We Are Judged by Our Plumage

By Rhoads Brazos

Andrew didn’t trust the bank teller. He fidgeted at the counter and tried not to stare. Her delicate profile and warm smile meant nothing with that Magpie on her shoulder.

Latin name: Pica pica. Characteristics: thievery, omnivore, faux bird of prey.

The teller looked shifty. It surprised Andrew that the bank had even hired her. On the way out, he carefully counted his money.

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Fiction Vortex - November 2014, art by Sergio Suarez

Cleansing Rain

By Carrie Vaccaro Nelkin

At first she thinks they’re attracted by the light and heat.

During the day they slip out of the water pooled in the hollows of the park and sun themselves on the humps of higher ground, drying the gossamer shreds of skin that hang from their bodies. Luba watches them from the corner of an upstairs window, barely breathing, drawing back if they glance her way. They seem to know they’re being spied on, because every time she’s called Zach to the window they’ve dropped back into the water with a plop, leaving only a widening ripple.

The ducks and seagulls drawn to the miniature lakes made by the storms squawk and flap away when the two of them appear. The birds return hours later, when the day is waning or clouds hide the sun. Only then does Luba step out of the house—but never out back, where the park is. She surveys the damage in the front: the live wires that droop from leaning poles to tangle on the street, the house next door abandoned to the tree now sinking through the roof, the debris that encrusts everything.

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Fiction Vortex - November 2014, art by Sergio Suarez

Tiny Lights

By Meredith Morgenstern

When Park Slope pediatrician Dr. Miller died, it wasn’t only the neighborhood paper that covered it, and not just the borough-wide Brooklyn news that remarked on his passing. Tilly Mendelssohn noticed the New York Times itself carried a lengthy, multi-column obituary full of many photos and anecdotes.

As a baby, Tilly was thought to have colic until her parents took her to see Dr. Miller, who informed them the infant simply didn’t like the color of her room. Parents often referred to Dr. Miller as the Child Whisperer, or the Baby Genius, or sometimes the Miracle Man. But to Dr. Miller’s little patients he was simply known as The Good Doc, and for seventeen-year old Tilly he was the inspiration for her to study hard and apply to Columbia University’s pre-med program.

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Fiction Vortex - November 2014, art by Sergio Suarez

To Forever

By Mary DeSantis

I felt it when Devron’s dream became real.

His shout pierced the air like the green of leaves against the sky’s blue. His footsteps pounded up the stairs. He burst into the kitchen and swept me off my feet, spinning me as if I were a princess. When he set me down, our lips met for the longest moment.

“I’ve done it, Lynd,” he said a time later. “I’ve made the drink. We can travel the world as who we want, what we want. We can see it all.”

His eyes sparkled like diamond-studded stars. This was everything to him, and thus, it was everything to me. He’d worked for so long and with such fervor.

And finally, his success was ours.

I snuggled into his embrace and rested my cheek against his chest. His warmth cocooned me. Tomorrow, we would become something else.

But, too, we would always remain us.



For a year we drank pink.

We became fairies. We danced on flowers. We kissed under the stars. We shimmered in the heat of noon.

One night, Devron took me under his wing and flew us to a garden with a crystal blue pool at its center. The surface stretched for what, in our tiny bodies, seemed miles. The moon shone, full and bright. A bird skimmed the water before lifting into the sky, and the light danced over the ripples until they shimmered like silver dust.

He pulled me into his arms and knelt, scooping the sparkling liquid into our hands. “Forever, the purity of the moonlit lake will unite us.”

The water flowed through our fingers. My heart swelled with all he meant to me, and I kissed him.

It would be forever.


For a year we drank violet.

We became unicorns. We drank from mountain streams. We chased each other over hills. We tossed our heads with the perfection of life.

One day, Devron led me to a pure green meadow. The sun burned bright overhead. Russet brown deer ran through the tall grass. The breeze fluttered in lazy patterns, carrying the scent of summer flowers.

We sat at the center of it all. He laid his head across the back of my neck. His breath stirred my mane and sent shivers down my spine. He placed his leg so a tall, orange flower stood between our hooves. “Forever,” he said in the language of beasts, “the bloom of a sunlit flower will know our love and keep it safe.”

My heart swelled until an orchestra’s melody filled my being. I nestled as close to him as I could. A long sigh of contentment slipped from my lips.

He said forever.


For a year we drank blue.

We became merpeople. We frolicked in the surf. We rode waves taller than any tree or mountain. We raced the whitecaps to shore.

We stayed.

One night, many moons after our arrival, Devron swam with me to a grotto. He’d decorated the rocks with plants that sparkled and swayed in the deep-sea currents. Tiny yellow and silver fish swam in schools from one gathering of kelp to another. He pulled me to a patch of sand at the center and curled his tail around me.

“I love you,” he said in the language of the ocean.

“I love you, too.” But my voice shook. The visions of sparkling plants and silver fish wavered.

“Lynd?” He tightened his embrace. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I fought the sorrow that rose like the tide. It was his dream, our dream. I wanted it as much as him.

I did.

“It’s beautiful here.”

He rested his cheek atop my head. “It is.” He plucked some of the shining plant from one of the lower decorations. “Forever, the light of the deep will hear our heartbeats as one and know how we are meant to be together.”

I closed my eyes. My heart swelled.

I wanted forever, after all.


For a year we drank green.

We became elves. We jumped in the rain. We swung from tree to tree, laughing like children. We basked in starlight and dusk.

We joined our new kind.

One sunlit afternoon, Devron led me to a grove of wide-leafed trees. Elves sat high in the branches, tossing small sticks upon the ones below. Those on the ground played gambling games with seeds and bark.

Dev took my hand and laced our fingers together. “They are ours, Lynd.”

I watched the elves. True, we looked like them. They smiled. They laughed. They were alive like us.

But we were not them.

“No.” My protest came choked. It wasn’t right, but nor could I say what was amiss. “Dev, this … isn’t where we belong.”

His eyes were storm clouds. The flex of gold in their gray depths flashed and spun. And then he was himself again. “But they could be. Come see.” He dragged me.

I went.

I played the games. I tossed the sticks from above. I spoke with them. I pretended to laugh, to smile. I wore a mask for Dev’s sake.

One night Devron went with them. I stayed behind, cradled by the soft leaves. The sky shone a royal blue. The moon hung high, its silver light dancing through the branches above. I breathed, the evening breeze swirling through my lungs like ethereal ice, and closed my eyes.

I saw home. I saw the kitchen, the counters covered with the rainbow bottles of our making. I saw the yard, so small when compared to the gardens and meadows and ocean.

I remembered our bed. I remembered the softness of the blankets. They were not the leaves, but they were ours. I remembered Dev’s arms, so warm and secure. I missed them. I wanted, needed them back. It was time, time to say goodbye.

Shouts echoed in the distance.

I swung from my perch and landed, feather light, at the base of my tree. Devron and his new friends dashed into the cover of the canopy. He raced to my side and embraced me. He kissed me, strong and passionate. My insides flowed like water, like when we had first been together.

He broke away with a sly grin and held open the pack on his shoulder. Inside, gold and silver winked in what moonlight reached the forest floor.

“Won,” Dev said. “Or taken.” He plucked a golden nugget from the bag and held it out to me. “For you, Lynd. What we could never have before.”

I stared at the nugget as if it meant me harm. Won … or taken. My liquid insides hardened into immovable stone. “Stolen, you mean?”

“Only some,” Devron said. He pushed the nugget toward me. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I recoiled. The weight of his actions sat heavy in me. “You would never have stolen for me before.”

“That was then.” He replaced the nugget in the bag and stepped toward me. “This is now. I love you, Lynd.” He shook the sack. “Don’t you see that?”

I batted the bag away. This was not love. “This is not us. I think we should stop drinking from the bottles.”

His eyes mimicked the thunder storm again. “No. I can be so much more for you this way.”

“But I want the old you back.”

He dropped the bag and gathered me in his arms. He held me as if I might break. “I love you. I want what’s best for you. This is better than we ever had, and I won’t give it up.” He kissed my forehead. “It will be like this forever.”

My heart’s beat was pain. Try as I might, I could not speak.

This could not be forever.


I set aside the bottles.

Devron did not.


For a year he drank red.

He became a vampire. By light he slept in our bedroom, the drapes pulled against the sunlight. By dark he stalked the world, a predator.

And by day, I watched, heartbroken.

Every evening he spoke. The words changed, but the meaning stayed the same. “Come with me, Lynd. The thrill, the power — it’s all worth it.”

I refused.

He left.

And I didn’t sleep.

I tossed and turned, cried and shouted. How could he do this? How could he leave me?

One night, I followed. I broke into his workroom and stole the red. Perhaps our time with the elves taught me something. I drank.

My body changed.

