Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder No. 11 - May 2024: Black Sheep Magazine, #11

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Welcome to Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder, an extraordinary anthology magazine that transcends the boundaries of science-fiction, fantasy, and horror. Prepare to embark on a thrilling journey through the darkest corners of the human imagination, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the mundane transforms into a realm of unspeakable terror and awe-inspiring wonder.

Within these pages, you'll discover a collection of captivating stories carefully curated to transport you to realms beyond the mundane. Each issue presents an array of unique tales crafted by talented visionaries, both established and emerging, who dare to defy conventions and push the boundaries of speculative fiction.

Whether you're a seasoned lover of the fantastic or just curious to explore new frontiers, Black Sheep: Unique Tales of Terror and Wonder will be your guide through the realms of the extraordinary. Prepare to be enthralled, enchanted, haunted. So put on your dark sunglasses … and unleash your inner Black Sheep.

In this issue:

RITE OF PASSAGE
Brian J. Smith

BLOOD BLISTER
Hannah Zizza

THE MAN WHO WAS THE WORLD
Ben James

GRACE COMES AT NIGHTFALL
David Thomas Peacock

BLACK BETTY
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

SCENIC DETOUR
Peter Emmett Naughton

THE STRANGE CASE OF BARTHOLOMEW HEMBREE
Paul Cesarini

THE EMPTY CHAIR AT THE CASINO
Mark Tulin

WARMTH OF THE WOMB
J. Boyett

WORLDS AWAY
Curtis A. Bass

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Apr 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224728640

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CONTENTS

––––––––

RITE OF PASSAGE

Brian J. Smith

BLOOD BLISTER

Hannah Zizza

THE MAN WHO WAS THE WORLD

Ben James

GRACE COMES AT NIGHTFALL

David Thomas Peacock

BLACK BETTY

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

SCENIC DETOUR

Peter Emmett Naughton

THE STRANGE CASE OF BARTHOLOMEW HEMBREE

Paul Cesarini

THE EMPTY CHAIR AT THE CASINO

Mark Tulin

WARMTH OF THE WOMB

J. Boyett

WORLDS AWAY

Curtis A. Bass

RITE OF PASSAGE

Brian J. Smith

––––––––

GOOD morning, Baby Bear.

A sense of joy washes over Rebecca as her mother Amelia’s voice resonates in her right ear. Her heavy-lidded green eyes opening on sleep-crusted lids, Amelia stands on the foot of the bed and greets her with a wide cheerful grin. She rolls onto her back, tosses the covers aside, sighs and returns the smile.

Good morning, Momma Bear.

Becca sits up in bed, stretches until it hurts and yawns. She licks the film of sleep paste off the roof of her mouth and slides onto the edge of the bed. She plants her feet onto the colorful braided rug spread across the middle of her room and rubs the whites out of her eyes with the back of her right hand.

Amelia peers over her right shoulder, casts a sideways glance at the bedroom doorway and hurries across the room. She sits down beside of Becca, places her left hand on her right thigh and bites down on her bottom lip. She licks her upper lip and glances at Becca, her face creasing with a mingled expression of worry and unease.

It’s okay if you want to back out now. She says. We’re not–

I know, Momma. Becca says. It’s okay though.

I just want you to know that your father and your sister and I will not think less of you if you decide not to go through with it. I passed my opportunity off to your Aunt Maggie and no one batted an eye or said anything to make me feel guilty about it.

Becca leans forward and cups her mother’s hand inside of hers. She presses the back of her palm against her left cheek and, basking in the warmth of Amelia’s skin, flashes a wide bubble-gum pink smile. Sunlight pours through the gauzy blue curtains framing her bedroom window spreads odd shadows and patches of light across the sleek hardwood floor.

I’m okay, Momma Bear. She says. I know what I’m doing. I’m not afraid.

I just want you to be sure that you’re making the right decision. Amelia says. You’re a smart and beautiful woman and I just want you to know that whatever decision you make we still love you.

Becca slides Amelia’s hand away from her face, kisses the knuckle on her third finger. It’s okay, Momma. I know how much all of you love me but I have my reasons. I’m not just doing this for us.

Amelia slides her hand from Becca’s grasp and rises up on her feet. The mingled smells of coca butter lotion and baby powder emanates from beneath Amelia’s nightgown and fills Becca’s nostrils. Outside, birds chirp an inhuman greeting too sweet to ignore; the tree branches sway in the breeze, their shadows wavering across the roof and along the sills of her bedroom windows.

