The Get Together

Today is a very special day for my mom and me. Today we are going to meet with our father after a long time. I am very excited for it. But the meeting period is very short, just 10 minutes.

Mr. Morgan was waiting for us. He was the medium through which we are going to talk with him. Yes, we are going to do planchette.

My mom and I haven’t talked with him since the day we both died in a road accident a year ago that my father survived!!!!

It’s really a special day for both of us.

From Guest Contributor Prapti Gupta

The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

A Grass Dog

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

“Don’t kill me!” he screamed.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

The Silenced

She did not say yes.

The silence of more fear than cultural respect was not a sign of consent. The tears on her face at the dawn of her 'big day' were not a sign of consent.

The lashes fell upon her, one, two...

She had dreamt of wearing green for her wedding. Red was her mother's choice.

His voice was loud it silenced her lips.Ninety-eight or was it already past hundred? She'd later count the scars on her back, looking at her reflection in the broken mirror stained with blood.

She never wanted marriage.She never wanted this.

From Guest Contributor Anne Silva.

Anne is a student writer from Sri Lanka. She publishes her writing on social media as Poetry of Despair.You can read them at www.instagram.com/PoetryofDespair.

Broke

Bills. They stacked up like a child's art project on the kitchentable, each stamped red with the word "overdue." The house wascrumbling down, the wallpaper peeling off every panel. The wallstrembled as the couple screamed at each other. Blame flew likehousehold objects; lamps, chairs, and plates.

They stormed off in a huff to the same bedroom, facing away from eachother, their faces too hot and hearts beating too hard to sleep.

So they stayed awake, until the sunlight streaked in through thebroken blinds and the couple was ready to start the routine overagain.

From Guest Contributor Artie Kuyper

Sea Angel

Silvia, sound asleep, pleasantly dreamed of the beach, her solace.

She relished the sound of the ocean splashing against the dock, and the warm breeze against her face, when a beautiful image ascended from the water. A lovely sea angel flapped its white wings, and a halo gleamed above her head. The glowing angel approached Silvia and told her she would be her protector, then placed her translucent hand on Silvia’s forehead.

Silvia awakened calmed and ready to start her day. She showered, dressed, and left for work.

When she returned that evening, a glimmering halo lay on her pillow.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Omelette

“You crack me up!” Benjamin cackled.

Kenneth looked his friend over as if to check for any cracks needing medical intervention.

“It’s time you learn,” Benjamin said. “How can you go through life without making an omelette?”

Kenneth reluctantly selected a recipe. He gathered all ingredients he could find and set out to cook.

Benjamin took a bite. “You call this an omelette?”

The cook wriggled uncomfortably. “I didn’t know we ran out of milk.”

“You could’ve used skim milk powder, mixed with water.”

Benjamin continued crunching, picking out bits from his portion.

“How much eggshell does this thing have?”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The Birth Of Tragedy

I was nervous about interviewing for the job, but my confidence rose as soon as I walked into the anteroom. My only competition seemed to be ignoramuses with a fixed repertoire of inanities and washed-up ballplayers in the habit of spitting. Forty minutes later, my name was called. “I’ll lick stamps,” I told the gargoyle from HR. “I’ll lick whatever you want.” He looked at my wrinkled boots and patched coat and just shook his big ugly head. Some may be born with a tragic sense of life. Others are like me and acquire it by dint of long effort.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.

The Curse Of The Wormhole

You look like a sailor, sir. I thought so. Do me a favor, will you? Take me with you. You could use a talisman in space. Listen, I used to be just like you. How did I get my peg leg? Aye, I wrestled a space shark and lost my leg. After we passed through a wormhole, we ran aground here. All I do now is meow, lick my paws clean, and cough up hairballs. I’m easy to care for. I promise. Proud to be potty trained. Tuna-flavored Meow Mix will do. Take me with you. You won’t regret it.From Guest Contributor Umiyuri KatsuyamaTranslated by Toshiya Kamei

Umiyuri Katsuyama is a Japanese writer of fantasy and horror. In 2011, she won the Japan Fantasy Novel Award with her novel Sazanami no kuni. Her latest novel, Chuushi, ayashii nabe to tabi wo suru, was published in 2018. Her short fiction has appeared in numerous horror anthologies in Japan.

Welcome Back, Class Of '96

“Do you want me to hold the...?”

The song is about to start, something by Vanessa Williams. His one good hand is pressing on her waist. She does not know what to call the other one, the absence.

He shakes. “I can just put my arm here.” He rests his folded sleeve on her pink shoulder strap. They have been given a wide berth by the other couples on the gym floor.

They shuffle together in silence. Finally, she asks. “How did—?”

He shrugs. “Cleaning the picker.” Somebody had turned it on by mistake.

“Does it hurt?”

Sometimes. It tickles.

From Guest Contributor Brennan Thomas