Congratulations to the winners of the second Jerboa Lit 500!
October, 2025 prompt:
Genre: Myth/legend/tall tale
Item: Abstract painting
Phrase: “open the cellar door”
First Place
Echoes
By Karly Marshall
Again, I find myself waiting in the mildew-scented lobby of Motel 75. It’s always quiet this late at night, a sanctity I’ve come to love and hate in equal measure over the years. Just past the open exit, Ms. Cassidy is repotting her chrysanthemums on the porch. She offers me a wobbly smile, eyes dull. It’s all we have left.
Two young men stumble into the lobby, reeking of booze. Tourists. The taller man assesses me with a smirk before asking, “What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ alone out here? Y’never heard the legend of Moonstone?”
He’s talking about the flood, the lost spirits of the drowned still said to wander the town decades later. Of course I’ve heard it—but there are no ghosts in Moonstone, only echoes.
His friend listens raptly as he tells me anyway, blanching with terror. I’m nostalgic for such naive fears: the musty cellar, flickering bulb. Darkness, senectitude, ghosts.
The receptionist, a man named Jack, appears behind the desk and offers me a knowing smile as the drunks forget me in favour of their ghost story. He presses the key to my palm and says, “Room’s yours.”
I nod, squeeze his cool hand in mine, then make my exit as Jack asks the babbling interlopers if they’ll need one room or two. Outside, the air is thick with mist carried from the Moonstone Dam. I walk past Ms. Cassidy, eyes closed and lips moving in silent prayer as she kneels before the porch. She only stops when I reach my door.
Even pitch-black, room 4 is vivid in my mind: ugly abstract painting by the window, broken clock above the worn armchair, bible in the bedside drawer. I drop into the armchair as my eyes adjust to the darkness. Sometimes, like tonight, there’s a shadowy mass breathing deep beneath the duvet.
I hear the beginnings of it, distant as it always is and then thunderous like a train as it rushes toward Motel 75, bulldozing trees and buildings in its path. It doesn’t scare me anymore, long overcome like darkness, senectitude, ghosts. I would give anything to open the cellar door again.
Murky water crashes through the door and claws at my legs as I watch the sleeping stranger on my bed. They won’t feel it, same as the drunks from earlier. But I will. Jack, Ms. Cassidy, the others stuck in town. Skin swallowed, lungs crushed. Drowning is over too quickly.
I want to stay awake, to see beyond. Was there ever a cellar? Where am I buried? What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ alone out here? Do echoes ever fade?
Again, I find myself waiting in the mildew-scented lobby of Motel 75. It’s always quiet this late at night, a sanctity I’ve come to love and hate in equal measure over the years. Just past the open exit, Ms. Cassidy is repotting her chrysanthemums on the porch. She offers me a wobbly smile, eyes dull. It’s all we have left.
Karly is a third-year English student at Lakehead University in Ontario, Canada. When she isn’t writing, she spends her time listening to music, reading, and hanging out with her cats and dogs. Her work was previously featured as an honourable mention in the inaugural Jerboa Lit 500, and she’s absolutely delighted to be here once more. She hopes you have a lovely day, wherever you are.
Second Place
War Cradles the Hands of Death in His Own
By Machara King
The life of a king is a lavish one.
His labyrinthine halls are decorated with gleaming trinkets, resplendent with murals and frescoes that must have cost no small amount to commission. The framed canvasses positioned between them seem to radiate malice – one more rich with it than the others.
It is an abstract painting, riddled with blacks and greys and purples and a colour that might be trying to denote ichor. Muddled, unclear brushstrokes swirl together in a maelstrom of malevolence so magnificent the subject of the painting is indeterminate. But… are those butterflies?
Ares does not linger on it. He does not know what it is supposed to represent, nor does he care to learn.
All that matters is this: the mortals are not dying.
Something has become of Death. Ares should know; it has been a long while since their paths last crossed.
Something has become of Death – his favourite colleague; his beloved consociate – and King Sisyphus is at fault.
As they descend into the bowels of the palace, opulence gives way to negligence. It is filthy, down here. The stones are chilled, ashen, sooty. Like death.
“Open the cellar door, king.”
Sisyphus, for all of his craftiness, fears the gods just as much as the next man.
He unlocks the door.
Here, in the dank cellar, is Death: bound by his own wicked chains, twisted and manacled into submission, beaten at his own game.
