Idiot

I'm not scared of ghosts,” Sue says.

“Me too,” I reply with a smile.

“But I’d like to become one,” she continues.

“Why?” I am amused.

“Because ghosts can travel anywhere, overhear people and uncover their secrets, know the past and the future.”

“Hmmm…I’m not sure about that." I laugh.

“How do you know? Isn’t that what planchette, ouija boards and seances are for? People call spirits, ghosts to question them.”

“Well….” I stop with a smile. Sue has always been an idiot. Her ghost is also an idiot. She still hasn't been able to figure out I killed her.

From Guest Contributor Sushma R Doshi

A Pushcart nominee, Sushma holds a PhD in International Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, New Delhi. She likes to write and dream. She resides in India.

I Can't Explain

I know things look bad. I can explain the blood. I was playing with my dog and he scratched me pretty bad. He can be rough.

What about the witness who saw you going into the house?

I was just dropping off the divorce papers. They should be in the filing cabinet.

I see. And the threatening emails from your account?

Someone's trying to frame me.

Very good. That just leaves the matter of the security camera. How do you explain that someone who looks remarkably like you was recorded beating your ex to death with a field hockey stick?

Sunflowers On The Horizon

The rows of sunflowers spread across the horizon, tiny flames of color against a burnt-out sky. Megan ducks away from the window, hoping she wasn't spotted.

"They're coming closer."

Charles scrambles on hands and knees from room to room, locking each door without standing up, praying the bolts will be enough to keep them safe.

"I'm scared."

Megan ignores his cowardice, once again apologizing to her inner voice for ignoring its many warnings that an RPG podcaster would not make a good husband.

"Just shut up and go get the pesticide from the garage. I have some sunflowers to murder."

Morning Constitutionals

Fred was a big man who walked a little dog. Pepe, the Chihuahua, nearly jerked Fred's arm from its shoulder socket as he dashed ahead of his owner on the leash.

Mel Friedman walked Franz, his Great Dane. Clearly outweighed by the larger animal, Mel had to jerk Franz around the neighborhood, at the risk of dislocating his own shoulder.

Whenever the dog owners met on the sidewalk, Fred and Mel were upset, if not very sore. These morning constitutionals were murder on their bodies, if not mental states. Pepe and Franz, on the other hand, nodded to one another.

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Wandering Star

I killed the crew of the Wandering Star, humanity’s last hope.

A desperate mission to find a new home. The ship crashed into this lonesome planet of obsidian.

Maybe I’ve lost my mind. But I heard a voice calling me here. A soft whisper in the dark. They called me insane, said I’d gone AWOL. Tried to lock me up.

I wandered the surface, guided by the whisper, until I stood in its shadow, a great five-pointed upside-down black star floating high above.

I wept when I realized why I’d been led here. The leviathan declaring the end of humanity.

From Guest Contributor Rick Ansell Pearson

Rick lives and works in central Mexico. His fiction can be found forthcoming in Year Five: Dark Moments and Patreons, published by Black Hare Press.

Keep Movin’

—Get in the car, doll.

—Where we goin’, Roy?

—To get us some money.

—Gonna buy me something pretty?

—The world, babe.

—Slow down. You almost—

—Look in your purse.

—A gun.

—Know how to use it?

—Point and pull?

—That’s all.

—Who’m I gonna point it at?

—You’ll see.

—Why the mystery?

—There’s Buster, on that park bench.

—You gonna stop?

—He ain’t movin’.

—Looks like a bullet hole in his head.

—Change of plan, doll.

—Who killed him, Roy?

—Wasn’t me.

—Didn’t Buster teach you all you know?

—Main thing he said was, keep movin’.

—Slow down, Roy.From Guest Contributor Joe Surkiewicz

Joe writes from northern Vermont.

The Dreaming Man

Calvin approached every situation with the same primary assumption: he was dreaming.

This outlook freed him from the tethers of reality. He lived with a complete disregard for consequence only the dreaming man could fully fathom. It lent his existence a sort of Buddhist clarity, in which only the current moment mattered. He possessed at all times a tremendous sense of self-possession and lucidity, while remaining entirely divorced from the trivial concerns of everyday society.

Now that he had been sentenced to forty-five years to life for first-degree murder, this mindset would be even more of a refuge moving forward.

Bruno Schulz On The Street Of Crocodiles

The pills I take at night to get to sleep leave me feeling dazed all morning. I stare stupidly at the white screen of my laptop while rubbing my head in a forlorn attempt to stimulate the language center of the brain. I think once again of Bruno Schulz. Only the first sentence of the novel he was writing when he was murdered survives: Mother awakened me in the morning, saying, “Joseph, the Messiah is near...” A Gestapo officer shot him down in the street in broad daylight. It was a kind of hobby, to be honest.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

There’s Been A Murder

Sunday, April 12

A murder has occurred at the Johnson’s mansion and Earl Johnson was found dead in the basement. The following are transcripts between the investigator and suspects.

Investigator:

“The murder took place around 8:30 p.m. last night. Where were you all during that time?”

Chef (Mr. Washington):

“I was cooking Mr. Johnson’s favorite meal; it was his birthday.”

Ms. Johnson:

“I was freshening up and putting on my dinner gown.”

Maid (Ms. Paddington):

“I was out getting the mail.”

Everyone stopped and looked at the maid with wide eyes.

Investigator:

“Ms. Paddington, the mail doesn’t run on Sundays.”

From Guest Contributor Daemion McKellar

The Angry Camper

Stuart had a heart transplant last March and felt lucky to sit around a campfire with Paul.

The drunk from the next campsite stumbled over again. "Stop all that damn noise!"

Paul stood and yelled, "Look buddy, we're just talking. No way you can hear us."

"Stop banging on those drums. Next time I'll have a twenty-two."

"Call 9-1-1, Paul."

Twenty minutes later they heard all the commotion of the arrest.

"You guys gonna be on the news," said the park ranger. "That guy was wanted for the murder of Alex Edmund."

Shocked, Stuart said, "Alex Edmund was my donor."

From Guest Contributor E. Barnes

E has works in The Purple Pen, The Haven, Spillwords, Centina Pentina, Entropy and the anthology NanoNightmares.