Nightmare Magazine, Issue 76 (January 2019) by John Joseph Adams

Author:John Joseph Adams
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: John Joseph Adams
Published: 2018-12-17T00:19:15+00:00

©2019 by Vajra Chandrasekera.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Vajra Chandrasekera is a writer from Colombo, Sri Lanka. His work has appeared in Black Static, Liminal Stories, and Three-Lobed Burning Eye, among others. He blogs occasionally at vajra.me and is @_vajra on Twitter.

To learn more about the author and this story, read the Author Spotlight

Bitter Perfume

Laura Blackwell | 4066 words

I kiss my great-grandmother on the top of her dusty black wig and asked what she would like for her birthday. I had already sewn her a jewelry roll and mixed her a new skin-softening oil—the best I could afford to do since I had lost my job—but you don’t turn a hundred and twenty-five every day.

Abuelita turned her milky eyes to me and lifted a trembling, withered hand from her rosary to beckon me closer. “Quiero morir,” she whispered in my ear. I want to die.

I shivered, not from the cold of the windowless room, but from recognition. “Yo también,” I told her in a voice just loud enough for her to hear. “Espera, por favor. Espera.”

Me, too. Please wait.

Grandpa Estéban eyed us suspiciously from his recliner. “What are you talking about, Melissa?”

I straightened up and forced a smile, raising my voice a bit more to carry over the hum of the compressors. “I promised her some birthday cake. Would you like some? It’ll be good. Sara made it.”

He grunted. Sara’s spice cake was a rare treat and he wasn’t too far gone to know it. “Just a spoonful of frosting.”

“Can do.” I stopped at the controls in the hall on my way out and added some oxygen to their sitting room. The hall door closed behind me, its rubber seals gasping as it shut.

In the kitchen, my grown daughter and my elderly uncle were finishing up their boring-but-healthy dinner of vegetables and rice. No meat, hardly any fat, no sugar. Sara said it would extend our lives; I didn’t see the point of life without flavor.

“Time for cake and presents,” I said, unzipping my coat. It was cool in here, but not outright cold, and the sight of the long prairie sunset through the window made me feel toasty. “Might as well leave the dishes. There’ll be more soon.”

“Okay,” said Sara, rising from her place to spoon leftovers into an old yogurt container. “How many plates?”

“Five plates, three forks, and two spoons.”

“They’re both eating the cake? I’m flattered.”

“Just the frosting. You might want to sprinkle a little extra cloves on it so they can smell it.”

“You bet.”

They started putting on their coats and gloves. I nabbed the jewelry bag from my room, but I left the skin oil. I would mix her a fresh batch and change up the ingredients a little.

While Sara pulled the cake out from the fridge, Tío Gaspar picked up the small pile of presents. We didn’t usually make a big deal out of birthdays, especially Abuelita’s and Grandpa Estéban’s, since they’d had so many. We certainly never invited anyone from outside the family, since we were the only ones who knew Abuelita was still alive.

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