​Two short pieces of fiction for you this week – featuring giant rats and devious demons – bringing you urban fantasy at its best. Written by Andrew Kozma and Nicholas C. Allen, both stories contain elements of the surreal and Americana, as well as sin and freshly baked bread...


The Rats
by Andrew Kozma


The rats were getting larger.

They were getting so large that the sewers strained to hold them.

First the mayor sent in cats. Then dogs. Then tigers. Finally, they sent in the circus bears.
    
Their cries were horrible. None came back alive.
    
Aboveground, the city slowly emptied. Rats invaded pantries. They took over grocery stores. At night, people mistook the rats for taxis.

Their cries were horrible. None came back alive.

When the call went out for volunteers, I volunteered. I’d always loved rats. I thought I could talk them down. Get them to rethink their plans.
​
I entered the sewers like a martyr, my head held high, a wheel of cheese cradled in each arm.
    
I was expected. They took me under their furry little wings. They fitted me for teeth.

They said, “This is how it’s done.”

* Houston-based Andrew Kozma’s fiction has appeared in Drabblecast, Grievous Angel, Daily Science Fiction, Stupefying Stories and Albedo One.



The Demon Behind the Subway on F Street
by Nicholas C. Allen


There was a demon behind the Subway restaurant on F Street. With black eyes, white, leathery skin, and a forked tongue that slithered out every so often, he was a sight to send shivers down even a domineering mother-in-law's spine. Even more disconcerting was the fact that he remained there all times, standing steadfast in the rain, the snow, the heat, and the occasional milkstorm.

His dark, trench-coated figure was an ominous presence that did wonders for the business of the Subway on F Street. It was, in fact, the only Subway restaurant in the city that didn't require one to pay a breathing tax, and it was suggested by numerous people that it was the demon who was responsible.

About the demon's origins, not much was known. One rumor was that he'd always been there, before there was even a Subway. Another rumor claimed that an employee came across him one day when taking the trash out to the dumpster – there he was, waiting, tongue darting out between his lips. Yet another rumor was that he wasn't actually there at all, that he was either A) a shared delusion (a new fad taking the city by storm) or B) simply did not exist. But quite frankly, that was ridiculous. Generally, the people who preferred B would go pale at just the mention of the demon behind the Subway, glancing around and chuckling nervously, saying, "Demon? Hehehehe, what demon? I haven't heard of any demon. Don't be absurd."

Nor did anyone know if he'd one day disappear, never to be seen again. Or to at least take a break. It was only known that if you went up to him and asked to make a purchase, he'd name a price (usually something small, like a blood sacrifice) and upon returning the next day, he'd have a succubus ready for you, the woman of your dreams at your complete and utter disposal for a whole twenty-four hours.

Available to any and all genders, the succubus would loyally follow anywhere she was taken, and would perform any sexual act to the best of her ability (which was guaranteed to be superb, or your blood sacrifice back). She required no protection of any kind, and any child sired as a result of the day's activities would in no way be the responsibility of the father. Exactly twenty-four hours from the time of pick-up, she would then vanish into a plume of smoke that reeked potently of sulfur, leaving the customer in a state of light-headed euphoria as an added bonus.

Though the authorities attempted more than once to bring an end to the demon's habit-forming services, none were ever successful. To this day he stands there, black eyes staring dumbly forward, and his own sulfuric odor partially masked by the pleasant scent of freshly baked bread.

* Nicholas C. Allen is a young man who wants to get the most out of life. When not writing, he enjoys television and Italian food. You can follow him on Twitter at @_nicholasallen

It's our great pleasure to welcome back another regular Grievous Angel contributor – Arizona-based Gary Every – with a short poignant tale looking back at the demise of manned space-flights to the Moon... and of the demise of the astronauts who flew those trips. Gary's work has been previously published in Tales of the Talisman, Dreams and Nightmares, Mythic Delirium and many others including four nominations for the Rhysling Award for Year's Best Science Fiction Poetry.

Moon Worms
by Gary Every

The worms go in, the worms go out
Into your stomach and out your mouth
Your eyes fall in, your teeth fall out
And your brains come tumbling down
....Traditional Children’s song

I remember watching the first lunar landing as a child, family gathered around the television. I was extremely unimpressed. I was a big fan of Sunday Afternoon Science Fiction Theater and I had seen countless men on the moon, untold alien invasions, to say nothing of creatures returning from the grave, so a bunch of guys in big clumsy suits stomping awkwardly wasn’t television I found too exciting. Besides at that age, with the grades that I was receiving in school, I believed that someday I would travel to the moon myself, maybe be among the first colonists on Mars, or even journey to the stars.

So here I sit, decades beyond being a child and there is no space travel in my immediate future and quite frankly an immediate future is all I have left. I have reached the point where I can be considered middle aged only if I live to be over one hundred years of age. It looks as if the promises they made to me about the future availability of space travel were bald faced lies. Where are the flying cars? I was promised flying cars!  

Neil Armstrong said those famous words when he first stepped on the moon “That’s one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind,” but we haven’t done a whole lot of walking since. Like an infant child, mankind seems to have fallen down while learning to walk among the galaxies. I still hope that someday man will learn to engage in space travel but it appears as if any progress will take place long after I have shed this mortal coil.