Ares makes quick work of releasing him.
Here, laid upon the cold, dirty stones like a helpless maiden, is Thanatos: trust demolished, unsightly gouges leaking his lifeblood, as still as the concept he commands.
“Such is the folly of a soft heart,” mutters Ares.
Thanatos’ golden eyes stare through him, unblinking.
A lesson learned is a lesson not easily forgotten. Lord Death will make no such error again, though his boundless love for the souls that fear him will remain that way – boundless, inexhaustible, unceasing.
Thanatos, Ares knows, does not enjoy reaping the battlefields sewn by his bloodlust. And yet, he dutifully answers the cries of the felled warriors, herding them to the Ferryman with the same care he allocates to the ill, old, and young. He, gentle and demure, adores them all.
To know so intimately the distress of the mortals, to feel so potently their agony, must make him dolorous. Pools of ambrosia glisten with unshed tears; pallid, grey skin lays tight over tense muscles.
Ares tuts. “Cry not, dear Death. The mortals have tasted immortality and found it to be intolerable – they are keen for your comfort.”
“They are suffering,” croaks Thanatos.
“Yes. But not more than you.”
Thanatos hums. The noise cracks in his hoarse throat, despairing.
Ares takes his bleeding hands, rubs his thumbs over the battered, jutted knuckles, and presses his lips to them.
“Let us depart,” he murmurs. “Your family have been beside themselves. Sleep will not come easy to he who cheats Death.”
And Sisyphus cowers, knowing he has invoked the wrath of the Underworld.
Machara King is a writer who buys more books than she has the time to read and more games than she has the mental capacity to play. Living in Bedfordshire, England, she's always nursing her profound interest in ancient mythologies through her favoured, practised craft of storytelling. She is a volunteer editor for other hobbyist writers looking to make their mark, and is hopeful that she will eventually make a living out of her love. She wishes that any aspiring writer reading this will always have faith in their own words, and that they never doubt their ability to one day make their own success.
Third Place
White On Yellow No. 11684
By Leow Jinn Jyh
So you’ve heard eh? This painting of ours.
Of course, my friends! Sorry that you’ve had so much trouble locating the display. We don’t really mean to stash it away, just don’t wanna overcrowd the space, stir up a ruckus, you know? Everyone wants some bits of peace in this wearisome world nowadays. It’s not that far from here actually. Hey, I haven’t got much going on today, how about I bring you there?
Psh, it’s no trouble at all! It’s been a while since I had a good look myself, haha. So what are your names?
Oh that’s lovely! Are you together? Come on, don’t be shy. We might be a small town, but we are quite open-minded here. Everyone’s welcome!
I knew it! Alrighty—we turn here and cross—what’s that?
Oh yes, the painting does really move by itself. And yes, the painting works for everyone. We’re so lucky to have one here. Wait till you see it. Mesmerising. Almost hypnotic.
Well, it’s different for everyone, you know? Eyes of the beholder and what not. But for me, it always brings forth this—this surge of comfort, yeah? Like I’m cocooned in this golden cloud, buoyant in a sadless sky. Oh, you see my friend in there, clearing out the lint? She said it smells candysome whenever she sees the painting. Strange thing is, she hasn’t got a sweet tooth.
Mmm, look at her weightsome shoulders. Poor thing just lost her run for the council.
Landslide, yeah. Thought she had a chance—smart, very hardworking, lost her parents’ accent. But I guess the community decided someone needs to keep her parents’ laundromat running.
I wouldn’t necessarily say unfair. Her parents are getting on in years, and it’d be a shame to lose such a good soul to politics. Haha! The incumbent has much deeper roots here anyway.
Ah, yes, we’re close. Pardon my babbling—guess that’s some local gossip for ya! The museum’s one of these row houses. Gifted to the town by a descendant of the town’s founder.
Indeed, enormously generous. You used to be able to see the painting through this window here, but we had to move it underground. Sun damage, you see.
A shame, yes. Ah, the things we do for posterity.
Would you like to do the honours? Go on, open the cellar door.
Wow…would you look at that?
It’s rather yellowsome today, isn’t it? But the white grid holds. Wonderful, wonderful. Let me jot that down in the logbook. You lovebirds go ahead.
Oh, sorry friends, behind this line please. Someone looked at it too closely once and they almost destroyed the painting. But take all the time you need.
