The Midnight Shock

Manny started awake in the middle of the night. A commotion outside his bedroom window sounded like someone had been electrocuted while being drowned in a metallic barrel.

He carefully peered through the blinds, the lights off so as not to draw attention. This might be some kind of zombie invasion or purge situation. But whatever created all that noise was nowhere to be seen.

Manny waited a few moments, then laid back down and fell asleep.

The next morning, the headline read, "The Midnight Shock Serial Killer Strikes Again." His preferred method of killing: electrocution in a metal barrel.

Still Mad

I woke up in the middle of the night feeling hungry and went down to the kitchen. I had leftover pizza in the fridge that would really hit the spot.

Bob was sitting at the table, as if he were expecting me. I ignored him as I took out the plate and put it in the microwave. I wasn't happy about how our last conversation had ended so I was annoyed to see him here, like nothing had happened.

He finally spoke. "Are you still mad?"

I chose not to respond. I have a longstanding rule against speaking to ghosts.

Late Night Mystery

I'm at that point in my life where I need to wake up at least once in the middle of the night. Stumbling through the dark to the bathroom, the street lamp cast a shadow across the table, revealing a yellow envelope.

With groggy eyes, I opened the missive to find a short note on a scrap of aged paper.

"I miss you."

It wasn't signed, but the script was familiar. There was no mistaking this had been written by Beverly, my wife.

Dropping the note, I searched frantically throughout the house. Beverly had died exactly one year ago tonight.

Man Out There

There was a knock on the cabin door.

Deborah looked at her phone. There was no service out here but it could still tell the time. 2:30 a.m.

The knock repeated, louder, more urgent. Perhaps someone was hurt. Or lost in the woods. But in the middle of the night, it wasn't her problem. She prayed for whoever was outside to just go away.

Deborah came to the cabin for peace and quiet. Now she was crawling on the floor as quietly as possible, peaking out the window.

Her worst fears were realized. There was a man out there.

The Death And Life Of The Avant-Garde

When Franz K. was taken off the train in the middle of the night, he came to on a street of futuristic glass towers that, from an architectural perspective, were already passé. “What are those buildings?” he asked his keeper, a tall, thin, priestly figure who emanated an aura of gentle authority. “You’ll find out,” the keeper said, smiling. He never did. By the time the sun rose, he was tied to a post, watching in terror the firing squad assemble. It was sort of like avant-garde cinema where a series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).