The Quasar Review

Gertrude had had it. She had put up with the newcomers for as long as she could. Yes, it had been her ancestors’ land forever before the squatters had come, and they were all trespassers by all the rules of natural law. And yes, she could have done things, all sorts of things, unpleasant things to make them want to leave. But she hadn’t, had she? No, she was open-minded and aware that times change and that sooner or later, she would have to share her home with them. Hadn’t she heard from her relatives across the prairie that new constructions were going up all over? Giant machines ripping deep into the earth, erecting all kinds of hideous monstrosities for the interlopers. She had always realized it would be just a matter of time before they invaded her family’s spot by the stream.

They had the loveliest spot. How she loved climbing onto the tallest rock, standing very tall and surveying her property: rolling hills and verdant trees and shrubs as far as the eye could see. She got such pleasure from watching her own kids or those of her neighbors jumping and frolicking across the land in front of her. She loved listening to their cheerful banter and chatter. She felt like the queen of the realm. But that was all before.

Now all their homes had been destroyed and replaced by giant ugly boxes. And that’s not all. The strangers had sprayed all the berries and flowers with poison. Can you imagine? You go to your favorite wild raspberry or blackberry bush to pick delicious berries for breakfast only to find that they have an acrid, obnoxious odor which prevents you from even touching them. The same berry bushes that you fertilized and watched grow to maturity! How would they feel if that happened to their precious petunias? The ones they have been watering and deadheading so carefully for so long, marking the birth of each new bud like a proud new mother watching her babies grow.

Ever since the invaders came with their ugly boxes, everything had been a struggle around here. Now it’s like every time you create anything beautiful, they always serve as an opposing force whose goal it seems to be is to destroy all the beauty you took such pride nurturing.

But that’s not even the worst of it. They are reckless murderers! And they are lazy, never walking anywhere, climbing into their ugly rectangular boxes on wheels and speeding out, not giving a care in the world about who might be walking along the road. And yesterday, yesterday, they went too far. Yesterday, one of them killed Simon. While Simon wasn’t her favorite, he was one of her own. He was family. And you stand up for your family. Gertrude had been brought up right. And now, finally, she had had enough. When they had destroyed her home and planted their box right over it, she had moved. When they had poisoned her beautiful berry bushes, she had found new ones, but this was too much. They had gone too far. What if they had killed one of her babies!?

And so, Gertrude was done playing nice. She climbed up on the old rock, one of the few still standing. She surveyed their acres and acres of vegetable gardens, and she knew exactly what she needed to do. She had never been vengeful before, but this sight of an endless supply of vegetables with their deep roots and underground bulbs made her salivate and turned her into something new entirely. Why, she wouldn’t even need that many others to help her. Just a small group that would be willing to relocate, and honestly who wouldn’t want to sign up for such abundance? Why, she would be doing an entirely new population a favor.

Say goodbye to your vegetables, intruders!

Maria’s poems, short stories, and essays have appeared in newspapers and magazines, including the Beyond Words Anthology. She has received writing awards, including the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Contest and the 24-Hour Writing Contest, along with a competitive mentorship in the Gordon Square Review.

Iwas driving down the forgotten highway that bright December day like so many others. I stopped in the vast and consuming landscape for what I thought would be no more than a brief moment to stretch my legs. It was too far south for snow, but when I breathed in a few mouthfuls of fresh air, the chill worked its way through my coat, and I found myself shivering on the side of the road. At least I told myself it was the cold air and not the knowledge of the city I had fled. I had always been the problem child, and was always best at fleeing when everything inevitably fell apart. Running away was always my favorite hobby.

As I scanned the horizon, I found myself squinting at a spec in the distance, the only thing to break the uninterrupted sand. I saw the faint outline of a cluster of dark buildings against the blue sky. I couldn’t remember how long I had been driving, and my legs longed for something other than the car and the gas pedal, so I decided to walk there and see what I found. I didn’t know where I was going, so I was in no hurry.

I made my way unafraid toward the structures looming in the distance. My feet dug deep into the sand with every step I took, but hard going had never stopped me before, and the movement warmed me. The sun was bright and hot above my head.

As I drew closer, I saw that my destination was a shopping mall like the one I had worked in as a teenager in the food court, where I had first learned that I didn’t do well with uniforms or taking orders. Weeds had broken through the concrete parking lot, and dead and dry plants had been piled against the east wall by the same wind that tugged on my hair.

When I turned back, my car was nothing but a spec of a shadow in the distance, and I had already come this far. The place was completely deserted, but I wanted to find out if the doors would still open, so I walked toward the entrance, my footsteps echoing over the concrete. The electricity was long gone, but there was enough of a crack that I could grab the edge and pull, and soon enough, I was inside the empty shell.

Everything was exactly as I remembered, even though that first food court was a universe away. All the same stores were still there, and if it wasn’t for the cracked signs and naked manikins, I would have thought I was walking into a memory. There was Claire’s, where I had drooled over nose piercings, and Abercrombie and Fitch, where I had spent hours wandering around, submerging myself in the perfumes and peppy advertisements.

