The Boat

At summer's end, Marta found her dead brother's phone charging in the boathouse, though she had emptied his pockets herself in May. The screen showed one message, unsent: Don't sell the boat.

She laughed, because the boat leaked and because Erik had never repaired anything before being asked twice.

Outside, pines scratched the roof. The red mailbox leaned toward the road, waiting for bills.

Marta carried the phone to the jetty. Under the seat, beside a rusted thermos, lay fresh gray putty around the seams.

She launched at dusk. Halfway home, the phone died. The boat did not sink either.

From Guest Contributor Niklas Pettersson

The Trouble With Being Born

It was called Oak-something – Oakwood? Oakdale? – Diner. Waitresses, dressed as for mourning in all black, moved through the maze of tables and booths with the dull resignation of fish in an aquarium. Mom was sitting across from me, looking unusually happy. I felt kind of happy myself. Our waitress, a flyblown blonde, came over to refill our cups. She sloshed some coffee on the table as she poured. Mom rolled her eyes. Then I noticed the smell and her skin hanging down in strips like peeling wallpaper, and I realized I was screaming and that she was 20 years dead.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, True Crime, was published by Sacred Parasite in Berlin this year.

Fingertips to Her Shoulders Like Wings in Her Sleep

She is a bird perched on this moment, holding tight to the splintering branch of the past even while the warm chinook of now swirls up from the canyon whispering promises to her flight feathers, visions of vistas that shudder up through the tunnels in her hollow bones. The hurricane of her hair twists in the wind as she stretches, inches closer to dreams of silence deeper than the abyss of midnight sheets. There is no cage that can hold her, no rope that can bind her, no dead story that can stand before her when she decides

to fly.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Cruel

On our Saturday morning walk, my daughter found a baby bird that had fallen out of its nest.

"Can we take it home?"

"I think it's dead, sweetheart." When I explained what that meant, she didn't seem too bothered and I thought the matter forgotten.

A few days later, my ex-wife called to say she'd had to meet with Chelsea's teacher after school. "She got in trouble for making two of her classmates cry."

"What did she do?"

"She told them that God is cruel and kills those who deserve it least."

"Weird. I wonder where she got that from."

Graves

The buildings stood empty, monoliths etched by lichen and rust, each one a decaying monument to a forsaken past.

Dr. Niemann and his team surveyed the remains from the safety of their hazmat suits. Acquiring the grant money for their investigation of Old New York had taken more than a year. No one wanted to know what had happened. Perhaps out of fear it might happen again.

The surveyors delayed entering as long as possible. But the initial measurements and data tracking were complete and the time had come to learn why ten million people had all died at once.

Unfinished Business

I returned from the dead, a list in my pocket: wrongs to right, pleasures to reclaim, truths to confess, sins to own. Mostly I needed to know how the world had fared without me. Apart from my poor mother, a grieving ghost of her former self, it was as if I’d never lived. Never loved. Never mattered. A stranger slept in my bed, alongside my darling wife, in my home, the one I’d slaved to pay for, my manicured garden now wildly overgrown. I fed the list to the fire. I’d start over from the very beginning, wherever that was.

From Guest Contributor Elizabeth Murphy

Nothing

The engine gives out and we’re about to crash. I guide the plane as best I can and brace for impact. Then there’s blackness.

When I wake, Ted has a blank stare, and his head is twisted in an awkward position. He’s dead.

The bone in my left ankle is protruding from the skin and I’m having trouble breathing. I’m sure I’ve ruptured my ribs.

The door is jammed and I can’t walk. The airplane will soon explode and there’s nowhere to go. I say a silent prayer and close my eyes.

There’s a crackling noise, flames and then nothing.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

TV

The trick or treaters are finally done for the night. Time for some soothing TV. Must be somehorror movie, some ghastly looking character is staring at the camera emoting “You’ll be deadbefore the night is over.”

I’ll check the news. I’ve had enough of scares tonight. Channel 8 has my favorite broadcaster,but he’s decked out for Halloween, I guess. Another monster. This one reads “Sorry, but you’ll bedead before tomorrow.”

Wow, those guys are going all out for the season. I’d say a little overboard.

Must have a really late tricker, someone’s at the door now.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

The Dead Are Ghosts

Every time Marvin rode the subway, he thought of Sarah. It got to the point he wondered if she was haunting him. For more than a decade they'd ridden the train together every morning, her to the high school where she taught, him to the warehouse that he managed. When he closed his eyes, he felt Sarah sitting next to him. Sometimes she'd even lay her head on his shoulder like she used to. He didn't want to look for fear of what he would see.

The dead ARE ghosts, but not in the world around us. They live inside.

Smog Moon

It's one of those days when the pollution's so thick, you can stare directly at the sun and it looks like the old Japanese flag. We call it the smog moon.

We used to get away with a lot on smog moon days because most sensible people staid indoors. But as the pollution got worse, and the blue sky days less common, people stopped thinking about what the air was doing to their lungs and just went about their business.

Now, most of the gang are either dead, in jail, or under contract, and smog moons make me sad remembering.