Category: issue 13

So now I’m in a cold, dark cellar. I can sense the weight of the stone above me, but I can’t see anything. Up there I know there are undergraduates, professors, all noise and footsteps, but none of that makes it through the thick sandstone. The air is as dry and cold as any midwinter frost, and dark as an Ohio night.

Filomena woke to the sound of weeping. Not unusual. The Chapel of Perpetual Decomposition had excellent acoustics, and the mushrooms were always weeping about something: climate change, unrequited fungal love, the ethics of yogurt. But this was not a mushroom cry. It was something wetter.