By Karly Foland

Back then, my job was easier. When people recognized me for me.The unclean spirit planting twisted thoughts in their heads. The incubus crouched on their chests as they slept. The beast with razor-sharp claws flaying their defenseless minds into mangled abominations. And the manifestation of my efforts were glorious. Bodies shook until teeth chipped and knocked loose from bleeding gums. Eyes rolled back til vessels burst and painted the whites scarlet. Tongues lolled and dripped strings of thick saliva onto scabbed skin. A divine symphony of horrors played out on captive vocal cords. I pulled til voices lowered and produced incomprehensible moans cascading out over cracked lips; squeezed til high-pitched shrieks hurled unspeakable curses and threats at God and their loved ones, but never me. I plucked them. I chose the melody. I kept my name sacred and hidden. Until I wanted to shatter eardrums and drench bedsheets with the briny and acidic fluids of these weak creatures.

Back then, few veered from their understanding of my presence. Only fools, who made nonsensical accusations against their own kind for causing these calamities. Witchcraft. Sorcery. Those had nothing to do with me. And I hated sharing credit. So I redoubled my efforts after every superfluous trial and execution pyre. I showed that humans could never match my power. My power. Beautiful. Terrible. The Destroyer of Minds. There was no Legion. There was only me.

Back then, I worked the night shift. I crept with the darkness across the earth. Simple creatures, they shunned forests, caves, places of the deepest shadows, where light could not penetrate. Feared what they sensed but could not see. I was what they could not see. The chill that ran down spines. The hair raised on the backs of necks. The shadow flitting past the eyes. The feeling of being watched, of something not right, the inexplicable racing of the heart and sweat dripping down armpits and temples. That was me. Always me.

Back then, wise men, medicine men, religious men, charged heavy tolls for useless cures. Amulets and oils and scraps of paper bounced off of me like fighting a lion with a feather. Fevered prayers from deluded saints attempted to banish me. None could banish me. I existed everywhere. For darkness is everywhere. I lurked in every dark place, amplified every dark thought, encouraged every dark impulse. I emerged from the shadows and slithered up legs, torsos, wrapped around necks, and squeezed. Lungs burned and eyes bulged but I eluded their perception. Even as I filled their bodies with my very being, like the black spores of mold feeding on the decaying matter of their hopes and desires, they succumbed to me in confusion, in despair.

Back then, nothing stopped my relentless attacks. So their desperation grew. They flogged flesh until it tore open and hammered nails into skulls and tore out chunks, creating doorways to encourage my exit. Sacrifice the body to save the soul, they cried. Everything crucial, necessary for their lives spilled out of them like rubies and amber. But I remained. Their extremism only served to rob me of my prize, my joy in completing my task. There is no challenge, no satisfaction, when another rips the body from your talons and drags the corpse across the finish line for you. And I loved a challenge. But be careful what you wish for.

Now, my job is arduous. They no longer believe I exist. Only my actions draw their attention, their study. They call my work long, complicated names. They blame natural mutations of physical systems and interruptions in physical processes. They transform the mind into a labyrinth of cut connections, missing gray matter, dulled neurons. They close my entry portals with scalpels and medications. They inhibit. Stabilize. Tranquilize. Lobotomize. They illuminate the night with technology and never let darkness envelope them. They don’t know to fear it. To fear me. Sleep comforts and rejuvenates them. It sickens me.

Now, I must adapt. My own mind aches with the realization of how complacent I had grown. My skills lost their edge, their bite. I must evolve or hungry young comrades will rip me to shreds with glee before replacing me. So I tear my way through the labyrinth’s hedges and find the soft, vulnerable center. I scream chaos and wretchedness into being and undo their hard fought progress. They counter. Dosages increase and medications change. Experimental treatments turn the hedges into towering walls of brick, then steel. I scratch and scratch until my claws are dust on the ground and black pus leaks from my fingertips. I find no passage through.

Now, I’m the feather against the lion. My mind is tissue paper in a hailstorm. I can no longer articulate my thoughts, strategize my carnage. I’m filled with sand, cement, stuck with no path forward. I release my latest victim, who sighs with relief but will never understand what finally banished me. I banished myself. I have done my duty for an eternity and sought an eternity more. But I’m no longer worthy to prey upon their minds. So I hunt now for a dark place they haven’t yet discovered. Haven’t yet desecrated with their inextinguishable lights. Where I once craved them, I now crave solitude. I wail and mourn for the end of eternity.

