The Broken Rose

Scott retraces the events of that evening to understand what went wrong. Candles were lit. Dinner reservations at Jen's favorite restaurant. A dozen red roses.

The evening now over, all his plans in ruins, trying to lay blame seems besides the point. Telling himself that he was innocent of any wrongdoing doesn't change the fact that not only has his girlfriend of exactly five years walked out on him forever, but has also resulted in his house being destroyed and his car being driven over a cliff.

A single broken rose is all he has left to remember her by.

The Lilith Bird

He was tempted by her cardinal blouson and red pout, by the slippy-strap escaping down her arm, showing she was a little disheveled. She was unadorned, but her fangs flickered gold in the glow of candles and broken mirrors. He imagined the impossible, undressing her in his world, how he would unravel in her beautiful feathers. But he knew her kind, how she could only take and not be taken. She would ravish him in a few ecstatic moments and leave his husk in a heap of satin sheets, while she licked the last drops of blood from her claws. From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic

Lorette reads, writes, publishes, edits, and teaches small fictions. Her work has appeared in hundreds of journals and a dozen anthologies. She was selected for Best Small Fictions 2023. She has been nominated several times for Best Microfictions, Best of the Net, and the Pushcart Prize, and shortlisted for Bath Flash Fiction and The Lascaux Review flash prizes. Her collections of small fictions are The Rope Artist, The Neon Rosary, Pretty Time Machine and Winter in June. A collection of her work has also been translated into Urdu by Saad Ali. Lorette is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by art. Lorette is also an award-winning mixed media artist, with collectors in more than 40 countries so far.

Every Mickle

The local Farmers’ Bank went belly up.

It was a cooperative concern, like many in the region. The Secretary of the Bank had taken a loan in her late husband’s name on forged documents. Almost all the staffers either embezzled or connived with the defalcators.

Investors, most of them traders and peasants, were shell-shocked. Some blamed themselves for their imprudence while others huddled indecisively.

Kali, the old woman who sold candles, also had a deposit in the bank.

As the bank’s director exited from his car, she confronted him.

“Where’s my money?” Kali yelled, catching the man by his collar.

From Guest Contributor Sathyajith Panachikal

Sathyajith. P.S has reconciled himself to the reality that it is impossible to be reborn in an ancient past with a smartphone and internet connection. Currently, he is trying in real earnest to regain the originality he had when he first chanced upon this planet.

A Warning

The three dice feel like cold teeth in Kate’s hand. She rolls each one separately, as Dorothea instructed. Mumbling, the old fortune teller stares at their placement inside the chalk circle.

Candles flicker on the stone mantle. Kate shifts, sweat dampening her armpits.

“Interesting,” Dorothea mutters.

Suddenly, a sound like beating wings erupts from the fireplace. The candles extinguish and darkness swallows the room.

“Kate!” a familiar voice exclaims. Her mother, murdered exactly three years ago, channels through the fortune teller’s throat.

Kate starts to cry. Somewhere down the hall, a window breaks.

“Run!” her mother screams. “They’ve found you!”

From Guest Contributor Heather Santo

Lady Macbeth

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Life had become so boring, so beige boring. Every day it was hound the maids, light the candles, greet the guests. Then along came prophecy! What’s not to believe about a witch, let alone three? Once again, my world oozed with possibility.

What came to pass? Life in red, gushing red. There was blood in the soup, blood in the stew, blood on the hands of my husband. I thought about the plagues in Egypt, the Pharaoh who knew about miracles turned against him. I thought about science. That what flows, surely ebbs? While the old king’s blood ran blue.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's poems and stories have appeared in Gone Lawn, Crack the Spine, What Rough Beast, New Verse News, Tiny Molecules and others.

Haunting

Molly opened the door to her new antique shop and breathed in the freshly painted room. She sold everything from refurbished wood furniture, candles and lotions among other products. Family and friends begged her not to buy the building that was a torture chamber in the early 1800s. Rumor had it that past owners heard screams and footsteps, but she didn’t believe it.

One year later, Molly foreclosed. Customers were too frightened of the rumors.

On her last day, Molly locked the door for the final time. When she turned for one last look, a figure waved from the window.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Miss Plum In The Bedroom With The Candlestick

Crime was common back then, and the law itself often criminal. Nobody was safe from the thugs prowling the city. It took constant and wearying vigilance to survive. If I happened to fall asleep, I’d wake up afraid. I think I was afraid she wouldn’t be there, peering out through a crack in the curtains. Why you here? I asked the first time she appeared. She just gave a fuzzy, fragile smile. The ambiguity was intentional. When you leave details out, it opens up possibilities for what can be – an ancient tree whose entwined branches support 34 brilliantly burning candles.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals UnLost and Unbroken with Dale Wisely

The Birthday Party

Once the lawn chairs have been folded and stacked inside the shed, the plastic wrap stretched across rows of cheese glistening with sweat to be stuffed into the fridge and forgotten, the shrieking of grandchildren and boozy chatter of distant relations swept out the front door and down the driveway, and the candles—slabs of wax carved into a 7 and 5 and crusted with cake—tossed into the sink to be dealt with later, the man lifts legs snaked with purple veins onto the recliner and makes his annual wish: that he won’t be here this time next year.

From Guest Contributor Doug Koziol

Doug is the Fiction Editor for Redivider, a journal of new literature and art. His work has appeared in CounterPunch, Driftwood Press, and theEEEL.

No More Grant Wood

Francis stared gawping at the bleak picture of a white house on a twilight prairie for at least a couple of minutes before breathing. Hattie linked arms with him and pressed close.

“Well, what do you think?”

Francis sighed a wordless soliloquy.

“Isn’t it wonderful? Look at the shading, the perspective, the detail.”

“I just finished that wallpapering.”

“Soot from the aromatic candles and sewing chalk.”

Francis frowned.

“All dangerous hobby stuff is locked away. Candles...top shelf.”

Francis confirmed the press was locked and tight against the wall before addressing his two-year old son.

“Grant, you’re one creepy-ass kid.”

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid