"Village Life of the Formerly Damned" and "dowsing for promotion" by Zoë Davis

Village Life of the Formerly Damned

Dracula went for fish ‘n’ chips when the sun set, rising from uneasy slumber to mist his way

through rain-steamed village where he now existed.

It was only small. A seagull framed stretch of coast boasting a barnacled pier and sand, in one square foot, but mostly pebbles.

Some nights he could be seen skimming stones across the bay, taking chunks out of boats

cursing, then scurrying away.

All the locals knew him. He always asked for scraps with extra chips, soaking them in vinegar, a squirt of ketchup. Salt, he kept well away from.

He’d cradle supper against his chest, soaking up its warmth, oil-stains greasing his cape.

No one asked.

It was his thing, a reflective thing, as he studied the horizon, star-swept and vast, far from home yet willing to absorb the traditions of others.

Often, he’d leave his meal in the hands of strangers, pulling their crooked backs from waste bins,telling them to feed, consume.

Dead inside, he lived through them. Safe in harbour, he was tame but out there a piece of

himself, adrift, he hoped they’d never see.

Sated, he returned to his castle, one bed apartment on King's Street. Before sinking into hiscoffin he paused, wiped beef dripping, good deeds, from pale hands and prayed the moon

goodnight.

dowsing for promotion

soiled hands offer a divination of prayer

here between mouse &amp keyboard see me

waiting for Hermes

windows/ceilings

there to break with cunning palmistry

let me claim territory between your fingerprints

within cracks of this century’s improprieties

able tongue sniping

hawthorn stilettos scarring mahogany

bloody as I lay still

magic in these secretarial fingers

I thank you

you don’t thank me

for reading between lines of tea

so may it be

another broom

broom dust dancing

cha-cha-cha

so may it be

with these hands

I reap/cast/sow

my own reward

Bio: Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.

"Rottingham Mayor cancels Halloween attraction" by Kayleigh Kitt

Rottingham Mayor cancels Halloween attraction

CW – Cultural bias, entitlement and superstition – (based on a writing prompt creepy carnival

v freak show)

Bellina Tranche (Miss)

13 Raven Lane

Rottingham

11th October

Dear Mr Mayor

Having read in the local press the Council resolved to cancel Halloween, I entreat you for the

matter to be urgently revisited at the next Full Council, allowing the Freak Show to exhibit.

Voters are being denied the liberty of gazing upon a human skeleton or watching the strongest

man. It would be a missed opportunity not to be able to converse with the bearded lady or

wonder at the unnatural contortionist bowing her body into shapes that defy human

physiology.

Notwithstanding, after Joshua Lacey fell into the river, in the year past, rescued by the

mermaid predicting his death the following day, you will recall it reached the front page of

the press, with eyewitnesses reporting he stepped into the road without checking for traffic,

for which I’m sure you’ll agree is a danger of our times.

Furthermore, when Mr & Mrs Ernest Ratherham were kidnapped and forced to work with the

show at the next town, Mr Ratherham’s webbed feet were exposed, attracting much attention,

and I am sure compensation.  It was, I concede, unfortunate that Mrs only presented for a

short while in one of those scandalously delicious sequinned costumes, falling to her death

during her first tightrope performance.

Of course, it is public knowledge that doctors are still unable to diagnose why Robina

Falstead’s blood became black following a revelation with the all-seeing eye. Her screaming

on receiving that information was said to be heard at the Church. I assert that it was

coincidental she panicked running in circles, colliding with a caravan, resulting in a short

period of unconsciousness, and a nasal fracture.

And I pose the question; after young Alex Foster volunteered to assist the serpent woman and

was never seen again, could he not simply have absconded? There were rumours that his

father liked the demon drink.

Moreover, you may remember Mick Morris’ delusive rouse, proclaiming he was able to

locate his cat after dark due to its bizarre luminous coat appearing after the Freak Show

departed.

I also posture it is coincidental that Ada Taylor’s tale of sleeping out in Blackpole Forest

when the Freak Show was in residence, was the beginning of a period of insanity. My sources

have revealed she reported finding a box of strange items, only to be shot at when she opened it. Her insistence something struck her, trapping her in a pod inside a tree is a fallacy which of course earned her a long-term residency at the local asylum, which in my opinion speaks for itself.  I am led to believe Ada still maintains she met an evil doll called Alice during the incident.

In conclusion, I am sure you will agree that excluding even the poorest Rottingham electorate

from their right to visit the Freak Show would be depriving voters and their offspring of this

educational spectacle and urge the Council to reconsider their decision.

