Venice Baked Beans The town was named Venice, but I…
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Venice Baked Beans
The town was named Venice, but I couldn't tell you why. There were no boats nor affiliation to water ways, the founders weren't Italian in the slightest, and we weren't known for romance nor history. The closest thing to a gondolier would have been old man Sticks and his worn out canoe that hadn't moved from his yard in over a decade. It had a rusted hole in the bottom, and for years he swore that he'd have it fixed for the weekend. My best guess is that the founders named it Venice simply because they thought it was ironic.
Downtown was picturesque, though, with red brick shops adorned in bright trim. I never quite knew why we called it Downtown, as if there was a midtown and uptown to compliment. Venice had just one functional road. A few businesses on one side, a few houses on the other. There was a blinking four-way light somewhere near the middle. One direction led west, one led east, and the others led to dirt roads with a few more houses in small, dead end cul-de-sacs. There was a church, a general store, gasoline and mechanical, liquor, and something else I've missed- but surely you understand. It was the expected, minimal infrastructure of any podunk. It had no tourism. No iconic cryptid. No festival nor landmark. No nothing.
Venice had beans. The plants rested in orderly rows through endless flat fields, but the legumes knew no confinement and their foliage spilled in tangled hordes outside the borders of agriculture. From the air or nearby peaks, it was a sea of sprawling, delicate, hungry vines, and they crept up the walls of the town’s few structures too, invading every aspect of our lives like a cancer.
I left for college and came back when I inherited my family’s house. I'm not sure why I didn't sell it at the time. I guess because I didn't think anyone would want to buy it if I had.
But when I left - more like escaped - the second time, I left for good. I just didn't realize how quickly I would forget entirely. My memories had disappeared as insidiously as the town itself did, and I reckon that makes sense when there's nothing left to return to.
See, nothing ever happened in Venice. I know that everyone says that about every small town, but Venice was a deep kind of dull. It was so underwhelming that I think Sticks never bothered to fix his canoe just so that he had something to look forward to each day. If he fixed it… what would he do next?
We had grown so complacent with nothingness, that when nothing became something we were wholly unprepared and surely convinced that it would resolve itself if we just ignored it for long enough. But things have a way of creeping up on you.
It started as a long, skinny crack, running east to west on top of what was formerly the Highway 78 corridor. It wasn’t absurd to find. It was a neglected road since eminent domain redirected the new highway corridor straight through the Lovett family's farm on the western-most territory of Venice. We never wanted the new highway, and the beans tried to steal the land back every step of the way as the new road materialized. The workers beat the vines back though, and, slowly, we became an inconvenient detour.
The new route demoted Old Highway 78 to a defunct, winding loop that wasn't even worth designating as a scenic or historic bypass.The state didn't invest money in maintaining it, so the crack didn't catch us off guard when it first appeared. It was just the consequence of time in our eyes.
I remember unexpectedly stumbling over it one day. I had blindly crossed that crack for what felt like months without issue, by then, it had become a feature. My toe abruptly caught its newly proud edge one afternoon. Bewildered, I followed the crack as far as my eyes could trace, both eastward and then westward, and I thought it looked much deeper, much wider, and like one side had dropped lower than the other. Admittedly, I didn't warrant much more concern beyond that, but I remember thinking the thought all the same.
The following morning came early at 7AM sharp with a stout intrusion. Jacob Sr rapped his knuckles on my door so firmly I'd have been worried that someone had died if my parents weren't already dead.
“Everett,” the wiry man kneaded his hands out of stress as he spoke to me, “you'd just best come see.”
Jacob Sr led me down the dirt road I had walked a thousand times since I was a boy. I was no expert on anything, none of us were, but matters like this were a community affair given our inexperience in everything but routine and blissful ignorance. Other denizens were trickling into the epicenter of something unusual at the same time, each wandering through the morning's fog that filled the space between the scarce Venice architecture.
Suddenly, Jacob Sr stopped me with a firm arm across my chest. I grunted, first at his blow, and next at the revelation that the previously nondescript crack had split to a deep crevice and I was walking clear towards its edge. A rock, propelled by my foot, skittered across the ground and into the abyss. I nervously watched it clatter during its descent until I could no longer hear it nor see it. I never heard it hit the bottom.
“Has to be a sink hole,” Clara chirped confidently in her country twang from the other side of the fifteen-foot-wide canyon.
I imagined that a part of her enjoyed feeling like a damsel in distress isolated where she was. In another life, she'd have been an eccentric socialite, but in Venice she occupied her time with the antics of two baby daddies on either end of the town, and even through the fog I could feel her eyeing me like she was looking for a third.
“Just like Centralia. Swallowed the whooole town. Lord rest ‘em.” She waxed, twirling her toes on the asphalt and attempting to strike conversation.
“Is Junior on that side?” I quipped.
