Story by: Henry Martin

Photo by: Karl Strand

_V9A6006WEB-new-logoShe’s been haunting me for years, ever since the fateful night I took her from her bed, and carried her into my car.

Now and then, when I’m alone and everything is hushed, I can still hear her cries as she makes her way toward me. Then I stop wherever I am at the moment, staring motionless until she reaches me. She is wearing the same raincoat she had on when I put her in the back seat of my car, slammed the door, and sped away from her mom.

She used to be the object of my hidden affection—affection I could never express when her mother was around. But as soon as I found myself alone with her, I would run my fingers through her blond hair, whispering gentle words of love. My Lee . . . that’s what I had called her. My beautiful Lee. Continue reading

Bloodstained Symphony

By Henry Martin

A room…a dust covered incandescent bulb radiates a stream of tired lumens outwards into the space framed by four walls, one ceiling, and some kind of a floor. There are neither windows nor doors—how did I enter…how am I going to exit? The floor squeaks but, since the light doesn’t reach the floorboards, I am not destined to find the source of that noise. What am I walking on?

The walls, unable to decide whether to be yellow or orange, finally settle on an awkward shade of ochre. It reminds me of the desert—the desert I never visited and never really intended to see. There is something about scorpions that makes me uneasy.

The ceiling hangs above me like heavily siliconized nipple-less breast. The plastics always scared me, unnaturally pointing forth…always forward, as if they had a place to be; like they were about to burst through the fabric and I was in the way of their freedom. Destination plasma. The ceiling bulges but remains above my head, its purple paint sparkling like a nest of freshly born stars. Continue reading