I grew fangs. I grew claws. Bloodlust came to life in my belly. The hunger sent me into the night without protest.

I killed. I fed. I kept my distance from Devron and let the need consume me.

The sun rose, and the thirst relented. I staggered home to stand outside my closed bedroom door. I stared at the white surface. Silently, I flung every insult I knew, but the barrier held. Devron remained untouched. Every night he went. Every night he reveled.

I never followed again.

And every morning he returned, eyes red and skin pale. He fell into my arms. His lungs didn’t breathe, and his heart didn’t beat.

Still, I held him.

I cradled his head, and silent tears fell from my eyes. I remembered the garden and the meadow and the ocean, and I wished him back.

He didn’t come.

He woke in my arms, ripped from my grasp, and staggered into the bedroom.

Alone, I went to the kitchen and stared at the red bottles that lined the counter, one a day to feed Devron’s addiction. At the end of the year, I readied a bin for the reds. The pinks, violets, blues, and greens sat in bins that I couldn’t bear to throw away. They were memories of happier times. Times of forever.


For a year he drank black.

He became a zombie. He wandered our home, silent and aloof. When his zombie friends came, he shuffled out the door, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

He never asked me to join him.

I never offered.

I waited by the door for him to return. He shambled inside and collapsed into my embrace. He groaned, an inhuman sound. It was no language, but still, there were words. He told me of the joy, the ecstasy of killing. He slept in my arms, and silent tears poured down my face. What had he become?

Later, he woke, pulled free of me, and curled on the floor. He watched the wall with dead, frozen eyes. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

I watched the collection of black bottles on the counter. It started small and, like all those before it, grew into a monster. At the end of the year, I filled a bin with them and placed it beside the others. I still could not throw them away.



“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here to mourn the passing of Devron Frill.”

I sat in the front row of the church, my eyes dry as deserts. The day passed in a haze. I said my final goodbyes. I climbed the hill to his final resting place. I watched as they lowered him into the ground.

What happened to forever?

I sat in my dark bedroom. The curtains remained closed from his time with the red. I couldn’t bring myself to open them. The blackness in my heart called to the bottles. I refused.

He promised me forever.

I stumbled into the kitchen. The bins sat where I left them. Pink, violet, blue, green, red, black. I watched them. I waited for them to explain, to apologize, to give him back to me.

They didn’t.

I broke into his workroom. Glass and plastic littered every surface. Colors winked from every corner. The machine he used to make the drinks sat dormant. No liquid swirled. No lights flashed. There was nothing here. I turned to leave.

Gold caught my eye. A single bottle sat high on a forgotten shelf. I climbed the stepladder and brought it down. Dreams scrawled across its side in tangled calligraphy.

More nothing.

I returned to the bins. They still had him. They kept him from me. They held every wish I’d ever made, everything I ever wanted for us. They stole from me as I had from him, as he had for me. They took my dreams.

Dreams. I held up the gold bottle. That was it. I could get him back. They’d taken him, yes.

But not forever.


I brought the bottles to his grave, and by the silver light of the moon, I began. I dug and placed, worked and waited. Night turned to day. A moonlit pool became a meadow. A meadow became the ocean. My creation grew. Bottles formed a circle, their colors a pattern of years passed. Stories flowed from their lips. Memories filled the air. Still I worked.

When it was done, I brought the gold to the hilltop and stood at the center. Every bit of us hummed in that one place. My hopes and dreams pulsed like a new heartbeat. This was it. We would be together.

I uncorked the gold and held it aloft. “To forever.” And I drank.

The bottle tumbled from my grasp. My legs grew together. My arms rose above my head. Branches sprouted from my fingers and reached for the sky. Roots stretched from my feet and buried into the earth. The sun warmed me. The earth’s water sated my thirst.



He was there, around me. His essence entwined with mine. We saw the pool, the meadow, the ocean. It was everything and more.

“I love you.”

It was forever.



Mary DeSantis grew up in New England and now lives in North Carolina, where she misses trees and snow. The change has allowed her to realize her beach addiction, though, and that she must never live on the ocean if she wants to get anything done. Mary has a B.A. in Psychology from Merrimack College and an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. When not writing or at the beach, she can be found hanging with friends, reading, or learning to fight dragons. She can he found on Twitter: @desantismt

Eleanor by Johnny Worthen

Book Review: Eleanor by Johnny Worthen

Eleanor by Johnny WorthenReview by Mike Cluff

There are certain things, horrible things, that a person should never see, let alone experience. These moments carry their own particular flavor of immediate horror, but what about those moments and lifetimes after?