I knew it'd piss her off and shut her up. She had married Davey, father of her oldest, but everyone except Davey knew that Jacob Junior had sired her youngest. As expected, she scrunched her face and ignored me.
“She might be right for once,” I spoke to no one in particular.
More Venetians congregated along the canyon, and I suggested to the group that we leave. But how? Half the cars had fallen into the crevice, and the remainder either didn't work or didn't have 4x4 to drive the tracked-out and muddy back roads through bean country. We could walk, but some of us weren't able bodied and even fewer seemed willing, scoffing that evacuation was dire for what, at the time, was just a hole in the ground by their own admissions.
By 9 o'clock, the fog had burned off but no progress had been made regarding our predicament. Some folks lightly bickered about what to do next, while others shrugged and went about their day as if nothing had changed.
I surveyed the divided town. The canyon grew with each passing minute, gradually consuming more of the earth as it collapsed into the seemingly bottomless maw. A utility pole on the western perimeter of town inched closer and closer to the edge, until it finally fell with a grumbling torrent of gravel and a shower of electric sparks. We never had cell reception to begin with, but the landlines and our power now joined the absence.
Another chunk slipped into the earth, this time taking Sticks’ wrecked canoe with it. The crevice had grown another five feet, easily, but still no one seemed too concerned as they debated along its unstable edge. I was anxious and my stomach twisted. The whole thing felt wrong.
But before I could attempt to inspire change, Clara questioned from across the gap in her typical sing-song voice, the way she always did when she wanted something.
“Everett, sugar,” she cooed, "I was goin’ to take the boys out with me to get groceries tonight, but it seems that plan won't work anymore, will it? Could you jus’ toss over some food? Davey Junior is jus’ growin’ like a beanstalk, ya know.” She smiled at the toddler.
The irony was not lost on me that she named the tot Davey Junior, but he was not at fault for his mother's infidelity.
“Sure, toss me your wallet and I'll go get it for you.” I smirked. She was always eager to manipulate, and I wasn't going to give her the opportunity.
“But- you- I- I can't throw that far!” She stammered.
“Naw, sure you can.” I insisted, gesturing my arms to catch.
She scowled, looked inside her knock-off Prada, scowled deeper, and - to my surprise - half heartedly threw the bag in a purposeful manner so that it flew through the air in a wide, pathetic arc straight into the crevice.
“Oops,” she feigned shock.
My eyes widened in surprise and I laughed. “You know what, I'll spot you, Clara,” I assured, half impressed at her dedication to the bit. I knew she wouldn't pay me back.
I had a heavily creased $10 in my pocket, and the meager general store wasn't well stocked. I grabbed a can of spam and a locally canned case of beans.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Clara scoffed when I tossed her the beans.
“I only had a ten-spot on me, Clara. I think everyone is eating cold beans tonight anyways. Besides, I gave you the spam too. You’ll make do.”
Clara frowned before storming off, dagging DJ by the arm.
No one else seemed to notice, but the crevice had grown again by the second day. The entire width of the road and most of the cement sidewalks had crumbled into that dark pit, and it now lapped at the edges of Downtown’s meager businesses. At least one structure was beginning to hang over it. But Venice went about undeterred.
People walked precariously close to the edge if they needed to get somewhere, stubbornly refusing to alter their paths. Generators whirred in the background, alleviating the down power lines. Discourse about the canyon remained, but only amongst a few and with less ferocity as everyone settled into unnatural contentment.
Revolutions weren’t my forte. I made a point of telling people that things were getting out of hand, but I was brushed aside and placated that it would sort itself out in time. An increasing part of me felt crazy.
My unrest doubled when I saw a small, black lump at the intersection. I stooped to retrieve it, quickly recognizing the cheap, pleather: Clara's bag.
Inspecting it revealed a pattern of deep punctures on either side… like the imprints of teeth, as if some wicked crocodile snapped its jaws shut on the purse. But there were no crocs in this god-fearing part of the country, let alone crocs that could scale impossibly deep cliffs.
“Everett!” Junior’s familiar voice pulled me from my anxious puzzle.
“No surprise to see you stuck on that side, Junior.” I joked. “How do you reckon we get out of here?”
“I walked ten miles toward the west junction yesterday, and the crevice was just as deep there as it is here. It wasn’t letting up, but maybe it ended somewhere. I just had to turn around before I could find out. Don’t know about the east side.” Junior explained, his voice was full of worry.
I nodded silently.
“Hey,” I started. “This is weird, right? I mean, no one else is acting like this is weird.”
“It's super fucking weird, Everett.” Junior affirmed.
“Those old trails were…” he paused, nervously wringing his hands like his father.
“Remember when we were little and we’d get lost in the fields? They felt like jungles when we were small.”
I nodded, watching Junior chew on some unidentifiable concern that he struggled to voice.