Now, my own come for me. No. They came for me long ago. I understand now they opened a door within me I never knew existed. So focused was I on my work I failed to gird myself against these invaders. But I offer no resistance. Obsolescence is worse than death. Let them devour me.

By Sydney Salter

My stomach knots with anticipation—bad and good—every time I pull up to the house. I dread seeing how the yard looks like crap. Grass gone weedy. Dead patches. Shrubs not trimmed. And then there’s Christina’s condescending smile. “How are you?” she asks.

“Doing great,” I’ll say, rolling down the window of my fourteen-year-old Corolla. I’m still making payments on the three-year-old minivan that she drives. For the kids, of course. I gave her the house, too. For the kids. Only she doesn’t take care of it. Too busy taking classes. She’s going to be a nurse now. Probably end of marrying some uptight doctor who’ll buy my kids anything they want. I’m sunk in the fantasy when the girls bound out of the house shouting, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!”

At least we got divorced before the kids were old enough to completely absorb her disdain for me. Grace is eight, a shy bookish girl who loves animals of all kinds, but keeps to herself too much, maybe. Olivia is six and bounces with every step. The girl radiates energy from her mess of curls to her untied shoes. Everything she does is turned up to the loudest volume. Exactly like her mom.

I met Christine while playing for the company softball team. I drove a delivery truck. I still do as long as I can manage to outperform the cheaper seasonal workers who show up every October and to try to steal my job. I deliver more and more efficiently—sprinting packages to doorsteps—to justify the extra buck-fifty an hour. And I still live in a depressing hole of an apartment that smells like poo, according to Olivia.

I’ll probably never be good enough for her either.

Back in the beginning I loved Christina’s energy—her easy smile. I loved the way she teased me in the outfield, comfortable with the guys, the way girls who were popular in high school learn to be. Christina was the hot receptionist. A buddy dared me to ask her out.

We fell in love—got married, got pregnant, bought a house, fell apart.

Now I only want my kids to like me.

Love me.

Love me best, even though I only have partial custody. Christina turned religious to mess with me. Now she’s got to take them to church leaving me with Friday nights until Saturday at 8PM sharp—and more existential questions than I’m prepared to answer. “Why doesn’t God like people who drink beer, Daddy?” Grace asked when I opened a bottle to drink with the plain cheese pizza I ordered to be a popular dad. Fun dad!

The girls clamber into the back seat.

“It’s too tight!” Olivia complains about the booster seat straps. “I don’t like it.”

“Have you grown since last Saturday?” I tease. “Are you going to grow as big as the icy snow monster in Frozen?”

Ollie laughs. “Nooo!”

“She’s just fat,” Grace says. “She eats too many carbs.”

“I do not!”

Grace tickles her fingers toward Ollie, chanting, “Carbs. Carbs. Carbs,” as Ollie, restrained by the straps, reaches and screeches. Holy crap. They’re just little kids. “Where are you hearing all this nonsense?” I ask, and then I remember to be a good dad. “Ollie, you are not fat. You are just right.”

“Mommy can’t eat glue anymore,” Ollie says.

“Gluten, stupid.”

“I’m not stupid.” Ollie groans as her sister hovers outside her reach.

“Stoooopid.” The girl can be mean like her mother. Something in Grace’s voice is like Christina’s too. But she’s half you, I remind myself. She needs you.

Ollie explains, “Mommy’s trying not to be fat.”

So she’s already thinking about—or actually beginning to—date again. I imagine her smiling over a plate of fettuccine at some stranger she met online, who probably lied about his profile, who could be a child molester for all she knows, and what if she brings him home, where my kids are sleeping, so she can act like a—only months after our divorce. Guess some people don’t need time to mend emotional wounds. No, she wouldn’t eat fettuccine. Too many carbs. She’d have a salad, even though she used to be the kind of woman who wasn’t afraid to tear into a cheeseburger.

“Mommy used to eat plenty of carbs.” More than once, we’d share a large pizza and a pitcher of beer after a softball game, and end up fooling around in the backseat of this Corolla. Couldn’t get enough of each other. Back when it was a new car, not crusted with kid spills. “You shouldn’t listen to Mommy about that stuff.”

Grace stares at me with an open mouth. How dare I question her mother! Oracle of all things. Ollie doesn’t pay attention. She’s too busy stretching her foot out to tap her sister’s foot, which will enrage her, of course.