Hmm? It’s anonymous, I’m afraid.
Yeah, it’s been here for as long as anyone could recall.
Come on, just let loose your thoughts. Relax. Don’t fight the magic. Look at how the colours swirl in their boxes, toeing the white, but never breaking through. It’s rather calming, isn’t it?
Jinn Jyh originally hails from Penang, Malaysia, but currently lives in Auckland Tāmaki Makaurau. His houseplant situation only got under control after he stumbled into writing. Now, he spends his work days producing technical drawings and his free time chasing after the vibes for his next story, usually ending up somewhere between the folds of languages and cultures. His works have previously been published in Issues #028, #30, #031, and #43 of Elegant Literature. He was also long-listed in Globe Soup's 2023 Open Short Story Competition.
Fourth Place
Miracles
By Daniel Zhang
It was a new painting of the city’s patron saint, or so I had been told, and even though I knew that half of the paintings in the gallery were of that same saint, I still found myself on the red cobblestones outside an hour before closing. I was dressed in an angry button-down and a mossy vest, with my watercolors in a bag, and it took an hour to reacquaint myself with the halls before I found myself at the painting.
It was commonly recounted, by docents and tour guides and websites, that the city’s patron saint had protected them with miracles against all manner of otherworldly threats. This was back when the city had been made out of straw, when the tangled boughs of those hoary-aged forests had still stretched across the land, when the small gods of brook and grove had still been around; it made sense for a settlement to have a saint in that day and age. She had guarded her people, or so the story went, from an outbreak of the dancing plague, two separate volcanic eruptions, and an assault of one hundred wild wolves—back when wolves could talk, and think, before their minds were beaten back by the plow and the torch.
The first miracle was true. The second was open to debate—it depended on how you defined an eruption, because the first had certainly been more explosive than the second. The third, however, was categorically false. It had been a thousand wolves at least, led by a monstrous beast of fur and claw that must have been the size of a small barn. Our saint had kicked it into the side of the nearest mountain, leaving a divot that had later been transformed into a bustling, family-run vineyard—one that was still in operation, actually, and which served a few of the city’s local eateries.
The painting, when I finally stumbled upon it, represented one of her earlier, lesser-known miracles—represented it in a mess of swirls that would have been indecipherable without my prior knowledge. A novice monk, tired after a long day of proselytizing, had fallen asleep in a cellar; the door had gotten stuck behind him, and then the cellar had started flooding.
“Have no fear,” the saint had commanded, somewhat irritable after being dragged out of bed, “and open the cellar door.” Immediately, the hinges had disassembled themselves, throwing open the doors and allowing the monk to climb out.
It was lesser-known because there was very little glamour to be found in opening a door, whether through a miracle or not. And to be completely honest—I did feel somewhat ashamed afterward; my tetchiness at his evangelism had been no excuse to drown the man.
I took out my watercolors and began to copy the painting, tracing the boxes and splotches and unflattering wavy lines that I took to represent myself. It was an exercise in nostalgia, and I was there until closing.
Daniel Zhang is a senior at the University of Chicago studying History and Public Policy, and he's always glad for the opportunity to read and write fiction instead of nonfiction (though both are wonderful). He's part of the staff over at UChicago's Sliced Bread Magazine, for which he sometimes writes and often slices bread. When he isn't writing, he can be found begging for the friendship of his two cats, gushing about the Field Museum, and baking different variants of garlic bread.
Fifth Place
Pieces of Sky
By Chad Frame
It’s the first of the month again. Ask me how I know.
Definitely not the calendar we’ve had pinned on the peeling-papered kitchen wall six years now, when I was barely tall enough to reach it. Mama’s Artists of the World calendar, where it’s stayed December forever, a Mondrian that’s just a bunch of different-colored squares. The painting’s out of touch, the calendar’s out of touch, Mom’s gone, and Dad’s—
A knock at the screen door—that’s how I know.
The squeaking door reminds me as I open it—Dad has a story for everything.
“You gotta oil the hinge,” I’d said to him once.
“S’not the hinge squeaking,” Dad replied, back when his eyes were brighter. “It’s your mama. The door tried to talk her out of leavin’. Has been ever since.”
When the screen squeaks now, Mom might be warning, Don’t let her in and she can’t demand rent.