Yours

Bellina Tranche (Miss)

Bio:  Kayleigh Kitt lives in Shropshire, UK with her husband and an ageing cat who thinks it’s a dog. She’s had work published in Bangor Literary Journal, Hooghly Review, Witcraft, Scifansat, Bakuanawa Press, Suddenly & Without Warning, Dark Winter Lit, Mr Bull, R U Joking & CNF in Across the Margin & Entrails.

"a divine dinner tune", "the relentless prusuit", "making glutinous rice with mother", "Arises", "and Traversing the Swamp" by Grace Lee

a divine dinner tune

when we gathered around the kitchen table,

holding hands as my mother said grace,

the clatter of plates rang like beating drums

while the dumplings cracked like fireworks

on the frying pan. our voices were keys of a

piano. every conversation played in my

ears as a melodic tune. blinded by rising

steam and golden, glimmering sunlight

peeking through the windows, all i sensed

was laughter. chuckles were strings on a

violin as we sang the same song. i realized

i no longer feared forever, rather, the end.

i yearned for time to slow as the voices of

my siblings rang like church bells through

my ears. i muttered a “thank you” to

whoever watched over us, as this joy could

be the work of no less than divine powers.

the relentless pursuit

The leaf was auburn as it drifted

down, down, down,

descending through

breezy, foggy air.

Like the petals upon the surrounding

branches, its tip had browned,

turned red and orange with fall,

as it fell like unfurling ribbons.

Its descent slowed as it grazed the

sniffing nose of a hound, whose

brown fur seemed to unfurl atop

the graveyard of browned leaves

upon which it stood.

A flinch from the hound spurred the leaf forward.

Its long ears perking, the hound began its

hurried chase after the windswept, fallen leaf.

A cold, autumn breeze swept its ears

behind like drooping curtains as the hound

shot forward, chasing the rusted leaf

like a moth to a fiery flame. All else

blurred as its focus centered upon

the relentless pursuit. Unknowing of

having reached the pier, its speed endured.

Then, cold enveloped the hound’s body.

The bubbling, bright blue water was a thick,

crisp blanket upon adrenaline-fueled

skin. The hound, eyes unfocusing at last,

spun upon the lake until its pupils calmly

gazed up at the azure blue sky above.

making glutinous rice with mother

in my mind, i am twelve years old,

besides my beautiful, giggling mother,

molding glutinous rice into neat balls

with my flour-covered hands.

the kitchen is painted with a haze of thick, gray steam,

curling like silken ribbons around our dusty faces.

the earthy scent of sugar mingling with rice clings

to our hair, heavy as morning dew. my floury hands

press into the glutinous rice, its surface soft and sticky

as wet clay. powdery imprints bloom across the countertop

like fragile petals. mother twirls like a child herself, her

laughter a melody ringing soundly in my ears, as she sprinkles

my fingernails with sugar, or fairy dust, as she calls it. when she

tosses the rice into the air, it arcs like shooting stars across the

kitchen. her smile is like the bright, shimmering moonlight.

in reality, i am sixteen years old,

watching the horizon for a letter she

promised would arrive at the break of

dawn. foolish hope carves into my chest.

sunlight creeps in, sluggish and pale, its mustard yellow rays

pooling at my feet. my hands tremble as they clutch the

metal lid of the mailbox, its cold biting my fingertips.

when mother left, she swore one thing. like the scorpion

in the fairytales she once read to soothe me, her promises now

stung sharply with the venom of deceit. i send my wishes

to shooting stars as though i am sending paper boats

into harsh waters. i fold them with trembling hands,

yet each sinks into dark navy seas, unanswered as

they are swallowed whole by the hopelessly deep abyss.

Arises

melted snow still stained the ground below me—

splotchy brown paint. the rigid tree branches were

barren; their leaves had turned auburn then umber

brown before crumbling to the floor in late november.

march was ascending, yet the bleak cold of winter

remained. but one leaf had burst forth from a fragile

twig: spear-shaped and lime green, it stood alone

above the fallen—the final soldier beside a desolate

battlefield. amid a mound of death, life emerges.

amid disorder and turmoil, hope arises.

Traversing the Swamp

As I traverse,

     the trees lean in,

          blanketed in rusty bark

               and tanned by the sun.

Their limbs twist,

     poking me with each move,

          like frail fingers

               stopping my tracks.

I step through the

     moss-thick floor,

          damp and humid.

     Ferns slowly unfurl around me,

          brushing the soil with its

     sticky touch.

          Roots writhe beneath me

          like twisting snakes,

     as the bark peels back,

     revealing redness

     like sunburnt skin,

The forest seems to watch

     my every cautious move

          as I traverse through.

bio: Grace Lee, a high school student in Seoul, South Korea, is passionate about words. Whether crafting stories or poems, she blends her unique perspective with the vibrant culture of Seoul. She has explored her passion for creative writing at the Kenyon Review Young Writers Workshop and Juniper Young Writers Online.