“Where shall we go?” I speak too cheerfully, a friendly dad voice that sounds too fake. I’m always trying too hard to be fun and likeable. Loveable. Better than mom, if I’m admitting things to myself. Providing an alternative, according to my support group leader.

“Disneyland!” Ollie shouts.

“Unfortunately, that’s hundreds of miles away, so— Mickey Mouse will have to wait until another time.” The girls understand, probably subconsciously, possibly not—given that they’re half Christina—that they can take advantage of my desperation to be a great dad, so every negotiation starts big. Too big. Spinning my own fun family vacation fantasy, I quietly say, “Someday.”

“Fun center!”

Ollie chants, “Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”

Twenty-five bucks for adults. Fifteen each for kids. Plus six dollar sodas and terrible twenty dollar pizza. It’s the end of the month. Rent’s coming. Christina’s punitive child support. House and minivan aren’t enough. She needs a third of my paycheck too. I wish I actually had cheated on her—or done something terrible so that this pain made sense.

“How about the park?”

Grace’s frown fills my rearview mirror. “We did that last time.”

Sounds like her mother. Nothing is ever enough. I’m never enough. The girls keep whining as I drive past the ice cream shop, the expensive one that mixes candy into everything, and past fast food favorite number one, and two. I can’t keep buying stuff.

“We’re going to have a family dinner at home—like we used to. Remember?”

“You don’t cook.” Again that tone of voice.

“I’m learning. It’s good to learn new things, right?”

Grace nods, lips pursed. I can feel her comparing me to other kids’ divorced dads: restaurant dinners, trampoline parks, ice cream, cupcakes, toy stores… The way Christina compared me to other husbands: restaurant dinners—

“What can you cook?” Ollie asks.

“Mac and cheese!” I grin.

“That has carbs,” Grace reminds me.

I lie. “Not the way I make it.”

“Oh, no waaay,” Grace says. “You’re not making it with spaghetti squash are you?”

What has Christine been feeding them? Turning them into unwilling vegetarians just so she can get her body in shape to attract some potential pedophile.

“I’m making the kind from the box.”

“I like that kind best, Daddy.”

“Thank you, Ollie. I appreciate that.”

The air is still warm as we race toward the swing sets. Kids crawl everywhere, and I lose track of the girls as they disappear into the hamster tube connecting the slides. Maybe I could buy a small pet, so they’d quit bugging me about missing the cats at my house. Ollie claims she can’t sleep without that mangy beast near her pillow. Christina always maintained that men who didn’t like cats didn’t like women. So what did it mean that she refused to get a dog? Man’s best friend and everything? Proves that she’s judgmental and heartless and cold. I’ll adopt a dog—a sweet shelter mutt that the girls and I pick out together—once I get a better place. One that allows pets. Maybe if I amp it up at work, I’ll get promoted to route supervisor. I could buy a condo, or a foreclosure with a big yard. I’ll fix it up on the weekends. I picture myself hauling around two-by-fours, shirtless in jeans. Six-pack abs. A tall, young-ish girlfriend brings me beers. The kids adore her. She’s fun. So much fun. It’s all so much fun.

Screeching interrupts my fantasy. I hate the playground. Movies are so much easier. Dozing in the dark. Kids crunching on Christina-forbidden candy—

I scan the playground for the poor sucker who’s got to deal with the screamer. Can’t find the girls. I’m not used to their growing shapes anymore, not seeing them daily.

Turns out the sucker is me.

I spot clouds of dust—poof, poof, poof—above the small tube slide. The decibel-level of Ollie’s scream surprises me as I walk close enough to see her scooping armfuls of sand and tossing them into the air. Aiming at younger children. Grace has wisely distanced herself from the melee. A two-year-old stands blubbering in the middle of the sandstorm Ollie is creating. His mother swoops into the dust, shouting, “Stop that! Right now.” Ollie bends to gather more ammunition, but the angry mother shoves her elbows causing her to drop most of her supply.

“She’s mine!” I run into the sand pit before the woman can shove Ollie again. “I’ll handle it. So sorry. So sorry.”

“She could have blinded my son!” The woman grows increasingly hysterical. “Look at his eyes. Oh, my poor baby, my baby. What is wrong with her?” She coos to her son. “Let Mommy look. What did that bad girl do to you?”