Mrs. Parker’s getting up in years, face tan and fuzzy, drab as a dropped peach. She wears these thick black glasses that, coupled with teased-up hair grayed in patches and black in others, do little to lessen resemblance to a raccoon. Dad used to say her glasses had a chain on them to keep them from escaping and seeing the world without her.
“Millie,” she says from the porch, “You know I don’t like t’have to do this.”
“Do what?” I ask, like always. Stalling.
“This is tiresome. Where’s your father?”
Outside, I hear Dad open the cellar door. It squeaks something fierce. “That’s the ground groanin’,” Dad had said. “Hard work holdin’ up a house.”
It is, I think.
Dad limps from around the house, more stooped than he was last month, blue eyes cloudy like a sky turning to storm. But his suspenders are in place, his hat’s straight, dark slacks and his white shirt carefully pressed.
“Hi, Betty,” he says with a slow wave, “Is it the first already?”
Mrs. Parker sighs. “You know it is, Abe.”
“Well,” he says, fumbling in his pockets in a jingle of baubles, but he manages to produce something that glints in the relentless Missouri summer sun. “I have somethin’ special this time.”
“Abe, I need a check. I can’t keep accepting—”
“This is better than a check.” He looks past her to wink at me, holding up a ring on a thin gold chain. “I found this in a crater, right when we first moved in. I knew my Mary’d love a piece of the sky.”
Old pain pinches Mrs. Parker’s already-scrunched face. “She was my best friend, Abe. Just—just keep it. Next month, a check—or else.”
Once she’s shuffled off, I frown at Dad. “I’ve saved enough. I could’ve written a check.”
“Check’s not as good as a piece of the sky.”
“They sell sky at Dollar Tree now?”
Dad opens the door with a squeak that says, in Mom’s voice, There’s still time to go.
“I’m not you,” I mutter.
“What’s that?” Dad asks.
“Nothin’.”
I follow him in.
Chad Frame is the author of Little Black Book, nominated for the Lambda Literary Award, Cryptid, and Smoking Shelter, winner of the Moonstone Chapbook Contest. He is Director of the Montgomery County Poet Laureate Program and a Poet Laureate Emeritus of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania, a founding member of the No River Twice poetry and improv performance troupe, and the founder of the Caesura Poetry Festival. Chad is a three-time winner of Writing Battle, a winner of the Not Quite Write Prize for Flash Fiction, a multi-time winner of Twisted Tournament, and a frequent final placer in various NYC Midnight competitions. His work appears in Rattle, Strange Horizons, Off Topic Publishing, Pedestal, Barrelhouse, Rust+Moth, on iTunes from the Library of Congress, and elsewhere, including being archived on the moon with The Lunar Codex. Chad works as an executive in the luxury beauty market and also teaches writing courses in-person and online.
Honorable Mentions
Follow the Signs and Don’t Look Back
By J.I. Locatelli
If you drive on I-10 between Tucson and Phoenix on a hot summer day, you might see my signs. Every ten-to-twenty miles, billboards big as you can dream, declare: “See The Thing at exit 37!”
As you get closer, they get more specific: “Are you ready to experience The Thing?”
Now, there are a few versions of that message that float around I-10. Some of ’em will take you to an old gas station. If you’re lucky, they have a big old rattler on display.
You won’t find any rattlers on my farm. That’s why my billboards are different.
Five miles out they say, “What if the Thing is your lost love?”
Something about the blues and greens, or maybe yellows and reds of the abstract painting around the words reminds you of her: the one who died sometime in the last month, year, decade.
You take that turn off I-10, see, and there’s another sign: “Ready to give new life to your love?”
Some people turn around thinking it’s another Jesus thing. It isn’t, but the threat’s enough to ward off the curious.
If you keep going, you’ll turn left to an even smaller road, and then a right onto a dirt road. You’ll see the sign, “Bring back the dead for $20,” right before you get to my pecan farm.
At this point, you’ll think: may as well check it out and get some pecans. Can’t do any harm.
I’ll walk out of my house and greet you. We’ll talk some pleasantries and you’ll squirm since you’re wanting to ask about the sign. Eventually I’ll put you out of your misery.
“Who’s it you lost?” I’ll ask.
“My wife,” you’ll say. Or your daughter, or your sister, or your mother. It’s always men looking for their women at my door. Sometimes women looking for their women, but never seen a woman looking for a man.