“When we got older those pole beans weren’t nothing to navigate. But, Everett- yesterday, every direction I took led me straight back to the road. To this crevice. I don’t know how to explain it. But those vines felt like they were changing the path, like they were doing it. Like they don't want us to leave-”
He was cut short. A fight broke out. Sticks, one of the few people still advocating for action, took a stout fist to his jaw from the pot bellied general store manager. I'd never seen either move so fast. Venice saw its share of brawls, but this was out of character. Fights only broke out when undeniably required, and they were often reserved for Davey and the other hothead in town.
Before Sticks could gather his bearings, the manager pushed and shoved the old man from his store, fed up with complaints about evacuating. Sticks crawled a few feet before drooling a mouthful of blood and gasped to catch his ragged breath, but the shopkeep was ready at his heels.
He brought the old man to his feet, pulling him by his checkered collar. Sticks sputtered and swatted weakly at the shop manager, who in turn spit in his face. He heaved Sticks to the side and kicked him. The manager swung his foot again and again, and planted each blow in Sticks’ belly with a hollow thwack. Sticks rolled helplessly and gasped for mercy.
I was quick to reach the two, but not quick enough. I put myself between them and forced the shopkeep back, giving Sticks a chance to breathe and steady himself on his feet. As I did, however, the earth where Sticks stood split and released, collapsing into the void with the old man cluelessly joining it.
Sticks fell ass over tea kettle into the darkness below, tumbling out of sight without a sound other than the crackle of falling rocks and a desperate, pleading look in his tired eyes that spoke more than any sound ever could.
“That was Sticks,” I stuttered in disbelief and released the pot bellied man.
“Yeah, well, that old bastard never done a damn thing to change anything in his life. Now suddenly he’s all about an exodus.” The manager swiped his hands together, cleaning himself of the act, and spun around to return to his shop.
There was a faint moaning from deep within the crevice that sounded like it could have been the dying breaths of Sticks. The longer I listened, the more I was convinced that it was the sound of despair.
I squinted, something churned deep below me. I could only faintly see it. Maybe it was just an optical illusion or a whisper of mist on some delicate current. It didn't matter, though. As if it knew that it had been seen, whatever lurked from that great, obscure depth never made another sound. Just silence, and nothing more.
Fog once again settled into town on the third morning accompanied by a thick layer of dew that dimly sparkled across the earth. It looked almost like ice in the haze. Junior and I had silently agreed that we needed to leave, and were haphazardly collecting resources on either side while Venice continued indifferently, willingly ignorant to the undercut forming beneath Downtown's structures and whatever was crawling in the belly of that crag. Junior was about to hurl a rope across to me, when it finally happened: the crevice swallowed its first building.
The general store only shifted at first, then toppled as the ground beneath it rushed into the canyon like a flash flood. It groaned and crumbled and the earth swallowed it whole. Junior ran his fingers through his thinning hair as we stared into the void from our respective sides. When no one else reacted, we returned to our escape.
Unbeknownst to either of us, however, Davey Junior had been left unsupervised. The toddler quickly stomped towards the general direction of his biological father, advancing ever closer to the unstable edge of the crevice. Jacob Junior hurled the rope across just as Davey Junior nearly fell to his demise.
Junior sprang to action when he saw the boy. Simultaneously, Clara and Davey had grown aware of their negligence and frantically rushed to aid.
Junior plucked the child off the edge and yelled in panic. The words, so simple and possessive, casually slipped his tongue before he could stop himself. For two years he'd kept it quiet, even if it was the least surprising secret in Venice. Nonetheless, Junior never ushered a word, only stared longingly at the little boy that shared his eyes and his nose.
I don't think he fully registered what he had done, nor did I even hear the entirety of what he had said. Only two words caught my attention:
“-my son-”
The toddler fussed in his father's arms to be so rudely yanked from his previous efforts. And then two more words followed abruptly behind the doting pair:
“*Your* son?” Davey spoke with incredulous venom while the realization suddenly hit him. He tensed his posture and his face flushed red as he replayed the timeline and inconsistencies in his mind.
Jacob Junior bounced the now-crying child, “listen- I can explain, Davey-” He turned to advance towards Clara, passing her the distraught child. She smirked.
“Davey, we- it only happened a few times. I'm sorry-”
Junior didn't finish the excuse. In the moment it took to relinquish the tot to Clara, Davey had found a large, dense branch and smashed it across Junior's temple. Junior spun with an explosion of bark around his face and crumpled to the ground, stunned.
Blood poured from his face, but he was granted no reprieve. Davey immediately kicked the adulterer in his ribs and face, until Junior was reduced to a swollen pulp and could only breathe in slow, purposeful gasps.
Davey was never one for diplomacy. He eagerly took any opportunity to fight, but his current fury was a notch above normal. Davey was too blinded by rage to hear my desperate pleas, and Clara relished the scene some distance away. I think a twisted part of her enjoyed being the cause of such a merciless feud.
