Free Arcane II by Nathan Shumate (Editor)

you think as you turn to walk away. Then you spot an arrow pointing to the chapel, and hope it doesn’t change on you, doesn’t shift. It’s all just stress, you say to yourself. You imagined the perspectivators, the endless stairwell, the lost buttons. You get like this when you travel. It’s just par for the course.
    You follow the sign—it doesn’t move, and you aren’t sure if this is a comfort. Your sit down at the back of the chapel, your butt and back stiff and numb on the wooden pews. Out of the corner of your eye you see the table is piled with gifts, all wrapped, all lovely, and you have nothing. A used paisley tie, not even parceled in white paper. The ceremony hasn’t started yet and you look around for the girl, maybe she’ll let you sign your name to her tag if you beg or offer her something. But she’s not there either. You wait until no one’s looking and duck out. You should probably send a card, you think, and make note of it in your Moleskine notebook.
    You spy a set of revolving doors. Beyond their spinning glass panes you see nothing but fog. You push thorough them, the bellman winking at you as you pass, saying, “Welcome back, sir.” You know what’s coming, but push through anyway. No matter how many times you go round the egress is always the lobby, always faces the smiling bellmen, the conventioneers, the hotel. You aren’t getting out, not this way and you know it. You have to make your peace with this. It would be easier with some company, and you think maybe if you park yourself near the door you might catch a glimpse of that girl again. You sidle up to the wide oak bar. The barman asks, “What’ll it be?”
    “A rum and tonic,” you demand. “Make it a double.” They make you sleepy, but they also make it easier. You take your drink to a big chair in the lobby, sinking deep into the buttery leather. You pull the suitcase next to you for safety, as you can feel sleep tugging down your lids like window shades. You can’t find the ticket, the one that’s supposed to take you home. You’ve torn apart your luggage a few times already looking for it. You can’t remember what time the flight leaves, or even the day it’s set for. Or what today is, honestly. Your glass is empty, and the need for sleep flows over you like a strange wind. You can get there, get away, if you can make it through that revolving door, past those bellmen, the street. And if you do make it to the tarmac, you hope that neither the plane nor you will be

 
     
    90-Day Limit
     
    Philip M. Roberts
     
     
    Given how many people Roy had evicted from his apartment complex over the years, he’d always made sure to have all the details about an eviction up front and clear in his contracts, including the 90 days to clear out any belongings before he trashed them all.
    On the 91st day after officially evicting the tenant in apartment C3, Roy stepped out of his office and walked across the parking lot towards the building. He ran his fingers absently across his balding head, scratched at his gut sticking out from beneath his stained t-shirt. He always itched when he got nervous, and he never liked dealing with the evictions.
    He hadn’t actually seen the tenant in C3 for probably four or five month prior to the official eviction, but that, too, didn’t surprise him. So many of his tenants were involved with all sorts of unsavory things, Roy had gotten used to them disappearing in the night.
    One of the steps shifted, nearly came loose beneath his bulk as he trudged up them to the second floor. Just another needed repair in a list so long Roy knew he’d never get to most of them. He knocked twice, the fourth time he’d done so since the last time he’d seen the man who rented it, and after a few seconds got out his keys and unlocked it himself.
    He’d seen the remains of plenty of apartments after people were arrested or worse. He expected the smell of rotting food and waste, stains long soaked into the