“Got twenty bucks and willing to sign a liability waiver?”
You’ll hesitate.
“I take Venmo.” I’ll add.
You’ll be confused, because we’re out on a farm, but having good technology makes people less likely to think me an axe murderer.
I’m not, by the way, if you’re asking now that I’ve mentioned it.
You’ll sign my waiver and use your iPhone to send me twenty bucks and I’ll open the cellar door and send you down into the pits of Hades to go find her.
Mostly no one comes back, but if you do, you can bring her with you.
Same bargain I got. ‘Cept I get a second chance on account of all the souls I’ve sent down to dear Hades as a trade.
I wasn’t so successful bringing my girl up top the first time.
You’re the last soul I need, so I hop down into the cellar with my offering of a song and a promise.
This time, I won’t look back. I’ll follow the signs.
J.I. Locatelli lives in Miami, Florida with her wife and dog. She’s fascinated with the actions and interactions of people, which led to a degree in brain and cognitive science and a bad habit of writing. She wishes she was more of a sunshine and beaches person, but prefers a warm cup of tea, thunderstorms, and her laptop. Her short fiction can be found in Elegant Literature, Rat Bag, and Story Street.
The Permanent Collection
By Dean Koorey
There is something creepy about being in an art gallery at night. Nine-and-a-half-year-old Declan falls in behind his school group as their ‘Art after Dark’ tour meanders the cavernous hallways, two dozen sets of footsteps echoing softly through the temperature-controlled space.
As he walks, the faces of centuries-old portraits seem to follow him with their unblinking eyes. In another frame, an abstract man writhes in a silent scream – his mouth a gaping void.
Declan shudders, reflexively looking for his assigned buddy. Jenna’s bright blue backpack is easy to spot. As he catches up, the tour party shuffles to a stop, trainers scuffing in sync on the polished floors.
“Kind of spooky huh?” he whispers.
Jenna turns and rolls her eyes.
“More like kinda dull. Knew I should’ve brought my phone.”
“But Ms Symonds told us to leave them on the bus,” he replies, pointing to the tall red-headed woman alongside the tour guide.
Jenna snorts. Now the guide speaks.
“This is one of our newest pieces,” the old man says, eyes gleaming. He gestures to a large oil painting.
Ten figures around a campfire. The brushwork is precise enough to make out faces reflected in the amber glow. Tents scattered under pines near the edge of the frame. Smoke twists into the night against the outline of a mountain range.
Haunting. Beautiful.
“This painting,” the guide continues, “arrived anonymously last year. No note, no signature.” He pauses then lowers his voice. “It’s believed to depict the campers who disappeared two summers ago near Mount Tolmec. It was so magnificent that we simply had to add it to our permanent collection.”
A murmur ripples through the group.
“Urban myth,” Jenna snickers, turning to Declan. “A marketing story to scare gullible kids like you.”
Declan wants a new buddy. In fact, he wants to go home. He gazes at the giant windows, rectangles of black glass reflecting the gallery’s interior. But also, something beyond. He pictures eyes in the darkness, staring back at him.
Turning, Declan catches the guide’s eye. He is standing off to the side, head cocked, bony hands steepled. And there is something odd about the way he–
“Perhaps,” the guide announces, “we should end the tour here.”
The lights go out.
***
A bare bulb swings gently as the old man pushes open the cellar door. He descends the stone steps, cradling a large canvas in his hands. Leaning it against a stack of old frames, he lets out a low whistle, hands forming a steeple as he takes in the fresh artwork.
“Magnificent,” he says softly into the gloom.
A group of twenty children gather around a painting in a dimly lit gallery. A tall woman with red hair, the only adult. One girl wears a bright blue backpack. All face away, except a small boy near the edge. Ghostly pale, his wide eyes stare out.
Haunting. Beautiful.
***
Outside, the school bus sits in the empty car park.
No one will report it missing until morning.
A Hundred Thousand Flutes
By Waniya Aks E Noor
The prisoner would be hanged at first light. She would wear her battle armor to the gallows. This would later become a garish emerald gown, a sheer chemise, or nothing at all—depending on which mouth told the tale.
She was a blasphemer and a woman of faith; a loving aunt to the King and a scheming viper. But that she was a valiant general, no one could contest.
