Trap

Rachel pulled her hat covering her face and walked. Curfew was about to begin, and the gestapo would be patrolling. She had an important piece of information tucked inside her left shoe and she had to get back to the safe house.

Rachel heard footsteps and a chill ran down her spine. They became quicker and then it went dark. A hand touched her shoulder, and she was about to run, when a man’s voice said her code name, Vivian.

“It’s too dangerous to go back to the safe house. Quickly, come.”

Soon Rachel would realize it was a trap.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

October Blues

The stickiness of the summer air had finally disappeared, leaving behind a brisk chill in its wake. Bronze leaves danced in the wind after departing from their trees, reviving nostalgia that remained hidden deep within your bones. The same way you felt it deep inside your bones when he kissed you that Fall years agoーcupping your face with his warm hands while leaving the sweet taste of honey and cinnamon behind. Shuddering, whether from the bitter wind or suppressed memories of times that no longer existed, you crunch the leaves beneath your heavy boots harderーand you keep on walking.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a graduate of St. John Fisher College, majoring in English, with a concentration in writing while also being an editor in the campus literary magazine Angles.She is furthering her education by attending SUNY Brockport for her master’s in English, specializing in creative writing. Following graduation, she is interested in working in the editing and publishing field.

Haunted

More than spirits, ghosts are the chill of a finger tracing your spine, a whisper only loud enough for you to hear, a memory of something long gone. What happens when the ghosts I’m afraid of are the ones that are alive? Will they continue to feed on me until there is nothing left? Will I join the other ghosts then? Piece by piece, they keep picking away until I am nothing. Will they pity me? The girl they once knew was full of life; and now, she is no better than the rest of them. A bag of bones.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well.

Nature

NATURE SUBMISSION:

I watch the red cardinal swoop from tree to tree and chirp in unison with the other birds while flapping its wings. The air is crisp and the sun abundant. The breeze gives a slight chill, so I wrap a scarf around my neck and continue planting.

The sun begins to fade, and the birds disappear into the sky. I wipe my forehead and remove the gardening gloves.

As I sit with my feet up sipping a cold glass of water, I say a silent prayer that the pandemic ends, and we are free as the birds flying this earth.

From Guest Contributor Lisa Scuderi-Burkimsher

Mack’s Walk

A chill is in the air and Mack’s hands are numb. He pulls his coat collar around his neck and shoves his hands deep inside his pockets. He’s looking forward to a hot cup of coffee when he returns home, the simmering heat soothing his stomach. A few more blocks and he’ll turn back.

“Hi Mack. Have you seen my cat Arty;” the boy asks. “He got loose today, and I can’t find him.”

“Sorry, no, I haven’t.”

Timmy rides his bike at warp speed, making Mack’s head dizzy. Then a gentle brush against his pants distracts him.

It’s Arty.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Prairie Phantom

Sand rolls steadily along the prairie with a wild wind. The fox finds his home between the sagebrush and through the sunflowers. He leaps airily at ease with his snout grinning. Atop the hill, he shimmies about and slides down while birds depart. Below he creeps to the cemetery and waits for night to lay a veil. A gentle chill glides along as starlight washes over weary stone. With a swift bark and a bound, he weaves among the graves. Moonlight tickles his whiskers and mist wanders in. Here the fox dances with ghosts who once called his prairie home.

From Guest Contributor Kristi Kerico

Kristi is a psychology major at Pikes Peak Community College. She is studying to become a horticultural therapist. She currently works at a bookstore and volunteers at a zoo and nature center. She began writing after enrolling in a creative writing course at PPCC. She enjoys poetry the most, considering it's brief yet complex beauty. She also loves writing with a focus on nature.

Don't Fear The Reaper

Jack wanders into the local for a pint at the end of his evening walk.

“Damn!”

He’d forgotten it was that time of the year.

There’s fat Marge dressed as a witch, and in walks Brad, the estate agent, now a skeleton.

Jack orders lemonade and watches the party grow louder. The pub band, three ghosts and a ghoul, rock them into a frenzy.

Unable to bear the drunken hysteria anymore, he walks out, sober, into the chill of the night.

He glances back through the pub window at the carnival of fools, none of whom will escape the Reaper.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

The Promise

They were seated in the sitting room of the small hospice apartment. The cloying odor of disinfectant hung in the air. Fading twilight filled the space. Somewhere in the hall a pneumatic door opened and then whispered closed. An outside chill passed into and through the room.

“Look at me,” she said. "You promised me eternal life. Now just look at me.” She ran her withered fingers through what was left of her wisping gray hair. She could feel strands breaking loose.

“I am looking at you,” he whispered. “I promised you eternal life. I didn’t promise you eternal youth.”

From Guest Contributor Reynold Junker

The Dead Chill

There I am on the down side of dusk. I stand stock still as the men drag her to the van. She used to be worth a look or two but now she is dead. Dead to me at least. Dead in the sense that I can't see her no more. Dead.

The sun is dead too and the chill is in me. I slink my way back to the house. They mean to ask more of me, but I am spent. What can I tell them this time I had not said times past?

I found her that way.

The Daily Theme from Figment for Feb. 9, 2012

This is a prompt I love to use when I first meet a new class. I tell them to take out their pens and write me a piece--the theme is up to them. It need not be long. But it needs to be a real scene. And the sole rule that frames what they write is this: You may not use a word with more than one syllable. It sounds hard, but "syllable" is the lone word used here that has more than one.