For Life

“Pillow fight!” Jenya yelled.

I tossed the pillow at her, and white fluffy stuffing went flying. We both giggled as we bounced on the bed in our pjs until Mom came in.

“Enough, girls,” she said, smiling. “Time for bed.”

We lay our pillows down and panted, holding hands. “Best friends for life?” she asked, hooking her pinky in mine. I nodded.

I lay my hand against the bed, and the tears fell as I recalled her last days. “For life, Jenya,” I said, remembering all those years we had lain side by side as sisters. And now, never again.

From Guest Contributor rani Jayakumar

In Tents

“This abandoned road looks really creepy. Are you sure we’ll be safe camping out here?”

“Not to worry Sally. My gang used to camp here regularly. There are no scary animals. The biggest around here is the chipmunks.”

After Duke set up the tent and Sally fixed food, they went to bed early. “Can you relax now Sally? See, it is completely safe.”

“I don’t think that you have relaxing on your mind, not that I disagree.”

They stop what they are doing when they hear something tearing.

Duke yelled “It’s coming from under the tent and it’s bloody huge!”

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Abedabun

Abedabun weaves baskets while her father makes arrowheads. The sun is warm against her face and she tires of the mundane ritual but does not complain when her father rubs a droplet of sweat from her cheek with affection.

Her mother is by the river collecting herbs, humming in tune with the birds, while her brother and sister collect insects for amusement.

Hiawatha, the finest young man in the tribe, approaches Abedabun and her father with a token of marriage, a deer slung over his broad shoulders.

She stops her work and looks to her father.

Hiawatha’s token is accepted.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

There’s Been A Murder

Sunday, April 12

A murder has occurred at the Johnson’s mansion and Earl Johnson was found dead in the basement. The following are transcripts between the investigator and suspects.

Investigator:

“The murder took place around 8:30 p.m. last night. Where were you all during that time?”

Chef (Mr. Washington):

“I was cooking Mr. Johnson’s favorite meal; it was his birthday.”

Ms. Johnson:

“I was freshening up and putting on my dinner gown.”

Maid (Ms. Paddington):

“I was out getting the mail.”

Everyone stopped and looked at the maid with wide eyes.

Investigator:

“Ms. Paddington, the mail doesn’t run on Sundays.”

From Guest Contributor Daemion McKellar

The Pencil

Spine broken. Pages deliver a scrambled story. I have the power to pick up the fragments. Rewrite. Write what others have tried to mute. Seventeen centimeters of lead might not be much, but I’m her voice. I’m sharp. I’m ready, but she turns away from me and picks up her glass of whisky instead.

We’re both small. Lead or crystal? One can save her. One can break her. Who will she choose?

Neither. She adds another plate to her dish-pile. It looks like the Tower of Babel, minus the words.

She turns. She’s getting closer. Closer. Picks me up and—writes.

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is a teacher and translator currently living in New Caledonia. She has published a novel inspired by the life of a New Caledonian politician. Her work can be found in the Birth Lifespan Vol. 1 anthology for Pure Slush Books and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work is also forthcoming in Growing Up Lifespan Vol. 2 for Pure Slush Books and Drunk Monkeys.

Three Claw Marks

In a flash, a furry bundle leaps silently onto the bar counter.

Before the sailor can cover his face, sharp claws tear skin from his cheek. The glass of bourbon falls from his hands, and its contents spill over the table.

“Don’t talk behind my back—”

The sailor turns and sees a tabby with a metal peg leg glaring at him in the tavern’s gloom.

“—if you want to live long in space!”

“Aye sir.” The sailor trembles like a child.

“Sayonara, baby.” The tabby lifts his tail and vanishes. Blood drips from three claw marks on the sailor’s cheek.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.

A Deadly Metaphor

Chester tosses rocks over the cliff, ruminating over whether to respond. Angelica expects tacit agreement with all her decisions, only consulting him on the timing and execution, never the overall direction. This makes sense as a way to run a boardroom, but not a marriage.

Even this vacation, celebrating their anniversary, was her concoction. Sure, the views are spectacular, but she knows he's no fan of hiking. That's most likely her secret reason for this destination. He tosses another pebble, watching it careen out of sight.

At the bottom of the gorge, three fresh bodies lay buried beneath Chester's avalanche.

One Sentence, A Full Western

Standing on the corner of the counter of The Silver Dollar Saloon, the only saloon in coal mine village Raccoon’s Crest, whilst drinking his third glass of some nice Kentucky Corn since the gunfight, the outlaw bragged to all those who wanted to hear about his latest so called heroic deed: “The man who will put down Furious Frank isn’t born yet” for the very last time, as if he sensed that at that exact moment the mother of the last man he would ever lay eyes upon, was going into labor to give birth to a now fatherless child.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

Hervé Suys (°1968 - Ronse, Belgium) started writing whilst recovering from a sports injury. He writes his disturbing fiction generally barefooted and hatless.

Determination

Through the stained-glass window, the heat of the sun beams on my face while mellifluous birds chirp in unison. I yearn to be outside on this spring day, listening to the sounds of nature, and children’s chortles, but my body lays limp.

Something is wrong. The hospital is bustling, and I hear shouting. “He is coding!” The doctor is giving orders and then I hear the sound of the defibrillator.

“Clear!” Thump. “Again.” “Clear!” Thump. “Again.” “Clear!” Thump.

The monitor steadies and the doctor sighs relief. “He has stabilized. This patient is determined.”

After my arduous episode, I rest soundly.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Watching Me

Her eyes flashed with mischief in the warm street light. Green, full of longing, on a young fall night. Her hand merged with mine and then her breath drew short--and I felt nothing.

In a moment I saw myself in the third person, a cold drifting observer. Helplessly I looked, unaware of my own consciousness, merely seeing--there she was, running her hand down his face, soft voice muffled as through wool. Her fingers brushed across his cheek. She closed her eyes and leaned forward. Their lips moved together and apart, and the moment passed.

I had missed it.

From Guest Contributor Caleb Woodman

Caleb is an aspiring spiritual writer studying at Pikes Peak Community College.