanging from her bones, and she’s wailing…but…smiling. An evil, horrible grin is plastered across her entire face. Before I can even process what’s happening, she is dragging me out of the lighthouse and towards the cliff. Her strength is otherworldly. I’m trying to fight her, but I am proving to be no match.

Before she throws me to my watery grave, I can faintly hear police yelling. They are coming to rescue me! I am flooded with relief. How did they find me so quickly?

“Hands up! Police!” They shouted through the wind.

But my wife didn’t raise her hands, and then everything went black.

“Was the lighthouse curse following me?”

I awoke in the hospital, grateful to have survived. What was going on? I was handcuffed to the bed. I screamed for the doctor. There was clearly a misunderstanding.“Doctor, what the hell is going on here?”

The doctor came in and curtly asked me what I remembered. In as much detail as I could, I recalled all of the events that occurred over the last several months. Starting with what was intended as a fresh start but ending in such unspeakable terror. She looks at me as if to be studying me, and then she begins…

“I have to be honest with you. That is not how the last WEEK has transpired,” she slowly began. “You see, Ben, you had a psychotic break two years ago and murdered your entire family. Then you dumped their bodies in the ocean. You were diagnosed with schizophrenia and committed to a psychiatric hospital.

It is there that you escaped with two fellow patients Thomas and Issac. You three managed to reach an abandoned lighthouse, and that is where you hid yourselves. Ben, you murdered them too. Thomas and Issac’s bodies were found in the lighthouse. You strangled them and hid them. The bodies also showed signs that someone stripped the flesh off of them to consume. I know this is hard to hear, but please don’t try to deny it. We’ve been through this, and all of the evidence points to you. When the police finally found you, you were ready to jump off the cliff. That being said, you are now being charged with two additional murders. You are an extremely sick and dangerous man, Ben.”

I sat there numb. This couldn’t be true; it was the lost souls that took those men’s lives and my family. I lost them in an accident! They have it all wrong. Was the lighthouse curse following me?

I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples as if somehow that would help me make sense of everything. When I opened my eyes, the doctor was joined by a detective who was eyeing me closely.

“I tried to save them. It was an accident. I TRIED TO SAVE THEM DAMMIT! LEAVE ME ALONE!” I said, trying to explain to them.

I struggled against the restraints. The detective slammed his fist on the side table in frustration, but when he did, the water in the cup didn’t ripple. Zero movements. It brought me back to how odd it was that the water didn’t move by the lighthouse. She’s here. I’m not crazy!

The hairs on my arms start to stand, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see what is left of my wife peering around the hospital curtain. Faceless again.

“SHE’S HERE! BEHIND THAT CURTAIN, YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME!” I screamed at everyone in the room, desperate for her to stop tormenting me.

Security was called.

Then darkness again.


Brittany MacBeth is a daycare provider by day. By night, she is a writer. Her passion is to dive deep into people’s imaginations, forcing them to think outside the box of ordinary. She lives in New Brunswick, Canada, with her husband and three kids.

HARD TIMES

By Nancy Machlis Rechtman

No one knew where they came from. It seemed they just appeared out of nowhere one day. It was hard to tell at first, but it turned out there were seven of them. Orphans, all of them, though we never did find out if they were all from one family or, if not, how they came to be together.

When they showed up that day, just as the last snow of winter was disappearing, the town went wild. I mean, you’ve got to admit, it’s a pretty strange sight to see a string of orphans, all in clothes that didn’t fit properly, suddenly appearing out of the clear blue sky at the edge of town like some ragtag band, and then setting up camp. That’s what my daddy called it – “setting up camp.” But I never did see any tent or anything.

To tell the truth, no one actually saw where they settled after they arrived. They must have built themselves some kind of a shelter deep in those woods because that’s where they disappeared every night. They never let anyone close enough during the day to follow them. And, you better believe that no one was going to follow them into the woods when it was pitch black, and you couldn’t even see your own hand in front of your face.

Folks in town didn’t exactly welcome strangers with open arms. They usually kept pretty much to themselves and regarded outsiders as intruders, to be treated with suspicion and mistrust. That suited the orphans just fine since it was obvious they felt the same way about the folks in town.  

In the beginning, a few of the women clucked about the orphans being “savages” who should be dragged into town, given a good scrubbing and forced to go to school like the rest of us poor miserable kids. They even went to the mayor about it. But since no one in town really wanted the orphans in their midst, the idea died a quiet death, and the orphans were left to themselves.

My family lived on the edge of town, as close to the woods as was possible while still being considered part of the town. My mama said it was positively spooky having those “wild Indians” living so close to us. Daddy just laughed and told her to stop being afraid of poor, homeless children. Mama told me she better not catch me near any of those “barbarians” or else. But I used to sneak out of my bed when I knew she and Daddy had fallen asleep, and I’d creep outside and look around, trying to see if I could see anything in the moonlight. I never could, but boy did my imagination run wild.  

I imagined what kind of a home the orphans had made for themselves in the woods and what it must be like not to have any adults around to make you listen to them and tell you when to go to sleep, and what it must be like inside those dark, forbidding woods, and what kind of wild animals must be watching and waiting… I’d finally go back to bed, too wound up to fall asleep, and I’d walk around the whole next day like a zombie. Mama always looked at me suspiciously on those mornings, but she kept her mouth shut, thank goodness.

Although we lived on the outskirts of town, we did have a few neighbours not too far away. The closest was the cat lady. That’s what we called her since no one could pronounce – or even remember – her real name anyway, and she was always taking in strays. All of us kids thought she was the most ancient lady in the world. She never paid any attention to what anyone said or thought, although I wonder if she even knew. Most of the people in town called her “eccentric” when they were being polite.  

One of the cat lady’s peculiarities was her habit of waking before dawn every morning and taking a walk down to the woods. People felt that no person in her right mind would go alone to those woods, especially when it wasn’t fully light. But the cat lady had been doing it for as long as I could remember, and nothing had ever happened to her. Secretly, I always wished I could join her. And, rumour had it that the cat lady was bringing food to those “barbarians” on her pre-dawn journeys.

I sure hoped that the rumour was true because I wondered how in the world the orphans were managing to eat unless they were just living on tree bark and acorns. I guess other folks were wondering the same thing, and it was making some of them awfully uneasy. Actually, it was as if they were looking for any excuse to make themselves uneasy about the orphans. It was like they knew, deep down, that they should be doing something to help them, but they didn’t do anything, so instead, they decided that the orphans were trouble and that something had to be done about them.

Rumours started flying that the orphans were stealing food from the grocer or from “honest, hard-working folks’ homes.” The mayor’s wife swore she had set a hot apple pie to cool on her window ledge and only left the room for a minute. But when she came back, the pie was gone, and she insisted that she saw one of those “ruffians” racing down the alley, carrying her fresh apple pie. Didn’t matter if it was true or not. She was the mayor’s wife and elected herself to be in charge of all the moral behaviour in our town.

People started grumbling and told the mayor that he better do something about the orphans. Of course, they meant that he better get rid of them, but no one would actually come out and say that. And, he was getting all that pressure from his wife, which, knowing her, must have been worse than being tied to a chair for several days straight and listening to someone’s nails scraping up and down a chalkboard the whole time. But he couldn’t just go and kick them out of town. Although, as I said, they weren’t really in town.

So, he decided to give them some kind of an ultimatum. Since he didn’t know exactly how to contact them, he decided to leave a note pinned to a tree at the edge of the woods. He brought the sheriff and his deputy with him since he didn’t want to go near those woods alone. The note said the orphans should appear at the courthouse at 2:00 PM that Friday. Word spread, and people took bets on whether or not the orphans would show up.

Friday came, and I’d never seen that courthouse so packed. Seemed as if they’d stuffed the whole town in there like one big can of sardines. Just as the clock struck 2:00, the courthouse door opened. There were the orphans, all seven of them, dressed as raggedy as ever but looking like they had scrubbed themselves as clean as was possible for them. The oldest led them in. Looking at them, their ages probably ranged from fifteen on down to maybe two.  

It was the littlest one that you noticed right away though – he had the face of an angel, and his curly hair was so blond, it was as if the sun itself had come to rest on his head. As they walked in, they all looked straight ahead, and I swear, I’ve never again seen all of those gossips and loud-mouths from town so quiet.

