Muted

Late one night in a foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

Run Run Run

Last one home is a rotten egg.

Run.

Coach says if I make top two in the state I'll get a scholarship offer from every school in the country.

Run.

We saw red and blue lights flashing from the front yard at Kristi Fields' graduation party.

Run.

Becca asked if we were boyfriend and girlfriend now that we'd done it.

Run.

Do you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?

Run.

A knock on the door. Blood all over the floor, all over my hands, all over the knife. No one will believe the truth.

Run. Run. Run.

Traitor

The streets were eerily quiet, and I knew Nazis were lurking around. I stood in the woods and listened to the animals’ noises until I heard footsteps. It was the contact. He said the code word and I handed him the papers. He was gone as quickly as he came.

I was about to make my way back to the resistance when I heard another set of footsteps. I braced myself and reached for my weapon, but it was gone. Traitorous monster, I thought. He swiped my knife.

A Nazi appeared pointing a barrel of a gun to my head.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Origins Of Classic Nursery Rhymes

I didn’t grow up surrounded by art and culture. There were newspapers scattered around the house but few books on the shelves or paintings on the walls. One day I sat drawing in my room – I must have been 12 or 13 years old, just starting to figure shit out – when my mom stuck her head in. She watched me for a moment, then she said, “Why are you wasting paper?” I have had kind of a bad feeling ever since, like the farmer’s wife is still back there in the kitchen torturing three blind helpless mice with a knife.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection is Heart-Shape Hole (Laughing Ronin Press), which also includes examples of his handmade collages.

In The Memory Of A Thought To Be

Vernon took his knife and silently pulled it from the tree bark. With a shriek, the first crow flew from the hollow, resting on the ragged grass. Its feathers ruffled, and its face pinched.

Vernon's skull pushed itself upward, bursting through his skin, and making a nest in the now-vacant cavity. Vernon's eyes fell upon the recess within, creating a rotted root system.

He could not believe in any of those things.

Vines sunk from branches covering the ground, winding around tree trunks and breaking them apart. The crow's mouth yawned open, tearing at Vernon's thoughts with claws and teeth.From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Demonstration

I’m going to eliminate demonstration presentations from my Speech course. I was erasing the board after class tonight when a student approached me, asked if I’d approve a ritual for the assignment. “I’ll need to make an altar, bring a knife.”

I turned to face her, “Sorry… no, Moira, that’s not okay.”

She narrowed her eyes, whispered words I barely caught, “within wood…split a stone…find me there.”

I smiled weakly, “Was that a spell?”

She stormed out. I gathered my books and bag and walked quickly to the car. Under my blouse, my jasper cross tingled warm against my skin.

From Guest Contributor Yvonne Morris

Yvonne is the author of Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press). Her most recent work has appeared in the Santa Clara Review, The Write Launch, and Friday Flash Fiction.

Dear Amy

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

Here’s what happened: The huntsman burst in wielding a knife, and lunged at me! In my shock, I coughed up the Grandma. I said sorry, truly, and ran off, hoping to mend my ways. I wound up in a bar in NYC, drinking with humans who were all peace and harmony, until one of us bit one of them—justified! Then it was omg throw them out. Now I’m back in the woods, in the heart of temptation, where every guy and his girlfriend is noshing on Grandmas and Little Reds. How can I resist? What should I do?

Wolf

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared online in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, Star 82 Review, BOMBFIRE, Misfit Magazine, and others.

Do It Well

Do it well, honey. My lover’s voice echoed inside me as I stabbed my wife repeatedly. Fear flashed in her doe-like eyes. She fell to the wet forest floor and crawled away. I grabbed her ankle and pulled. On my umpteenth attempt, my knife struck through her neck, severing her jugular vein. Blood splattered. The light faded out of her eyes. I rolled her up in a plastic sheet and buried her. Later, I stumbled into my home, choking on her perfume. There she stood in front of me. “What?” I gasped. She brandished a knife. Sharper than my own.From Guest Contributor Fusako Ohki

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Fusako Ohki is a Japanese writer from Tokyo. She obtained her master’s degree in Japanese literature from Hosei University. Her debut collection of short fiction is forthcoming in 2021.

Fate

Cold and hungry, I shivered on the platform.

Everything had been taken. The silverware from Grandmother Petra, tossed in a bag, was a knife to the heart. All our valuable paintings, ripped from the walls and tossed into a pile, was too much for my husband Jenko. He protested and got a bullet in the head. I held my chin high without weeping.

I’m alone, except for the hundreds of people waiting to board the train and wondering where we are going.

I lowered my head and pressed my hand against “The Star of David,” sewed onto my fraying coat.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Chopping Block

The cabbage on the chopping block was a vivid royal purple. She couldn’t figure out why it was called red cabbage. It certainly looked purple, even after it was cooked. Her sheepsfoot knife was thinly slicing the quartered pieces with almost no effort. Good knives were worth every dollar spent on them, she mused.

She thought ahead: I still need to chop the onions and the Granny Smith apples. I hope I have apple cider vinegar. This dish will go perfectly with roasted pork.

She looked down and noticed blood on the board. Was that the tip of her finger?

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius