Tsuuretsu2Unabara

It started in 1992. A children’s horror series began appearing on shelves in libraries nationwide. Cold Creeps. I only noticed because a child brought a pile of them to the circulation desk to check-out and I knew I had never seen them before, and would certainly remember the covers. I couldn’t imagine where they’d been found, and thought that maybe an older teen, cleaning out their shelves before college, had surreptitiously unloaded the books at the library. The child, a girl about 8 years old, led me to the shelf she’d recently cleared out. “They were here. No they weren’t here last week.” (I should note that books always appeared exactly where they should have been shelved, whether the library used the Dewey decimal system, Library of Congress, or simple alphabetical. I checked with librarians at national conferences to confirm. Yes, the books were without fail on the shelves where they would have been shelved. No, no one at the library remembered ordering them, or processing the

Morgan was ready for the conference. Her study, based initially on the observations and actions of her daughters, Sabrina and Glinda, was beautifully bound with a delightfully shiny cover protector. Morgan had always, always, loved reports and presentations when she was in school. She possibly loved them even more now for their infrequency, for the self motivation required to conjure the thesis, ask the necessary questions, compile and meditate on the results, and the inherent bravery in submitting the final product to the Mage’s Council of the Northern Hemisphere. Who had accepted her paper and asked her both to present and participate on a panel about Practical Magic. How could she refuse? Morgan was considered something of an oddity in the mage’s world. Married to a mundie, multiple children, no cats (or other pets), contrasted with a very distinct classic witch look (black hair shot with silver, even as a teen, and eyes that seemed to change colors), and an immense talent for

Casey sat in his parent’s basement, and hoped a job would find him. Frankly, he’d done quite a bit, to make it easier for the job to find him. On both the bulkhead doors and the door that led to the rest of the house, he’d rubber-cemented his name in large letters with “Job seeker” in a smaller font below, like a subtitle. Casey wore one of his dad’s old suits, a striped tie, and a woven paper trilby with a little feather on the side. He put his worn soles up on the coffee table he’d commandeered as a desk, and contemplated smoking the cigar he’d stolen from his father’s oak box, kept for special occasions. He could only take one, every four months or so, otherwise his father would notice. Casey decided to save the cigar for something special. Like for when the job found him. How long did it take for a job to find those old school PIs? He wondered. He also wondered if plate-glass windows were a necessity to finding a job, or just an aesthetic choice. If the windows were a necessity

I try not to think about senior prank too often. It was mostly benign, covering the long hallway in post-it notes, moving the with-ins of the classrooms to the with-outs, filling the elevator with glitter-filled balloons. We were a small class for the school, 18 students, even for the niche academy that it was. Most of us stayed in the hallway, working patterns into the post-its. I swelled with pride at my rendition of Starry Night. (I know, so twee. So inspired.) But one of us– “Where’s Jim?” “IDK, Fran. Have you checked the gym?” This earned Greg the stare of daggers. The glare of knives? What were people calling Fran’s laser focus in those days? “Yeah. No dice. Props to whoever put the ribbons on the basketball hoops.” We all whistled and murmured our appreciation. Fran’s voice was impressive, too. She led the soccer team to loss after loss for three seasons. We’d all forget that, but we’d never forget how her voice carried. “EVERYBODY. When did you last see Jim?” Post-it notes

“Babe. Babe. Wake up.” She shoved his shoulder repeatedly. He turned over, groaning. “Whaaaa?” “Babe. I’m making cheese sauce for nachos. But we are out of cheese.” “What am I supposed to do about that- Why are you making nachos? It’s three A.M.” She sighed. “You need to go to the store for me.” “I can’t go like this.” he gestured to himself, his holely disney park t-shirt and Mickey mouse boxers. “And I can’t go like this!” She threw her arms wide and he could see she was covered in flour. Her hair was white, like some bad play about the founding fathers. And her skin was just totally obliterated beneath the dust. “Rewind- Why nachos? Why now?” She bit her lip and looked away. “Why? C’mon.” “I had a dream. I need to eat nachos for breakfast. Otherwise the world will end.” “Are you sure?” “Yes! The dream was very clear…” “Fine. Let me put something over this and I’ll get the cheese.” “My hero! You’re saving the world by doing this, y’know?” “...Just save some for when I get up at my

Serena was the best chef I knew. Until her recipes got away from her. Until we found her in her office, on the floor, slowly chewing through the cookbooks, and the books on cheese and fermenting vegetables. We prized them gentle from her hands. “Oh no, oh no,” she wept. “I haven’t gotten to dessert.”

Wailing and the plinking of dropped marbles filled the house. “There it goes again.” “The ghost? Do you think we should tell mom?” Sabrina sighed. “We should probably tell mom.” “Should we gear up first?” Glinda asked. The sisters dug through their closet and costume box for anything that seemed like it could be an effective ghost hunting ensemble. Sabrina and Glinda had very different takes on the prompt. Sabrina had found a khaki jumpsuit, a beekeeper’s hat with netting, and heavy boots that she fastidiously tucked the jumpsuit into. Glinda, on the other hand, donned a full lilac and black tutu with a tucked in vintage t-shirt featuring the silhouette of a cat against the moon. She also found a bright pink witch’s hat and matching boots. The sisters looked at each other with approval and faint terror that they’d picked the wrong way to hunt a ghost. “Alright. We’re as ready as we’ll ever be, I guess.” “Let’s go tell mom.” They tromped down the narrow attic stairs together, and

The sun is a devil but the one underground is worse. My sisters and I have always swathed ourselves in dark fabrics, to keep the sun from our skin, so we would not burn in its cruel light. And now the sun is brighter, hotter, and we cannot go outside, covered or uncovered without sickening rapidly. We talk quietly amongst ourselves, huddled in the dark, windows shuttered, thick fabric hung before them. The smell is intolerable, in this breathless space. Some of our braver souls go to the cellar and linger there. I pray for them. One of the girls who is often tasked with acquiring food squeaks out something about a terrible project in the city. They are tunneling to put the tram cars on underground roads. I shudder. It is risky work, these city folk have engaged in. Yes, a cellar is risky too, but it is not that deep, so the chances of breaking through are low. What she describes- They are digging for miles, and some places, very far underground. I’m surprised they have not freed the

Believe what you want. It’s fine, I get it. Hard to swallow. But the world ended in 2012 and most of us didn’t notice. If we’re a simulation, the game kept playing after the cord got cut. Ghosts in the machine and all that. Heh. How’d I know? That’s a good question, that. Two things. Yeah, just two. Work. And wonder. Work’s the easy one. Driving across the country like I do, you see it– the supply routes. From port to rural rest stop. It just keeps coming. Even after a day when you’re pretty sure the lights dimmed world-wide. The rube-goldberg machine keeps going as long as everything is in its place. I help things get to their places. hmmm Wonder. Wonder’s a lil harder. Most folks lose it somewhere between an education and an office park. Take a look at this. Beautiful, innit? Cut crystal. Good weight to it, too. Lookit ‘er sparkle. Clever little grooves for the ciggies to rest in. Naw, I never used ‘er for that, can’t stand the smell, but my Meemaw did. Cleaned it out at the end of

Sweat sticking the flyaways to her forehead in a mockery of spit curls, Jolene rinses the lettuce intended for her dinner under the stuttering cool stream of the sink. The cold water shocks and obliterates sound in her studio and the chill creeps up her arms and splashes against her stomach. She shakes out the lettuce, scattering more droplets, and tears the leaves from the stalk, shredding as she dries them. She’s already reset her hair in curlers for tomorrow, drank her tomato juice as she walked through the small space, switching out of her stiff work clothes into a cotton t-shirt and terry cloth shorts. The blazer and silk scarf in the bank colors hang from the rack near her front door. As Jolene opens the tuna can, her phone begins to ring. But she’s not expecting anyone. Momma only calls on Fridays, and it’s very much only Wednesday. She lets it go. The machine will get. She’ll call back if she has to, but god, she needs to eat. It’s been such a long, hot day. The phone keeps