Expired

Lucie hears the police officer’s voice so clearly in her memory. We’re sorry, your husband has been hit by a drunk driver and he’s unresponsive. Come to the hospital immediately.

She’s helpless, afraid, when she sees John still, and bleeding from his head.

Lucie stares out the window watching the birds fly, chirping in unison. The clouds give way to abundant sunshine and she waits for the doctor, impatiently biting her nails.

The doctor’s words are imprinted in her mind. Internal injuries. Needs surgery immediately.

“Mrs. Giovani, I’m very sorry. Your husband expired on the operating table.”

The sky darkens.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Prisoners

Auntie asks my mother and I to move out of her house. She says I make too much noise when I sleepwalk and my rock albums are causing Uncle Herman more brain damage from his tour of duty in Afghanistan. Upstairs, I take down my posters of Geronimo, John Lennon, and James Dean from the finely cracked yellow walls. Exhausted, my mother sits on my bed and breaks down. “It’s all your fault,” she says. As if I had the power. At night tiny policemen march into my ears. I’m not sure it’s a dream. They say come with us.

From Guest Contributor Kyle Hemmings

Kyle's latest collection of text and art is Amnesiacs of Summer published by Yavanika Press. He loves street photography, French Impressionism, and 60s garage bands that never made it big.

Mystery Hour

A 9-year-old girl trick-or-treating in a black-and-white Halloween costume got mistaken somehow for a skunk. The lead detective on the case is borderline Asperger’s. Covering an entire wall of her grubby office is one of those conspiracy theory maps, with all the pins connected by strings. “I’ll break anything in order to figure out how it works,” she’s famous around headquarters for saying. Her brisk confidence irks male colleagues. “Go away,” one shouts, “and take your shitty forest!” She can’t hear him. She’s out in a far corner of the city collecting evidence of the refulgence of pearls of blood.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Three Brigits

Brigit, Irish Goddess of Poetry, sits at the feet of her Mother of Plenty.

She calls to her sisters, Brigit of Medicine and Brigit of Smithcraft. They watch as humans emerge on Earth.

Brigit of inspiration says to them, “Humans are evolving, so I’ve blessed them with verse. What gifts do you bestow?”

Brigit of healing says, “I share my curiosity so they explore their world and themselves.”

Brigit of the forge answers, “I share my love of craft, the shaping of earthly elements.”

Mother says, “I pray they find peace and joy in our plentiful gifts before destroying them.”

From Guest Contributor Soma Datta (@somaxdatta)

Boss

The dog was known as Boss by the Belfast housing estate kids. They heard harsh scratching as he desperately tried to crawl away from his tormentor, his muzzle leaving a dark trail of blood from where the first round had hit him in the face. His life trickled away from him through the short grey hairs on his jaw; an occasional desperate snarl ripping apart the cold morning air before he began whimpering again like a child.

Lining up the rifle sight, his tormentor watched the heaving chest, pressed the trigger and the pavement was awash with blood and fur.

From Guest Contributor Bernie Hanvey

Mother

Around nine O’clock at night, mother returned from work. She was exhausted. She had been working all day. She had brought doughnuts with her for her son. She put the bag of doughnuts in the kitchen and went upstairs to see him. The door of his room was cracked open. She opened the door carefully not to wake him up. She saw him sleeping. He was looking like an angel while sleeping. She went inside and stood there near the bedside for a while looking at his son. She leaned down and kissed her son’s forehead and left the room.

From Guest Contributor Sergio Nicolas

Haunting

Molly opened the door to her new antique shop and breathed in the freshly painted room. She sold everything from refurbished wood furniture, candles and lotions among other products. Family and friends begged her not to buy the building that was a torture chamber in the early 1800s. Rumor had it that past owners heard screams and footsteps, but she didn’t believe it.

One year later, Molly foreclosed. Customers were too frightened of the rumors.

On her last day, Molly locked the door for the final time. When she turned for one last look, a figure waved from the window.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Past Life As A Goldfish

You don't believe me, Doctor!

It's not what I believe, you believe it.

Our apartment number is 911.

Joe, really, it means nothing.

You think it is a coincidence?

Coincidences happen, Joe.

I'm starving! I can't breathe!

Dr. Adams knew that he should do something. Even though he was a psychiatrist he never could stand seeing a grown man cry. He texted his admitting orders to the hospital.

Then he texted Joe's wife. He needed her to hold off serving Joe with divorce papers.

He looked it up... "googled" they used to say... left alone for days, many pets died.

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

Life, A Very Short Story

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Return To The Primitive

A hunk of meat sizzled on the broken fireguard atop a rusty oil drum which served as a brazier-cum-barbeque.

Badger’s friends gathered round for warmth. He didn’t know why they called him that and, being relatively new to a sub-society which had welcomed him with open arms, he hadn’t pushed the issue.

The subway tunnel reeked of smoke, sweat, and human waste, but it was home to the evictees.

Tonight they shared their good fortune with any who followed the aroma, irrespective of rivalries.

Badger’s landlord had barged in, demanding the spare keys.

Long pig had never been so descriptive.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid