It’s Him

Jeff got drunk after she told him, “It's not you. It’s me.”

But Jeff knew it was him. It always was.

He got so whiskey drunk that he woke the next afternoon tasting chalk. He couldn’t remember downing all those pills, but he must have because the bottle was half empty. Not half full—definitely half empty.

He spent three minutes on the help hotline he found on the internet.

“Dude,” the counselor said, “maybe it really wasn't you.” That’s when Jeff hung up. Probably just some college kid volunteering for a class project.

Jeff would survive. He always did.

From Guest Contributor John Sheirer

John lives in Western Massachusetts and is in his 30th year of teaching at Asnuntuck Community College in Northern Connecticut where he edits Freshwater Literary Journal (submission welcome). His work has appeared recently in Wilderness House Literary Review, Meat for Tea, Poppy Road Review, Synkroniciti, Otherwise Engaged, 10 By 10 Flash Fiction, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Scribes*MICRO*Fiction, and Goldenrod Review. His latest book is Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories. Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

The Great Beyond

“I don’t know how I feel about myself anymore?” I asked. The long quiet hallways of the in-patient unit were brightly lit and sterile.

“The mental health journey is a hard process,” the counselor mentioned. I picked up my heavy luggage and walked to the door. Nathaniel, an elderly man with a cane methodically lumbered the length of the hall to catch me.

“I wanted to tell you something,” he said. “I think you are an amazing person, and I hope to see you in the great beyond.”

I exhaled deeply and walked through the doorway looking at the sun.

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Keeping Up Appearances

Several seats were open at the bar and I sat next to an elderly lady. "Don’t forget Michelle’s dinner," I thought.

“How do you do?” the lady asked.

“Pretty well. Just getting home from work. How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. Where do you work?”

“I work as a counselor,” I said. I was a peer counselor but I didn’t want to disclose my diagnosis.

“What’s your focus?”

“Psychotic disorders.”

“I feel so bad for those poor people,” she said as she looked at her glass.

“Oh, I dunno, you’d be surprised. Some of them do better than you think.”

From Guest Contributor Steve Colori

Whispers

The whispers tickled her ears as if carried on the wind. She'd turn around, looking for the source, but everyone would be facing lockers or huddled in small groups. Whoever it was, he wanted her to suffer.

She started faking illnesses in order to stay home for school, hoping he would forget her. Yet every time she returned, he was waiting to torment her. The worst part was that he never revealed himself, so she couldn't confide in a teacher or counselor, lest they think she were crazy.

It is this kind of insidious behavior that makes ghosts so frightening.