No matter what. She says. You’ll always be my Baby Bear.

Love you, Momma Bear.

Amelia grins. You’ve got a piping hot breakfast waiting for you downstairs.

Thanks, Momma Bear.

Amelia gently pats Becca’s right shoulder and exits the room. Becca lays back on her bed and stretches once more, her face creasing with joy. She scans the faint yellow specters of light streaking along the walls, leaps out of bed and strides across her bedroom into the bathroom.

She thinks about last night’s dream. She wants to go back to sleep to finish it but she knows she cannot. She had dreamed about a tall handsome man with long dark hair and icy blue eyes. He’d had a pale chiseled face, flat muscular chest and a slim waist.

He’d been standing beside of a tall oak tree wearing jeans and a black shirt. He’d taken her hands inside of his and rubbed his thumbs across the middle of her palms. The smell of wood smoke had permeated off of his skin, filled her nostrils and seeped into her bones.

A perfect day for a new beginning.

––––––––

When she exits her bedroom, Becca slips her hot pink cotton robe over her light-blue nightgown and cinches it around her thin narrow waist. She turns right, descends the two steps toward the octagonal platform at the top of the staircase and pauses beside the large double-hung window. She brushes a strand of bright red hair away from her face, tucks it behind her right ear, peers out the sunlit window and grins.

Her father Clay stands in the side yard, the sunlit grass bending in the breeze, talking to Aaron Young and his fiancé Darcy, his large manly hands bracing his wide strapping hips. A thin net of tree shadows caps his clean-shaven head and bleeds down the back of his neck and across his thick heavy shoulders. His red tee-shirt and blue jeans gives him a relaxed demeanor although his nervousness is measured by the incessant scratching of his elbows.

Off to his left, her tire swing dangles down from a nearby tree branch and sways in the breeze. She draws a short breath and licks her lips.

Aaron wears a short dark-haired man with a wide face and rugged handsome features wearing a white tee-shirt and khaki shorts. Darcy dons a tall lithe blonde with thick pink lips and a cherub face wearing a long floral print press. Becca does not give herself away but she can see the cheery expressions on their faces and perpetual love glinting in their eyes.

Am I denying myself a chance at love by doing this?, she wonders. Surely I can be just as good a wife as anyone in this village. If I’m capable of helping Momma with the horses then what does Darcy Clemons have that I don’t?

She brushes the thought and the question aside and keeps the answer to herself. Tiny dust motes dance inside the shaft of sunlight pouring through the window. Her thin narrow shadow stretches across the corridor and grasps at the balustrades of the sleek wooden banister.

Becca backs away from the window, her cheeks flushing beneath the wide jovial smile cutting across her face, and takes the stairs two at a time. She sighs at the smell of food wafting across the house and descends the last step with a childish buoyancy. She peers around, ignores the odd shadows stretching across the oak paneled walls and pads across the soft tongue of blue carpet stretching down the hallway.

She strolls past the spacious living room on her immediate left and turns right. She steps through the doorway standing caddy-corner from the living room and into a wide spacious kitchen. She catches something in the corner of her left eye and peers over her left shoulder to see what it was.

Her little sister Stacie sits in the straight back chair on the opposite end of the table, laces her arms across her chest and glowers at her.

Good morning, Little Bear.

In a nasally mocking voice, Stacie says, Good morning, Little Bear.

Becca sighs and stares down at a large white plate sitting at her end of the table. Three buttermilk pancakes drowning in butter and syrup sits next to six strips of bacon and four large sausage patties. A tall glass of orange juice sits on the left; a clean silver fork sits on a thin white napkin on the right side.

What’s got you out of sorts?

It must be nice to have a nice hot breakfast while the rest of us have cold lumpy oatmeal. She says.

If you want some of my–

I don’t want your friggin’ food. Stacie says. I want a redo. It should be me going out there today.

You’re still angry about that?

Stacie purses her lips together and nods.

You had your chance and The Elders said no. Becca says. What do you expect me to do, Little Bear?

I want you to rescind your acceptance.

No.

Stacie unfolds her arms, draws a small breath, sighs and brushes her right hand across her chin. Her boyish-cut dark red hair shimmers in the sunlight pouring through the kitchen window and sits atop her angular face and tapered-white chin; she has Clay’s walnut-shaped blue eyes.

I wasn’t told about it until after the ceremony. Stacie says. I should’ve–

Someone needed to represent our family and you weren’t around.

I didn’t get the–

You were late. Becca says. Admit it.

