Night Picnic Press
VOLUME 9, ISSUE 1
2026 • ISBN# 9781970033410 • 80 pp • 6" x 9" paperback
Night Picnic is a literary journal founded in 2018. We publish novels, novellas, plays, short and flash stories, fairytales and fantasy for adults, poetry, interviews, essays (including popular science essays), letters to the editors, and artwork. We seek to share and celebrate all that is strange, dark, jubilant, complex, confusing, scary, mystical, fantastic, multidimensional, and metaphysical.
This issue includes:
Evelyn Griffith, Mother Ent
Catherine Pabalate, Sister Temper
Robert Georgi, Monsters in the Woods
Springs Toledo, The Odd & Edifying Story of Headless Hob
Christopher Hadin, The Wild
Becky Marietta, The Last Supper
Patrick ten Brink, The Search
Taylor Hagood, Skintoxication & other poems
Philip Wexler, Air Apparent & other poems
Maureen Clark, Gravity & other poem
Enjoy work from this issue below:
POETRY
TAYLOR HAGOOD
Skintoxication
I have thrilled in the abundance of flesh
crammed it into my mouth with fiendish greed
as though a constellation of colors could be an Apelles rainbow
mixtures of black, yellow, red, white.
I feel more than a little embarrassed
Shouldn’t so much bodiness be too much?
Not unless knowing in itself is.
Not unless necessity is.
I am one who believes in the soul.
But so much of how I know those I love fleshes out.
I know the skin smell hidden beneath perfume
swathed in sweat, pungent in young age, weary in old age,
charged with lust, love, or fear. Tinged with protein or sugar.
Can the infinite be enveloped?
Can an organ stretch to include it all?
Autochthony
Writers in earlier times fixated
on dragons’ teeth, the sewing
of soldiers to spring from the ground.
That explanation rated
identity. Place made you sing
your belonging, or spread around
your frustration. My tell-tale tongue,
however, places itself where it
will. Dialect must have its way.
And more still — morals hung
with memory, attitudes lit
with prejudices the way
oxygen fuels a blast furnace.
But I have seen the familiar grow
unfamiliar. And ugly. I
have resisted both less
and more, convinced I know
how to be, and why.
Country House at Night
A light left on in the living room,
allowing a glimpse in? Or out?
It can be so easy to call it a beacon
in the waves of black corn.
Or imagine sobs over someone lost,
or strong wills at odds, unfixable.
Farm equipment stands in the yard,
jacked-up lovers baffled at how to part.
An International Harvester cap hangs
on the diamond-shaped hat rack.
Chickens are everywhere in the kitchen
and the coop, sleeping because they must.
There is nothing — absolutely nothing
at all — romantic about this place.
PHILIP WEXLER
Air Apparent
Oliver was mumbling to himself but more to the Air over Lake Wisconsin, which had just pulled in from Lake Geneva (the European one). The Air asked him to speak up, since his half-heard complaints referenced the latter. He complied and spoke more clearly, said it wasn’t the Lake per se that had got his goat but the associations with it, particularly his Cousin Rhonda with whom he spent, at her invitation, a pleasant afternoon on the northern shore where they were nibbled on pear and chocolate confections and sipped coffee. The issue was that word got back to Oliver’s mom that Rhonda did not feel he did enough to express his gratitude to her for her hospitality, which he denied vehemently as he had clearly and sincerely thanked her to no end before departing Geneva and subsequently in an email upon returning home to the States. “Is it conceivable,” the Air wanted to know, “that you proffered your thanks to the Swiss Lake rather than to Rhonda herself? These mistakes happen all the time. Is it possible your email got lost in her junk folder or the ether of cyberspace? Or could your memory be faulty? Or is it your indistinct speech?” “Oh, what’s the use talking to you?” muttered Oliver before going back to babbling about who knows what this time. Meanwhile, overseas, Lake Geneva’s southern shore was commiserating with Rhonda about her ungrateful cousin and his highfalutin Air of pretension. “Be assured,” the Lake replied, “the ungrateful swine will get his comeuppance,” this coming as Lake Wisconsin’s Air turned turbulent and hammered him full force. “What have I done to deserve this?” he demanded. The storm shrieked, incoherently to Oliver, that this is what he gets for failing to speak clearly.
Winnings
Seated around the table with an empty spot at its head, four players anxiously awaited the tall no-nonsense shuffler, a welder’s visor concealing his eyes, who finally arrived and slid into his designated spot without delay. He was accompanied by a young boy with a leather satchel over his shoulder. The boy removed and opened a collapsible stool and took a seat next to the shuffler who impassively said, “Red.” The boy pulled out a fresh deck of red cards. The shuffler ripped the seal off the package with his teeth.
He shuffled slowly before gathering steam, quickening the pace, and interleaving the cards so quickly that no more than a blur was visible. The players eyed each other nervously. All at once, he squared up the deck and slapped it smack in the center of the table, reverberating from the impact. Up went his visor. “Cut,” he ordered. No one knew whom he was addressing. The confusion was laid to rest when the boy cut the cards. “Ready, gents?” he asked, though there was a woman in the group. Silently but in unison they gulped and, all of one mind, started to bolt for the door.
“Pansies!” he derided them, “get back to your positions,” and they did. “The boy will deal.” He relinquished his seat to the youth, and everyone relaxed. The game proceeded as he retired to a workbench in a corner where he sharpened and honed an ultra-sharp, case-hardened knife. “Won’t be but a moment,” he shouted over the din and sparks. Everyone was dealt two cards face down, instructed to look at them, put one in each hand, and place their hands behind their chair backs. Lickety-split, the boy circled the table and handcuffed them all.
“All right, chaps, let’s have at it,” announced the shuffler. It was a festive scene as he went from one to the next, slitting throats and watching them slump forward on the table and drop their cards behind them. He flung away his visor and emptied their wallets one by one. As he added up his winnings, the boy crept up behind him and used a length of copper wire to strangle the shuffler. He tucked the ace of spades behind his right ear, pocketed the cash, wished everyone a pleasant eternity, and whistled with youthful delight as he shuffled off.
Any Moment Now
The conference ballroom jam-packed, anxious expectation in the air, 5 minutes to showtime. What would he say? How would he stir their souls? But showtime came and went and the stage remained empty. A massive blue screen displayed, in an ornate but miniscule, and almost unreadable, font, the white-lettered words: Program to Begin Momentarily. After 15 minutes of nothingness, we began looking at each other uncomfortably. Had something happened to the speaker? A young kid with a mop over one shoulder came up to adjust the mic. Aside from annoying buzzing sounds and echoes and his coughing into it, intentionally it appeared, he brought no news about the missing speaker. People gradually started to leave. After ½ hour, only ½ the audience remained in their seats, fidgeting. The lights were finally dimmed, and everyone applauded, assuming the show was ready to begin, but through the sound system, a distinctly Irish-accented voice boomed, asking people to hold tight for a few more moments. The exodus continued. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I jumped up on the stage, “Welcome, friends,” I said, “forgive the delay. I was just making some last-minute notes.” ½ the remaining people applauded and ½ booed but I was not deterred and continued at length about The Great Alternative, the advertised subject of the evening. The heretofore apathetic crowd began perking up their ears, nodding their heads, interrupting me frequently with applause. How outsiders different from the people who abandoned their seats got wind of what was happening, I don’t know, but the ballroom filled up again, and to overflowing. Although I thought I carried it off passably well, I was astounded by the favorable reception I received. I was rushed by well-wishers. My wrist is still sore from giving autographs and my shoulders from being slapped in congratulations. The bouquets of roses were more than I deserved but I gladly accepted all. On my way out, with several hangers-on who insisted on feting me at a five-star restaurant, the announcement on the screen changed to We are Ready to Begin. We all had a good laugh at that one.
