For me, the best way to spend a foggy October night is to indulge in a cheeky, horror film spoof, preferably one involving a sweet transvestite and a few catchy musical numbers. But, Netflix doesn’t stream Rocky Horror Picture Show, so I settled on a similarly, seemingly spoof-tacular horror one—The Return of the Killer Tomatoes. …
Leaving the airport is what frightens her, walking from the cocoon of baggage carousels and rental car booths out into the brightness of the California sun. Natalie loves planes, the enormous airlessness of them, the cold of the window pressed against her cheek, and the efficient flight attendants with their carts full plastic dinner trays …
I tell them there are monsters everywhere, but they never believe me. Not really. They hire me often enough—I even have to turn down jobs—but they don’t really believe me. Even now they aren’t paying attention. They know where their children are, and they can be there quickly in the case of a skinned knee, …
When D started using again I hid the wallet and debit cards in a laundry basket under the bed, along with the check book, silver earrings, and car keys. Weapons were found: neglected staple gun (empty, mostly likely), red rung of a quilt rack (could give a good whack), book of feminist poetry (to distract). …
Paul scrambled down the riverbank’s long slope. He clutched his pack’s shoulder strap, assured by the rattle from beneath the canvas skin. Front Street’s lights faded, and each step brought a deeper darkness. The curfew sirens wailed—a single, stretching note not heard since the dam broke. The police with their orders. The National Guard stationed outside …