Grim anthology

But as the bones in my wrists creaked and popped, I remembered what Momma had said.

You are gonna run and run today. Fast.

A laugh nearly gurgled out of my throat, high and hysterical. “You’re damn right I am,” I muttered. I reached out.

I shoved.

I ran.

* * * * *

FIGMENT

by Jeri Smith-Ready

It begins, as always, in darkness.

I awake in transit, amid the clamor of voices and the clatter of trucks. Then a steady jet-engine roar lulls me to the edge of sleep.

If I’m waking, it means that someone believes in me again. Maybe it’s the man, woman, boy or girl I’ll soon befriend. Maybe it’s a person close to them. Or maybe it’s only my ex-friend’s employee who took this padded envelope I’ve been trapped inside and put it on a plane.

All that matters is that someone, somewhere, believes.

* * *

A woman’s soft footsteps accompany what I hope is the final leg of my journey. Her hands hold my envelope level before her, not swinging casually at the end of her arm the way the deliveryman carried me. It reminds me of the way Gordon’s butler used to deliver his vodka and pills on a silver tray.

“No more tears,” she murmurs. “He wasn’t worth it.”

But I’m not crying. I never cry.

She sniffles, then takes a deep, slow breath. “No more tears,” she repeats.

Ah, you weren’t talking to me. Never mind. If she can’t hear my thoughts, that means she’s not the one I’m meant for.

She stops and knocks on heavy wood—a door, likely. I hear the muffled voice of a young man, a begrudging beckoning over the strum of guitar.

Hinges creak. The guitar grows louder, doesn’t pause while the woman who carries me stands still at what must be a seldom-crossed threshold.

“Eli, your father is dead.”

The guitar doesn’t stop, but it hits a sour note. Then Eli continues to play, picking up where he left off. “So?”

“He left you this.”

The guitar is set aside with a soft gong. Eli takes my envelope and squeezes it, crushing my face. “It’s soft. Is it a big fat wad of cash?” he asks with a mixture of harshness and hope.

“Just open it.”

Eli tears the sealing strip, letting in the first light I’ve glimpsed in...I won’t know how long until I see a calendar.

“What the hell?” He clamps the envelope shut, smothering the light. “Mom, is this a joke?”

Pull me out. Please don’t let me stay in here.

“There’s a story behind it,” his mother says. “It’s rather interesting, actually. Your father—”

“What did the others get?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Never mind, I’ll look it up online. It’ll be in the news. One-hit wonder Gordon Wylde, 45, dies of— What did he die of?”

“A boating accident. They said it was instant. He didn’t suffer.”

“Good for him.” Eli’s voice cracks, causing me to wonder how far past puberty he is. His hands are large and strong, squeezing me tighter than ever, so perhaps the voice-crack is...sadness? Anger? I wouldn’t know.

“Eli, if you want to talk, I’m here.”

“I know you are,” he snaps. Then his voice softens. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry—I mean, if you’re upset he’s gone.”

“Not really.” She gives a wistful laugh. “Your father’s always been gone.” Her footsteps come closer, then a kiss, muted, laid upon hair instead of skin. “I’ve got a roast in the oven, but how about pizza tonight instead?”

“That’d be cool. Thanks.”

She retreats and closes the door. Eli takes a deep breath—as would I, had I lungs—and pulls me out of the envelope.

Amber eyes examine me, the same color as the streaks in his disheveled black hair. Eli pulls in his lower lip, brushes his tongue over the silver ring there. He could be as young as sixteen, but the piercing makes me think he’s closer to eighteen. “I don’t get it,” he mutters. “I do not get it.”

Eli tosses me on the bed—faceup, luckily. The ceiling features a wood-and-green-metal fan, currently off, as well as a poster of a brunette girl with wide blue eyes. The right edge is torn, the poster ripped in half to eliminate her partner. At the bottom it reads “she &” in a whimsical cursive hand.

He pulls a note from the envelope, the folded sheet of paper I’ve been lying on for...a long time, I think. I don’t remember how long, or even what form I’ve taken. It must be the same form as when I was Gordon’s friend, because vessels contain our spirits until they disintegrate (the vessels, that is). I never forget disintegration.

I am eternal. I can never die, only sleep. My kind has existed since humans first drew pictures on cave walls and told stories around campfires. We were born at the dawn of imagination.

“Call Tyler,” Eli says in a flat voice. It sounds like a command, but not, I hope, for me.

A tinny male voice emits from a cell phone speaker. “Eli! What’s up, bro?”

Eli picks me up and stares into my eyes, his own turned dark with loathing.

“My father left me a cat.”

* * *

I’m four inches long. My plush fake fur is black, except for my paws, which are white. My eyes are stitched yellow-thread rings surrounding felt black centers. Their perfect roundness makes me look perpetually astonished.

All of this I’d forgotten, because when no one holds you for...years?...you lose sense of your shape.