Crossing The Threshold

The greatroom was full to bursting, ghosts everywhere: playing charades, talking, resting, dancing, darting between clusters of spirits engaged in various means of whiling away time.

A newly-born ghost appeared at the doorway and paused at the chaos. The chaos paused in return, all eyes upon the newcomer.

“Come in, Dearie, and welcome,” Eve, the oldest of them all, beckoned.

The new arrival apprehensively crossed the threshold. The others returned to their various activities.

Eve helped the new ghost settle in. Did she have any questions?

Just one, the young ghost said, voice wavering: “When do they notice you’re gone?”

From Guest Contributor Melissa Ridley Elmes

Melissa is a Virginia native currently living in Missouri in an apartment that delightfully approximates a hobbit-hole. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Reunion; The Dallas Review Online, Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Gyroscope, In Parentheses, and other print and web venues, and her first book of poetry, Arthurian Things: A Collection of Poems, was published by Dark Myth Publications in 2020. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MRidleyElmes

Soldier

The soldier’s leg is broken in two places, but he’s courageous and doesn’t scream. As I’m cleaning the wound, he grabs my arm.

“I won’t be fighting again, will I?”

I gently remove his hand. “I’m afraid not. You’ll be heading home. Your mother will be overjoyed to see you.”

He kisses my hand and looks into my eyes. “At least in this hell, I got to see a beautiful nurse to remember.”

I follow his stare, then lean in and kiss his forehead. “Take care, soldier.”

The sepsis will soon kill him, and he’ll return home in a coffin.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

My Only Friend

There is a breeze blowing west. At the top of the biggest tree there is a blue jay bracing in the wind. In my peripheral vision I see a black and white figure below me walking towards the bird. As I realize it is my tuxedo cat, I hear the sound of an engine struggling to drive up towards us. I look to the East and see a truck, I look to the North and see my cat. Then there is blood on my face. As I wipe it off to make myself recognizable, my cat is no longer recognizable. From Guest Contributor Ina Rose

Ina is a student with a passion for writing.

Bruno Schulz On The Street Of Crocodiles

The pills I take at night to get to sleep leave me feeling dazed all morning. I stare stupidly at the white screen of my laptop while rubbing my head in a forlorn attempt to stimulate the language center of the brain. I think once again of Bruno Schulz. Only the first sentence of the novel he was writing when he was murdered survives: Mother awakened me in the morning, saying, “Joseph, the Messiah is near...” A Gestapo officer shot him down in the street in broad daylight. It was a kind of hobby, to be honest.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

The Lit Bedroom

As nightfall descended, a feathery latecomer gathered crumbs from Vi’s patio. Lights in a nearby house turned off, except for one.

It shone from a second story. An elderly woman was seen looking out the window.

When Vi met the house owner at their communal mailbox, she remarked on the upstairs light being left on at night and asked how long the guest would be visiting.

The neighbor looked perplexed. She said it was her mother’s room, until her death a year ago.

Vi wondered if her imagination played tricks. Since their conversation, that bedroom light no longer lit up.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction, primarily residing in Edmonton, Canada.

The Knight That Was Too Great

The Knight is known for fire and might. Day after day he proves himself worthy of his sword. His title. His name. Out into the world he rides, his demeanor like an armor around him. Many dragons he has slain, yet some refuse to die. His sword is covered with the blood of both his enemies and his own heart. He seeks to be noble, but in doing so becomes pathetic. He is invincible in battle, but hopeless in everything else. His armor is impenetrable, but forever clings to him. No dragon can hurt him. Only the soft flower can.From Guest Contributor Richard Snow

Richard is a student of creative writing and journalism at Pikes Peak Community College. Currently writing a fantasy trilogy set in the early 20th century.

Haunted

The ghosts came and went.

There were unexplained footsteps and nights when clammy sensations washed over my skin.

They were nocturnal and appeared only to those who knew they were nearby.

One night, I dozed fitfully and moved to a couch.

After I drifted to sleep, I saw him, a crazed figure with wild hair.

When he lurched for me, I pushed him away.

Then he roped my legs and I found myself struggling to move.

I fought to get free and pushed away my covers.

Then with my heart beating fast, I woke up and the ghost was gone.

From Guest Contributor Kaia Gallagher

Crazy

That’s what he thought. Small balloon floated over his head with &#%!@?; yet, he smiled at her with his lizard eyes—his lips razor-thin, unable to utter the string of words that would sear the flesh off of her. He remembered a bible verse as a matter of reckoning the lies he listened to while sitting at that table. He thought about the sounds that kept him up half the night. Not new sounds in the farmhouse— no new sounds, except theirs, living in the thin cracks of ticking floorboards and plaster dust. He listened without making a sound.

From Guest Contributor M.J. Iuppa

M.J.’s fifth full-length poetry collection The Weight of Air is forthcoming from Kelsay Books, May, 2022. For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

Me Or The Dog

It was challenging moving into my girlfriend’s studio apartment. It was crowded for two adults and an ancient Shar Pei wrinkly beast.

“Package deal,” Sheila smiled. “I love you but -”

Shorthand, it meant Skippy slept with us. He snored, farted, whimpered in his sleep and pushed me to the brink of falling off the bed as his massive paws twitched.

Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I threw down the gauntlet.

“It’s me or the dog.”

That night I discovered Sheila changed the locks. Skippy barked at me through the window as if to say, “I loved her first.”

From Guest Contributor Marc Littman

In A Bar, Near The Sea

“No harm done”, I replied, but inside I was fuming.

My new shirt! Bought it at Ray’s Boutique and it wasn’t even on sale. I desperately wanted to impress the brunette and now look at it…

The man spilled some beer on it, looked at me and apologized.

I decided to leave it. The guy probably didn’t do it on purpose. After all, I was here to have a drink with some friends and not to get into an ordinary bar fight.

Of course, the fact I knew he was a former heavy weight world champion did help a bit.

From Guest Contributor Hervé Suys

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