Davey grabbed Junior by the ankle and dragged him to the crevice edge. Junior could only groan in protest. He grabbed the wounded man by his shoulders and butt. Junior tried to speak, but Davey cut him short again, swiftly rolling him and shoving him off the ledge into the black fog below.
Clara shrieked theatrically while I helplessly watched my friend disappear. In an instant, Davey turned to Clara, his body still poised like a bloodthirsty beast, his face still red with anger. Clara's blubbering switched to pleading, and he cruelly marched towards her.
Clara dropped the child to run, and Davey Junior wailed, but she couldn't outrun her husband's wrath. He snatched her like a lion grabs a gazelle and hoisted her squirming mass above his shoulders, kicking DJ out of his path. The child sobbed inconsolably, but he brought Clara to the edge with no concern. I screamed for reason and while she begged for mercy. But as quickly as he grabbed her, he threw her into the pit.
When her screams were no longer audible, I returned my attention to the madman. Behind him, the newly orphaned boy cried, but Davey paid him no attention. Instead, he stood like a statue, staring into the cavern below. I was afraid to speak, lest he find a way to reach me too. But his muscular body stood still in the haze, until it abruptly and slowly swayed, and he let gravity do the rest as he fell into the crevice.
I moved with haste now, determined to rescue the boy before he crawled to the same fate. I pulled the rope that Junior had thrown, testing its anchorage. It held. Carefully, I wrapped my limbs around it until I hung beneath it like a pig roasting over a fire and slowly inched my way across the canyon.
Vertigo hit me as soon as I made the mistake of looking down. The canyon was full of mist as if it were a rushing river, but I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was any less deep. A weak current of air pushed the smoke, diluting it with the ambient air and sometimes feigning interest in my presence. But I had to focus on crossing-
A body suddenly fell off the edge from where I had crawled, quickly swallowed by the smoke in my peripheral. I looked back, the rope shaking as I jerked my neck to see.
The entirety of Venice stood at the edge now, lined up on both sides. One by one, each resident hurled themselves into the crevice, punching holes into the mist as it churned. As each person fell to their demise, another fell in line at the precipice of the crevice, and more fell to an obscure doom.
My heart raced. I had to get to baby DJ before someone carried him off the edge too.
By the time I firmly planted my feet back on the ground, there was no one left to jump into the canyon. Only DJ and myself remained.
“DJ,” I panted.
The toddler hiccupped. I could barely see his shape in the fog ahead, it had grown impossibly thick as it spilled from the canyon. From beyond, a wet voice responded.
“Davey,” it whispered, “my son.” It was coming from the crevice.
DJ stood cautiously, peering deeper into the fog and I quietly ran up to the child to intervene.
“Come to daddy,” it croaked.
DJ wanted to welcome the voice, but his apprehension held him back. As I approached, I could scarcely see the edge of the crevice now.
“Everett,” a second voice called from somewhere else in the crevice. It had a different, but equally wet, pitch. “Everett, we missed you. You couldn't make it back in time to see us, son.” It sounded like a bad mimicry of my parents.
I whispered at the toddler and I snatched him, afraid that if I made too much noise that whatever was calling to us would react. DJ fussed briefly, but clung tightly to me, seemingly grateful for a familiar face in his confusion.
Just then, an arm reached over the edge of the canyon. I couldn't see it clearly through the fog, but I could see enough to distinguish its evil claws as it hoisted itself from below.
I grabbed DJ and ran, and the beasts yelled behind us. We ran far away from the heart of Venice and straight through bean country. The plants tore at us the entire way, desperately trying to slow our escape or pull us back. But, suddenly, we stumbled onto new Highway 78 and were nearly clipped by a truck upon our entrance.
The driver cursed at us before concern overtook him. We looked like shit, he informed us. And we told him we had to run clear from Venice.
“From where?” The driver squawked.
“I know, it's easy to miss. Please, we just need a ride-”
“I've been hauling this road since before I could legally drive. There ain't nothing out that way clear to Woodsfield.”
I was silent.
The trucker returned the response, eyeing us briefly.
“Ain't no matter. It's clear you folks have been through hell.”
The rest is a blur. At some point I tried to find out what happened to Venice. If you look at satellite images of the area, there's nothing but a sprawling sea of greenery. Even the crevice itself has vanished, seemingly consuming itself.
Sometimes I question if it was all just a fever dream. And I had convinced myself that must be the case until today.
DJ and I were at the local Kroger. He hates vegetables, but we perused the canned veggies aisle no less. My eyes caught sight of a colorful product on the shelves, and a wave of broken memories hit me like a bus. Even DJ fussed when he saw what I was looking at.
If you find a can of Venice Baked Beans, I hear they're hot as hell.
