Spooky Halloween

Rob dons his skeleton mask and goes out the front door to his car.

The trick or treaters fill the streets with laughter, while parents keep a watchful eye on them. Rob slowly drives through the crowds as the night sky darkens the roads and he struggles to see, not wanting to remove his mask.

Finally, he arrives.

In the back seat, Rob pulls a lifelike toy out from underneath a blanket.

His friend Tim is going to get the best spooky Halloween prank of his life.

Inside Tim has a water bucket hanging over the door waiting for Rob.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

We Lost A Room Last Night

We found a house out on the dunes, beyond the golf course. The conservatory had crumbled already but soon a jagged fissure opened up across the living-room floor. Soon the front door burst from its hinges and other people started to show up. A tramp slept on the wrong side of the crack one night; he was gone in the morning but we didn't know where. You know we'll have to leave here soon, she said one night as she held me. Maybe head up the coast? I squeezed her back and we watched a window slip from its frame.

From Guest Contributor Geoff Sawers

First Meeting

At first glance it appears to be a normal home with a wraparound porch and swing.

The windows are open, and the curtains blow in the warm breeze. Still, I can’t seem to move. Now, I must wonder why I insisted on this meeting. My life is fine. I have a wife and two boys. I don’t need to meet my mother.

She abandoned me, yet I need answers. Even as an adult, I feel as if I’m a child not understanding.

I exit the car and walk to the front door, take a deep breath, and ring the doorbell.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Gratitude

“So nice,” Sarah thought, reciprocating a friendly wave.

She would’ve helped if her arthritic hands weren’t an issue. Instead, she watched the next door neighbor bend countless times to weed a bountiful garden.

When showy bouquets were presented at her front door, Sarah returned the favor with her baking. When her husband died, the neighbor had arranged funeral flowers free of charge.

Drought settled the following year. Flowering plants suffered. Rosebuds dried, not getting a chance to bloom. Much of the garden had dwindled.

Unlike the blossoming friendship between the two women, who found themselves together at a seniors’ lodging.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction regardless of the season, although she prefers spring.

A Dream

The house is empty, and my bags are packed. I don’t know where I’m going, but I reach for and open the front door anyway, ready for whatever awaits me on the other side. I realize I’ve left the radio on, though, so I turn around and go back to take care of that. While I’m doing this someone or something scurries through the front door. I look and see that it’s my brother’s dog, Oswald. “You can’t be here,” I say. “You’re dead.” Oswald wags his tail and tells me that he’s here to take me to the afterlife.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Voice Of Despair

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Kevin didn’t hear at first. Mabel did. Sensing the scratchy sound originated outside, they opened the front door. Before them stood a feline pulsating a ferocious “meow.” Seeing the humans, he stopped.

“He’s staring at us,” Kevin noticed.

The cat turned to go back to the sidewalk.

“Let’s follow,” Mabel figured.

They ended in a backyard. The cat went through a pet flap in the house. When he reappeared, he stood on a table by a bedroom window.

Kevin propped himself up on a patio chair and peered inside. Sprawled on the floor was the lifeless body of their neighbor.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

The Celebration

Where was he?

Anxious guests chattered in anticipation of what would happen next. The priest glanced at the row of individuals immediately before him. Then, at his watch.

Time passed on. The front door opened. A man rushed in.

No one turned to greet him. No talking caught his ears.

Who would’ve believed his story of being caught up in traffic when he was golfing with friends and lost track of time?

He fumbled in his dress jacket pocket, finding the wedding ring lodged in its creases.

Despite his absence as ‘best man’, he hoped his brother’s wedding went well.From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She resides in Edmonton, Canada.

My Father

My father says it’s okay to be scared, but now it’s time to be brave. I trust and look up to him, so when he tells me to hide under the floorboard because the Nazis are coming, I do so.

There’s banging at the front door, and then it bursts open. Footsteps and yelling are what I hear. My legs are cramped and I’m sweating from my forehead to my cheeks.

My father is crying, pleading with the Nazis and I feel helpless hiding. I want to show myself, but I’m too frightened.

Gunshot, thump, silence.

My father is dead.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Token Of Christmas Cheer

A man shuffled down a city block, ringing doorbells. His spirit motivated by optimism.

With mounting rejections, hopelessness soon took over. He had an inkling of what they were thinking: another solicitor, begging on behalf of a charity. He would prove otherwise if given a chance.

Last house. He paused. Should he ring? A smiling child waved through the picture window. The front door opened. A woman appeared.

“Sorry, I have little cash,” she said, noting his disheveled appearance.

He left with a bag of festive cookies gifted by her; a token of appreciation for his shoveling of her walkways.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She is based in Edmonton, Canada.

The Dollhouse

is custom made to look like my house, our house. My new wife’s idea—for Sarah. Same front elevation. Duplicate floorplan. But my step daughter’s attempt to match furniture placement is off. I nudge the miniature hutch to its true location. She frowns, pushes my hand away, makes me move to the front yard, so to speak. I look at her through the windows. She appears as if a Goliath child. My sling: empty after repeated attempts to penetrate the four walls of her heart. I lean low, peer inside the front door. “Knock, knock,” I say. She never answers.

Keith Hoerner lives and pushes words around in Southern Illinois.