Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Behind the Dialysis Center in the lawn, across from the Shoppin’ Bag that all of the cool kids in West Philly still call by its old name, Supremo, my boyfriend told me he saw a chicken. Just wandering around. It was Fourth of July and he had smoked a bowl, so I thought he meant those big turkeys that come back every summer. The wild turkeys we once saw a UPenn cop spend almost twenty minutes trying unsuccessfully to knock out of a tree. We always liked those wild turkeys.

You mean one of those turkeys?

No. A chicken.

Nah, it was probably a baby turkey.

But a few weeks later, I went to the laundromat near the Chinese food place I never go to and there was a rooster — his gait a clipped strut. Stopping. Peck. Peck. Peck. Then more strides, walking directly toward the back of the Restaurant School. Like a dare. Like a challenge. A rebellious rooster, tail feathers swinging like a popular girl’s ponytail in middle school.

We told our neighbors about him, the summer everyone sat on the stoop drinking Scotch from coffee cups filled with ice. We called him Pollo, a name we pulled from a comic we picked up from Locust Moon, the comic book store down the street where all the local kids would hang out. It shut down that same summer — Penn properties raised the taxes. The night of the closing party for Locust Moon, a young boy asked me What am I gonna do for friends if they shut us down? I bought him as many comic books as he wanted that night, because I couldn’t offer the friendship of a 31-year old woman to a 10-year boy and I couldn’t cry in front of a child.

Sometimes Pollo was in the lot near the mural, the one that has mosaic tiles on the building that caught fire in 2012. Right by our apartment Pollo would hide in the bushes and make chirping, dinosaur sounds. Whenever we walked past his hiding spot I’d grip my boyfriend’s side and hiss, It’s him! It’s him!

We kept listening for Pollo when he went missing. Swore we still heard him hiding in the bushes. Mourned when we thought one of the feral cats got him.

He reappeared a day in early October, running triumphantly across the seeded lawn of the same Dialysis Center. His tail feathers streaming behind him. But that was the last time we saw of him. Someone, maybe a neighbor or really any number of the people in the neighborhood we told about Pollo, swore he entered the opened door to the crumbling Christ Memorial Church. The one that everyone says is going to be rebuilt someday soon. That year Pollo made all of us believe in transmogrification.

JANE-REBECCA CANNARELLA is the editor of HOOT Review, a genre editor at Lunch Ticket, a cat lady, a contributing writer at SSG music, and a candy enthusiast. She received her BA and M.Ed from Arcadia University, attended Goldsmiths: University of London, Sarah Lawrence College, and is an MFA candidate at Antioch University. When not poorly playing the piano, she chronicles the many ways that she embarrasses herself at the website www.youlifeisnotsogreat.com. She occasionally drinks wine out of a mug that has a smug poodle on it, and she’s not wonderful at writing in the third person.

Rachael Sterling

The Elixir Witch only accepted three forms of payment: IOUs, heirlooms, and secrets. I’d heard the stories — how Mrs. Johnson paid with an IOU and the Elixir Witch collected her left pinky finger a week later. How Mr. Figueroa paid with his family’s Virgin Mary oil painting and afterward, how his abuela haunted him nightly, painting her naked body and crying over his paralyzed form until dawn.

I knew the risks.

The Elixir Witch didn’t have a shop. No storefront full of clinking potion bottles or bubbling cauldrons. She had to be summoned. And thanks to Mrs. Johnson and Mr. Figueroa, I knew how. The Elixir Witch could be summoned, quite simply and efficiently, by declaring one’s intent to provide any of the three forms of payment.

“I wish to pay,” I said to my bathroom mirror, “one secret.”

“Maya,” the Elixir Witch said, pushing the shower curtain aside. She stepped out of the tub, balancing her tray of potion bottles on one hand. She wore black, but not in the gothic Wiccan way or even in the traditional Halloween way. It was the classic, little-black-dress way. Clean lines and sharp stilettos.

“Elixir Witch,” I said, “thank you for coming.” It was good manners to thank the Elixir Witch before a transaction, but also just good sense. She tapped her metallic nails against the countertop.

“Maya,” she said again, arching her manicured eyebrow. “Which elixir would you like? Cupid’s Arrow? Hell Hath No Fury?”

