As May blossoms into full swing, heralding the arrival of warmer days and vibrant blooms, we are thrilled to unveil the sixty-fifth edition of the Flame Tree Fiction NEWSLETTER! This month we have two haunting stories to feast your eyes upon. We extend our deepest gratitude to our contributors for infusing our screens with their unique voices and enchanting narratives. Here's hoping for sunnier days ahead!

Congratulations to both winners of the May theme: Aeryn Rudel and Alexes Lester!

Taste Test by Aeryn Rudel – In a society segregated between subsisters and eaters, Justin from the Department of Food Service facilitates the Morrison family's difficult decision regarding their nutritional endowment after the loss of Mrs. Morrison's husband, offering a glimpse into their poignant past and present struggles...

Killing Jar by Alexes Lester – A tale of familial complexity and secrets unfolds as a young protagonist grapples with the legacy and desires of their unlovable uncle, ultimately confronting a disturbing truth after the passing of their mother...

This month's newsletter features:

• FLAME TREE PRESS: New titles coming this month!
• Gothic Fantasy: Latest releases
• CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS
• Original Horror Flash Fiction #1: Taste Test by Aeryn Rudel
• Original Horror Flash Fiction #2: Killing Jar by Alexes Lester
• Next Month’s Flash Fiction Theme

Killing Jar

Alexes Lester

I could smell him the moment I stepped into the house. The scent of chemical preservative and tobacco smoke hung in the air, but it was the hint of my mother's perfume that made my stomach lurch. Glancing down, I reached toward the little table where the servants habitually left the mail.

"Help me fly," he had written. "After I am gone, help me."

Sickened, I closed my eyes, and crumpled the letter in my hands.
For no reason I can explain, from an early age, my sympathies went toward unlovable creatures. It could not be said that I adored their ugliness, nor that I enjoyed the fear they inspired in others, but it could be said that I pitied them. Wished for them better than rejection, better than cruelty. Perhaps that pity could account for my initial fascination with my uncle, for he was, by far, the most unlovable member of our family.

Like the toads at the end of the garden, he was stooped and unseemly. Like the black cat my mother shooed away, he was unwelcome at family gatherings. Like the street dogs I fed with scraps off our table, I always begged for his inclusion in our home, yet, his presence brought no happiness.

It was permitted just the one time.

Stepping across the threshold of my mother's house, Uncle Alistair loomed, pipe in his mouth, and waited. Waited to be served, entertained, engaged in conversation.

He spoke solely to my mother.

"I have missed you, Elizabeth," he said, and nothing else.

Mother, her shoulders hunched, endured Alistair's dour presence, his grunting replies to our polite inquires, even the strangely sweet chemical smell of him, and then, evening over, she turned on me.

"Never again," she said. And, "Don't go near him."

Outside, the unloved dogs suffered in the rain, the toads squatted in the mud, and I suppose, in my child's mind, I thought he too would be in the cold. It must be understood that when I sought Alistair out, against my mother' wishes, it was only that I hoped to bring him the same kindness I brought the unloved creatures.

But there was nothing I could do for the butterflies.
The forbidden time I spent in my uncle's basement workshop taught me all I needed to know about the fragility of life.

With quick hands and the ever present killing-jar, Alistair spoke volumes, even when we sat together in silence. There was no doubt he felt the death he dealt was creation, not cruelty.

Art, not sacrilege.

He elevated the dead, Alistair insisted. No matter their species they were made perfect by his attentions. Too still, it was true, too faded and reduced, yet none could claim his butterflies were any longer ordinary.

Or uncertain of their killer's affections.

"Help me fly," he had written in the letter I found in the foyer, just days after my mother's death. "Like I could have done for you, my boy. Could have done, were it not for her."
The discovery of our secret friendship ended my strange education. One bleak day, Mother came to fetch me from Alistair's home, cheeks flushed, eyebrows knitted. My uncle was permanently banned from our house, while I was marched home in disgrace, and sent to my room without dinner.

Later, when she came upstairs, Mother stood at my door and spoke quietly.

"It's not safe," she whispered. "Please."

"He's not that bad, Mum," I started, but she shook her head.

"No, darling. No."
Butterflies were not Alistair's only subjects. There were, displayed amongst his immense collection, larger animals, too, in cases designed just for them. There was something in the exact construction of the exhibits that was terribly pleasing, and I enjoyed visiting his workroom to marvel at them. Up on the desk I would sit, kicking my legs back and forth, watching as he installed a rubber stopper, or brought, with precision, a pane of glass to rest in its frame. When done, I knew each container would hold gallons of fluid, some unfortunate creature, and all of the passion my uncle could give the project.

"You truly belong here," he had said just days before my mother found us together.

Nodding, I had stretched and said, "You make it look easy."
Mother's death came as a horrible shock. She had been so warm, so kind, it seemed that nothing untoward could possibly touch her, yet, one morning, she simply did not rise from her bed.

"Heart attack," the doctor had said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry."

Clocks stopped, mirrors covered, we descended into deep mourning, but my uncle did not appear. Surprisingly, I felt relief in his absence. His huge shoulders, I knew, would block out my grief. His deep voice would compete with my sorrow. When he failed to attend even the burial, I felt nothing but faint irritation.

And then the policeman came to call. Hat in hand, he spoke kindly, but his story was unbearably cruel. The burial site, he said, was open, like a wound, seeping black fluids and broken stone.

And my mother was gone.
Inside the envelope with his letter, Alistair had left a key. The key to his workshop.

Anger shook my hand on the latch, anger and fear, yet, once the door was opened, feeling left me altogether.

He had hung her on the wall.

Hung her in glass and copper.

Skirts fanned around her, colourful, folded, and wide, so much like wings Mother truly looked like she was flying. Flying free of pain.

Elevated above life.

Beneath her exhibit box, pale and still, was my uncle, hands clasped over his unmoving heart.

"Help me fly," he had written. "Help me, as I have taught you."

The sickly sweet smell of chemical preservative, my uncle's stale pipe smoke, and Mother's delicate perfume brought tears to my eyes.

Tears for the unloved creature.

"Yes, Uncle," I whispered, and turned to find his tools waiting for me.

Alexes Lester lives in Toronto, Ontario, Canada. She enjoys writing horror, dark fantasy and science fiction short stories but has also published creative nonfiction. From early childhood, Alexes has found inspiration in the works of H.G. Wells, Edgar Allan Poe, Jane Yolen and Robin McKinley. Her most recent work can be seen in Chicken Soup for the Soul: Lessons Learned from my Cat, Flame Tree's Chilling Crime: Short Stories, and Flame Tree's Newsletter, number 62.