MAUREEN CLARK
Gravity
don’t blame gravity for the fall
it’s just doing its job
and you were the one
who caught your foot
on the edge of the doorway
you can’t blame yourself
without blaming your age
and you’re sick of that cop-out too
but the joints in your body
are worn out and aching all the time
and if you hadn’t caught your toe
on the coffee table going down
you wouldn’t have broken the little toe
of your left foot in two places
carpet rash on your elbow
the goose-egg on your head
there is absolutely no one
that can be blamed
which is why you are furious
cursing the universe
in proxy
for something at fault
Six Full Minutes of Total Darkness
long enough for the party atmosphere
to take hold the search for matches and candles
bumping into furniture cursing as you giggle
sitting in the dark and talking
under one of mom’s quilts
all the houses on the street are dark
and there’s no traffic at all
no light pollution from the city
so you wait one by one you
run out of things to say
the questions how long? when?
cell phones don’t work
or the landline
all the batteries are dead
the kerosene lamp on the table
still smells of kerosene
but without a match
there will be no nostalgic atmosphere
six minutes is long enough to
keep you suspended
long enough for fear
to creep in on little cat feet
for you to think ‘end of the world’
and quickly respond ‘don’t be silly’
the lights will come back on
night sky dark as Lehman’s Cave
where you went as kids
to experience total darkness
for the first time that feeling
of being alone with others breathing
how your body disappeared
and left only your mind talking to itself
six minutes is long enough
for little seeds of panic
to break free from your control
the way they did that night
you thought the world was ending
only to find out it was a family of racoons
in the chimney remember how you repented
unashamedly that is happening again
how long has it been dark
an hour maybe more
you can’t remember company
and banter have you always been
this isolated this totally
and completely alone
FICTION
EVELYN GRIFFITH
Mother Ent
When she laughed, often at something the starlings had said or something the stones chided her for, her laughter was the rustling of branches, her eyes the sparkling of the minnows in the stream just past the old, crooked tree down the way — the one she called Grandfather.
When she laughed the air wasn’t any crisper than when the crickets snapped their wings against themselves and crackled, but the sun seemed to warm itself for the sound of it, as if it were the brightness of the campfires she found herself nearing — lurking just beyond the tree line, so the light wouldn’t hit her skin.
But she didn’t often laugh. Instead, she liked to feel the emptiness of nearing those humans she had so long avoided. She loved to hear their laughter, to bask in the simple, yet vibrant changing natures they so often exuded. For her nature was always gentle and steady, but passive. One that passed by without anyone noticing, except — perhaps — for the young child who smiled brighter and said, “Mommy, the trees are smiling.”
At this she would long to stay behind, to brush her willowy fingers, knobbed and knotted with dirt and wrinkles, through the fine strands of silk that were the child’s hair. Curly and blond, or sleek black like the night sky, or brown and ruffled like the whitecaps across the river on windy days.
She would grab her own hair and let it brush through her fingers, the tendrils leafy and vine-like with thorns that poked her and drew a greenish-black blood from the scratches.
Most days she walked the wooded groves, plucking leaves from among the highest branches of the trees and adding them to her basket.
“Hello, dearest one,” she said one day to the young birch she’d named Lenta. Lenta shivered, recoiling from his fever at the touch of her cold, withered hands, “You’re much too sick to be avoiding me,” she said. Lenta protested that he wasn’t sick, but she could see the blackened moss crawling along his upper branches and the base of his trunk, the festering of wounds brought on by the Ridgemites. She wouldn’t tell him that, of course; Ridgemites were a death sentence. He was only a boy, barely fifty years old.
He was fine, he protested, he’d been through worse he boasted as his branches moved away with the gentle gale that came to pass.
“Hmmm,” Nan pressed her full lips together, their lustrous shine like the cherries of her youth a long time past.
If a human saw her — if she dared let them — they would say that her face was young in its shape, but the rest of her was old. She walked smoothly, but bent, as if she were born hunched and her grace of movement was found only through the years of learning to use what her birth had given her. When she stood straight, she was taller than Lenta, taller even than the three-hundred-year-old magnolia named Wren; and, though she didn’t remember being born, nor who she was born to, she remembered the trees of her youth — majestic and large, larger than she would ever be — reaching for the heavens as ancient as she was now. She remembered them speaking to her, their rustling of limb, their creaking of bark and branch. She remembered staring up into the graceful intertwining of their branches — like fingers among hands — and wanting to find a clearing to see the sun. To see what they were blocking out.
The grove was different now. One by one the elders had fallen Soundless. She would pass by their trunks as wide as the creek, but she would hear no rustling of birds, no creaking of limb, no laughter in the way they’d taught her: with a shaking of branch or a rattling of tangled vine. Grandfather was the last remnant of the times she’d known and one of the few who still knew the old language.
“Lenta. You must behave while I dig out the sickness.” Lenta creaked in protest. It was too embarrassing. Too demeaning. He didn’t need her help. He’d always been able to take care of himself.
Nan, with back bent farther over the quaking of his roots, dug out and under them exposing his earthbound sections to the sun and air. He shivered and the birds in his upper branches took off tweeting their displeasure. One of the swallows dove at Nan, his blue-green iridescent coat of feathers gleaming in the specks of sun. But when it got to her, she held out her hand. It landed, shook itself — perplexed — and took off again tweeting to its compatriots that it was no use. She was one of The Old Ones. She chuckled to herself even at the hard work ahead. Birds were often performative, but seldom did they give her real trouble. All puff of feathers and no action, with swallows being the braver of them.
The Mites had been at their work again. She sighed and dug further into the ground around Lenta’s roots. Her knobby hands and long nails of sharpened river stone dug through pockets of clay and dirt, chips of wood and bits of decaying leaves from the past season. Until, finally she found it: the nest.
A rounded chunk of blackened earth glowing a dark and sickly red — like human’s blood, with worm-like, festering larva poking out — sat at the base of one of Lenta’s roots, smelling like dung from a bear sickened by spoiled fish. The nest connected down among the heart of his taproot and spun down into the earth like a corkscrew spiral. It pulsed, and Nan couldn’t help looking away.
She was too late. Lenta begged her to put the dirt back. She put the dirt back. He begged her to wrap her arms around his skinny trunk. She did. He asked her to sing him a tune only the old trees knew. She obliged.
