The Steward

Rebecca and I drove up the long gravel way until it crested a small ridge and our new home came into view. She sucked in her breath, shocked by the magnificence of the old mansion.

"I haven't been here in thirty years. Nothing's changed."

She squeezed my hand, in excitement or perhaps disbelief. The estate belonged to my grandfather, then my uncle, and now me, a string of unfortunate deaths leaving me the only heir.

My anticipation ceased when I saw Bidwell waiting to greet us.

"What's wrong?"

"The steward. He died in the same accident that killed my uncle."

Filmgoers

Many winters ago the blizzard buried Negotin in white noise. Snow sealed doors, and the wind was sending SOS signals all over the town. Power lines were lying in the fields, houses went blind and breath turned to frost.

Only the old cinema stood like a lone lighthouse against the storm. Its generator pulsated like a tired heart. The theater was full, but no one spoke. When the movie began, I realized the actors were the audience themselves, levitating across the screen.

Slowly, the faceless crowd turned toward me. They weren’t watching the movie.

They wanted me to stay forever.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

I Heard A Mother Scream

I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn't creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

The desolation of her scream, so familiar, pierces into me. We're both tormented by the life still left to live, unable to excoriate the soul from the skin.

She seeks consolation in her refusal to accept the well meaning lies of those unable to withstand true despair.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

You Are The Method

I met the man with the train face at a strawberry picking. Where you buy the basket, scatter into the field, pick as many as you like or as will fit. He moved in a straight line, boring ever farther ahead, picking with one hand, then the other, then engineering the basket forward along the ground. When I was beside him, I could feel his breath like steam; his eyes seemed to let out more light than they took in. Full basket, he passed it to his wife. Her face was a station. She handed him a new, empty basket.

From Guest Contributor Ken Poyner

The Ascent

The door heaves open. Light floods me while darkness retreats inside me. The guards shove me outside my cell. On the stairs, my heart beats like a war drum. One step. Two. Many more. While my chains gently clink. At the summit, I look down and the people cheer. I see their mouths moving but I can’t hear a sound. All I hear is my panicked breath. As they take off my chains, the darkness escapes. I feel so light that I lose the ground under my feet. I smile, in the twenty-five meters that separate me from the abyss.

From Guest Contributor Davide Risso

Davide grew up in Italy, but his itchy feet led him to live in Ireland, Germany, the United States, and travel around the globe. Scientist by training, writer by passion, rock climber by vocation, his fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, RumbleFish Press, Literary Yard, and Cranked Anvil among others.

Sand In My Shoes

Time is an abstract concept. Yet the seconds, minutes, and hours are woven into the very fabric of existence just as surely as the matter around us. The matter inside us, for that matter.

Forgive me the pun. It may be the last one I have time for.

Understanding time is an integral part of the universe doesn't make it any more concrete. Time depends on where the observer is located.

My days as a young man passed by so quickly. Now, I look down and there's nothing but sand in my shoes. One breath of wind, and I'm gone.

Oh Baby

He's seeking to please, down on his knees, when everything freezes.

He's holding his breath, scared half to death, then everything stops.

She's the love of his life, one day his wife, when everything freezes, his heart starts and drops.

There's not enough time, it's all a true crime. Some kind of conspiracy, no true north polarity.

His thoughts have a meter, his words want to rhyme. His raison d'etre stutters sublime.

Now it's all over, she's lost in the past. A mysterious end that happened too fast.

It just goes to show: nothing truly matters, when nothing ever lasts.

The Promise

When I enter the library, I take a deep breath. I haven’t been here in months, but I had a promise to keep, so I pushed myself out of bed and here I am.

I walk to the fiction section and scan the row of books. I choose a few of my all-time favorite classics and find a seat near the window, once his favorite spot.

I miss him terribly, but I promised I would continue to come, even though it pains me.

He had said he would always be with me through books.

I can almost hear his voice.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Vernon Dreams Of Love

Vernon had a mighty fine vision of a better life. Though the East had been kind to him, his yearning for adventure in the Wild West was powerful.

He dreamt of wide-open prairies and a sky lit by a million untamed stars. Somethin' he'd only read about in books. The drawings of them big ol' mountain ranges plumb near took his breath away.

Unbeknownst to Vernon was the expanse of Manitoba, sometimes called âpisînikan by the Cree, which means someone who rises from the dead. Soon, his easygoing lifestyle would be disturbed as hordes of undead settlers blocked his path.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

These Dogs

are barking, she says, as she kicks off her scuffed dancing pumps and falls into the couch cushions. What a strange word: couch. Now, the television remote. Later, a Marie Callender’s pot pie. Turkey. In between now and later, a man pounds at the door—Beverly, he says. I know you’re there. Answer me. Thirty years ago, she would have. She would‘ve let him convince her to come back home, to try again. For the children, now grown. For him. Instead, she pours tea and peers between the blinds. She watches his breath condense, useless, and spill into the night.

From Guest Contributor Carrie Cook

Carrie received her MA in Creative Writing from Kansas State University and is currently living in Colorado. Her work has appeared in The Columbia Review, Midwestern Gothic, Menacing Hedge, and Bartleby Snopes.