Caution

"Have I met you before?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Where I have I seen you then?"

"I have met your mother, your father, your sister, and grandparents," he said, irritably. "But not you."

She looked at him. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," he said. "Well, at least, not until now."

They laughed; his far heartier than hers.

She shivered. His black cloak and queer scent was off putting.

"So," he said, leaning closer, "I suppose introductions are in order."

"No," she said. "I know who you are." She clicked her seat belt in.

‘Drat.’ He left. She got home safely.

From Guest Contributor, Joey Harlow.

Warning Signs

There's not a lot you can say about Patty Kerns that hasn't already been pontificated on at length. But there's one story about her that belongs only to me.

We were sitting on the porch when a gator came crawling from the swamp. It wasn't so unusual and we'd normally shout for the gardeners to come scare them away. But Patty wanted to prove she wasn't scared, so she started kicking at that gator with her brass-buckle shoes until it turned back from lawn.

She was only 8 years old at the time. I knew then we were all doomed.

The Price Of Loyalty

Jesse saw his blood staining the grass behind him as he was dragged across the lawn. At least he thought it was his blood. He'd taken such a beating that he was starting to worry about Mr. Jordan's fists.

Most people thought Mr. Jordan had an awful temper and they generally quit his service after only a few weeks. Those that lasted did so because they stood up for themselves.

That meant, when Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods, Jesse was the singular focus of all the boss's anger.

Tonight, Mr. Jordan was in one of his moods.

Old Flame

“Have you been scammed? Call now!” the billboard said. A man in a suit crossed his arms in defiance. She wondered if he could see her somehow. When she got home, she followed him online, looked at photos of his family. She explored the website of his alma mater and pictured him walking through the imposing, wooden doors of the library. She found his address, learned the square footage of his home.

At their first appointment, he stood up from his desk chair to greet her. “Nice to meet you,” he said. She stifled a giggle. How could he forget?

Sarah Vernetti is a freelance writer. She lives in Las Vegas, Nevada.

A Renter's Market

It has been over two hundred years since any citizens of Sleepy Hollow, NY, have stepped outside at night.

People lock their doors at dusk and turn their TV's to maximum volume. Yet even the thickest walls aren't enough to keep out his screams or the roar of his engine.

He no longer rides a horse, though he's still called the Headless Horseman, and with the continuing advances in vehicle technology, no one dares try to outrun him to the bridge. But with property values in the neighboring vicinity so expensive, no one cares to move to another suburb either.

Listing Fear: How to Tell You That I Want

If the bear sits next to the wombat, and a stinkbug bats his lashless eyes at some roundness near a deer, how do I tell you about longing? The robin is silent, the rooster’s belly is a curve under fog, and I am too timid to explain what I want. If the same bear drops his fat genitals onto the pond, water too still, no one wants to look. Your patience is a woman with her voice down low, as if lined in wet fur. And this? This is me practicing, wide-eyed, my mouth a dusty O, palms spilling candy.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

The Final Indignity

At the start of every year, the Kingdom of Urbania elected a new monarch.

Of course, the old royals had to be disposed of in some way. They were driven away from the capital in an old cart owned by Farmer Putnam. They had already been stripped of most of their pomp and circumstance, though the former sovereigns were allowed to keep their scepters.

Farmer Putnam deposited his charges on the outskirts of the city where they would live out their remaining days. It was at this point he informed them that his transport fee was exactly one royal scepter.

Wrong Turn

Gareth and Melissa knew they were lost when they reached the gas station. It seemed abandoned, with the rusted pump and the crooked sign and the station house that had collapsed years previously.

They argued bitterly, with each blaming the other. Melissa had missed the turnoff, Gareth had refused to look at the map. But their anger towards each other was really just a mask for their own fears.

The station pump was well over 3 meters tall. They couldn't be sure when it had happened, but sometime during the night they had crossed over into the land of giants.

The Manufactured Clarity Of A Warm Bath

Rachel held herself tightly and rehashed all the bitter memories. The water soaked into her skin and she wished the gentle lapping would wash away her regrets and better-left-unsaids. Yet her mood only darkened as the wrinkles formed.

She blamed herself for everything. For the aborted pregnancy, for the bruises on her cheek and back, for the bitterness that forever clung to her. The alternative was too overwhelming, that the world is full of assholes, or that happiness is difficult to acquire and nearly impossible to hold on to.

She'd rather claim the responsibility. At least then there is hope.

Moon Swallows Head of Barking Dog

A young girl and her father sit on a bench and stare into the lake. They are stuck this way forever. From here on out, they must focus unblinking on the way it does not ripple, how no stone may enter and how no fish can leave. Across the park, a squirrel clings to a tree, his heart always exploding, a white dog snapping at his tail. The water reflects the moon and calls down the night, pocked with clouds-- the sky split in two, half of it black, half of it blue; there is no color where they merge.

From Guest Contributor, Jeremy S. Griffin