That fall, Lenta was as Soundless as the day before his seed first hit the soil.
***
It was on one of the days that Nan was remembering Lenta, when she first saw the boy. He hid in a bush not far from where she collected berries into a basket of old willow vines. The vines had come from Bebb, the oldest willow she knew. And though Bebb was not a Bebb Willow herself — she was a weeping one — she was one of the happiest trees Nan knew.
Most weeping willows were happier than other trees. Bebb said it’s because they didn’t want to live into the stereotype and Nan had laughed long and hard in the shade of her branches. Grandfather had loved Bebb very much, but that was long ago too. Long before the river split them apart.
Nan had been thinking that she needed to visit Grandfather soon when the boy emerged from the bushes.
“Can I eat those?” he asked. Nan shrank back into the bark of the nearest tree, a Red Ironbark named Bear. Bear laughed at her cowardice. She hushed him with a yank on the nearest piece of bark she could find.
The boy looked around and realized he was alone. He was small, with no shirt and a distended belly. His hair was golden blonde on one side, and on the other brown from the mud caked in and raked through it as if someone had brushed his hair with a stick from Mud River. The boy’s head was on a swivel. He wrung his hands together in front of him, his fingers dirty and bleeding, bleeding and swollen. It reminded her of Lenta’s roots, exposed and rotting. The boy at least had shoes, which Nan knew humans valued, though she couldn’t say why. Why would anyone want to miss the dirt sinking between their toes, the soft pliancy of moss at the base of the heel, the urgent and loving poke of a stone asking not to be stepped on.
The boy looked around again, then to the bushes where Nan had been picking blackberries. His body made a noise Nan had never heard, and she loved it. He hadn’t opened his mouth, but at the center of him, a gurgling like the growling of a cicada but deeper and rumblier sprang forth. Nan’s eyes widened and she couldn’t help laughing.
If you asked the boy, he would say that for a moment the old Ironbark looked as if it had big, all-green eyes. And for a moment, those eyes looked like upturned crescent moons with stars in the middle.
The boy turned toward the tree and Nan froze, “I’m going to eat some of those now,” he said, pointing to the bushes and stepping on his toes as if nervous that she would tell him no.
Nan’s heart was the water in the springs heated by the love of the sun, but she dared not move.
Observing humans was one thing. She loved seeing their little shoed feet, their curious “hiking gear” as they called it, their campfire stories and laughter. It was different from the laughter of the trees or the animals or even The Old Ones; it was like the tweeting of a bird, but longer and louder and more joyful.
The boy walked over to the berry bushes — not touching the basket she had dropped — and began reaching for blackberries among the leaves. His hands turned purple and sticky, the juices running down his chin were a mix of saliva, tears, and blackberry pulp. His little shoulders shook with each inhale of the sweet acidity and Nan found herself curious and happy to just watch him.
Then, there was a sound that Nan knew all too well, a sound that shook her down to her very bones: the rattling of a seed pod and the hissing of an angry animal. Nan saw the snake before the boy did. She saw it rear back its ugly head, preparing to strike for no other reason than it could. And before either of them knew it, they were safe in Bear’s upper branches. Bear protested at the weight, but the boy hadn’t even screamed, just held on for dear life.
Nan shook as she held the boy close to her chest. It had almost gotten him. The rattlesnake had almost taken him away. He would have been gone just like The Old Ones. Just like Lenta.
The boy was shaking now too, holding on to the vines of her hair, though it made his fingers bleed red, then the hanging moss of her dress, the bony-branchy knob of her shoulder under that. He looked at her with awe, his hands touching the ridged branches of her face, the worn bark of her eyebrows and the wrinkled, calloused knot of her nose.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
If you asked the boy, he would have said he heard the birds tweeting, the wind rustling through the branches of the ironbark they sat in. He would have told you he felt the earth spinning on its axis and the leaves of autumn crunching at his feet. He would have told you he heard the rain in a distant sea. He would have told you he understood.
“I’m Neo,” he said.
“You may call me Nan.”
Neo fell asleep soon after that, his little head resting against her collar bone, his thumb stuck in his mouth. She set him down in the hollow that was her home and wrapped him in the pelt of a bear, long dead, who had once been named Gladys. She resolved to see Grandfather in the morning. He would know what to do.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
CATHERINE PABALATE
Sister Temper
The devil lived underneath Redmond Abbey. The building itself, a carcass of a monastery, was laid to rest in the damp hills of Killarney, where deep within the cadaverous stone, in the dank, rotten heart, lay Temper. She looked almost like a girl, with translucent white skin and rheumy pink eyes, bones pressed against her pallid skin. Sitting cross-legged atop a wooden crate filled with rotten pears, hair clinging to her clavicle, vision unfocused. Without the intimate knowledge of her capabilities, she might almost appear weak.
To her left, Sister Lucky dug her nails into the space behind the locked door. She tugged once before swearing and drawing her hands back, thin streams of blood weaving down her fingers. With a kick to the steel slab, she huffed and sank back to her spot on the mossy floor. In her tantrum, her habit was flung across the dimly lit room, and a sheen of cold sweat glistened along her forehead, gluing her copper curls to her temple.
Temper didn’t flinch.
“This is ridiculous,” Lucky hissed, crossing her arms. Temper cocked her head, her greenish-blonde hair lolling to the side. “The sisters act as if I’m trying to ruin their lives. It’s one loaf of bread, for God’s sake. They’re not going to starve.”
When Temper didn’t respond, Lucky sighed and reached for a cloth bag, its fabric mottled with browning stains.
“Well, I suppose there are some merits.” She wrinkled her brow as she felt around the bag’s interior. “After all, if I wasn’t punished so frequently, I wouldn’t have you as a loyal companion.”
Temper might have smiled, or perhaps it was the rigor mortis finally setting in.
“Sister Siofra says that things aren’t going to get better until the war is over. That the diocese won’t check on us until the British are off of our soil. Isn’t that just grand, Temper? We, the meek devotees, are always being left for dead.” She sighed. “Though, I suppose that’s why I must thank you.”
Lucky lifted her hand from the bag. Clenched in her small, rugged fist, singed with the acrid scent of perishing flesh, was a severed arm, the jagged elbow bone jutting out like a blade. The British barrack tunic was still intact at the cuff, though the sleeve was fraying away. Grimacing, Lucky tossed it in Temper’s direction.
“Here,” she said, and Temper descended.
Lucky knew that Temper was a beast, a wild thing. That the nuns were conducting a dangerous gamble by hosting her in their walls. Why would they risk opening their doors to damnation, when the war had already left their stomachs empty and their hearts cold? Why would they reach their hands out to the creature with bared teeth? But Temper didn’t eat from their reserves, and she seemed content to lounge about the mossy prison, basking in the fragrance of heavy rain and rotten fruit that emanated from the storage crates. Lucky wondered if she found the abbey comforting.
When Temper finished eating, the room emanated with a thick, rolling heat. Lucky raised a hand to her own cheek, feeling the warmth settle into her frigid skin. Outside, the perpetual rain ceased to fall.