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The town was named Venice, but I couldn't tell you why. There were no boats nor affiliation to water ways, the founders weren't Italian in the slightest, and we weren't known for romance nor history. The closest thing to a gondolier would have been old man Sticks and his worn out canoe that hadn't moved from his yard in over a decade. It had a rusted hole in the bottom, and for years he swore that he'd have it fixed for the weekend. My best guess is that the founders named it Venice simply because they thought it was ironic.
Downtown was picturesque, though, with red brick shops adorned in bright trim. I never quite knew why we called it Downtown, as if there was a midtown and uptown to compliment. Venice had just one functional road. A few businesses on one side, a few houses on the other. There was a blinking four-way light somewhere near the middle. One direction led west, one led east, and the others led to dirt roads with a few more houses in small, dead end cul-de-sacs. There was a church, a general store, gasoline and mechanical, liquor, and something else I've missed- but surely you understand. It was the expected, minimal infrastructure of any podunk. It had no tourism. No iconic cryptid. No festival nor landmark. No nothing.
Venice had beans. The plants rested in orderly rows through endless flat fields, but the legumes knew no confinement and their foliage spilled in tangled hordes outside the borders of agriculture. From the air or nearby peaks, it was a sea of sprawling, delicate, hungry vines, and they crept up the walls of the town’s few structures too, invading every aspect of our lives like a cancer.
I left for college and came back when I inherited my family’s house. I'm not sure why I didn't sell it at the time. I guess because I didn't think anyone would want to buy it if I had.
But when I left - more like escaped - the second time, I left for good. I just didn't realize how quickly I would forget entirely. My memories had disappeared as insidiously as the town itself did, and I reckon that makes sense when there's nothing left to return to.
See, nothing ever happened in Venice. I know that everyone says that about every small town, but Venice was a deep kind of dull. It was so underwhelming that I think Sticks never bothered to fix his canoe just so that he had something to look forward to each day. If he fixed it… what would he do next?
We had grown so complacent with nothingness, that when nothing became something we were wholly unprepared and surely convinced that it would resolve itself if we just ignored it for long enough. But things have a way of creeping up on you.
It started as a long, skinny crack, running east to west on top of what was formerly the Highway 78 corridor. It wasn’t absurd to find. It was a neglected road since eminent domain redirected the new highway corridor straight through the Lovett family's farm on the western-most territory of Venice. We never wanted the new highway, and the beans tried to steal the land back every step of the way as the new road materialized. The workers beat the vines back though, and, slowly, we became an inconvenient detour.
The new route demoted Old Highway 78 to a defunct, winding loop that wasn't even worth designating as a scenic or historic bypass.The state didn't invest money in maintaining it, so the crack didn't catch us off guard when it first appeared. It was just the consequence of time in our eyes.
I remember unexpectedly stumbling over it one day. I had blindly crossed that crack for what felt like months without issue, by then, it had become a feature. My toe abruptly caught its newly proud edge one afternoon. Bewildered, I followed the crack as far as my eyes could trace, both eastward and then westward, and I thought it looked much deeper, much wider, and like one side had dropped lower than the other. Admittedly, I didn't warrant much more concern beyond that, but I remember thinking the thought all the same.
The following morning came early at 7AM sharp with a stout intrusion. Jacob Sr rapped his knuckles on my door so firmly I'd have been worried that someone had died if my parents weren't already dead.
“Everett,” the wiry man kneaded his hands out of stress as he spoke to me, “you'd just best come see.”
Jacob Sr led me down the dirt road I had walked a thousand times since I was a boy. I was no expert on anything, none of us were, but matters like this were a community affair given our inexperience in everything but routine and blissful ignorance. Other denizens were trickling into the epicenter of something unusual at the same time, each wandering through the morning's fog that filled the space between the scarce Venice architecture.
Suddenly, Jacob Sr stopped me with a firm arm across my chest. I grunted, first at his blow, and next at the revelation that the previously nondescript crack had split to a deep crevice and I was walking clear towards its edge. A rock, propelled by my foot, skittered across the ground and into the abyss. I nervously watched it clatter during its descent until I could no longer hear it nor see it. I never heard it hit the bottom.
“Has to be a sink hole,” Clara chirped confidently in her country twang from the other side of the fifteen-foot-wide canyon.
I imagined that a part of her enjoyed feeling like a damsel in distress isolated where she was. In another life, she'd have been an eccentric socialite, but in Venice she occupied her time with the antics of two baby daddies on either end of the town, and even through the fog I could feel her eyeing me like she was looking for a third.
“Just like Centralia. Swallowed the whooole town. Lord rest ‘em.” She waxed, twirling her toes on the asphalt and attempting to strike conversation.
“Is Junior on that side?” I quipped.