The orphans marched themselves to the front of the courthouse, where the mayor (who was also the judge) was waiting for them. He motioned for them to sit down, but they stood. The mayor was obviously uncomfortable, and he kept clearing his throat. Finally, he came out with it. Basically, it was a lot of legal mumbo-jumbo, but it all boiled down to the fact that since the orphans were all minors, someone needed to take care of them. The mayor said that they couldn’t go on living in the woods – it just wasn’t natural – and besides, rainy season was coming on, so what would they do then anyway? And, if they couldn’t find someone to take care of them, they’d have to move on; it was as simple as that. He sat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. The whole town seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, thinking who in the world would want to take care of a pack of orphans.  

But their relief was cut short when the cat lady stood up. She said she’d be happy to take the orphans in if they’d like to stay with her. Somebody yelled out that these weren’t a bunch of her damn stray cats. The cat lady ignored the outburst and told the mayor to let her know what she had to do to make things legal.

The mayor slumped down in his seat like she had just punched him hard in his gut. His face looked kind of greenish-blue. The cat lady walked over to the orphans and asked them if they’d like to come live with her since she wouldn’t mind having some human company for a change. The orphans didn’t hesitate. It’s like they had this instant bond with each other. They saw something in that old lady that they recognized and instinctively knew they belonged with each other. And they had probably figured out that she was the one who was leaving them food every day. The oldest boy nodded his head, and that was that. The cat lady said he knew where to find her, and she turned and walked out. The orphans followed, like seven little ducklings.  

When the door shut behind them, it was suddenly like the 4th of July in that courtroom – sparks were flying, eyes were flashing, tempers exploding. But there was nothing they could do. Not legally, anyway. Well, they consoled themselves; the cat lady lived so far on the edge of town that it really didn’t matter much since no one ever had much dealings with her anyway. Some of the ladies still clucked about how the orphans should be forced to go to school. No one really cared as long as they kept out of sight and stopped stealing food – although it had never been proved that they were actually taking food from anybody.

So the orphans moved in with the cat lady, and I was glad because the rainy season came on like a bat out of hell, and I would have worried about them if they were still living outside in those deep, dark woods. They seemed pretty happy with the cat lady. I’d see them every once in a while, and they all looked sturdy and healthy, and I was relieved I didn’t have to worry about them anymore. The town seemed to have forgotten about them, too.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

I think the orphans really loved that old lady. After they moved in, they did everything they could to help her. I heard that they cleaned up the house, took care of the yard, repainted the outside, and helped her take care of all those cats. No one knew exactly how many cats she had since she was always taking more strays in. Whenever you passed by that house, you could bet that if you saw one of the orphans, there’d be at least one or two cats with him. The strays were adopting the strays. That’s how I liked to think about it, although which strays adopting which strays was still a question in my mind.

As the year wore on, I saw my daddy smiling less and less. Mama started looking more and more like my sister, always putting her lips together real tight, with the worry lines digging themselves deeper and deeper into her face. I knew something was up even though they kept telling me that everything was just fine. But Daddy got paler and paler and weaker and weaker, and I think I knew even though nobody said anything. It took a few months, and then one day, he was gone, just like that. But it wasn’t really just like that.

My sister invited us to stay with her and her husband in town for as long as Mama needed to “readjust herself.” I didn’t want to go. I had never liked my sister – she was always so prim and proper and never smiled at all. Even Mama admitted that she considered herself lucky to have married her off in the first place. But somehow, she convinced Mama that it would be good for her to be in town with other people around, so we went. I guess Mama was lonely with just me for company.

But I was never so miserable in my entire life as I was living with my gnarly old sister. And, I hated living in town – I never thought I’d miss those giant, spooky trees at the edge of our property that led into the woods, but I did. The only decent surprise was that my sister’s husband turned out not to be half bad. That really surprised me since I had never had much respect for him, marrying my sister and all. But after a while, we even kind of got to be friends, and life there wasn’t so bad after that.

No one knew how long she had been dead, but somehow it was discovered that the cat lady had died. The orphans had buried her and all; they just hadn’t bothered to tell anybody. Which kind of makes sense when you think about it. I mean, who would they tell? But it was found out, and it turned out that she had left a will, all signed and notarized. Only problem was that she had made it out before she met the orphans and obviously forgot to change it before she died. The house and everything she had was left to some nephew who lived several hundred miles away in the big city. Of course, the will also made sure that the nephew would take care of all her cats.

So, the lawyer contacted the nephew. He arrived in town with the most expensive shiny black car anyone had ever seen and the most beautiful wife you could possibly imagine. Everyone stopped dead in their tracks as that car passed them by and pulled up in front of the lawyer’s office. Later that day, the nephew and his wife drove out to the cat lady’s house. The orphans and the cats were all there to greet them. The wife was horrified and asked her husband if there wasn’t something he could do to get those “filthy vermin” out of that house. And she wasn’t talking about the cats. The husband said he’d work on it.

Word was that the wife decided the house was “quaint” and said she thought it would be quite a lark for them to leave the city and move into the house. She stood in front of the seven orphans and all the cats and ordered them to be out of the house by the next day – or else. The nephew reminded her that the cats would have to stay. On their way back into town, they passed our house, which was all boarded up, and they decided on the spot that they wanted to buy it in order to own all the land between the two houses. Mama didn’t want to sell at first, but they offered her enough money to fix her for life, and since times were as hard as they were, she didn’t have much choice.

The next week, after settling all of their business in the city, the nephew and his wife moved into the cat lady’s house. They found all the cats still there, but the orphans were gone. The nephew’s wife wanted to get rid of all the cats, but since that was part of the will, she was more or less stuck with them. But she did the very best she could to “encourage” the cats to run away. And, I guess the cats knew they weren’t wanted, and eventually, they did run off. Some found homes in town, but most just disappeared. The nephew’s wife decided to keep one little kitten which she thought was just the “cutest little thing.” It was just a little fluffy baby and didn’t know any better, so it stayed.

The nephew hired men to tear down our house. I snuck by one day to see for myself. It looked like someone had dropped a bomb on it, but it was hard to feel sad since it didn’t even look like my house anymore. It didn’t look like anything recognizable – it looked like the woods had taken revenge on it for trespassing, and now the woods were reclaiming it as their own.

The nephew and his wife didn’t associate with the people in town more than was absolutely necessary. They preferred to bring their friends in from the city. They were always having big parties that seemed to last for days on end, and every once in a while, we’d get a glimpse of another shiny black car as it roared down Main Street on its way to or from their house.

Now that the weather was getting colder again, I was curious to know how the orphans were doing. I figured they were somewhere in the woods, although no one ever saw them anymore. We lived too far away now for me to sneak out at night. But I worried about them. And we had one of the bitterest winters ever that year. The air was so cold it hurt just to breathe. And the snow was piled so high I was afraid I’d disappear into a giant drift one day and never be found. As much as I hate to admit it, it was actually a relief to walk into my sister’s house after being out in that awful cold.

About that time, the rumours started. I guess the orphans were having a pretty bad time of it, alone in the woods in the middle of that bone-chilling weather. It seems that they figured the nephew might want to help them, that he might have a heart, so they came to him, only asking for blankets and food and that kind of thing. And it wasn’t like the nephew was broke – he had plenty. But the wife would have nothing to do with them. She chased them away with a broom whenever they showed up. Or she slammed the door in their faces. Soon, rumour had it that the orphans were doing poorly – that they were thin and sickly looking, and some were having trouble walking. And that the littlest one had gotten a cough that just wouldn’t quit.

One day when there was finally a break in all that snow, the nephew and his wife decided to take a drive since they were getting cabin fever stuck alone in that house all that time, except for the orphans showing up. But when they got to their car, they discovered that the tires had been slashed. Now, there were lots of people who resented them and all their money while the rest of us were dealing with such hard times, but they immediately blamed the orphans. And, if they had done it, I sure wouldn’t have blamed them.

The orphans kept trying to get some kind of help from the nephew and his wife. But the wife was so upset about the slashed tires that she screamed that they were dirty filthy animals and they should be rounded up and shot, and that one day they just might find a shotgun right between their eyes…

Winter wore on, and rumour now that the orphans were slowly starving to death, if not freezing to death. It was too cold for them to make it to town to try to get anyone else to help them. I asked Mama if there wasn’t something we could do for them, and she said not to believe all those rumours since no one ever saw them anyway. I told her I was worried that they were going to starve. She told me to stop talking so much and to go do my homework.