She was about to say something, perhaps even show her gratitude, when a deep voice echoed from the doorway. “Sister. You can return now.”
Sister Siofra was a tactful woman, with her thin brown hair tied into a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her broad shoulders were evident underneath her heavy linen dress. She examined Lucky with her slender, slate-gray eyes, her gaze low like a predator’s. As Lucky stumbled to her feet, Siofra angled herself away from the doorframe, allowing Lucky to pass. When she did, she felt her elder’s talons scrape along her shoulder blades.
“Your habit is dirty again,” Siofra noted, though her eyes never seemed to stray from Temper.
“I’ll wash it. I promise.”
“You always say that,” Siofra said, closing the door. Lucky watched as Temper disappeared from sight, separated by a thick wall of crumbling bricks. The flesh of the abbey. “When you received that first sacrament, when the holy water was poured over your temple, you made a deal to us. You promised to keep our house of prayer clean, so why do you always choose to return to the dirt? You are ungrateful for the gifts granted to you by God. By us.”
“I’m…I’m sorry, Sister. It won’t happen again.”
“Come.” Together, they climbed up the stairs to the foyer, where Lucky saw the first whispers of moonlight along the dark walls. “Let’s get to bed. Perhaps, tomorrow, you would be willing to join us in the morning for prayer.”
***
Lucky spent the following day avoiding the other nuns. After her morning prayer and intercession, she wandered into the gardens with a watering can, grateful for the scent of primrose and blackcurrant, rather than the overbearing musk of decay. The sky roiled, murmuring the soft threat of rain, but Lucky was accustomed to working within a downpour. She didn’t mind the sensation of water soaking through her habit, clinging to her skin and clutching her flesh. Rain was a tonic for her turbid thoughts — it cleansed her of her anxieties and granted her the answers to her problems. She did not appreciate, however, the way her sisters snickered when she padded back into the convent, her loafers printing muddy stains along the foyer carpets.
The preluding mist kissed her cold pink cheeks as she moved to tend to the rosemary. A few of the nuns had their own patches of flowers or herbs, which they could dry and sell to bakers or shopkeepers for a small profit. The rosemary was supposed to belong to Lucky, but she often discovered her plants mysteriously harvested on days following her confinement. Today was no different; her beloved shrubs had been picked to bits, dainty footprints tracing the edges of her garden bed. She could hear Sister Lucia and Sister Isobel’s taunts in her mind, could imagine their gleeful faces as they plucked away at her hard work, like the butcher plucking the feathers of a fowl.
With a stomp of her foot, she swiped away the tears that crept into the corners of her eyes. As the sole of her boot slammed against the earth, however, she heard a vicious squelch and swore under her breath. Grimacing, she peered down, lungs stuttering as saw them — her beautiful glossy boots, now caked in mud. She grabbed a stick from the grass and scraped off what she could, but it was useless. Her shoes, socks, and even the ends of her sleeves were completely soiled. Siofra was going to throw a fit.
Lucky wasn’t meant to be a nun, and the other sisters knew it too. She was only there because of Sister Siofra, who had warned her that her only other option was to be a bastard and a beggar. Even her name was a reminder of her origins; Siofra had christened her with it nine years ago after finding her half-dead on the road up to Redmond Abbey, curled up in a muddy sweater as she was pelted with freezing rain. You’re lucky we found you, is what her name meant. We wrangled you away from the precipice of death, and you should be grateful.
She supposed it was better to starve in solidarity than starve alone.
Lucky did what she could to be a good sister. She learned the rosary, albeit clumsily. She prayed as gracefully and silently as she could. She used to dust the entire abbey every Saturday, until she broke a statue of Mary and the chore was delegated to Sister Isobel. Still, despite her efforts, despite the fact that Lucky had been in the convent for longer than most of her sisters, she felt a frigid wave of pity and distaste that kept her at a distance from the abbey’s hearth of fellowship. She was their pest, the roach attempting to hold a Bible in its thin, crooked limbs.
If Lucky had a viable confidant, they would likely tell her to run away. Though Lucky had prodded at the idea, she knew it was an improbable fantasy. After all, where else would she go? Despite its detriments, the abbey was safe. Frozen over, but dry and clean enough. And she liked the gardens, liked the routine of prayer. She liked Temper. The world outside their walls was capricious, a maelstrom of revolt, destruction, and heartache. She would rather suffer the misery of petty garden thievery than be killed in the wake of a revolution.
More rosemary could take root in the ruined plot.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
ROBERT GEORGI
Monsters in the Woods
Every child in Pitter-Patter Village knew that the woods were full of monsters. Whenever one of them went too close to the treeline or stayed out past their bedtime, they were sure to get a story about how the monsters would catch and eat disobedient little munchkins. Whenever it rained or snowed, and the families had to retreat into their dens and huddle around tiny, smoky fires, the grown-ups would tell them stories about monsters. Whenever they went out to explore, always in the company of two or more grown-ups, they would always be on the lookout for monsters. Those creatures of the dark woods came in all shapes and sizes. Some ran on four legs, some on two, some had long faces with sharp, pointy teeth while others had long, slender fingers that could snatch up two or three littles at a time. Sometimes, they would even breathe fire or turn into mist. Indeed, monsters were an ever-present threat to the munchkins of Pitter-Patter Village.
“And that's why I'm going to catch one!” Pennythrift exclaimed, waving his favourite stick above his head gallantly.
The other children in the clubhouse, sitting in their assembled semi-circle, stared at him. This wasn't the first time their fearless leader had come up with a zany plan that they'd have to talk him out of, but it was by far the most ambitious. One of them, a girl with long, healthy whiskers and a tiny black nose, snorted and shook her head. “No way,” she muttered.
“Yes way!” Pennythrift retorted, bounding down from his chair and scampering into the middle of the semi-circle. “And I've got a plan, too! It's foolproof, it'll be the best thing anyone in this village has ever seen! The best attraction for a Solstice Festival in the village's history! Way better than your dumb parade, Twig.”
The girl, whose name was Cherrytwig and who could always be counted on to be the most sensible child in the room, narrowed her big brown eyes. “At least my parade won't get us eaten by monsters,” she retorted. “What're you gonna do? Whack the monster on the toes until it can't walk any more?”
“Even better!” Running over to the communal toy chest, Pennythrift retrieved a small wooden doll and a handful of little blocks. The younger munchkins leaned forward, eager to play, but the older ones suppressed a groan. It was never good when Pennythrift ran over to the toy box. It meant he was serious. It meant he had a Plan.
“It's simple,” Pennythrift explained, dumping his props into the semi-circle. “First, we just have to find a monster.” He plonked down the wooden doll, causing its little horned head to bow. “And to do that, we'll need bait. Obviously, I'll be doing this myself, but anyone who's not a coward can come too.” Plonk! Down went a wooden block, followed by three more. He placed a number of little wooden figures between them, game pieces no bigger than a young munchkin's pinky finger, so that it looked as though there was a little band assembled before the doll. Intrigued, the older kids leaned forward too.