I knew it'd piss her off and shut her up. She had married Davey, father of her oldest, but everyone except Davey knew that Jacob Junior had sired her youngest. As expected, she scrunched her face and ignored me.
“She might be right for once,” I spoke to no one in particular.
More Venetians congregated along the canyon, and I suggested to the group that we leave. But how? Half the cars had fallen into the crevice, and the remainder either didn't work or didn't have 4x4 to drive the tracked-out and muddy back roads through bean country. We could walk, but some of us weren't able bodied and even fewer seemed willing, scoffing that evacuation was dire for what, at the time, was just a hole in the ground by their own admissions.
By 9 o'clock, the fog had burned off but no progress had been made regarding our predicament. Some folks lightly bickered about what to do next, while others shrugged and went about their day as if nothing had changed.
I surveyed the divided town. The canyon grew with each passing minute, gradually consuming more of the earth as it collapsed into the seemingly bottomless maw. A utility pole on the western perimeter of town inched closer and closer to the edge, until it finally fell with a grumbling torrent of gravel and a shower of electric sparks. We never had cell reception to begin with, but the landlines and our power now joined the absence.
Another chunk slipped into the earth, this time taking Sticks’ wrecked canoe with it. The crevice had grown another five feet, easily, but still no one seemed too concerned as they debated along its unstable edge. I was anxious and my stomach twisted. The whole thing felt wrong.
But before I could attempt to inspire change, Clara questioned from across the gap in her typical sing-song voice, the way she always did when she wanted something.
“Everett, sugar,” she cooed, "I was goin’ to take the boys out with me to get groceries tonight, but it seems that plan won't work anymore, will it? Could you jus’ toss over some food? Davey Junior is jus’ growin’ like a beanstalk, ya know.” She smiled at the toddler.
The irony was not lost on me that she named the tot Davey Junior, but he was not at fault for his mother's infidelity.
“Sure, toss me your wallet and I'll go get it for you.” I smirked. She was always eager to manipulate, and I wasn't going to give her the opportunity.
“But- you- I- I can't throw that far!” She stammered.
“Naw, sure you can.” I insisted, gesturing my arms to catch.
She scowled, looked inside her knock-off Prada, scowled deeper, and - to my surprise - half heartedly threw the bag in a purposeful manner so that it flew through the air in a wide, pathetic arc straight into the crevice.
“Oops,” she feigned shock.
My eyes widened in surprise and I laughed. “You know what, I'll spot you, Clara,” I assured, half impressed at her dedication to the bit. I knew she wouldn't pay me back.
I had a heavily creased $10 in my pocket, and the meager general store wasn't well stocked. I grabbed a can of spam and a locally canned case of beans.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Clara scoffed when I tossed her the beans.
“I only had a ten-spot on me, Clara. I think everyone is eating cold beans tonight anyways. Besides, I gave you the spam too. You’ll make do.”
Clara frowned before storming off, dagging DJ by the arm.
No one else seemed to notice, but the crevice had grown again by the second day. The entire width of the road and most of the cement sidewalks had crumbled into that dark pit, and it now lapped at the edges of Downtown’s meager businesses. At least one structure was beginning to hang over it. But Venice went about undeterred.
People walked precariously close to the edge if they needed to get somewhere, stubbornly refusing to alter their paths. Generators whirred in the background, alleviating the down power lines. Discourse about the canyon remained, but only amongst a few and with less ferocity as everyone settled into unnatural contentment.
Revolutions weren’t my forte. I made a point of telling people that things were getting out of hand, but I was brushed aside and placated that it would sort itself out in time. An increasing part of me felt crazy.
My unrest doubled when I saw a small, black lump at the intersection. I stooped to retrieve it, quickly recognizing the cheap, pleather: Clara's bag.
Inspecting it revealed a pattern of deep punctures on either side… like the imprints of teeth, as if some wicked crocodile snapped its jaws shut on the purse. But there were no crocs in this god-fearing part of the country, let alone crocs that could scale impossibly deep cliffs.
“Everett!” Junior’s familiar voice pulled me from my anxious puzzle.
“No surprise to see you stuck on that side, Junior.” I joked. “How do you reckon we get out of here?”
“I walked ten miles toward the west junction yesterday, and the crevice was just as deep there as it is here. It wasn’t letting up, but maybe it ended somewhere. I just had to turn around before I could find out. Don’t know about the east side.” Junior explained, his voice was full of worry.
I nodded silently.
“Hey,” I started. “This is weird, right? I mean, no one else is acting like this is weird.”
“It's super fucking weird, Everett.” Junior affirmed.
“Those old trails were…” he paused, nervously wringing his hands like his father.
“Remember when we were little and we’d get lost in the fields? They felt like jungles when we were small.”
I nodded, watching Junior chew on some unidentifiable concern that he struggled to voice.