Ollie’s face looks blank as she stands stiff, sand drizzling from clenched fists. I reach out to her, but she flings the remaining sand into my face. The sting makes my eyes water.

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Stop it, Olivia.” More sand pings my skin. Eyes pinched shut, watering against the scratch of the grit, I hear the exodus around us.

Let’s get out of here. Some people can’t control their kids. What a monster. I’d kick her ass, I would. Psychopath. Can’t even take your kid to the goddamn playground anymore.

Ollie continues to throw sand like a pitching machine—whack, whack, whack. Watching her with one open eye, I make my move, scooping her into my arms and hefting her over my shoulder as she squalls like a wounded cat. Her hands scratch and hit my face, neck and back while her feet pummel my side. One strike hits my nuts knocking me with stunning pain.

People gape at us. The spectacle. An entire Little League team on the adjacent baseball field stops practice to gawk.

Ollie starts yelling, “I don’t wanna leave yet!”

“You cannot throw sand.” Demonstrate calm. “We’re going home now.”

“Our home or your apartment?” Grace asks from a few paces behind.

“Our home at my apartment.”

“Nooo!” Fists beat a choppy rhythm into my back. “It stinks. I hate you.” Rage radiates from her along with heat, sweat, and tears. My arms ache with restraining her, protecting my neck. The kid wants to hurt me. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

I blink fast hoping to release the grit in my eye. “Hushhhh. Hushhhh.” I soothe her like an infant, although that was never easy either. Or effective. I rock and hum as she thrashes like a kid on ecstasy in a mosh pit.

I might be humming to calm myself.

Just get to the car. Just get to the car. Just get to the car.

Grace stands next to the locked Corolla as if nothing unusual is occurring. I’m not sure how to get the keys out of my pocket without putting Ollie down. I’m afraid that she’ll bolt. Rush into the carpool traffic gathering at Little League practice.

A round motherly type approaches us. Just what I need. If people could just stay out of our business. Our family. Just let us be. Let us solve our own issues. On our own. We would be fine. Christine and I would’ve been fine without that opinionated therapist, and her snooty Pilates friends.

“Let me help. Hey, there sweet, Olivia.”

Diane. I recognize that condescending voice. The neighbor with four perfect little athletes and a well-trained Golden Retriever. I’ve hated the woman since she advised me to buy a different lawn fertilizer. Can’t afford that brand, Diane. Bet she loves seeing me struggle. She’ll be able to prattle to all her pals over nonfat pumpkin spice lattes. “So guess who I saw? Poor dumb Eric. He absolutely cannot control those girls.” She’ll click her tongue, I’ve heard her do it a thousand times. “She’s so much better off without him.”

“I’m fine, Diane. Thank you.” I squeeze Ollie tight, as if I can anaconda the anger now walloping both of us. Instantly she calms, the way swaddling worked when she was a newborn. How did I forget? Ollie sucks down a few hiccup-y breaths. Yes. Yes. I keep her firm in my arms, stroke her damp hair with the tips of my fingers.

Diane smiles, satisfied. As if she single-handedly solved the tantrum simply by exerting her calm, well-behaved presence of parental perfection.

Ollie eyes her, and calmly states, “You’re a fat bitch.”

“Oh, my!” Diane’s face reddens as her eyes widen. “Such. Language. Young lady.”

“Bitch. Bitch. Fat-fat-fat.”

“Ollie! Apologize!” I turn toward Diane. “I am so sorry,” I mumble, hating the humble tone in my voice. “I don’t know where she picks up this stuff—?” I’m already debating if it’s worth approaching Christina about the foul language issue again. Christina used to call Diane by the code name Nosey B. I guess now she’s focusing on fat-shaming the woman more than critiquing her overall demeanor. Diane seems to be waiting for a confession of some sort, but I only shrug.

“Certainly not from her mother,” Diane says, proving that she knows nothing about my ex-wife. “But you can be sure that she’ll hear about this—”

I blink. “Of course.”

I picture Diane marching across the dandelions in the weedy lawn to give Christina the scoop about the tantrum, the lack of parental skill, and topping it off with a cherry: vulgarity. Will Christina see herself? Or will she find a way to blame me. Diane shouts across the field to greet her son as I buckle Ollie into her car seat. The kid’s limp with fatigue. Grace acts rather nonchalant. So like her mother. “Can we stop for ice cream?”

“No. It’s full of fucking carbs.”