“We'll find a monster, make it mad, and run. Then we'll lead them on a merry chase until they get tired, through somewhere like Sandy Ridge. Then, when they're tired, we drop a net on 'em. Bam! Then they'll be caught, and we can put 'em in a giant cage.”
“And where are you gonna get a giant cage from?” Cherrytwig asked. “Or the giant net?”
“I'll get Dorbek to make 'em,” Pennythrift said, shrugging.
Another young munchkin, Mollycoddle, picked up one of the pieces. “I dunno, Penny. It seems pretty risky. What if whoever's being bait gets caught?” His eyes darted between the tiny wooden squirrel and the horned doll; the latter's shadow could have fit ten of the former.
“I thought of that too!” the little munchkin crowed. Once again he rose and scampered over to the toy chest. Some of the bolder littles took this moment to snatch away some of Pennythrift's props, and began to titter amongst themselves in play while the older kids mulled. Cherrytwig folded her arms and scoffed. Her attention was already on other projects.
Pennythrift returned with a slate and some chalk. Whoever had used the slate last hadn't properly wiped it down, so the surface was cloudy with chalk dust. Sketching rapidly, fluffy tail flicking hither and thither as he worked, Pennythrift quickly conjured the image he wanted and turned the slate to face his peers.
“What's that supposed to be?” Cherrytwig asked, wrinkling her nose as she squinted at the scribbles.
“Duh, Twig, isn't it obvious? Doctor Hollycomb has a bunch of stinky stuff in his house. We'll just dab that on whoever's going to be bait. That way, whenever the monster actually gets close enough to smell 'em, it won't actually want to eat 'em! See?!”
The response Pennythrift got was not the response he was hoping for. After a few moments of thoughtful silence, the implication that they'd have to dab themselves with stinky substances sank in and the other little munchkins rapidly lost enthusiasm for the Plan. Pennythrift's ears drooped. “Come on! It's brilliant!” he insisted, waving his slate as he tried to regain their attention.
“If the monster doesn't want to eat you because you're smelly,” Mollycoddle asked, “why would it chase you in the first place?”
The obvious shortcoming in the plan had only just then occurred to Pennythrift, who stopped and stared at Mollycoddle as he utterly lost his train of thought. “Um, well... maybe if we dumped the stinky stuff on the bait after they've led the monster into position...”
“Whatever,” Cherrytwig announced, “I'm going back to my parade. The Solstice Festival's in a week and we've still got work to do.”
Her words broke the spell. Within moments, the club house sprung into action. Most of the older kids followed Cherrytwig out the door, Mollycoddle in particular hot at her heels, while the littles shot forward and snatched up what remained of Pennythrift's props. In moments, everyone had forgotten all about any monster-capturing plans.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
SPRINGS TOLEDO
The Odd & Edifying Story of Headless Hob
A good heart is better than all the heads in the world.
— Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Headless Hob had a funny way of walking. He didn’t stride or promenade or trot along like other people. He bounced up and down, heel-to-toe with each step as if his feet were on springs. This would have raised eyebrows if not for another distraction about Hob that was downright remarkable. You see, Headless Hob wasn’t called “headless” for no reason. In fact, he was called “headless” for a very good reason — he had no head. His head went a’ rolling down Meadow Road without him a long time ago.
No one remembered what had happened that brought about this calamity, least of all Hob, but whenever he stepped and sprung down Meadow Road, he would habitually step and spring right into a waiting tree, or fall through a fence, or knock over a cornstalk, or collide with a passer-by. “Hooophf!” — a puff of air would come up through his collar, disturbing the hay that he put there as a decoration.
Poor Hob. Other people pretty themselves up with bows in their hair or colorful hats or handsome mustaches. Not Hob. All he could do was stuff some hay in his empty collar and hope it looked all right.
Every evening Hob would tidy up and don his best and only coat, a red butternut frock, to take a walk before the gaslights that lined the road were lit. Not that it mattered to him whether the gaslights were lit or not. Deep night, fading orange evening, or high noon — it made no difference whatever to Headless Hob. He couldn’t see! His eyes went with his head, a’rolling down Meadow Road without him a long time ago.
Hob only walked about in the evening when it was between light and night because he was considerate of other people. He didn’t walk about during the bright time of day because when it was bright it was busy. Hob rightfully felt that he would be colliding into more passers-by out during that time. He didn’t walk about after dark either. Children were sure to get affright if they peeped out their little bedroom windows and saw him in the gaslight a’stepping and a’springing like some crazy ghost without a head. Hob would have felt terrible if children couldn’t sleep or had nightmares because of it.
No, the best time was in the fading orange of evening, when it was not too dark and not too busy. That way, felt Hob, I won’t frighten or bump into anyone quite as much. No one wants to be a nuisance, least of all considerate people like Hob. It wasn’t as if he could apologize for looking frightful to children or bowling their parents over. How can you say “I’m sorry” or “please excuse me” when you have no voice? Hob had no voice because he had no mouth to make words. His mouth went with his head, a’rolling down Meadow Road without him a long time ago.
On some evenings, passers-by would be bristling along this way and that like wind-blown leaves. If they weren’t looking and Hob was on the road, Hob might collide right into them by accident. Some people would use hard words against Hob when this happened. Some people get angry and lose their heads. If the angry passers-by who yelled at Hob were more patient, they might have realized that Hob wasn’t trying to hurt anyone. He simply couldn’t help it because unlike them, he lost his head for good a long time ago. If they got to know him, they would see that Hob was headless, but he was not heartless. Headless Hob was all heart.
It was pretty senseless to use hard words against Hob anyway; it was plain to see that he had no ears. His ears went with his head, a’rolling down Meadow Road without him a long time ago.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
CHRISTOPHER HADIN
The Wild
Jean did not particularly care for the trees in her neighborhood. Planted a generation ago, they were not trees that grew in the woods, only in cities, and their tiny, compound leaves were difficult to rake. Nevertheless, they provided shade, and in autumn, turned a rich golden yellow before blanketing the sidewalk and street.
On an early fall morning, when thick fog hung low over the neighborhood, Jean sat on her front porch, a small square of raised concrete that had just enough room for two chairs. It was still dark and she huddled down into a heavy sweatshirt, holding a mug of coffee to her face, breathing the mix of steam and fog. The trees were in their yellow stage. Only a few leaves had fallen. Fog swallowed up most of the streetlight's glare, but what remained filtered through the leaves, casting a soft glow onto the street.
Jean’s first sip of coffee was sharp and hot, but she cooled it, slurping mostly air, then steam, then just a drop. It flavored her tongue just enough to make her want another sip. She took a bit more this time, slurping louder, exhaling through her nose and watching her breath float away. It was then that she saw the coyote.
It slipped through the patches of light and shadow with an unhurried gait. It didn’t seem to be hunting, prowling, or patrolling his turf. It was just going down the street, and yet there was a furtive motion that Jean could not place her finger on, something no dog would do. She saw its ears pick up, and its head turned slightly toward her as it moved along, but this wasn’t what set it apart from dogs.