A few days later, we heard sirens heading toward the edge of town. They were able to save the house – just an upstairs bedroom was damaged since that’s where the fire started. The rest of the house was fine. The nephew said he couldn’t imagine what caused the fire since no one ever used that room. The chief said it looked like faulty wiring. The wife went into hysterics and screamed that it was those “seven devils” in the woods, and she wanted justice to be served. And she became even more hysterical when she discovered that her precious little kitten had disappeared. They tried calming her down and told her there was no evidence that the orphans had anything to do with the fire or the kitten. But she knew what she knew, she said.

Next day, the orphans showed up. From what we heard from my second cousin, who was working part-time as a maid for the nephew and his wife, the oldest boy was carrying the littlest one who had become too weak to walk. The wife saw them coming, threw a bucket of ice water in their faces, and started screaming about them starting the fire and stealing her precious little kitten. Even though they told her they didn’t know anything about her kitten, as they turned and left, the wife screamed that they were going to pay for what they had done.

The next day, when the wife looked outside for her newspaper, there was her darling little kitten scratching at the door. She shrieked with delight and let the kitten in, not noticing the orphans shivering at the edge of the woods. As the day drew to a close, she was happier than she had been in ages, relieved that there had been no visit by the orphans. When the nephew arrived at his home, he was awfully surprised to get a big kiss from his wife. She told him she wanted to throw another party, that she needed something “terribly extravagant” to take her mind off all the awful trauma she’d been through. The nephew agreed, anything to keep her happy. So she called all of her fancy friends and told them to come over that Saturday night for the party to end all parties.

She was so busy that week ordering everyone around and getting ready for her big extravaganza that she actually forgot about the orphans and the fact that they hadn’t shown up at all ever since she had thrown that ice water at them. On Saturday, she got herself all dolled up, and the nephew was happy to have his beautiful, carefree wife back to normal.

In town, we knew something big was up when we saw lines of shiny black cars making their way down Main Street. We had never seen anything like this before. There was so much music and fun that I’m sure I was able to hear all the celebrating from my room. I was up half the night imagining what it must be like to eat all that fine food and wear those fine clothes and not worry about going hungry…

I guess sometime the next morning, the wife realized that her precious kitten was missing again. She told my second cousin to help her look in the yard and all through the house, but there was just no sign of her little darling. The nephew said that all the noise had probably scared it away and it was probably hiding somewhere, but that it would surely show up now that all was peaceful once again.

The wife had trouble sleeping that night and woke up very early the next morning. It was a dull grey day, the kind where the clouds are hanging heavy in the sky, making it clear that they’re up to no good. The nephew and the guests who had stayed were all still sleeping, and so was my second cousin, who had stayed overnight to help out. The wife went downstairs to get the paper. She opened the door and then she screamed. A scream like you hear from a wounded animal, everyone said. A scream that could wake the dead. The nephew and the guests, and my second cousin ran to see what happened and found her frozen at the doorway. They looked down, and then everyone saw. Lying on the doorstep was the littlest orphan, carefully wrapped in a worn, torn blanket, as dead as can be. And, tucked into his arms was the little kitten, fast asleep.

The doctor came and gave some kind of sedation to the wife, and then the nephew drove the wife back to the city, never to return. They had their belongings sent to them. Rumour has it that the wife had to be put in an institution for a while. The nephew tried selling the house but had no luck. So it just stood there neglected, at the very edge of the woods. The orphans could have moved in at that point since no one would’ve known or cared. But they just kind of disappeared. I couldn’t really blame them.

Every once in a while, I gather up my courage and head down that way. It’s hard to tell now that there ever was a house there. Just like my house, the woods reclaimed something that never belonged there in the first place. When I’m there, I always stop right at the edge of those woods, where there are only a few moss-covered trees before the dense growth takes over. I’ve never been able to enter those woods to find out their secret. But I still do wonder whatever became of those orphans.


Nancy Machlis Rechtman has had poetry and short stories published in Literary Yard, Paper Dragon, Page & Spine, The Thieving Magpie, Quail Bell, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Academy of the Heart and Mind. She wrote freelance Lifestyle stories for a local newspaper and writes a blog called Inanities.

The Last Spring

By Katherine Hoffman

In 1983, the last spring of my mother’s father’s life had arrived. I dashed home from school, my legs spinning like the pinwheels my grandmother bought in the clearance bin at K-mart. My “snowbird” grandparents had arrived earlier in Michigan than expected. The car engine was popping, indicating they had not been there for long. I grasped at my left shoulder. My arm was less sore than two days ago when I pitched a doubleheader. My father, who had once tried out for the New York Yankees and was told to try out again if he grew 4 inches, rubbed rubbing alcohol over it to ease the pain. Can’t believe we lost one of them because Pam Marko dropped an easy fly ball. I was to pitch two more games tomorrow.

The Florida oranges my grandmother brought in were considerably better than the care packages of cheap nylons and antiquated bile-coloured 70’s hand-me-downs from my much older cousins. I remember leafing through the many photo albums my grandmother produced of each of them with masking tape labelled: Beth, Gene, Linda, Jon. Strangers who shared my DNA.

My mother sat at the kitchen table guarded, deflated and smiled obligatorily for the photograph my grandmother took. Grandma Roop was always taking photos.


My father was a fall down drunk.my mother sneered on more than one occasion.


We called him Bubba. When we stayed with my grandparents on the weekend, he told my grandmother meekly, “I am going to go downtown for a while,” meaning the Down the Hatch Bar. We all knew it.
Bubba asked for a bear hug while I peeled an orange. He smelled of cigarettes and aftershave. The red letters W-I-N-S-T-O-N were visible in his breast pocket of the ever-present beige shirt.

“Want a Budweiser, Don?” My father asked him.

“I’d like to watch Katherine pitch.” my grandfather said earnestly before I even put my books upstairs in my room. Nobody called me “Katherine.”
The adults were looking at each other, searching. He began wheezing, and his handkerchief had faded spots of pink on it, like the plastic flamingos in their front yard. As he stretched his back, I could see the most worn hole on his belt was not the notch he was using now.


As my father, grandfather, and I retreated to the backyard, the sun was bright, but a chill in the air caused me to cross my goose flesh arms. I noticed my grandmother did not follow us out with her camera, although it was armed and resting on the kitchen table. She sat closer to my mother, who was hugging herself. As we passed the driveway, the smell of the budding lilac bush was a sweet and welcome change from the salty and unforgettable odour of old snow and exhaust. The retreating snow was now confined to cotton balls hugging the base of the house. My father squats down his 5’ 8” frame, his legs strong despite his 53 years, ready to receive my pitches.   

I began to warm up, and my grandfather stood with his hands on his hips near my father…..

My father was a fall-down drunk. I had to take my mother to the hospital once.

The grass had some dew, and a breeze parted my hair despite Aqua Net’s best effort. I began to gradually throw harder until the softball whooshed from my hips. I was throwing mostly strikes with my usual fastballs and curveballs. The harder I pitched, the harder my father returned the ball to me. It popped in my glove, and a whiff of leather came. As the sun began to level, my arm stiffened up. As I wiped my acne-riddled temple of sweat, I announced, “Whew, well, I think I’m done here.” I placed my glove under my armpit and walked back. I paused and waited for the men. I could hear them talking and nodding when they glanced at me. My grandfather hiked up his pants and proceeded towards the direction of the house.


I had to take my mother to the hospital once. My brother had to walk me down the aisle.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

My father cupped his hands and said, “Ok, Kath, I want you to throw your changeup now. You know, like we’ve been working on in the gym?” The wind was picking up as my grandfather shielded his eyes and retraced his steps cautiously. 

“Dad, I have to pitch tomorrow,” I said. I could see my breath now. “Doesn’t matter. Changeups are just like warming up,” he said blithely, “or, I guess in this case, winding down.” “Come on, Bubba wants to see this,” he whined in an almost childlike tone, and my grandfather just shrugged. The changeup was not in my arsenal because I knew only one gear. Hard and fast. It seemed impossible, Houdiniesque, as if to say, “ok, I am going to make it look like I’m throwing hard and fast but am really not. Ta-Da!”


Most of my pitches were now veering out of the strike zone. One went over my father’s glove, and I could see the back of his head shake as he retrieved it from the Wagner’s lawn. The ball was now wet from the dew. My father’s throws back became wilder. One errant return throw caused me to bend my knee to the ground to stop it like any decent fielder would. I longed to be the fielder that I once was. Upon rising, I had stained my Gloria Vanderbilt designer jeans.

“Goddamnit!” I said, fingering the stain like a wounded insect.

Did he hit my mother too?….. Or worse?