The River had been a good mother to her. She’d imbued her with the might of an ox, the wit of a raven, and the loyalty of a dog—but loyalty to whom was a matter of dispute.
Some will tell you her loyalty was to the banyan tree beneath which she was born—that she was cursed, for she was not received into the river upon birth like her siblings. Others will say she was loyal to the Crown, but led astray by her love for battlefields and whorehouses. A fanatic would cry she’d sold her soul to the abstract painting in her chambers: Mother River on fire. Such irreverence!
There is truth in all their words.
The prisoner was cursed. She was born under the banyan. She had been led astray. And she was loyal. Not to the banyan. Not to the Crown. Not to battlefields or whorehouses.
She was loyal to one dead flutist.
And she was going to lose her life for it.
Down in the cold, sunless dungeons, she lay in her cell, counting the men she’d killed, the bones she’d taken, and the flutes she’d fashioned from them. Ninety-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine. She had only needed one more.
The King came to see her at midnight to hear her dying wish. Here, the testimonies branch again. Some say she begged for mercy; others say she was mute entirely.
In truth, with her last words, she’d commanded the King to bring her a saw.
The King had bristled at her insolence. He’d been moved by her spirit. Or he’d cowered at the very sound of her voice.
Either way, the prisoner was given the saw at Fourth Bell. She wrenched a knee free of its tasset, poised the saw above it, and began a frantic sawing motion. The blade was blunt–she did not scream. Bloodied skin gave way to bloodied bone. She sawed until the leg was severed entirely. She fished out her femur from the lifeless limb, carving fipples into the bone with her teeth.
Her lover was here. She felt him in the flute, complete in her hands.
When the guards came at dawn, she ordered them to take the instrument, open the cellar door in her chambers, and place it within the crypt below. The flute, mottled with blood and torn flesh, was arranged next to the flutist’s preserved body.
A hundred thousand flutes. A life begetting a life.
The prisoner smiled as she took her last breath. A few feet away, in the crypts, the flutist took his first.
Waniya Aks E Noor (she/her) is a writer from Lahore. She is simultaneously pursuing a BS degree in finance and a certification in chartered accounting. She likes vanilla caramel crunch cake and River Phoenix; the latter imbues her with perpetual inspiration. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, BULL Magazine, and The Rapport, in collaboration with the British Council, and elsewhere. She has never been to a beach. She has also never lost a fistfight. You can find her on Instagram @waniyaaksenoor for unsolicited Letterboxd reviews and her proliferating TBR list (she’s working on it. No, really, she is).
Mustard Seeds, Machines, and Men
By Cuyler Meade
Dad took me to see art in Harlem. Said I need to know “the culture.”
I stopped in front of a painting by a man named Eldridge. Funny name. Not a funny painting. Rough silhouette of a big man working, mushy red sun smoldering in a hazy sky.
“John Henry,” Dad said.
“From the legend?”
Dad snorted.
“No legend,” he said. “Propaganda.”
Dad loved telling stories. I knew I had one coming.
Big John couldn't stop to rest for even a second. Now that the North Carolina heat had given up crisping his dark hide, he allowed himself a glimpse toward the horizon.
A drooping sun kissed the Appalachians over his left shoulder. Hoisting his hammer in rhythm, he looked to the right at the merciless steam monster pounding away. Big John built a decent lead early. But the motherless metal rallied as John tired. They were even as sunset approached.
Clang
“That's it, Henry! That's it, boy!”
Bossman was cheering. As bosses go, he wasn't bad. Not that John had any choice in the matter. He'd been rented out to the railroad by a prison warden. Turns out you can't just open the cellar door and take what you want from any old general store. Young free Black men didn't get away with much, but they certainly didn't get away with that, no matter how hungry they were.
Clang
“Come on, Henry, you're almost there! Big push now, heave-ho!”
Bossman said if Big John won him his wager—that his strongest man could still best the steam hammer in a day's work—he’d talk to the judge, get him off early. Plus, bossman said he'd be a legend.
Pride didn't come cheap to folks like John.
Clang
John had never been as good at anything as he’d become at hammering rock. He and a big sledgehammer were made for one another. So when stories of the steam hammer reached his crew, it wasn't lost on John that he might be replaced by a hunk of metal and coal.
Clang
Despite his pride, John was leaking steam. His vision darkened, the pain impossible to ignore.
