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Anthology.

THE CHILDREN OF FAITH
     
    SEAN TEMPLETON
     
    The council had deliberated; its verdict was clear. Two bearded men, pulled by a single black horse, now depart westward under a bent white canvas and a fuliginous fog. At least before there were bodies, there was something to blame.
    Now, just the returning blacksmith’s din and no laughter from children. Not since ‘06 had such a colony sent out for help; but five years isn’t long for the servants of God.
    It’s obvious what the pair will tell the Columbus police. They’ll start with the blackbirds–say they’d come in like always, searching for grain in the village square. But this time, they’ll say, there was something in their eyes: something hellish. They’ll explain three children dropping dead near the schoolhouse, and that the primitive colony prayed in a circle.
    The pair will report that a stranger then approached wearing outsiders’ garb, a tan sack over his shoulder. That he asked why they prayed. And when they’d told him, he’d spoken:
    “And your god doesn’t care? That your children, that his children die?” They’ll remember him asking. “ Hell in birds’ eyes? Can’t he redeem them? Prophets before your prophets, they wrote of a god called Hades. He damned another deity with nothing but pomegranate seeds! You think he can’t condemn blackbirds ? Your god refuses you; but Hades speaks. He is real. If I bring him your grain, he’ll accept it as pomegranate seeds.”
    The pair will recall that the village fell silent when “Hades’ messenger” demanded its oldest text, a calligraphic Ausbund , in return. The hush careered into fury, they’ll say, and the stranger left carrying grain.
    But, the messengers will explain, he returned with red seeds on the night two more children died, and the sobbing Reverend reluctantly accepted his demands. The stranger flung the seeds about the square before departing again.
    The men will tell how the colony woke among bird carcasses, but that the reverend hid the Ausbund nonetheless. Then, they’ll claim a plow-man crossed town at noon to find the schoolteacher dead, his schoolchildren missing. The authorities will hear about the council, about its verdict. They’ll hear that . . .
    But my daydream dissipates.
    . . . I hope they’ll call me Hades’ son, something divine. But in truth, I just couldn’t help myself.
    I saw the colony’s sign from a Corvette’s backseat and took foot after I poisoned the driver. The birds were a beautiful coincidence, the town’s prayers pristine irony. All it took was pomegranate seeds, some liquid strychnine in the seeds and a meal, and I got what I wanted.
    Not their Ausbund , of course. My bag carries folklore, not fantasy.
    No, I craved their uncertainty. I want their doubt. I want to brandish my knife at their young as we trudge up this hillside, to look in their timorous eyes and tell them “there is no God,” and “relax, I won’t hurt you . . . but I’m your god now.”
    Sean Templeton grew up in Dickinson, North Dakota. He currently attends Minnesota State University in Moorhead, MN, for English Writing and Business Administration. While he has had several poems published, Sean is just beginning to write prose. His first few pieces have been in his long-time favorite horror genre.

SALLY’S DREAM
     
    GARY R. HOFFMAN
     
    The person standing over her bed had a very large knife in their hand. The knife had a shiny silver blade and red handle.
    “What do you want?” Sally asked with a shaky voice.
    “Do you not remember me?”
    “No. I have no idea who you are.”
    “Think hard, and I’ll return when you remember. It will mean nothing if you don’t know who I am.”
    Sally woke with a jolt. Her gown was wet with sweat and her heart pounded. She glanced around the empty room. Her bladder ached. She threw the blanket back and heard something clatter to the floor. When she turned on the light, she saw a large, silver-bladed knife with a