My father looked stunned and stammered for a bit. He lowered his voice like the way he did when a neighbourhood man came into our garage and asked his permission to borrow a tool. “Christ, Kath. It’s just a stain. It can be washed out. Come on, now.” he said, punching his glove. I then spiked my glove to the ground and sat on the damp grass with my hands on my knees, and looked towards the sky. It looked hazy, a lethargic yellow.

My grandfather slowly lumbered towards me and held up his palm to my father, like in the old photo my grandmother took of him pretending to direct traffic in front of a Model-T; He had been smirking with wavy hair like a Greek God.


I’m going downtown for a while. I pictured him waddling into the bar.


“Aw, Kath, you did just fine. Just fine, gal. Yes, sir.” he said breathlessly. I looked at the slivers of grass on the toes of his shoe.

“See, the way you are throwing now, you don’t need no changeup.” He then whispered, “that will come when it’s ready to. But only if you want it.” This lowered my gaze.

He bent over and picked up my glove with some effort. I stood, and he took out a Zippo lighter which read “Local 1292” from his pocket, concentrating on lighting his cigarette from a pendulum flame.

“Besides, things could be worse.” Smoke emerged from his nostrils like factory pipes. “Your grandmother could be out here taking pictures,” he said. I laughed. He then handed me my glove. “Thanks, Bubba,” I said meekly. “You bet,” he replied.

I noticed a fresh deep scar above his head. The funeral director could not cover it up completely when he died that summer, once softball season was over and the grass turned brown.


Katherine Hoffman is originally from Michigan and is a recipient of a Detroit Free Press writing award. She has lived in Oregon for the past 24 years.

Animal Cruelty

By Ryan Shane Lopez

Welcome to the House of the Lord, everyone, and especially to each of our little critters who were able to join us tonight.

I’m Pastor Lambert, and I’m so glad you’re all here for this momentous Sunday evening at Open Arms Fellowship. Shortly, we’ll be taking a vote that could shape the very future of our congregation. A vote, I pray, which will determine once and for all how we are to interpret and respond to the unprecedented presence of these little critters, as we’ve come to call them.

A few quick reminders: If you’re a guest tonight, we’re so glad you’re here, but we do ask that only tithing members cast a vote. We also ask that everyone switch off your cell phones and any other recording devices, as sadly, in the past, there has been the occasional sheep in wolf’s clothing who sought to exploit the least of these among us. As God’s People, we must always speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves. Amen?

To our members, I’m delighted to see so many familiar faces. The trials we’ve faced these past six months would’ve long since run off a people of any lesser faith. We’ve witnessed the seeds of discord take root and grow amongst our little flock, splitting us into warring factions: The End Timers versus the New Edenists. The Environmentalists versus the Evangelists. Those who believe we’ve been entertaining angels versus those who say we should be exorcising demons. Not to mention the Purgers.

Most of you have chosen a camp, and more than one camp has sworn to leave and form its own church if tonight’s outcome isn’t to your liking. We who should be the united body of Christ have become as divided as the body of the Levite’s concubine.

But take heart, Church. The Lord works all things for the good. And the Spirit has blessed me with a message tonight that I believe will melt the hardest heart. Beginning with a word of personal testimony about how the Lord has been sifting my own heart like chaff ever since the day little Aardie there first crawled out from under Sister Dovey’s skirt.

Sister Dovey, with your permission, I’d like Aardie to join me on stage at this time. 

That’s right, Little Buddy, come on up here. Isn’t he something, folks?

Six months have passed now since we first met this brave little guy. We were in the middle of an altar call when, with every head bowed and every eye closed, someone let out a holler like a spirit-filled Pentecostal. I opened my eyes to see half the church jumping on the pews and the other half scrambling for the door. All because this rascal here had slipped away from Sister Dovey unnoticed and plucked one of young Miss Lory’s toenails clean off. But for all the commotion he caused, the poor critter was more scared of us than we were of him. Deacon Finch found him later rolled up in a ball inside an offering box.

In my office, Sister Dovey told me through tears about the cold winter night when she found on her doorstep a critter with a slender body, a horned shell, dozens of insect-like legs, and a long thin snout. Seeing as that fit the description of the thing presently scratching around in the offering box on my desk, I had no reason to doubt her story. When Sister Dovey had seen how the critter whimpered and shivered, she took it in without a moment’s hesitation. She couldn’t tell me what it was, where it came from, or when it got a hankering for toenails, but she knew the poor soul needed help. What we do to the least of these, we do to our Lord. Amen?

So, Sister Dovey found herself with a new pet, one she thought best to keep out of sight, considering its unusual appearance. But the first time she left it alone, it gnawed a hole straight through her front door. She returned home to find it wandering in the street, just asking to get run over. The next time she went out, she tried caging it, but its pitiful howls broke her tender heart. It wrapped itself around her calf when she let it out and didn’t let go for hours. That’s when she made the switch to ankle-length skirts. For months, she went all over town with a bizarre creature clinging to her leg, and no one was the wiser. That is, until the Sunday morning, it was tempted by Miss Lory’s polished pinky nail.

Sister Dovey hadn’t quite finished her story when Sister Wolff stormed in, demanding to know who was responsible for letting a wild animal loose in the House of the Lord. She’d worked herself into one of her famous tizzies, but this time I couldn’t blame her. After all, are we not to be good stewards of God’s generous gifts? And thanks to Sister Wolff spearheading our Nehemiah Rebuild Campaign, one of those gifts is this beautiful sanctuary in which we now gather. Our legal team hadn’t even reached a settlement with the contractors yet, and there were already bloodstains on the brand new carpet.

I was half-inclined to oblige Sister Wolff’s request and call animal control right then and there. Of course, it didn’t help matters that earlier the same morning, every last blossom in the church flower beds had been either trampled or eaten by that troublesome goat. You know the one, that speckled brute who’s always “escaping” from the Methodist preacher’s place down the street. Why that man insists on keeping goats in the middle of town is beyond me. But then, you can add that to the long list of things I don’t understand about Methodists. Amen?

Sister Dovey begged me not to take away her precious little critter. Said she never meant for anyone to get hurt, least of all a child. I’d sooner arm wrestle the devil than doubt her good will. Sister Dovey has taught children’s Sunday school ever since we first left Blessed Assurance to form our own church eight years ago. Those of you who were with us then know the faith that step required. But we did so in a Spirit-led response to their unrepentant sin, namely haughtiness, intolerance, and elitism. So, you’ll understand my predicament when Sister Dovey declared that if her little critter wasn’t allowed to return to this church, then we shouldn’t expect to see her again either. I couldn’t let that happen. To cast out a faithful member for merely being different would contradict our core values. On the other hand, Sister Wolff was also threatening to leave if she ever saw the thing within 100 yards of this building.

By God’s grace, we reached a compromise. Sister Dovey could bring her little critter to service on one condition: it remained caged and outdoors. Sister Wolff raised concerns about the rumours that might spread once passersby started to notice the strange breed of rodent on our front lawn. But we must fear God over man. Isn’t that right, Sister Wolff?

Our little covenant, however, didn’t even last a whole Sunday. I had barely begun preaching when we heard some neighbourhood boys laughing and throwing rocks at the poor critter. Not ten minutes after Deacon Finch went out and ran them off, I was interrupted a second time when that speckled goat kicked over the critter’s cage, so I asked Deacon Finch to bring it into the foyer. But when no one could hear my sermon over the critter’s constant squealing, like the judge to the persistent widow, I conceded and asked Sister Dovey to set the cage on the pew beside her. Sister Wolff objected, of course, but I said at least it was no longer on the lawn.

The very next week, young Jay came to me after the service and asked if he could pet “Aardie.” That’s what he called the little guy since, as you can see, while most of him resembles some kind of giant horned centipede, his head looks just like an aardvark’s.

Now, naming a thing is no trivial matter. Adam’s first task in the garden was the naming of God’s creations. Naming Aardie wouldn’t change his wild nature any more than Adam had changed the nature of the beast he called Lion. But a name reorients relationship. Adam was the Master of that which he named. The Lord also reveals to us our true names. Did he not change Abram to Abraham? Jacob to Israel? Simon to Peter? Saul to Paul? Was the sinful nature of these men changed the instant they heard their new name? By no means, but it signalled a change in their relationship to the Lord, who would in time make them into a new creation.