She took another sip and tried to get used to the idea of a coyote in a populous suburb on the edge of a major American city. The door creaked open and Terry came out, stiff and sleepy, barely keeping his coffee in the mug while negotiating the narrow space. He dropped into the other chair and let out a deep breath that visibly hung in the air between them, dank and close.
Jean closed her eyes and brought the coffee to her lips, inhaling the steam, trying to chase away his breath. She waited for a good morning, but all that came were distant rumbles, carried on the damp air. “I saw a coyote,” she said, just above a whisper. She waited.
Terry didn’t answer. He sat with his coffee to his lips, blowing a steady stream of air over the mug in her direction. He took a sip and brought it down to his lap, letting the steam rise up to his face.
“I know it was a coyote,” she said a bit louder, anticipating the skepticism he brought to all their conversations. When he didn’t disagree, he often said nothing, even though his lack of a response had been called out by their therapist as a “relationship killer.” If he made it out of bed for “couple/coffee time,” he rarely spoke.
“It was tawny,” she said. “Like a wolf but without the long legs.” He blew a puff of air across his coffee and Jean wondered how she should take it. Was it a chuckle? An agreement? A rebuttal? She decided on the latter. “You didn’t see it. I did.”
He made a sound. It was something like an agreement, and Jean looked up to see a subtle nod of his head.
“Then you’ve seen it?” After a moment he croaked out some words, his first words of the day.
“I don’t know about it, but we’ve had coyotes for years.”
She stared at him a second. “Where? Here?”
Terry didn’t reply. He stood up, negotiated the gap between the door and chair, then went into the house.
***
The fog cleared after sunrise, and no more was said about the coyote. Terry made an elaborate breakfast and sat down to eat it while watching a video in the kitchen. A man was taking apart and oiling antique guns. He didn’t explain what he did. The camera was pointed at the bench as he went about his work. Occasionally he would say the measurements of something he was doing. “Three-eighths and one a them quarter-inchers,” but Jean never knew what he was talking about. She took a piece of toast from the stack and was surprised to see how grainy it was. She joked that he had bought a loaf of bark. Terry chewed and pointed at the screen. She turned to look but the gunsmith was not doing anything different. “An’ finally, five-eighths,” he said. Jean put down her toast and went outside.
She stood on the small porch and looked out at the trees lining the street, tracing the path of the coyote with her eye, remembering how its gaze darted up toward her but not at her. It didn’t trot down the street — but what was the word for it? She decided its stride could be described as loping, but there was a skittishness to it. She would leave this part out though, and just say loping. The more details, the more he picked them apart. Jean hated pre-thinking her words.
***
On a day dedicated to yard work, her hands wrapped around a weed growing next to her front porch. She was trying to remember when she had last weeded this spot below the living room window. It had to have been in August when she devoted two days to weeding and spreading fresh woodchips in the beds around the junipers. But this weed had a woody stem that was hard rooted in place. She gripped it, leveraging all her weight against it when her hands slipped free and she fell backward. Jean bit down hard, growled, then got to her feet, glancing down at the weed, still rooted in place. It was reddish now, and the stems were naked and smooth. The bark she had gripped so tightly was in her hands, and they began to burn. She brushed some hair from her eyes, and now her forehead burned too. Jean spread her fingers wide and went into the house.
Terry was watching a gunsmithing video on the kitchen TV. “I need your knife a second,” she said, passing him on her way to the sink. Cold water and soap soothed the burning sensation. She rubbed her hands together, creating a ball of suds that melted away under the faucet. Drying with a towel, Jean turned back to Terry who had hunched down in front of the screen. “Can I use your knife for a second?” she said, a little quieter now that her hands were not on fire.
His gaze did not leave the TV. “You can use a knife.”
“It’s for this weed that I can’t pull out. The bark came off in my hands and it must have had some irritating—”
“You can use A knife,” he repeated.
“Okay,” she said, but Terry did not get up or do anything to get her a knife.
“Well what should I use? I mean the bark just slid right off. It was gross. What kind of a weed would that be? I’ve never even—”
Terry motioned to the other side of the kitchen. “‘S knives in the drawer.”
“The drawer? There’s knives in the drawer? No goddam kidding, Terry. I don’t want to use a food knife! It’s why I asked for your—” She could see the gunsmith reflected in Terry’s glasses. He suggested his viewers use a kind of gun oil that was no longer sold. “Fine, I’ll use a fucking steak knife.”
Jean yanked open the drawer, grabbing a serrated blade from the set of knives underneath the regular knives, forks and spoons. “I’m sure it’s toxic,” she hissed, brushing past him, “but sure, I’ll use a steak knife. Thanks so much, Terry.”
“‘Lotta things are,” he said to her back.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
BECKY MARIETTA
The Last Supper
“It’s time,” Marcus, the weekend Detention Officer in charge of our block, said. Pudgy fingers, pink as boiled hot dogs and deceptively tender looking, pushed the clipboard holding three sheets of lined paper at me. The metal clip had been broken off, of course, so he had to hand me the defeated stump of a pencil separately. “Make your order.”
“Three pages?”
“In case you want to make notes.” He squinted sternly at me over the half-glasses perched on the end of his nose, a bloomy thing that had been broken more than once and listed a little to the left, an offset dinghy on the broad sea of his florid face. “Don’t get too excited, Mister. You’re limited to a regular meal — appetizer, main, sides, dessert, drink, coffee. Liquor is fine, but nothing over twenty bucks, all told, so forget fancy French wine. And nothing that can’t be procured within a half-hour drive, so don’t be ordering no lobster from Maine or shark from Japan or any stupid crap like that. Try to be cute, and you’ll end up with a tray of whatever is on the menu for gen pop. Probably Shit-on-a-Shingle, as usual.”
I nodded. “I hear you,” I said.
As I lifted the pencil to my lips in the time-honored pose of contemplation, Marcus drawled, “Might not want to do that, Hyde. Last time I saw that particular piece of wood, it was being gnawed on by old Possum.”
I jerked the pencil away from my mouth, and fast. Possum had been gone for six months, but his shadow still crawled its way into my nightmares on a regular basis. Those of us on the block had a bad reputation, sure, but Possum — now, that cat was the real deal. Crazy as a Betsy Bug and meaner than Beelzebub. None of us shed a tear when he walked down that long hall, is what I’m saying.
I stared down at the lined paper for a minute. “Hey, Marcus, do you know what Possum wrote down?”
Marcus scratched at his belly, which rose above his belt buckle like so much nicely-proven dough. “Sure,” he said. “Frosted Flakes — the real stuff, not the off brand — and whole milk. Bacon, chewy, slightly underdone. Two slices of toast and orange mar-mo-lade. Coffee, strong and black, like he liked his women.” He chuckled at Possum’s oft-repeated, tired cliché, and I shivered, imagining Possum’s cigarette-stripped voice rasping out the words.
Fritz: cup of coffee (Brazilian), cigar (Cuban)
“Did he eat it?”