Clang
“Pick that hammer up John Henry! You ain't beat yet, boy!”
Clang
He hammered harder.
Clang
Faster.
Clang
He lifted it again and again, slamming it down against the mountain that stood between the railroad and its destination. His Mama's words came to him.
“Faith of a mustard seed, Johnny. Faith of a mustard seed and you can move mountains,” she'd tell him.
Clang
“That's it John! Just a few more!”
Clang
Was it twilight? John’s blackened eyes couldn't tell.
Clang
“Yes!”
Clang
“Fight, son!”
Clang
“That's sunset! Look, he did it! He did it! Pay up! Big John, you're a legend!”
“So he won? Sounds like a star to me.”
Dad shook his head.
“He beat the machine that day. Then he died, right there in the tunnel he built.”
“Died?”
“Yup. Exhaustion. He gave everything for his bossman's bet.”
That's the culture, I guess.
Cuyler Meade is a father of six and a husband of one living and working in rural Northwest Colorado. Cuyler’s fiction has been published by Elegant Literature, TL;DR Press, Intrepidus Ink, Eggplant Emoji, and Trampset. He writes stories about relationships, parenthood, guilt, disappointment, grief, and discovery.
The Train After Death
By Tyler Forth
‘Why is it,’ began Arrow through his bandana, setting fire with his flame thrower to another Silent as it crawled up the iron frame of the Peregrine, ‘that monsters are never physically attractive? He grabbed onto the railing as the Peregrine train raced at six hundred miles per hour over a particularly large boulder in the sand, turning sharply to avoid crashing into a cliff. Below the open level of the train, stored below their feet, were hundreds of ghost-like figures huddled together – the souls that they were in charge of protecting and getting to the Afterlife. The soundless Silents saw only food.
‘Because then we might think them not monsters,’ shouted Kingfisher, head scarf threatening to fly off into the brown and yellow smog, as she slammed a mine onto the trains side, which activated and sent a bolt of electricity onto several grey-faced Silents climbing closer up the train with their metal-ripping claws. They fell and were crushed under the train's wheels. The air stank of smoke, infested with creatures scuttling on hands and feet across the sand towards the train.
‘How much longer?’ Kingfisher called to the train driver sitting a few feet in front of them, enclosed in a glass dome for protection.
‘Five minutes,’ he yelled, ‘but if you have the power of teleportation, do let me know.’
Arrow rolled his eyes.
Near them, a huge man was struggling with a Silent that had managed to get onto their level of the train. He seemed one second away from having his face torn off, so Kingfisher quickly removed a straight razor from her hair, flicked the blade out and dealt with the Silent for him before the worst happened.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
She nodded. They all jolted forwards, some falling onto their bones, as the train suddenly put on its brakes with a screech loud enough to split their brains, sending up a rainbow of sparks. It was slowing down because the end of the bridge was so amazingly close, the silver gates of the Afterlife beyond opening for their welcome.
The last few seconds were a blur of fire, metal and bolts of electricity as the last few Silents perished. Those that remained scuttled away from the train as it got close to the gates, burrowing themselves into the ground until the next opportunity to feast arose.
The gates closed as they came through, the train grinding to a halt. Arrow and Kingfisher watched as the souls stepped off the Peregrine onto the platform, whispering to one another. The workers of the Afterlife swiftly came to help them, guiding them off to better places.
Some of their own people had stepped onto that platform, as they both remembered, looking down. Kingfisher started talking about them, but Arrow interrupted.
‘Don’t, they’re just friends we don’t see anymore.’
So, she leaned on his shoulder, exhausted, as the train reversed, empty of the souls, back across the bridge, back for those who were yet to cross over.
Tyler’s ultimate dream is to be a full-time novelist, though he currently studies English Literature and Creative Writing at University so that he has a degree to fall back on and get a ‘proper job’. While novels (mostly fantasy) are his favourite form to write in, he also writes poetry (sensitive, some might say) and short stories. He has a poem published on The Poetry Society website and Young Poets Network and was runner-up (loser) in a picture book competition once. When he’s not writing, he’s sinking further and further into the rabbit hole of YouTube, procrastinating, writing ideas in his many notebooks, drawing characters, playing Call of Duty, rewatching Heartstopper or just sitting in his room, drinking tea, one headphone in, dreaming about writing stories.