Pull Tab – Lift Cover

"Hold corner tear along dotted line.” Pulling the seam cereal exploded everywhere. Darn, another bag with a large tear.

Reaching for the unopened milk carton the instructions read: “Push up.” Using both hands it still wouldn’t separate. I grabbed a steak knife loosening the space between. Milk spilled everywhere. Darn instructions. If it says “snip corner,” sauce spurts out. If it’s a spray nozzle, it pops off. If it’s a “tamper proof cap,” it never comes off.

Mm, maybe a bagel with cream cheese. How hard is it to “Pull tab – lift cover.” Never mind, I’m starving. Where’s that knife?From Guest Contributor Dana Sterner

Blaze Of Glory

In the gloom a solitary light illuminated the Führer’s portrait.

“Two minutes oxygen left.”

No one responded.

Cross-legged like the Buddha, Steiner seemed at peace, thinking of his wife and son. Even Müller was becalmed, resigned to an iron coffin at nineteen.

Captain Mayer had himself fired the torpedo that sank the British battleship.

Submerging, a destroyer had detected them, the depth charge fracturing the hull.

They were the only three to survive, closing the hatch of the control room.

Losing consciousness, Mayer looked from the Führer’s eyes to the light. Ah! The explosion of the torpedo finding its target!

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 14 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

Monster

I can feel it approaching, getting closer with each passing second. I never know when it will arrive, but can sense whenever it’s near. I can hear the monster making its move. I run into the bedroom, and slam the door shut. Just in time to hear the front door creak. Footsteps creep close, attempting to be silent. Covering my eyes tight, I hope the monster will leave me be. The door pushes ajar, the overwhelming smell of the monster invading my senses.

The monster says, “Hello.”

I take a deep breath and uncover my eyes to face my mother-in-law.

From Guest Contributor Eliza Salisbury

I Cannot Agree

It's been a difficult trial.

The jury presents a guilty verdict.

I cannot agree with this jury. So, I tell them, “Members of the jury, in light of my 20 years of judicial experience, I find there is no evidence the defendant was near the crime scene, nor even knew the victim. Therefore, I declare the evidence insufficient to convict and hereby overturn the guilty verdict. Bailiff, release the prisoner.”

The courtroom is aghast.

I sit back down.

The judge says, “Well, Mr. Kaufman, now I'm sorry I asked if the defendant had anything to say. Bailiff, remove the prisoner.”

From Guest Contributor Kent V. Anderson

When Kent isn't writing stories, he is building robots.

Tool

“This is my weekend,” Hugh told the windscreen, almost colliding with the car in front. “Hold on.” He tuned out until he could give the Bluetooth his full attention. The car skidded to a stop on the gravelly lay-by.

“You can’t spare the time to drop him off? No problem, I’ll collect him.”

Glaring at traffic, he struggled to keep his response relatively civil.

“Your lover-boy gardener is intimidated by me?

He’s wattnow?

Right … gardener just long enough to plough you, eh?

Too bad, Cathal’s my son–

Bronagh?”

Hugh stared into space, eventually noticing an ironic sign.

WRONG WAY.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

The Passing Of A Friend

Migrant storekeeper Piero Altobelli met word of his old friend’s recent passing with great consternation. Upon hearing, he leapt from his desk in the backroom of his little grocery and flew into a rage. He swatted the week’s receipts into the floor, ripped the telephone from the wall, and yanked the office door from its hinges. All the while bemoaning at the top of his lungs. So uncontrollable was he, not even his wife Maria, could calm him.

“Somebody better tell that summabitch next time he pass a by my store,” cried Piero. “He better pay me what he owes.”

From Guest Contributor Russ Sparks

Russ is currently an MFA student attending Lindenwood University.

Becoming

Mrs. Hoover knelt in front of me, a gesture reserved for the quietest of her preschool students.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” she repeated.

I knew what I would become, but it had nothing to do with wanting or wishing. My fate felt solid, and it vied for my attention.

I tried to ignore the itch.

Even at a young age I knew that it would be dangerous to provide details.

“It doesn’t matter what I want to be, only what I am becoming,” I recited, the scales on my ankle yearning to be scratched.

From Guest Contributor Sarah Vernetti

After Midnight

After midnight, we climb the cemetery fence.

The sky is black as ink, but Gordy’s brought a flashlight. He’s been out of juvie for two days now.

I follow him to the far corner of the plot, wind brushing my clothes like ghosts.

“This is it,” he says.

His dad’s name is on the headstone along with this year’s date, him having died while Gordy was locked up.

I’ve seen the stripes on Gordy’s back, his broken nose, of course, but when Gordy takes out a sledge hammer, winding up, I grab his arm, saying, “Do that and he wins.”From Guest Contributor Len Kuntz

Len is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU out now from Unknown Press. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

The Appointment

“But everything looks so tired and worn here.”

“You were the one who wanted to come to Paris to die.”

“Doesn’t everybody?”

I took her hand and pointed. “There it is. That’s the café.”

We pushed through the crowd at the door and found a table for two.

“Everyone here looks so old,” she said.

“Except for that beautiful girl at the bar.”

“Madame et monsieur. Vous desirez?”

“Do you speak English?”

“Yes.”

“Who is the beautiful girl at the bar?”

“That is Death.”

“But I thought Death was...”

“Monsieur, the older one gets the more beautiful Death becomes.”

From Guest Contributor Reynold Junker

Cowboy

Billy had never been drunk before. That’s why he didn’t feel much pain.

The stars above were bright.

The runt of the family, he’d run off from the farm and joined the ranchers. They had gone to the saloon.

The strumpet at the bar had smiled at him. After his seventh whisky she winked.

Billy felt like a man. He was somebody.

“Move over boy,” the stranger said.

Billy stood his ground. There were words, then the challenge.

Outside, Billy got shot in the chest. Alone, he lay dying.

Tomorrow they would bury him. A nobody in a nobody’s grave.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He currently lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 12 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres on Short-story.me, Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.