“We both know the elixirs don’t work on you,” I said. “What would I do with Love or Revenge potions?”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “So what then?”

“Ignorance Is Bliss.”

Her eyes glinted and her lip curled in disgust.

“Only the weak wish to forget,” she said. But I knew she couldn’t refuse service. Not if I had adequate payment.

“You think I care what you think of me?”

“Tell me your secret,” she demanded. I opened my mouth to speak, but she cried, “Wait!” and for a split second, I let myself hope. “All sales are final,” she said with a cruel smile. “No refunds. No exchanges.”

I nodded and looked her straight in the eye.

“I faked it at least three times with you.”

Her eyes narrowed, but when she spoke it was clipped and business-like. “Your secret ranks 2 on measures of Shame and Consequence — well below adequate. But it ranks 5 for Cruelty.” She handed me a tiny crystal bottle of cloudy liquid. “Payment accepted.”

Then she was gone. Technically, she stepped back into the tub and pulled the curtain shut with a flourish, but I knew that if I were to pull the curtain back again, she wouldn’t be there.

I held the bottle up to the light and watched the forgetfulness swirl.

Lorena was surprised to find me on her doorstep. She shifted from foot to foot and her eyes darted down the block. Still, she invited me in.

We sat on her lumpy mustard couch. I refrained from wrinkling my nose until she left the room to get drinks. She came back with two glasses of Coke and set them on coasters. She didn’t even roll her eyes when I asked for more ice. She just got up and went back into the kitchen.

But she still broke first. “What are you doing here, Maya?”

“I came to warn you,” I said, sipping my Coke. “She’s dangerous.”

“Of course she is,” Lorena said. “I like that about her.”

I laughed. Lorena scowled.

“She used to tell me the secrets people told her,” I said. “We’d laugh at how pathetic they were.”

Lorena pursed her lips. Her glass began to sweat.

“You bought from her once, didn’t you?” I said. “What was your secret… that you sleep around to feel powerful? Bet you feel more powerful than ever.”

Lorena said nothing. A peacock feather tattoo peeked out from under her black top as she reached for her glass. She wore black jeans, too — probably a sad attempt to match the Elixir Witch. As soon as I had the thought, I said it aloud. I told Lorena she couldn’t come close to the Elixir Witch’s dark beauty. I told her that by wearing black, she only highlighted the disparity between them. I expected her to scowl again, or cry. But Lorena just smiled and brought the glass to her lips.

“Cruelty isn’t the only way to get her attention,” she said.

All of a sudden, I felt naked. Exposed. It was as if Lorena could see right through me.

My resolve wavered. Maybe I didn’t have to do this. I could knock the glass right out of her hand.

I reached toward her, but I was too late. She drained the glass.

Lorena’s face contorted with pain and confusion. She shifted from panicked to serene, until she looked only vaguely curious.

I left. There was no point in saying goodbye.

At midnight, the Elixir Witch appeared in my darkened living room. Her slender fingers closed tight around my throat. The points of her nails dug into my skin.

“You bitch,” she growled, her breath hot against my ear. “Purchase Forget-Me-Not and give it to Lorena immediately.”

“Do it yourself,” I sneered.

“You know I can’t.” Her breath was ragged, her eyes bloodshot.

And I cared.

This is what she did. She made me weak, then hated me for it.

“I’m out of secrets,” I told her. “You know them all.”

It was true. I didn’t own any heirlooms and there was no chance in hell I’d indebt myself to her. Not after everything. Did that make me cruel enough?

She shimmered. Sparks burned black spots into the upholstery, raised shiny welts on my skin. She was angry, but she wasn’t disgusted. Not anymore. I reached up to take her curls between my fingers and pulled her down to me. I tasted the tang of her magic, pushed past the shock of it. When we broke apart, she was gone.

RACHAEL STERLING lives in sunny Santa Monica, California, staying indoors or else seeking shade. She teaches music to preschoolers most mornings and writes most afternoons. You can find her playing music on the internet under the name Rae Sterling or very occasionally, performing at real live locations around Los Angeles.

Caleb Echterling

It was 3:17 a.m. when the curtain fell on the peacock’s nocturnal aria. After two minutes of silence, Hubert shifted his pillow from over his head to under his head, grumbled about ungrateful domestic fowl keeping him up all night, and fell asleep. He woke up at 9:30. Funny, he thought, I must have slept through my multi-colored alarm clock. He slid his feet into a ratty pair of all-terrain outdoor slippers.