“When we got older those pole beans weren’t nothing to navigate. But, Everett- yesterday, every direction I took led me straight back to the road. To this crevice. I don’t know how to explain it. But those vines felt like they were changing the path, like they were doing it. Like they don't want us to leave-”
He was cut short. A fight broke out. Sticks, one of the few people still advocating for action, took a stout fist to his jaw from the pot bellied general store manager. I'd never seen either move so fast. Venice saw its share of brawls, but this was out of character. Fights only broke out when undeniably required, and they were often reserved for Davey and the other hothead in town.
Before Sticks could gather his bearings, the manager pushed and shoved the old man from his store, fed up with complaints about evacuating. Sticks crawled a few feet before drooling a mouthful of blood and gasped to catch his ragged breath, but the shopkeep was ready at his heels.
He brought the old man to his feet, pulling him by his checkered collar. Sticks sputtered and swatted weakly at the shop manager, who in turn spit in his face. He heaved Sticks to the side and kicked him. The manager swung his foot again and again, and planted each blow in Sticks’ belly with a hollow thwack. Sticks rolled helplessly and gasped for mercy.
I was quick to reach the two, but not quick enough. I put myself between them and forced the shopkeep back, giving Sticks a chance to breathe and steady himself on his feet. As I did, however, the earth where Sticks stood split and released, collapsing into the void with the old man cluelessly joining it.
Sticks fell ass over tea kettle into the darkness below, tumbling out of sight without a sound other than the crackle of falling rocks and a desperate, pleading look in his tired eyes that spoke more than any sound ever could.
“That was Sticks,” I stuttered in disbelief and released the pot bellied man.
“Yeah, well, that old bastard never done a damn thing to change anything in his life. Now suddenly he’s all about an exodus.” The manager swiped his hands together, cleaning himself of the act, and spun around to return to his shop.
There was a faint moaning from deep within the crevice that sounded like it could have been the dying breaths of Sticks. The longer I listened, the more I was convinced that it was the sound of despair.
I squinted, something churned deep below me. I could only faintly see it. Maybe it was just an optical illusion or a whisper of mist on some delicate current. It didn't matter, though. As if it knew that it had been seen, whatever lurked from that great, obscure depth never made another sound. Just silence, and nothing more.
Fog once again settled into town on the third morning accompanied by a thick layer of dew that dimly sparkled across the earth. It looked almost like ice in the haze. Junior and I had silently agreed that we needed to leave, and were haphazardly collecting resources on either side while Venice continued indifferently, willingly ignorant to the undercut forming beneath Downtown's structures and whatever was crawling in the belly of that crag. Junior was about to hurl a rope across to me, when it finally happened: the crevice swallowed its first building.
The general store only shifted at first, then toppled as the ground beneath it rushed into the canyon like a flash flood. It groaned and crumbled and the earth swallowed it whole. Junior ran his fingers through his thinning hair as we stared into the void from our respective sides. When no one else reacted, we returned to our escape.
Unbeknownst to either of us, however, Davey Junior had been left unsupervised. The toddler quickly stomped towards the general direction of his biological father, advancing ever closer to the unstable edge of the crevice. Jacob Junior hurled the rope across just as Davey Junior nearly fell to his demise.
Junior sprang to action when he saw the boy. Simultaneously, Clara and Davey had grown aware of their negligence and frantically rushed to aid.
Junior plucked the child off the edge and yelled in panic. The words, so simple and possessive, casually slipped his tongue before he could stop himself. For two years he'd kept it quiet, even if it was the least surprising secret in Venice. Nonetheless, Junior never ushered a word, only stared longingly at the little boy that shared his eyes and his nose.
I don't think he fully registered what he had done, nor did I even hear the entirety of what he had said. Only two words caught my attention:
“-my son-”
The toddler fussed in his father's arms to be so rudely yanked from his previous efforts. And then two more words followed abruptly behind the doting pair:
“*Your* son?” Davey spoke with incredulous venom while the realization suddenly hit him. He tensed his posture and his face flushed red as he replayed the timeline and inconsistencies in his mind.
Jacob Junior bounced the now-crying child, “listen- I can explain, Davey-” He turned to advance towards Clara, passing her the distraught child. She smirked.
“Davey, we- it only happened a few times. I'm sorry-”
Junior didn't finish the excuse. In the moment it took to relinquish the tot to Clara, Davey had found a large, dense branch and smashed it across Junior's temple. Junior spun with an explosion of bark around his face and crumpled to the ground, stunned.
Blood poured from his face, but he was granted no reprieve. Davey immediately kicked the adulterer in his ribs and face, until Junior was reduced to a swollen pulp and could only breathe in slow, purposeful gasps.
Davey was never one for diplomacy. He eagerly took any opportunity to fight, but his current fury was a notch above normal. Davey was too blinded by rage to hear my desperate pleas, and Clara relished the scene some distance away. I think a twisted part of her enjoyed being the cause of such a merciless feud.