I had only begun explaining this to Jay when I saw that pesky speckled goat pooping on the sidewalk again through the stained glass. I went straight to my office and called the Methodist preacher, who I knew was done preaching since he’d moved up his service times in order to beat us to the best lunch spots, but he didn’t answer. Back in the sanctuary, Sister Dovey was holding her critter in her lap as children petted him and fed him sacrament wafers. As soon as I heard her call him “Aardie,” I knew he’d spent his last Sunday behind bars.

Aardie’s emancipation was a difficult transition for many of us, myself included. He left droppings scattered all over the building, which, though small, smelled like twice rotten eggs. Isn’t that right, Aardie? Who’s a big stinker? He chewed up mic cables, ate a hole straight through a box of sacrament wafers, and even bit off half a dozen toenails before we implemented a strict closed-toed shoe policy. On the bright side, this puts an end to Sister Wolff’s complaints about the youth wearing sandals to service.

Not that there was any shortage of complaints. But little Aardie here was never bad; he just wasn’t housebroken. Were you or I so different once? Yet, He who began a good work in us will bring it to completion. Amen? And look at Aardie now. Why he’s better behaved than some of your own children. 

Nonetheless, I suffered my doubts. I hadn’t thought I could afford to lose Sister Dovey, but now she threatened to drive away a dozen other devoted members. Seeking some means of casting out the pet without offending the owner, I took to locking myself in my office for hours on end to plead with the Lord on bended knee.

I even stopped by the church on a Saturday for an extra session in my War Room. It must have been a divine appointment because as I entered the building, I saw a goat’s rear end dart into the sanctuary. By the time I fetched a broom, though, the darn thing was nowhere in sight.

I found instead Sister Robinson practicing the organ, playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” with an anointed passion. Drawn by the heavenly sound, I wandered down to the front pew where I saw something I couldn’t quite comprehend: Sister Robinson was playing with a third arm! As I watched, I realized the “arm” was actually the fur belt she wore every Sunday, but somehow extending from her waist and striking the keys with incredible fluency. 

When they released the last chord, Sister Robinson looked over at me and, thinking she’d been alone the whole time, her eyes went as wide as those offering plates. I stared back in silent awe, struck dumb with unbelief like Zechariah. Peering out at me from her midriff was none other than Harriette: her furry, hawk-beaked serpent.

By now, we’ve all grown accustomed to Harriette and her musical gifting, but imagine my reaction at the moment. There I stood, as trapped as the Israelites between the Egyptians and the Red Sea. If two church members had been hiding secret pets, how many others might be doing the same? If I continued to allow Aardie to openly attend services, others would inevitably feel their critters deserved the same treatment. Aardie was already such a handful; a service with even three or four such critters would be utter chaos. Sister Wolff would have an aneurism.

On the other hand, if I forbid Sister Dovey to bring Aardie, she’d leave the church. And what if Sister Robinson decided to follow suit? Who would play the organ then?

I went straight to my prayer closet, prostrated myself before the Lord, and cried out for discernment. I’m here to tell you, folks, God answers prayer. While locking the front door on my way out, I dropped my Bible, and it fell open to Luke 8:17: “For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest.”

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

The next Sunday, after preaching on this very passage, I gave an invitation for any who felt led to walk down the aisle and make their secrets manifest before God and His people. After some encouragement, Sister Robinson came down and unwrapped Harriette from around her waist. Touched by her example, Sister Kite stood and raised her sunhat to reveal a bat-winged toad nesting in her hair. Brother Rook also came forward to confess the growth on his back, which we’d spent months praying for, was, in fact, a three-tailed spider-cat lying still and flat beneath his blazer. Standing alongside those three brave souls and their little critters, I declared that from that day forth, no one else’s secrets need remain hidden.

Church, be careful what you pray for. I soon met Sister Martin’s gator-snouted jackrabbit, Brother Drake’s leaping shark-toothed koala, and Sister Swift’s scorpion-tailed chameleon-eyed ferret. These were only the beginning.

Each Sunday brought not only new critters but new catastrophes. Ripped skirts, nipped heels, and soiled seat cushions quickly became the least of our concerns. The Fifth-Sunday Potluck was ruined when a unicorned greyhound knocked over the serving table and shoved her pig-shaped nose into every last dish. Miss Lory’s baptism was postponed after an iridescent dragon-scaled swan took a dip in the baptistry and left behind a few twinkling floaters. But no incident caused more fuss than finding Aardie inside Brother Crane’s casket, feasting on the man’s toenails, not that he had any further use for them.

I confess I was a hot mess. I may have kept it together on the outside, but my soul was being tossed about like a ship at sea. My inbox overflowed with irate emails. Even non-church members were calling to schedule meetings. Many “concerned citizens” felt our pet-friendly policies were emboldening our members to bring their little critters out with them wherever they went: stores, restaurants, schools. Then came our first viral video: Harriette’s organ playing. Dear Lord, the YouTube comments! That, in turn, brought the protestors, some of whom are outside waving their picket signs as I speak. But it also brought from far and wide new members who had either been rejected by more narrow-minded churches or had never before found the courage to bring their critters into the light.

Take Brother Heron over there. The first time I saw his scalpel-feathered turkey, I heard the devil whisper, “You can’t let that thing go swinging its foot-long blades up and down the aisle. Think of the children.” Then, I noticed the patchwork of bloody bandages beneath Brother Heron’s shredded slacks. Did our Lord not have compassion for the poor and downtrodden? Was it not the dirty, smelly, and covered with sharp edges for whom he shed his blood? Here was a man willing to do the same for a lost, defenceless animal.

So, we used our Good Samaritan fund to buy Brother Heron a pair of NHL-certified shin guards. We even drove a service team fifty miles out to his house to install a plexiglass border around the base of his walls and furniture. You’ve never seen a man so grateful. In the fires of persecution, it was testimonies like his that kept me pressing onward and upward.

Yet the pressures from without were but a mustard seed compared to the storm brewing within our walls. When the Founding Forty unanimously asked me to serve as your lead pastor, I vowed to protect this flock from the petty bickering which led our predecessors astray over at Blessed Assurance. Imagine how it grieved my heart to witness you already breaking into factions. Factions who were looking to me, a small-town preacher without a single hour of seminary credit, to settle the debate. Who am I to separate the tares from the wheat? It was all I could do to keep track of the newest positions from one week to the next.

The Delusionists were quickly silenced. After all, we’ve all seen the little critters bleed and draw blood. Then, the End-Timers gained traction, claiming just as the paired animals arriving at Noah’s doorstep signalled the coming flood, our little critters were a sure sign of impending doom. In contrast, the New Edenists argued these were prototypes of the creatures that would fill the New Heaven and Earth. On the other hand, the Environmentalists believed the critters were physical manifestations of man’s perversion and exploitation of nature. The Evangelists said these were fallen creatures who, like men, needed to hear the Good News. Some cried demons, while others called them cherubim. Daniel, Isaiah, Ezekiel, John. Are not the heavenly beings from these prophets’ visions all depicted as chimerical beasts?

Eventually, all this arguing and fiddle-faddle boils down to one question: Do these critters have souls or don’t they? If they have souls, they can be saved. And if they can be saved, they can be members of this church. That’s precisely what we’ve gathered to determine this evening, whether to treat these poor critters as equals or inferiors.

It would seem each of us has landed firmly on one side or the other, with the exception of those few anonymous cowards, The Purgers, who seek to remove these critters not only from our pews but from the face of the Earth. I’ll never forget the Wednesday night two animal control officers marched into a prayer meeting and hauled poor Aardie away in a net. You’ve never heard such a heart-wrenching cry. It took Brother Rook, the best lawyer in the county, a full week to get little Aardie here back in the loving arms of Sister Dovey. We still haven’t discovered who is responsible for these so-called acts of purification. But rest assured, the Lord knows.

The day those men came for Aardie is the day I decided to turn my prayers into action by leaning into my spiritual gift of getting folks involved. In this case, getting critters involved. I trained the grazers to weed the gardens and trim the hedges. I taught Brother Heron’s turkey to pass out communion. Even made the switch from crackers to bread so we could stick a bite-sized piece on the tip of each scalpel. I placed water bowls and treats at every entrance and built an outdoor play area with plastic baggie stations at my own expense. I wrote the curriculum for a new Connections Class for members and their critters. I even organized a drive-through Live Nativity featuring the most diverse cast of “barn animals” you’ve ever seen. I dare say it was an evangelistic success, and not just because Sister Larkin’s giant scythe-bladed mantis decapitated the plastic Baby Jesus, causing yet another video to go viral.