The feed bag fell from his shoulder as the screen door slammed shut behind him. A sheet of paper flapped on the gaping-open gate to the peacock pen. He ran inside, cradling the note so none of the letters — attached with used chewing gum — would fall off. “Mildred, Mildred. Someone’s kidnapped Rupert.” The note landed on his wife’s arm with a soft squish.

“Whazzah?” She rubbed her eyes and propped up on an elbow. “We have to find him. He’s singing the lead in my barnyard animal production of The Barber of Seville. Opening night is in two days. We have to find him. And why do I smell spearmint?”

“Gum on the ransom note. Thought you’d want to see it.”

Mildred’s arms flailed like she’d been told to come on down for a confab with Bob Barker. The note skidded across the floor, leaving a wake of cut-out magazine letters and pre-owned Wrigley’s. “Gaaa! Get it off me. Used chewing gum is a frat party for microbes. I can’t get sick two days before open.”

Hubert worked at reassembling the note. “Why can’t you have the understudy fill in?”

“Because the understudy is a sheep,” Mildred huffed. “It’s vocal range is one note.” She snapped her fingers. “It must have been the Stevensons that did it. They’ve got La boheme running opposite us, and they’re afraid we’ll cut into their ticket sales. Grab your bolt cutters.”

Mildred hid behind a sapling on the hill overlooking the Stevensons’ farm. A spyglass bore a ring into the skin around her eyesocket. “He’s in that barn. I know it.”

Hubert rubbed pebbles into the dirt with his belly. “You should find a better hiding place. That tiny thing’s not giving you any cover.”

Mildred’s hand channeled Richard Simmons and flapped three feet above Hubert’s head. “Those two are blind as bats. Did you see their costumes for Rigoletto? A mole could sew better than that. They must have Rupert in the barn. Let’s go.”

A deep-throated click bubbled up behind them. Mildred turned to see the business end of a vintage shotgun. Hubert put his hands over his head.

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Mr. Stevenson said from the non-business end of the gun. “Til you return my chicken chorus. I know you’re trying to undercut our production of La boheme. With your terrible acoustics, cheatin’s the only way to outdraw us.” Mr. Stevenson jabbed the gun at Mildred.

“We didn’t take your damn chickens,” Mildred said. “We don’t want ‘em. They can never hit the same note at the same time. Where’s Rupert? He’s late for his vocal tune-ups.”

“I don’t have your bird. I don’t care that he is the finest tenor south of Boone Creek, I’m not listening to that racket all night.”

Hubert eased off the ground while holding his hands high. “If I may interject, it appears to me that no one here has kidnapped any animals. Which means the culprit is still at large. Any idea who that might be?”

Mr. Stevenson scratched his head with the shotgun barrel. “Couldn’t be Zeke. He’s between shows.”

“And Edna said they were closing up shop for good after Carmen was such a flop,” Mildred said.

“Well I’ll be plummed,” Mr. Stevenson said. “It must have been them fellers from New York. Said they was prospecting for oil, but they weren’t dressed like no oilmen.”

“Maybe we need to piece together that ransom note,” Hubert said.

Thirty-seven wads of gum, each topped with a cut-out letter, assembled on the kitchen table. The letters were what was left of the ransom note, which had once spelled out something intelligible, and might do so again with the application of enough brain power. Three sets of hands scrambled to form words, snatch letters from their neighbor, or hide letters under the table. “Enough,” Hubert yelled. “We’ll take turns. Mr. Stevenson, you’re the guest. You go first.”

Mr. Stevenson cracked his knuckles. His fingers drummed on the table. Staccato blasts shot from his nose as letters danced around the table. A drawn out grumble mingled with mumbled swear words. “I’ve got it. Toot anarchy wait enjoyment. Did your peacock have problems with breaking wind?”

Mildred shoved him to the side. “That barely makes sense. Let the real detective have a shot.” She lined the letters in alphabetical order. Her elbows propped on the table. For five minutes, she stared. A preemptive shush flew at Mr. Stevenson when he cleared his throat. A fluster of flashing fingers finished her arrangement. “Done. Watchman eaten tiny joy root. Oh my god. He dug up the miniature hallucinogenic sweet potatoes and now he thinks he’s a superhero.”