Marcus shook his head. “Not a bite. As far as I can recall, they rarely do.” He squinted over his glasses at me again, this time more thoughtful than stern. “Maybe you’ll be different.” He grabbed at the back of his pants and hitched them up. All his greedy roundness was in front, leaving nothing to hold up the rear. “I’ll be back around later this morning to pick that up — give you some time to ponder,” he said. “Though I can’t imagine you ain’t been thinking on it some, long as you been in.” And with that, he meandered away.
I listened to his heavy shuffle down the hall, his benign hellos to the four others on the block, then took my paper and pencil over to my cot and sat down, my legs crossed in front of me like a yogi. Marcus was right, of course. I’d been thinking on this particular subject for decades. But now that push had come to shove and it was finally final, I was starting to feel a might panicky. This had to be just right. There would be no second chances.
Stephen Wayne: two grilled cheese sandwiches, one pint cottage cheese, hominy-corn, radishes, one slice peach pie, one pint chocolate chip ice cream
For my birthday, my granny always made me a chocolate mayonnaise cake — the deep, fudgy kind that was almost moist enough to be pudding. The glossy icing atop it was perfectly brittle, a salty-crunch crust that shone like a midnight ice rink. I closed my eyes and imagined that cake on my tongue, the cocoa bitter, like a dark secret. This good memory was chased away with a broomstick by the memory of my mother swearing and tossing the cake she’d tried to bake for me right into the trash. Her icing had failed — again — leaving behind not a crust of perfect chocolate sand but a gooey, sticky, swampy mess.
“I followed the recipe exactly,” she’d yelled, both sweating and spitting whiskey. “I swear it. Your hateful ol’ granny must’ve left out a step on purpose. That would be just like her, the heifer. Always doin’ what she could to make me look bad in front of my boy.”
That had been my seventh birthday, when my only gifts had been that lava-slide trash cake, mixed in with the banana peels and coffee grounds, and another black night spent locked in the coat closet because Momma had to go out and “decompress” at the bar. She deserved it, she told me, after all that time spent in the kitchen FOR ME. More confusingly would be when she came home (hours? days?) later and gathered me into her bed, smelling like she’d been born in whiskey, telling me that she loved me, that I was the only man she could count on. It was in that bed, during those times, where I learned that love and hate could hold hands.
We’d moved away by then. I never saw my gran again, nor tasted her cake or any version even close to it. But I never forgot it. It was my first unfulfilled craving.
John Wayne: bucket KFC Original Recipe fried chicken, twelve fried shrimp French fries, one-pound fresh strawberries
I stumbled into my little shack of a house, my heart not sure whether it wanted to beat right out through my chest or halt altogether. Likewise, my breath kept coming in quick, eager pants, or it stopped so long, I’d have to actually remind myself to breathe, breathe, breathe. Outside, over my shoulder, the dark was dimming. Funny how that happened, dark dimming to light when dawn was on its way, instead of the other way around. I closed the door, trying to be quiet, and locked it — locked it with all the locks: key, deadbolt, three barrel-bolts, and finally the chain lock. That would keep people out…for now. Soon enough I’d be using the locks to keep people in.
I was done with unfulfilled cravings.
Once safely inside, away from prying eyes and nosy ears, my heart and my breath were able to calm down and resume regular programming. This allowed other needs to make themselves known, so I headed to the bathroom and emptied my straining, over-full bladder. Then my stomach got in on the action and compressed, letting out a roar of hunger so loud, it bent me over. The word ravenous suddenly had meaning. I’d been hungry, plenty of times. Grew up with hungry as my playmate, in fact. But this was something new.
I ripped open the fridge, leaving bloodstains on the handle, wincing a little as I stepped into the cold puddle of water from the ever-present leak underneath, and grabbed up the full carton of eggs, two sticks of butter, and a pound of cheese. Tossing them all on the counter, I went hunting for a fry pan and came up with the cast-iron skillet I’d found at a garage sale for a dollar, so rusted it had been more red than black. I’d worked on restoring that skillet for ages, scrubbing and polishing and curing it until it gleamed like ebony, and you best believe it had not seen detergent since. Just oil and heat and love.
I scrambled the entire dozen eggs, stirred in the grated cheddar cheese, and ate the whole thing straight out of the pan without a fork, salting every other bite, squirting ketchup into my cupped palm as I ate, licking salt and ketchup and eggs and blood from my fingers. I consumed every bite, and when I was done, I unbuckled the buttons on my jeans to set my now-distended gut free, pushed myself from the stove, and staggered to the living room, falling backwards onto the ratty velour couch, the one that looked like autumn with a barn and a waterwheel, the same one Momma had died on. I slept for a long time, and when I woke, all that had been sticky was now dried and flaking, making it hard to move. I panicked, leaping into action, thinking of all the clean-up I had to do, all the mistakes I surely had made. All that week, I waited, trembling like a field mouse, for a knock on the door, and I swore that if I got away with it, I’d never do it again. But that knock never came, so of course, I went on to do it again, neater this time, more carefully. And again, now confident. And again.
Oh, so many agains that I quit worrying about that knock. And wouldn’t ya know, that’s when they got me.
Joseph Mitchell: three Burger King Whoppers, two large orders of French fries, one chocolate shake, one chocolate chip ice cream cone, one package grape Hubba Bubba bubble gum
It was always popsicles, and it was always grape. “Oh, honey, you’re too good to us both,” Momma would say in a voice as syrupy-sweet as the iced lolly melting its way in a purple river down my wrist. Then, in a tone with no sugar at all, “Son, tell Bobby thank you.”
“Thank you,” I’d mutter, staring down at the dirt-scuffed toes of my knock-off Chucks. What I wanted to do was drop the popsicle and run — run far and run fast. What I did, though, was lick my hand, trying to stem the flow, hating to do it, knowing that Bobby would be watching, greedy, hungry, biding his time, waiting to get me alone. There would never be a popsicle cold or sweet enough to wash out the sour-puke taste of shame.
Oscar Ray: rib eye steak (med-rare), baked potato with butter & sour cream, iceberg lettuce, cucumber & tomato salad, garlic bread, lemon meringue pie, one bottle Coca-Cola
Gary Ray: three bacon cheeseburgers, French fries
A lot of the infamous ones got nicknames, at least until they were caught: “The Night Stalker,” “The Ripper,” “The Butcher of Hanover,” “The Zodiac Killer,” “Possum.”
Me, I was “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” on account of the dates I took mine on before I got down to business. Depending on my financial state, some got the red-carpet treatment — fancy dinner, an opera or a play. Others got the cheap, all-American: diner fare, a drive-in movie, ice-cream for dessert.
Never anything grape-flavored, though. I wouldn’t do that to my worst enemy — and, listen, even though I tore those whores up pretty bad, I never saw them gals as enemies. In fact, I tried to be a gentleman to the very end.
TO the end. Not AT the end. Funny what a difference a little preposition can make.