I wasn’t late at all. I was taking a nap and–

No you weren’t. She says. You think I don’t know what you were really doing?

A dark vertical line creases her forehead. The angry expression on Stacie’s face shifts to one of heart-stopping shock. Her cheeks flushing, she covers her mouth with her right hand and goes stiff for a minute.

I know you were up in Mister McDuff’s barn fooling around with Eli Campbell.

We weren’t doing anything up there, sis. Stacie says. How did you find out in the first place?

The hay always betrays, she wants to say.

Before she does, the screen door behind Stacie’s chair creaks open, spilling a carpet of sunlight across the doorway and cuts her off in mid-sentence. Clay steps through the doorway, sunlight framing his tall bulky frame and strides into the kitchen.  The door shuts behind him as the smell of freshly-mowed grass billows off of his clothes and follows him like a bad aura.

Becca snatches her fork from the table and cuts a large chunk of syrup drenched hotcakes. She stuffs it into her mouth and chews. Stacie peers her with a malice in her eyes, leans back against her chair and casts a solemn gaze down at the bright yellow tabletop. Clay saunters over to the countertop, opens the cupboard above the coffee maker, takes a large white ceramic mug from the top shelf and fills it with fresh hot coffee.

Thin ghosts of steam ascends from the top of the cup and dissipates in the air. He takes a sip and greets his daughters with a warm homey smile.

Hey, Baby Bear. He says.

Becca swallows another forkful of hotcakes and says. Hey, Poppa Bear.

Clay approaches her side of the table and leans forward. He leans forward, brushes a thick strand of red hair from Becca’s face, plants a soft gentle kiss on the crown of her forehead and leans back against the countertop.

Did you get plenty of sleep?

Yeah. Becca says.

That’s good.

Clay takes another sip from his mug as Becca continues to eat. Stacie notices the exchange between them and bites down on her bottom lip. A river of tears brimming in her eyes and cascading down her hot red cheeks, Stacie slides her chair away from the table, leaps out of her seat and storms off into the next room.

Becca ignores her and gnaws on three strips of bacon. Clay shakes his head, peers into the living room and watches Stacie storm off down the hallway. Her thunderous footsteps pounding up the staircase, he sighs, takes another sip and peers back down at Becca.

Don’t pay attention to her. He says. She had her chance and she was–

‘Late’, he wants to say.

Instead, the screen door creaks open again. This time, her mother Amelia appears into the kitchen and greets her with another wide cheerful smile. Gwen Stephens and her cousin Rhonda Givens stands behind Amelia, their bedhead white hair springing from their heads in snow-white curls.

All three of them are donning sour-yellow gowns and open-toed brown leather sandals. Their conjoined shadow stretching across the sunlit kitchen, Gwen holds a long green measuring tape in her left hand and Rhonda grasps a pair of scissors in her right. Before Becca asks what is going on, a heavy bell resonates in the distance.

Amelia glances at Clay. It’s time.

Okay. He says. I’ll see you at the town square in a little bit.

Love you, Pappa Bear.

Love you, Momma Bear.

Amelia flicks her gaze over to Becca. Are you ready?

Becca licks a film of syrup from her upper lip, sets her fork down beside of her plate and greets them with another wide cheery smile. Clay takes another sip and nods.

She rises up from her seat, her face split by a wide cheery smile, wipes her mouth off with a napkin and walks around the left side of the table. Clay nods, raises his mug in a celebratory manner and grins.

When all four women exit the house, dragging an eager Becca behind them, Stacie appears in the kitchen doorway and greets her father with a sad puppy-dog expression. He takes one last sip from his mug, places it on the countertop next to the right side of the sink and gazes back at her.

He draws a short breath, wipes the film of sweat from his forehead with the back of his left arm and extends his arm out to her. She sniffles and takes his hand.

Come on, honey. He says. I don’t like it any more than you do but these are the rules.

Stacie takes her father’s hand and follows him out of the house.

––––––––

The mingled sense of happiness and elation blooms through Becca’s body in pockets of blood-red heat. Amelia takes her hand and guides her down the cobblestone streets of Esquivel, past row after row of white and brown stucco houses with clay-tile roofs. Large plastic white streamers adorned with the same tiny red crosses I’d seen on Suarez’s face were strung above the town, flapping lazily in the breeze.

The men and boys of the village donning red shirts and white pants while women and girls wearing faint yellow gowns appears from their shops and restaurants onto the cobblestone streets with delighted expressions on their