But as attendance and new memberships increased, so did the gossip and name-calling and, eventually, the hate crimes: Church members fired for posting photos with their critters on social media. “Exorcisms” performed by drenching critters with oil and tying crosses to their tails. Some even went so far as to kidnap poor Hariette. Praise God, she turned up alive and unharmed, hiding in Sister Wolff’s barn.

Through all this, those relatively few of you who actually had your own little critters repeatedly asked me to pray for you to just be left alone. How you yearned to sit in church again without feeling sized-up or singled out! Never have I felt like such a failure as I did in those moments. I began to believe the Lord had abandoned me. But when I look back on this season from Glory, I know I’ll see only one set of footprints in the sand. Amen?

The Lord’s sovereign plan was only revealed to me this past Friday evening. I was enjoying a divine meatloaf with my lovely wife and daughters when I beheld through our dining room window a transient gentleman rummaging through our garbage cans. I was always eager to care for the poor; I fixed him a doggy bag, threw on a coat, and stepped out onto the porch, locking the door behind me. After all, I had my girls to think of.

The transient gentleman took the bag of food and asked if I could spare some cash. Mind you, this man’s appearance made it evident he couldn’t be trusted with any amount of money, so I offered to take him grocery shopping instead. But he refused, saying he couldn’t ask me to leave my family at dinnertime—a sure sign he was only after booze and cigarettes.

I said God bless and goodnight, but he forced a cough and asked if I had a winter coat, he could “borrow.” I took the opportunity to inform him of the church’s Good Samaritan ministry and invited him to stop by during business hours. When he asked if he could come inside to warm up, the Spirit alerted me to his evil intention. You’d understand if you’d seen the way he was eyeing my girls through the dining room window.

Just then, I was distracted by the all too familiar bleating of a goat. Would you believe it? The very speckled goat that’s been terrorizing the church grounds for months had strolled right onto my front lawn.

I promptly escorted the transient gentleman back to the curb, warning that if he set foot on my property again, I’d be forced to call the authorities. Then, I went for the goat. I shooed and shouted and shoved, but the stubborn brute wouldn’t budge. So, I pulled out my cell phone and called the Methodist pastor. I demanded he come to retrieve his goat, but he said all his goats were accounted for. When I pressed him on the matter, he asked me to describe the animal.

Examining the beast by the porchlight, I noticed some peculiar features that had previously escaped me due to his history of running off before I could get close. Instead of two nostril slits, he had four. His tongue, ears, and tail were all slightly forked. His horns and hooves were made of something like jagged obsidian. Even his speckled grey coat had an unnatural sheen. In fact, other than the characteristic horizontal pupils, nothing about this goat was normal. Not too proud to admit when I’ve been wrong, I began to wonder whether this beast really did belong to the Methodist pastor. Or anyone, for that matter.

Tongue-tied, I stared at the goat for some time before noticing the dial tone blaring in my ear. I looked about and saw the transient gentleman rifling through my garbage again like a dog returning to his vomit. I kindly asked him once more to move on, but he said he wanted to clean up his mess first, which I didn’t believe for a second.

I turned back to the goat and, exasperated, grabbed it by the horns. They slipped right through my grip, and I fell flat on my backside. My hands throbbed with pain. Both palms had been sliced clean open. Behold, the scars!

The transient gentleman asked if I was okay. I stood and told him I was fine, but he started toward me across the lawn anyway. Being a man of my word, I got my phone back out to call the police, but it slipped out of my bloodied hands and onto the grass. I tried but couldn’t manage to pick it up. Seeing it was a brand-new Pixel—donated by an anonymous church member, of course—the transient man went for it, no doubt hoping to pawn it for drug money. I shouted at him to stay back, but he kept coming.

At that very moment, to my everlasting surprise, the speckled goat stepped to my side and belched a giant fireball at the man. The blaze hit so near his feet that his sneakers caught fire. He kicked them off and ran down the street as fast as he could, his shoes still smoking in a charred-black patch on my front lawn. He wasn’t seriously injured, thank the Lord, but he’ll think twice before assaulting another man of God.

While I stood amazed by what I’d just witnessed and the goat stood chomping away on my St. Augustine, my own blood dripping from his horns, the Lord said to me in an almost audible voice, “Fear not, for unto you is given this night a goat.”

It’s true, folks. I, too, have a pet critter of my own. I’ve had him all along but been too blind to see it. I named him Rev since he breathes fire to devour his enemies like the two witnesses in Revelation. He’s here tonight. Would you like to meet him? Come on out, Rev. No need to worry. He’s perfectly safe. See that? Even little Aardie likes him.

Brothers and Sisters, I tell you my story so that you might fully understand this confession: I have broken the command of Matthew 7, verses 1 and 2. I have judged. I have meted with an unjust measure. While outwardly, I appeared to be an advocate for these critters, in my spirit, I was more concerned with keeping up appearances than with seeking God’s sovereign will. I feared losing members and influence. I was bitter toward these animals for the conflict and inconvenience they created. At times, I was even jealous.

That’s right, I’m a sinner saved by grace, just like the rest of you. But His mercy is new every morning. Through Rev, He has shown me that these critters are not to be feared, despised, or envied but rather embraced. They are powerful heavenly beings, sent to aid us in our righteous endeavours and to deliver us from evil. To treat them as anything less would be to blaspheme the Holy Ghost. Therefore, I’m asking every member here tonight to vote in favour of granting to these God-sent critters full membership, with all its rights and privileges.

Deacon Finch will now distribute the ballots while Sister Robinson and Harriette lead us in singing “Just as I Am.”


Brothers and Sisters, the votes have been counted. Of our 145 members, 72 voted in favour and 73 against. The motion has failed to pass.

Settle down, folks. Settle down.

I confess I’m disappointed. I would have thought the wondrous signs I shared with you were enough to dispel every shadow of doubt. But who am I to judge? Even those who heard Jesus’ teachings firsthand were ever hearing and never understanding. We must bear with those of weaker faith as we continue to pray and–

Excuse me, Sister Wolff, but you haven’t been recognized to speak. I’m sorry, but you’ve had plenty of chances to make your case, which you’ve taken full advantage of. Please sit down. I have a few closing remarks before we dismiss to the Fellowship Hall.

Why, Sister, what in God’s holy name? Put Aardie down this instant! Why must you insist on causing a scene? You’ve argued for months, and now you’ve gotten exactly what you wanted. What more could you hope to accomplish by these theatrics?

Calm down, Rev. Everything’ll be fine.

Put that knife away, Sister Wolff. You have our attention. No one has to get hurt. What is it you want to say?

What do you mean just the beginning? Extermination? Now, wait just a minute. This vote was whether to grant the little critters membership. Murder was never on the table.

Stay back, Sister Dovey. I’ll handle this.

You’ve been secretly leading the Purger movement all along, haven’t you, Sister Wolff? I should’ve known. You kidnapped Hariette. You called animal control on Aardie. You’ve been trying to get rid of him ever since that day in my office. And now you want to finish the job. I don’t know how Satan has so filled your heart, but don’t be deceived into thinking tonight’s vote indicates anyone else here will go along with this wickedness. Or was this always your plan, no matter how the vote turned out? Either way, I can’t let you do this.

Rev, do not let her harm that animal.

Listen to me. There’ll be no violence in the House of the Lord tonight. You’re going to stand perfectly still while Rev gets Aardie and brings him to me. Understand? Don’t move an inch. Remember what happened to that transient gentleman. That’s it. Nice and–

Sister Wolff!

Lord have mercy. There’s nothing left of her but a pile of ash.

Has Aardie been harmed, Sister Dovey? Not a scratch. Hallelujah. Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, God has spared him from the flames.

Church, you know, I would never suggest this under normal circumstances as it technically contradicts our by-laws, but in light of this miraculous sign and seeing as we’ve just lost a member, it’s only fitting that we recast the vote. The Lord has spoken in a mighty way here tonight, and it would be a sin to deny you the chance to respond in obedience.


Deacon Finch, would you please pass out a fresh round of ballots?


Ryan Shane Lopez is a teacher with an MFA in fiction from Texas State University. His writing has appeared in numerous magazines, including Hypnopomp, Deep Overstock, Porter House Review, Lunate, Fudoki, Patheos, Bodega, and The Bookends Review. He lives in Texas with his wife and their two daughters. Find him on Twitter and Instagram.

SOMETHING’S OUT THERE

By Paul Lee

“Alright!” he roared, taking to his feet. “You arrogant weasels don’t want to believe me. Well, look for yourselves!” His lips quivered. “Go on!” He gesticulated. “If you come back without seeing it, fancy me a liar until the day I die.” 