Some people attempt to go back to normal life and have those occasional nights, like Jon Voight’s character at the end of Deliverance, where they wake up screaming from suppressed memories that manifest in dream. Or, in the case of young Eleanor Anders, whose family was slaughtered in front of her, leaving humanity behind helps cover the pain and bury the horror.

However, it is when Eleanor Anders rejoins humanity that she has to deal with the inevitable process of facing her past and living once again as a human.

In Eleanor, Johnny Worthen takes the coming-of-age story and transforms it into a paranormal tale like no other. Eleanor isn’t exactly human and she has a difficult time blending in with the citizens of a small Wyoming town. And to top it off, she’s a teenager. Her adopted mother is dying and Eleanor would much rather just disappear into the wild. That is until, David — the only other human apart from her adopted mother that has ever cared for Eleanor — moves back into town.

I can honestly say that Johnny Worthen has created in Eleanor one of the most multi-faceted (on a few levels one might not suspect), conflicted, and beautiful characters that I have ever read. My one complaint is that we only get snippets of her history, which I imagine the author did on purpose.

In addition to the characters, the quality of writing proves that Johnny Worthen is no accidental author. Readers need to go into the book expecting paranormal elements, but also be aware that this book is very honest (no flashy nonsense) and grounded in a world young adults and adults alike can all easily fit into and accept, but a world that Eleanor cannot. That is what makes the book so compelling.

The first in a new series, Eleanor will leave you wanting more.

  • Paperback: 360 pages
  • Publisher: Jolly Fish Press (July 1, 2014)
  • Language: English
  • ISBN-10: 1939967341
  • ISBN-13: 978-1939967343
by Sergio Suarez - Fiction Vortex September 2014

Sometimes the Scenery Is Beautiful

By Chloe Clark

The Doctor

“Lucy, you’re going to be all right,” I said. I liked this part of my job best. The moment of relief that crosses a patient’s face. She had a scare. Cancer. We caught it early. We took care of it. Now a couple of months of treatment and she’d be fine.

My wife was seven months pregnant, and she stopped being emotional around month five. I’d tell her about my day and nothing moved her anymore. It was a relief to come to work and see emotions flood across people’s faces.

“But, how long will I live?” she asked. She was forty two years old, and her father died years ago of the same thing. I’ve never been seriously ill and I wondered what it’s like. I’ve never thought about that before. All those patients, and I never really thought about what it’s like to be like them. To really be that scared.

“Well, no one lives forever, but I think that you’ll live a very long time.” I smiled at her.

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Art by David Revoy/ Blender Foundation

I’ll Go With Her, but Not Yet

By Sean Ealy

The first time I saw the little girl was in the field.

Appearing out of the wheat, she came to me like an apparition, and I almost hit her with the combine.

“What’s the matter with you?” I said, wiping sweat out of my eyes. “What are you doing out here?”

Her eyes were as black and as indifferent as the dress she wore, her blonde hair pulled back from her scalp in tight braids. Her skin was the color of winter moonlight. She might have been ten or maybe eleven, but something about the way she inspected me seemed mature beyond her years. Almost ancient.

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Copyright Neils Christensen

Black Friday

By Caren Gussoff

Tillie Montgomery couldn’t hold it any longer.

She pulled her mother by the arm, like when she was an impatient kid, toward the closest exit, between the hot pretzel counter and the beauty supplies.

Her mother tugged back.

“Please, mom,” Tillie said. “Quickly.”

The voice of the all-pink Elvis vendor seemed to follow them from the atrium the whole way to the exit, alternating between “Hunka Burning Love” and the exclusive features of the microphone, available that day for a special Wednesday price — even though everyone everywhere knew retailers started the serious sales two days later, on Black Friday.

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Art by David Revoy/ Blender Foundation

The Recompense Grift

By R.Y. Brockway

A shadow emerged, a dark spot in the vast, featureless, white terrain. It descended, circling above Lazarus’s head, and he could just make out the forms of outstretched arms, long fingers splayed wide-open. Around and around it spiraled, growing closer with each pass before ascending once again on some unperceivable updraft. Oh sweet Death, thought Lazarus, finally you have come to embrace me.

A cold, wet splash hit Lazarus’s in the face. Lazarus jerked upright, gasping for breath. He clutched his head as it spun between his hands and tried to control his breathing. The vulture — not Death — took one last look at its would-be meal and flew away, disappearing over the horizon.

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