The more I think about it – the sadder I get. One by one the astronauts who stepped on the moon are dying off. It was always a small and exclusive club but as they pass away one by one it is becoming smaller and more exclusive. When one thinks of what a celebrated moment the moon landing was, everyone on the planet watching the first moon landing together. Those first views looking down on the whole earth ignited the environmental movement. It is something of a tragedy that soon there will not be a single human being left on this world who can remember what it feels like to stand on the surface of another planet. The astronauts commented how they were moved nearly to tears viewing our earth floating in the cosmos like a brilliant blue marble, fragile, alone, and tiny.

One by one the astronauts are passing away, buried in cold and lonely graves which are still not as cold and lonely as the surface of the moon. How ironic that as they die, their memories are buried with them while their footsteps on the lunar surface may remain undisturbed for a million years.  

William Shakespeare once wrote “To sleep perchance to dream – ay there’s the rub” and perhaps the lunar astronaut’s memories will not die with them. Scientists have been able to teach flatworms how to solve simple mazes. If you cut the flatworms into three or four pieces, not only will each of those pieces survive but each piece will know how to solve the maze. One has to wonder about the astronauts lying still and motionless inside their graves but maybe the graves are not that lonely. 

After all as the morbid children’s song says, “The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out…” Do the astronaut’s tombstones tremble as the grave beneath is filled with a mass of writhing, feeding worms. Are worms, these humble, hungry creatures the last beings on earth to remember what it feels like to stand on another world and gaze upon our home planet? When the worms sleep (do earthworms sleep?) do they recall the astronaut’s memories of standing on the surface of the moon? When the earthworms dream (do earthworms dream?) do they ever dream of outer space and travelling amongst the stars? I hope so.

We've work from four poets today – some you will have seen on this zine before, others who are new to the Grievous Angel. The four are: Pat Tompkins, Herb Kauderer, Heidi Padain, and Ken Poyner. (Authors' credits appear after their poems.) Enjoy...


dark energy
extending the universe
not unlike
bittersweet chocolate
expanding my waistline
 
* * * 

Lunar Tunes

fly me to the
paper moon dance river
great gig in the sky


* Pat Tompkins is an editor in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her short sci-fi poems have appeared in several issues of Dwarf Stars. She adds "I'm not quite a Luddite, but I don't do social media or have a blog or website."



Best Laid Plans
 
Eugene Cernan dedicated his life
to carrying mankind
into outer space
 
only to suffer
all the remaining decades he lived
being known as the LAST man

to walk on the moon.

* * *

[untitled]

on a dead world
the plastic warning label 
outlasts its container

lives on a sandy beach 
safe as could be


* Herb Kauderer is an associate professor of English at Hilbert College. He is the author of eight chapbooks of poetry, most recently The Book of Answers.



Skin and bones

The train hit hard, his physical injuries are nothing compared to the turmoil within. It was not his time, he must face his demons. Framed impressions of who he once was adorn the walls. These old photographs are vibrant, and colourful, in a black and white room where the family move around him like ghosts.The train left without him.


* Heidi Padain is the Director of Doing at Heidi Padain Photography in Waitakere, New Zealand https://www.flickr.com/photos/underst8ted/sets/



NEW PLANET LANDSCAPE 2

All day the sea throws itself forward.

Then, to please a different moon, it later
Will reel itself dutifully back.
The howl you hear,

The noise you think is water
Dancing angrily on the rock,

Are the mermen who gathered too sumptuously long
In the brief but mindfully rich shallows.

Soon, we can harvest them for leather.


* Of late Norfolk (VA)-based Ken Poyner has had poetry published in Analog, Asimov’s, Star*Line, Abyss and Apex, and several other places. His most recent collection is Constant Animals, 42 unruly fictions available in paperback and ebook via www.kpoyner.com & Amazon.

Time for a fresh selection of SciFaiku (or Zappai as I recently discovered was another name for random 'Ku of a non-traditional nature!) from Grievous Angel regular haikuists Christina Sng, Guy Bellaranti and John Reinhart

Strange bubbling inside 
The giant's stomach. 
Shouldn't have eaten the witch.

by Christina Sng


rude partygoers
enough noise to wake the dead
zombie smiles

dinner table
mother monster knows best
eat your vegetarians

by Guy Belleranti


LaserJet Pro
autonomously printing
future obituaries

by John Reinhart



Our haikuists are... Christina Sng is a poet, writer, and occasional toymaker. She lives with her family and their spirited tabby cat just north of the Equator. Guy Belleranti writes poetry, fiction and more. His poetry has appeared in Scifaikuest, Midnight Echo, Trysts of Fate, Grievous Angel, Spaceports & Spidersilk and the book Anomalous Appetites. John Reinhart lives in Colorado with his wife and children, and beasts aplenty, including a dog, cat, duck, goats, chickens, pigeons, and probably mice. His poetry has recently been published in Scifaikuest, Star*Line, Moon Pigeon Press, and Grievous Angel. More of his work is available at https://www.facebook.com/pages/John-Reinhart-Poet/398029117023409