“It’s not the day you die,” Christopher wisecracked. “It’s the day you lie.” 

Abraham—shoulders stiffening—stomped his foot and said, “I’ve said it, and I will repeat, look for yourselves if you doubt me.” 

“We don’t doubt you,” Theodore said. “We know you’re as full of hogwash as my pockets are of cash from my Royal Flush.” 

“You won’t be as lucky next time,” Christopher said with a wink. 

“None of us will be if we stay here much longer,” Abraham added. “Go outside and see for yourselves. Then mock me.” He held his hands over his chest. 

Theodore clapped tauntingly. “You are more Shakespearean by the moment.” 

Christopher said, “Well, what do I have to lose?” He started for the door. “Truthfully, I’m curious what surprise you do have waiting for us. You may very well be up to a shenanigan, but it’s not a giant space spider.” Opening the door, he stepped outside and disappeared. 

Twenty minutes passed. Christopher Watson had not returned. 

“Where exactly is your spider?” Benjamin asked, smirking. Adding after a pause, “I’m curious where Christopher is hiding. You’re both in on this scheme.”  

“Two bullshitters are better than one,” Theodore joked.

Abraham grimaced. “He was as surprised as you two when I told what I saw. God, I hope not, but I think there is a much more dire reason he hasn’t come back.”

“You are persistent,” Theodore said. 

“The most persistent people live in psych wards,” Benjamin said. Momentarily, he glanced to the side, where Theodore and Abraham noticed a curiosity seeping onto his face. “Where is your spider? Are you creative enough to imagine a location?” He snickered. 

Abraham grunted at the laughter invading his ears, and perhaps at the thought of the extraordinary sight he had supposedly seen. Cocking his elbows, Benjamin squinted at the host of the poker party, whose eyes were peeled back in either terror or theatrics. Benjamin started for the kitchen. Abraham followed behind before coming to a sudden stop. Benjamin’s hand cocooned the doorknob as the host finally answered the question: “In the backyard, over the embankment sloping to the prairie.”

Benjamin turned, powerwalked to the backdoor, and twisted the knob. The loose latch plate caused the door to shake. Halfway outside, he cast Abraham a quizzical look. “When I return, we are writing ‘Schizo’ on your forehead.”  

Nobody was certain if he reached the backyard. But after the passage of forty minutes without Benjamin Robbins reappearing, Theodore was sure something was amiss. Clearing his throat, he approached Abraham. 

“Alright,” he said, wearing a crooked smile. “What precisely is going on, lad? Perhaps everyone but me is aware of whatever devilish scheme you’re pulling.” 

Suddenly, Abraham’s shell-shocked anguish transmuted into cheerfulness. He patted Theodore’s shoulder. “Guilty as charged,” he confessed, extending his arms in an I’m-under-arrest gesture.

Theodore shook his head disappointedly, defeatedly. “You sly sonofabitch.” He frowned, contemplated, and then, deciding to not let his friends get the best of him, flipped the frown. “Well played, Abraham. But when I count my poker money, I’ll be reminded who the real winner is today. Now, if you will excuse me, I must see where everyone went.” 

With that said, Theodore opened the backdoor and shuffled to the outside world. The sun was sinking, and for a split second, Abraham saw fear written in his old friend’s face.   

“Curiosity kills the cat,” Abraham said to the empty house. “Works like a charm.” Cruel laughter escaped his lips. 

Alone he sat, he and his eyes that moved like loose buttons. Six minutes ticked by. He dialled a phone number. After one ring, a sinister and dry voice on the other end answered: “Done.” 

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

(Story continued below)

Abraham Crawford grinned and ended the call. The poker pals had been neutralized by a giant man in a green ghillie suit. No more condescending guests who always rubbed in their victories. Abraham was the real victor. The whole pot was his for the taking. The giant had found the cash in Theodore Elrod’s pocket and transferred it to an envelope for Abraham. Retrieving the whole pot was part of the arrangement.  

He lifted the lifeless body as blood dripped onto the plastic sheeting under his boots. Theodore was lined up with the rest of the dead on a wide table. Their corpses were beginning their final journey, a journey through amputation and immersion in hydrofluoric acid. 

Abraham stretched across the couch. The money would not arrive until the next hour. But he did not have them killed for money. He had them murdered for the sake of victory. Eureka flowed through him. He clapped his hands, smirked, and laughed. A glass of whiskey was poured. His head nodded in self-congratulation. He sat looking at the crack in the wall. Somehow, it had expanded during the last half hour, nearly widening enough to fit an index finger inside. The sound of scurrying travelled out of the wall. He leaned forward, peering into the enlarged crack. 

A leg no wider than a hair appeared, glowing bright green. The crack opened more; the rest of the body surfaced. The creature was a baby version of the spider Abraham had fabricated to hoodwink the annual poker players. But it was real

 He held a hand over his throbbing heart. His knees buckled. The sweating—earlier caused by an unhealthy, overweight Abraham walking across the yard to converse with the hitman—returned. The huffing and puffing also came back. His earlier acts manifested as involuntary responses in this irony of horror. 

The scurrying intensified. More spiders appeared from behind the crack. Handfuls spilled across the wall, some reaching the ground. He dashed through the hallway adjacent to the kitchen. Turning right, he saw an army of the little creatures charging for him. He turned left and climbed the stairs, pursued by a noise resembling crunching on wood. There was no reason to look. He knew they were behind him. Heart beating a drumroll, he reached the top and opened the door to the spare bedroom. His body shivered as he shut it behind him.

He rubbed his red face, then his wet hair. The spiders would reach the threshold in a few seconds. He opened the window beside the bed and jumped.

But after falling two feet, he became entangled. Abraham looked around. The silk glowing blueish-green cut into the deepening twilight, providing substantial lighting for viewing the surroundings. He was in a web covering the entire exterior of the house. Abraham, stirring maddeningly, heard movement. The footfalls grew louder. He tried wiggling free, but the silk’s elasticity and high tensile strength prevailed. The more he moved, the more entangled he became.  

“Help me!” he screamed. “Please, God! Somebody, help me!”   

A large mass rose onto the roof of his house: a thirty-foot spider made of a pile of eyes polka-dotted purple and green, eight spiked legs of bioluminescence, a blueish green triangular body, antenna ears with hammer-shaped tips, a tail curved like a hook, and fangs of shining crimson.

Abraham shrieked, squirmed, pulled, and pleaded to no avail. The colossal arachnid wrapped him in silk until his screams deteriorated to murmurs. He lay petrified, immobilized, a prisoner on death row awaiting his injection. The fangs struck with brute force, painting Abraham’s silky coffin bloodred. His body remained alive, but its functionality was dead. Not even a finger could be moved. And when the venom took effect, his guts liquified like those of his victims during their acid baths. 

Stars woke up to view the scene. The howl of a wolf pierced the night. The hills seemed to rise. 

The universe wore the judge’s robe. 


Paul Lee has written fiction for years and served as a columnist for a newspaper. This work, however, is his first published piece of fiction. Growing up, he watched innumerable horror films and shows, including The Twilight Zone and countless slasher films of the 1970s and 1980s. The frequent viewing and reading of such stories bloomed an interest in sci-horror and dark fantasy storytelling. Elements of all three are blended into Something’s Out There.

DEAD TIRED

By Nancy Schumann

I woke up and wanted to die. My back was one big area of pain. I remembered that joke one of my work-mates once made: When you’re 50, and you wake up with your back hurting and your head hurting and stiff joints, you know you’re still alive. So I got up with a felt age of 56 by my estimation. I shuffled to the bathroom with my eyes still closed for a wake-up wash and other morning necessities. A base level of alertness achieved, I proceeded to coffee-making to complete my daily mini-evolution. As I sat staring into the hot magic potion, the pain lessened, and the ability to form coherent thoughts asserted itself with one firm realization: The mattress has had it. It’s time to invest in a new one because I am definitely not old enough to establish my status of being alive by the presence of back pain. As a result of that decision, much of my day was spent researching the options available to purchase a new mattress, get it delivered, and the old one picked up for recycling, preferably all in one go. By dinner time, I was ready and placed an order. It was with a sense of smug loathing that I went to bed that evening, knowing the nights of uncomfortableness were numbered.