Davey grabbed Junior by the ankle and dragged him to the crevice edge. Junior could only groan in protest. He grabbed the wounded man by his shoulders and butt. Junior tried to speak, but Davey cut him short again, swiftly rolling him and shoving him off the ledge into the black fog below.
Clara shrieked theatrically while I helplessly watched my friend disappear. In an instant, Davey turned to Clara, his body still poised like a bloodthirsty beast, his face still red with anger. Clara's blubbering switched to pleading, and he cruelly marched towards her.
Clara dropped the child to run, and Davey Junior wailed, but she couldn't outrun her husband's wrath. He snatched her like a lion grabs a gazelle and hoisted her squirming mass above his shoulders, kicking DJ out of his path. The child sobbed inconsolably, but he brought Clara to the edge with no concern. I screamed for reason and while she begged for mercy. But as quickly as he grabbed her, he threw her into the pit.
When her screams were no longer audible, I returned my attention to the madman. Behind him, the newly orphaned boy cried, but Davey paid him no attention. Instead, he stood like a statue, staring into the cavern below. I was afraid to speak, lest he find a way to reach me too. But his muscular body stood still in the haze, until it abruptly and slowly swayed, and he let gravity do the rest as he fell into the crevice.
I moved with haste now, determined to rescue the boy before he crawled to the same fate. I pulled the rope that Junior had thrown, testing its anchorage. It held. Carefully, I wrapped my limbs around it until I hung beneath it like a pig roasting over a fire and slowly inched my way across the canyon.
Vertigo hit me as soon as I made the mistake of looking down. The canyon was full of mist as if it were a rushing river, but I couldn't fool myself into thinking it was any less deep. A weak current of air pushed the smoke, diluting it with the ambient air and sometimes feigning interest in my presence. But I had to focus on crossing-
A body suddenly fell off the edge from where I had crawled, quickly swallowed by the smoke in my peripheral. I looked back, the rope shaking as I jerked my neck to see.
The entirety of Venice stood at the edge now, lined up on both sides. One by one, each resident hurled themselves into the crevice, punching holes into the mist as it churned. As each person fell to their demise, another fell in line at the precipice of the crevice, and more fell to an obscure doom.
My heart raced. I had to get to baby DJ before someone carried him off the edge too.
By the time I firmly planted my feet back on the ground, there was no one left to jump into the canyon. Only DJ and myself remained.
“DJ,” I panted.
The toddler hiccupped. I could barely see his shape in the fog ahead, it had grown impossibly thick as it spilled from the canyon. From beyond, a wet voice responded.
“Davey,” it whispered, “my son.” It was coming from the crevice.
DJ stood cautiously, peering deeper into the fog and I quietly ran up to the child to intervene.
“Come to daddy,” it croaked.
DJ wanted to welcome the voice, but his apprehension held him back. As I approached, I could scarcely see the edge of the crevice now.
“Everett,” a second voice called from somewhere else in the crevice. It had a different, but equally wet, pitch. “Everett, we missed you. You couldn't make it back in time to see us, son.” It sounded like a bad mimicry of my parents.
I whispered at the toddler and I snatched him, afraid that if I made too much noise that whatever was calling to us would react. DJ fussed briefly, but clung tightly to me, seemingly grateful for a familiar face in his confusion.
Just then, an arm reached over the edge of the canyon. I couldn't see it clearly through the fog, but I could see enough to distinguish its evil claws as it hoisted itself from below.
I grabbed DJ and ran, and the beasts yelled behind us. We ran far away from the heart of Venice and straight through bean country. The plants tore at us the entire way, desperately trying to slow our escape or pull us back. But, suddenly, we stumbled onto new Highway 78 and were nearly clipped by a truck upon our entrance.
The driver cursed at us before concern overtook him. We looked like shit, he informed us. And we told him we had to run clear from Venice.
“From where?” The driver squawked.
“I know, it's easy to miss. Please, we just need a ride-”
“I've been hauling this road since before I could legally drive. There ain't nothing out that way clear to Woodsfield.”
I was silent.
The trucker returned the response, eyeing us briefly.
“Ain't no matter. It's clear you folks have been through hell.”
The rest is a blur. At some point I tried to find out what happened to Venice. If you look at satellite images of the area, there's nothing but a sprawling sea of greenery. Even the crevice itself has vanished, seemingly consuming itself.
Sometimes I question if it was all just a fever dream. And I had convinced myself that must be the case until today.
DJ and I were at the local Kroger. He hates vegetables, but we perused the canned veggies aisle no less. My eyes caught sight of a colorful product on the shelves, and a wave of broken memories hit me like a bus. Even DJ fussed when he saw what I was looking at.
If you find a can of Venice Baked Beans, I hear they're hot as hell.
#entertainment
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