And it was AT the end, the very end that I was caught in the act. It had been a high-class night. Lobster for dinner. Pagliacci at the City Center theater. I’d saved for a month just so I could bring her back to the house for dessert. When they knocked (and by knocked, I mean busted the door down flat, bam! like in cartoons), I was on my knees, elbow deep, digging for a liver. I’d already eaten the heart. They came through in a tumble, a ball of blue and black like a moving bruise, crashing and yelling. I looked up and beheld a dozen perfectly round, blank metal eyes all staring back at me.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.
PATRICK TEN BRINK
The Search
Only a single portrait remains on this stretch of sun-bleached wall — a life-sized stocky woman in a black skirt and white blouse, carrying two bulging plastic bags, painted so well it looks like she is standing in front of me, alive, more alive than I feel. I am drawn to her and lean closer. The woman stares at me, her mouth half open as if about to speak. But not a word, not a whisper of who took the portraits that had hung on her left and right. At least someone had placed a little candle in the shape of a rose at the base of the wall below the woman with the plastic bags. I like that. Respect. Remembrance.
This morning, another light grey rectangle appeared on the flaking white walls of Rua Beco das Farinhas, where the painting had protected it from the sun’s insistent glare. One more painted portrait had been unscrewed and taken during the night, a marigold blossom inserted in each abandoned screw-hole as an insufficient apology or thank you. They are beautiful, these flowers of the departed, framing a loss.
Every day this last week, I passed along this narrow and quiet Lisbon lane, studying the faces on this wall, with their clues as to their professions when alive, each face with a moment’s emotion caught and displayed. I enjoyed the puzzle of teasing out the family connections across them and those who attended the mass last Sunday, which woke me out of my slumber and started my search. Some portraits had dimpled chins; so did a few of the living from the wake. No surprise about the thick, dark hair, some proud grey. Most had olive-shaped faces, each adorned with their unique weathered map of lines in their skin. A few boasted perfectly arched eyebrows, like the crescent moon I so love.
As I look, I try to remember the priest’s words from the ceremony that I snuck into. What had he said? Some part of the departed always remains with their families. That made sense and gave me hope. And when the pang of loss wells up, fills us or hollows us, we should visit the portraits of the departed outside and whisper their names — remember them, and they will remember us. All pronounced with a heavy, solemn tone. The priest took his time saying word after word. I felt my heart beat. The family gone, honored by our memories, becoming a little more real and a little less lost when we think of them. Us too.
I have a confession: I have always felt lost. I never knew who I really was, who I am. Perhaps that is so with everyone. I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to anyone about it. But now, hearing the priest and near the newly dead, I somehow feel a little less lost, more alive even. Centered. Hopeful, despite the tragedy. The paintings seem like clues to me.
The three portraits hanging here were the first to greet me. All that remains of two of them are dark rectangles with an orange flower in each corner. There was a portrait of a man here before — sitting at a table, a collection of knives, leather cutters, and scissors spread out before him. Yesterday, his smile stopped me as I passed. Only a memory of his face lingers on. And who was in the other stolen portrait? After a minute, I remember, his image taking shape in my mind. It was a capped old shoeshine man, cloth in one hand, a can of black wax in the other, with an impressive beard and a glint in his eye. I am sad that he, too, is gone. As is the rose candle that had been flickering at its base. Now there is only a small grease spot from the wax.
I stare again at the woman with the plastic bags to anchor her in my memory. Short, curly hair tops her wrinkled face. My eyes trace the contours of her frown. Today, a week since I felt the growing and soon irresistible urge to come back here after months away and arrived at the tail end of the church ceremony. Everyone was in black, like a roomful of weeping crows. A veiled woman sang a fado that got under my skin. I didn’t get an invitation, of course, but it felt right to honor the old couple, to listen to the woman’s lament. Her voice and the paintings called to me, somehow anchoring me when I’d always felt uprooted, like a tree in a hurricane, torn from the ground, its roots desperately seeking a hold — home. A profound sadness wells up in me, but hope, too. Maybe this is the family I never knew.
Again, I gaze at the faces still staring out from these walls, hoping for some revelation, some explanation as to why they are all so important to me. I feel a connection. I regret each lost face; maybe one was an uncle, another a cousin, and perhaps among them hang my mother and father, whom I have never seen and may now never see. A chill runs through me. My essence feels thinned, bleeding away. Had they been here? Had I lost them for a second time, before I had ever known them properly? Wait, were the couple who died my parents? I rush to the church, but there is no painting of them here. I search all the walls of Rua Beco das Farinhas for more portraits and more portraits lost, replaced by painfully empty rectangles and marigolds that now mock me.
Each loss winds me up; the flowers are hardly a worthy replacement. I need to catch who has been stealing these portraits. I can’t lose any more; I must remember those still here. I rush down the alley and absorb each remaining smile, frown, and longing gaze, trying to breathe in the emotions they share and record each feature. I admit I forget all but my search.
At the end of the alley, two portraits still adorn the white walls. One is of a man in a rocking chair, cards fanned out in one hand. The second is a girl with black curls rolling an empty child’s pram along the pavement. I only just notice a presence near my shoulder. A hint of rosemary hangs in the air. How odd, I thought I had lost my sense of smell. I look up, intrigued, hungry for another sniff of the aromatic herb, but I’m too late and only manage to catch the back of a woman with short brown hair, a purple dress and paint-spattered boots. I follow her along one flaking white-washed wall after another, weaving to avoid the other people who walk irritatingly slowly. I finally turn down a shaded alley where only the woman I’m trailing stands, momentarily caught in a light patch that makes it through the umbrella-pine canopy. She takes the right at the top of the alley. When I turn the corner, the street is empty, just pine shadows.
Halfway down on the right, there’s a little semi-circular alcove with a small green metal water fountain, a bench, and an iron gate to a park. It is chained shut. She couldn’t have gone there. Disappointed, I head to the fountain, whose bird’s beak looks ready to spit out water. A graffiti face, composed of black lines, looks out at me from above the waterspout. It’s a woman’s face topped by spikey hair. She has a starred earring. There is something about the face — it stares at the old white warehouse opposite, with its big round windows like unblinking eyes. I look back at the graffiti. There is no street art signature, just seven curves forming a rose. I quickly scour the street for other signs, but there is no hint of the woman, no portraits on the walls here, nor any grey rectangles or marigolds.
Trail gone, I zig-zag through the streets, double-checking the portraits, those existing and those missing. I smile when I see the picture of a man on a motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket and burlap bags strung on the back. I wait until it gets dark and hang around to see if anyone will come to take another painting or add more flowers and fresh candles. But the streetlights go out, and while I’m no stranger to the dark, the faces on the portraits change in the dusk, becoming sad and moving slightly in the candlelight. I lose the faces, but get the occasional flickering hint of a chin, a nose, an ear. I still feel their presence, and I like the game of waiting for the candle flame to give me a momentary glimpse of a face I saw in full during the day. After a couple of hours watching and waiting for the portrait thief, I give up. Even my obsession has its limits.
The rest of this story is available in Volume 9, Issue 1 of Night Picnic.