Four dreamless nights later, the arrival of my replacement mattress was announced. I got up extra early to strip the bed of all its content, laying bare the offending old mattress. The doorbell rang moments after I was ready, and my shiny new mattress was wheeled in by a friendly delivery guy. He picked up the old mattress effortlessly. I waved him and it goodbye at the door. It’s been real, time to move on. I was disproportionally excited, freeing my new acquisition from its plastic wrappings. It unrolled itself, seemingly breathing a sigh of relief as it stretched out in its new home. I smiled and then wrinkled my nose at the new mattress smell. No matter, an open window day would take care of that before I went to sleep that evening. The ninth floor wasn’t particularly prone to window-based break-ins.

So that evening, I got home and made my bed, a breeze of fresh air around me. It was too cold to keep the window open overnight. I closed it just before going to bed. My nose detected a fainter but still noticeable smell in the room. It was bearable, but I still hoped it’d go soon. The smell was a small disappointment. Fourteen hours of fresh air ought to be enough for the wrapped-in-plastic odour to dissipate. Then again, I was too tired to dwell on the thought. My new mattress virtually hugged me when I laid down. It was surprisingly firm but very comfortable. I felt wrapped in homeliness and security as I fell asleep. I slept without waking through the night, but it was no easy sleep. Nightmare after nightmare flashed scenes of horror through my sleeping head. As soon as I escaped one unpleasant scenario, a new one started up. Yet I could not wake up, as if those nightmares kept me trapped inside the dark side of the night. My alarm eventually rescued me. There was no sign of pain in my back, a fact I appreciated and celebrated with an unusual level of alertness that first morning. Somewhat unfortunate because the next thing I noticed was the smell again. Still there. Another open window day.

Physically my felt age has dropped considerably. Mentally, however, I must have turned 80. That’s the only valid explanation for the level of obsession dedicated to thoughts about an everyday item like a mattress. I was significantly more excited than I ought to have been about the effect of a comfortable mattress, and that completely erased the nightmares. Anybody who asked would be told I had a marvellous night’s sleep. No mention of disturbing scenarios in my head. I all but skipped home, looking forward to bedtime. Outside, a storm started brewing as I got ready for bed. Definitely had to close that window now, or it would blow off its hinges. The fresh air held out a moment longer than the smell re-conquered the room. At this point, that’s becoming annoying. It couldn’t possibly take more than two full days of airing. It’s been several years since I purchased a mattress, but I do not recall the smell issue being a long-lasting one. Maybe I forgot, much like the nightmares from the previous night.

More from Goat’s Milk Magazine

Hugged by my mattress, the smell lingering, I fell asleep and returned to a land of nightmares. Nightmares I couldn’t wake up from. Nightmares I couldn’t quite remember after waking up. Still, like the smell, they linger inside the room, inside me, with a sense of uneasiness. The day outside seemed to match me with its greyness, its rain, its wind. Not a day to open the window, unfortunately. I felt just a little disheartened by it all. My wonderful, comfy new mattress and the painless sleeps overshadowed by a bad smell and unpleasant dreams I couldn’t seem to banish.

I slowly went about my day as if still dreaming. I wondered why something couldn’t just be good without a damper for a change. When I got home that night, I almost felt like crying. The weather still prevented any longer-term window opening, and the smell gained in intensity. I vaguely even considered sleeping on the sofa, but that would be ridiculous. There was a perfectly good, brand-new mattress on my bed after all, and the smell was just annoying, not unbearable. So, once again, I fell asleep with a smell in my nose that I wished hard would go away. Falling asleep wasn’t the issue, though. I was exhausted enough to fall asleep swiftly. And then I was wrapped in a sense of dread that I couldn’t escape. I tried hard to wake up. I tried hard to remember. But there was no content to the nightmare. It just felt like a continuous scream. Silent and frightening. I could not grasp the nightmare to get over it. It held me but refused to reveal itself.

So with each night of uninterrupted sleep, I grew wearier, more sluggish, yet more restless. And more annoyed with the silly, bad smell that refused to leave as much as the nightmares did. Wasn’t it possible to design a packaging system that wouldn’t cause a bad smell when you unwrap the item you actually want to use? Fair enough, a new t-shirt you just wash and the smell is gone, but a new mattress? Nothing I or anybody else could do but wait. Impatience grew to the point of regretting the old mattress was gone and became my default state. The storm passed, and it got warm enough to keep the window open through the night. That helped with the smell. It didn’t help with the nightmares. I was sure they would pass eventually. Maybe they were even an unconscious reaction to the smell. I was sure the smell would go as well. I was sure it would be gone by the time the temperature dropped to demand closed windows again. I was sure reality would chase the lingering dread away.

Yet not sure enough to refrain from sniffing the mattress. The smell hadn’t gotten worse, but it also never got any better. The first big stench left, but it never got replaced by fresh, odourless air. Every time the window was closed, the smell was there. Coming out of the mattress, into the room, into my nose, into my every thought. After plain air had failed, I moved on to air fresheners. Every time I lowered my head to the bed, the scented air left my nostrils, and I breathed in the smell coming out of the mattress. Exasperated, I fell asleep disappointed yet again. Mentally exhausted, I woke up again after yet another faceless fear haunted my dreams. After air fresheners, I sprayed the mattress with some supposed upholstery cleaner. I put fresh bedding on. I went to bed, smelling the smell. I wondered if my nose got damaged. I hired a cleaner under the guise of a deep, seasonal clean. She commented on the smell and asked if the bed was new. Not the bed, just the mattress, I said, defeated. My mind lost track of time, of how long it’d been.

I lay in bed. Awake. Annoyed about the smell that didn’t go away. Afraid of the nightmares that do not stop. Out of ideas. Out of solutions. Stuck in helplessness. I drifted away to sleep and felt the dread grabbing hold of me. I refused to let it. I would not sleep if sleep is not safe. I focussed on the smell that annoyed me that only went away when I slept. So tired. Half asleep even. Yet, still conscious. Still smelling the bad smell, not frightened by nightmares. I almost felt physical hands reaching out as the nightmare tried to lure me into sleep. Claws reached out to my subconscious and told me to forget the smell. To rest. A sensation like falling. Soft and gentle at first. Then I felt engulfed by fear again. I wanted to scream. I didn’t. It’s more of a sharp intake of breath, but this time it was not soundless. It was real. It pulled me back into the world. Awake and surrounded by the annoying smell. I opened my eyes to see nothing but darkness. My heart was pounding. I breathed in. Slowly. Deliberately. Willing myself to calm. To stay awake.

I stretched out my arms and legs. I stroked the mattress all around me. A token of the real world. I turned and buried my face into the soft mattress. Instantly my nose was assaulted by the smell. How can it still come out of the mattress? It’s been forever. My hands stroked the surface. I moved. I smelled different parts of the mattress. The bad smell is the mattress. All of it. Like a dog, I pawed and sniffed all that is beneath me. The smell entered my head. It got worse and worse. I could not stop myself. I tried each corner of the bed. It all smelled.

I sat on my knees, disgusted by the smell, still stroking the surface. Then I felt it. A bump. Right in the middle of the middle. My soft, new mattress had a hard bump in it. I tried and tried again. It’s most definitely there. I kept clawing at the hard spot as if to smooth it out. It remained. I did not stop clawing until finally, the fabric ripped. My eyes were adjusted enough to the darkness to make out something bright and hard in front of me. Something that did not belong into the inner makings of a mattress. A sense of panic rose from my stomach to my mind that may have been lost. I kept clawing at the edges of the ripped fabric. It never occurred to me to get any tools. It never occurred to me to switch on the light. The thing in front of me grew out of the mattress as I ripped the fabric away. I moved inch by inch further down to the foot of the bed. The bright mass did not stop. There was more and more of it while there was less and less of mattress that once encased it. My eyes saw enough. My mind refused to process the information. Bit by bit, I slid down the bed, ripping apart the mattress, exposing something within. Finally, I ran out of bed. I had to step down from it to tear the last bit of mattress away.
I stepped back, my hand touched the wall behind me. In front of me was the distorted figure of a man. Trapped in silent screams of agony. Rotting away in my mattress. My breath comes in sharp, desperate gulps. Rooted on the spot at the foot of my bed, I was unable to move. Then I screamed, and there was nothing but darkness.


Nancy Schumann is a German writer based in London who writes poetry, short stories and novels on various topics in both English and German. Her works have been published in both languages. Nancy’s particular interest, in fiction and academically, is female vampires. Nancy’s masters’ thesis on female vampires through the ages formed the basis to Take A Bite, which traces female vampire characters in folklore and literature. For further information, see www.bookswithbite.in