Now, the doors were all closed, just like all the doors to the bright future that had once awaited me. All that was left was the smell of dust and emptiness. The animals had made their way into all of the leftover boxes and scrapes of food, and the remnants of cardboard littered the floor, torn to pieces long ago. The pretzel cart was overturned, and the compartments were opened and ransacked. The wind shrieked outside, and I wondered how long I could make it if I stayed there with all the ghosts of what I could have been.

The road and wherever it was that I had been going all seemed so far away that I wasn’t even sure that I make it back. Maybe there was nothing left to run from, and no reason to put myself through the agony of trying. Out there in the desert, there would be no more bridges left to burn, no more jobs to be fired from, no more friends to disappoint. I could stay in that shelter against all the odds, build my own world, even if that meant that I would be left alone for the rest of my days. Eventually I would be buried under the burden of the memories that haunted every inch of the building and every patch of tired skin. Maybe here I could finally have a space to call my home, where no escape would be necessary.

Calla Smith lives and writes in Buenos Aires, Argentina. She enjoys continuing to discover all the forgotten corners of the city she has come to call home. She has published a collection of flash fiction “What Doesn’t Kill You”, and her work can also be found in several literary journals .

She was a good girl, ask anyone and they’d tell you so. She went to church every Sunday and volunteered weekly at her local soup kitchen. She ran the winter coat drive for the homeless for the past three and sponsored her youngest cousin at his Confirmation last spring. She never got drunk on the weekends or slept around with different guys. She was a good person, she lived a good life.

She was only 25 years old the night she was driving home from work in the pouring rain. She wasn’t texting, she wasn’t speeding; she didn’t even have the radio on so that she could concentrate on the road amidst the deluge. Her car started hydroplaning and she lost control. She saw the headlights of the oncoming pick-up truck like a bad cliché and felt every inch of the impact as it collided with the driver’s side door. She felt like a tea cup on the Mad Hatter ride at Disney World that had spun loose and gone wild until everything stopped in a moment that simultaneously felt like seconds and years later. The street lamp, beneath which her car had come to an abrupt halt, cast an almost angelic glow when combined with the rain on the twisted gruesome wreckage of metal and glass.

She had been wearing her seatbelt, but that hadn’t stopped the steering column from crushing her sternum. The chill of the night began creeping in like a phantasm through the places where once had been glass, but the side of her face felt warm. She didn’t understand why until the slowing of her heart started to match the pounding in her head. She became aware that it was getting harder and harder to breathe and with every inhalation she felt like she was drowning.

Then she saw Him. He was there in front of her brighter than the sun despite the dark and stormy night. He smiled and she felt all of her pain dissolve. He emanated peace and love, and she did not feel panicked by the thought of what she was leaving behind. All she wanted was Him; all she needed was to be in His presence and feel His warmth for the rest of eternity. He reached out His hand to her and she couldn’t begin to understand the ecstasy she was feeling – He was inviting her home. She didn’t need to think or consider his offer; it was by pure instinct that she made to reach in kind to Him.

But she couldn’t. She watched in horror as nightmare chains like those of ghoulish Dickens novel wrapped themselves around her torso and held her arms fast. The links were indestructible and forged without flaw. They burned and crushed her far worse than the smashed bones and fluid-filled lungs she suffered from the car crash. She could not turn round but her eyes found the rearview mirror. She saw him leering at her, his eyes once the crystal blue of creation, now the black of the tar dripping from his once golden wings. His smile revealed the razor-sharp teeth of a predator who has won his kill and she saw her bindings in his taloned grip.

“Oh, my child,” came a soft, sad voice. She turned to gaze upon the mortal witness to her earthly demise and beheld a man outside her window. He reminded her of her father, gentle yet his very presence commanded authority. She noted the clerical collar and the well-worn leather-bound book in his hand, which she did not need to read the gold-leaf lettering to know it said “Holy Bible.” He did not ask her if she was okay and he did not tell her she would be, for they both knew such banter was pointless. Instead he wondered, “Would you like to make a last confession?”

The tears that streamed from her eyes in rivulets faster than blood dripping down her face was all the answer he needed. He sat there in silence as she poured out her soul to him in the silence of her heart. She could not speak but her spirit cried out for forgiveness for missing Mass on those Sundays when her girlfriends wanted to get together for brunch instead, for sleeping with her boyfriend of two years and using contraception because she allowed herself to justify it because she loved him and they just weren’t ready to be parents, for every time she uttered the Lord’s name as a curse. Her confession went on and on until at last she had named every link on the chain pulled tight by Satan’s grip.

She bowed her head and the priest knew that she had finished and he gave her absolution. In that instant, she felt as the feather loosed from a bird must feel. The chains were gone and angel from hell was sent screaming back to his domain. She turned her gaze once and forevermore on Him and felt her arms reach toward Him in wild abandon. He welcomed her and she always knew He would, a lost sheep who has finally found her Shepherd.

The priest saw the breath leave her body, but the light never left her eyes. From the moment of her absolution to the end of her life, she was smiling as if she had found a joy that no one could take away. He made the sign of the cross and prayed, “Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord,” as the red and blue lights of the approaching emergency vehicles danced on his face.

Amelia is a mom of six with her Master's in marine biology. She has been published as a scientific writer in research journals and as a fiction writer in Starward Shadows Quarterly ezine, Black Hare Press Anthology Year Four, and SpecPoVerse.