Hubert put his hand on Mildred’s shoulder. “We don’t grow hallucinogenic sweet potatoes any more. Our soil’s too moist and they get the rot, remember? I believe it’s my turn now.” Mildred stomped to the living room. The couch springs announced the parking of her ass with a symphony of squeaks. Hubert tried pushing the letters to form words. After delving down the fifteenth dead end, he switched to making shapes. Circle, triangle, trapezoid, parallelogram. He was putting the finishing touch on a hexagon when Mildred smacked the back of his head.

“If all you’re going to do is doodle, you forfeit your turn.”

“Hold on. This is an exercise to clear my mind. Like how you let your eyes go out of focus to find Waldo. Well look at this.” Hubert slapped his knee. “Mom and dad, ran away to new york to join the met. That’s what it says.”

Mildred sobbed. “Rupert wouldn’t run off without saying goodbye. I know he wouldn’t.”

“He also can’t spell,” Hubert said.

“Or use scissors,” Mr. Stevenson said. He popped two shells into his shotgun. “Rupert didn’t write this note. I believe it’s time for us to pay a visit to some bird-nappers.”

Backstage at the Metropolitan Opera, Mildred, Hubert and Mr. Stevenson strutted through the hallways jammed with singers and crew for opening night of La boheme. “We don’t blend in at all,” Mildred hissed. “Everyone else looks like they’re in an opera, and we have outfits that look like they were designed by blind, drunk labrador retrievers.”

Mr. Stevenson swiveled around to face her. “I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife’s La boheme costumes that way. If we used your rags from The Barber of Seville, we’d stick out even worse.”

A man carrying a clipboard rushed down the hall. His eyes locked with Mildred’s, and he skidded to a stop. Mildred ducked her head to fiddle with the pocket of her jacket. “What are you doing here! All street vendors are on stage in two minutes.” The man hooked a hand around Hubert’s waist and shooed the group toward the sound of singing.

“But we’re not . . . ”

Mildred clapped her hand over Hubert’s mouth. “We don’t want to be late, do we?” They turned a corner and dove into a mob of 1830s Parisians. They wriggled free from the clipboard handler and moved through the crowd.

Mr. Stevenson pulled a shotgun from his jacket and used it as a pointer. “That there’s the man what stole my chickens. The tall one.” A man stood between the scrum of actors and the stage, his upper torso protruding above the garden of heads.

“He’s not tall,” Hubert said. “He’s standing on a chair.”

“Maybe so, but he done stole my chickens.”

“Get him!” screamed Mildred. Her elbows turned into crowd control weapons, clearing a path through the crowd. She tackled the man and pinned his shoulders to the floor. “Where’s Rupert? You kidnapped my baby. You give him back right now.”

The man struggled against Mildred’s grasp. When Mr. Stevenson arrived to model his vintage shotgun, the man went still. “I can’t give him back. He’s on stage.” The eardrum scraping sound of peacock cries reached Mildred. “And I didn’t kidnap him. He came of his own free will when I said our tenor sprained his pulmonary artery. Your bird has a remarkable voice, you know.”

The shotgun scratched the man’s nose. “Then where’s my chickens?”

“Rupert insisted we bring them. We cast them as working girls. The free eggs almost make up for their inability to sing in tune.”

“There’s our cue,” someone shouted. The mob lurched toward the stage, sweeping along everything in its path. Mildred caught one glimpse of Rupert before the stage lights blinded her. She staggered between street vendor props, swerved to avoid a tumble into the orchestra pit, and wrapped her arms around Rupert’s neck. Rupert’s tail feathers spread into a stained glass semicircle. Mildred burst into tears. The audience burst into applause. Rupert squawked.

“Oh, Rupert,” Mildred said. “I always knew your voice was too good for our barnyard. You follow your dreams as far as you can. I’ll miss you.”

CALEB ECHTERLING lives in Richmond, Virginia, where he fights with the squirrels over who gets to bury acorns in his yard. His short story “Haikuzilla” won first prize in the 8th Annual Bartleby Snopes Dialogue Contest. He tweets funny fiction using the clever handle @CalebEchterling. To find more of his writing, visit www.calebechterling.com.