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.

Ghastly Ghosts

When I took the cashier job, it wasn’t explained to me that I’d be working with the supernatural. I didn’t abhor spirits, but those ghastly ghosts were frustrating. When I’d enter an amount in the computer, it deleted, and the customers would get angry at the slow checkout. So, I had another chat with the boss, and he told me he dealt with it, and if I couldn’t, then I should quit.

The next day, a sign on the door read: “STORE CLOSED DUE TO PESTS.” When I looked through the window, boxes of ant traps danced in the aisles.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Burn Book

The colors bled into the paper as the flames curdled the corners. Names, dates, crimes, it all melted into ash before their eyes, disappearing into oblivion. They all vowed never to speak, even in a whisper, what was written within its binding. Their sins no longer existed.

Most religions have a bible or a creed that is a resolute anchor of all that is sacred. For those lucky souls who inscribed their names into the burn book, their holiness was birthed out of that which was not recorded. Their spirits flew forever free, their futures untied to fate or destiny.

Crossing The Threshold

The greatroom was full to bursting, ghosts everywhere: playing charades, talking, resting, dancing, darting between clusters of spirits engaged in various means of whiling away time.

A newly-born ghost appeared at the doorway and paused at the chaos. The chaos paused in return, all eyes upon the newcomer.

“Come in, Dearie, and welcome,” Eve, the oldest of them all, beckoned.

The new arrival apprehensively crossed the threshold. The others returned to their various activities.

Eve helped the new ghost settle in. Did she have any questions?

Just one, the young ghost said, voice wavering: “When do they notice you’re gone?”

From Guest Contributor Melissa Ridley Elmes

Melissa is a Virginia native currently living in Missouri in an apartment that delightfully approximates a hobbit-hole. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Reunion; The Dallas Review Online, Eye to the Telescope, Star*Line, Gyroscope, In Parentheses, and other print and web venues, and her first book of poetry, Arthurian Things: A Collection of Poems, was published by Dark Myth Publications in 2020. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram @MRidleyElmes

Mending Hearts

Olivia’s heart is broken since her husband Stan’s death. His cancer so brutal, she’d weep alone in the bathroom. Her spirits lift slightly when her son, his wife, and their daughter visit, but when they leave it’s difficult to be alone. One morning Olivia is awakened by stomping on the stairs. She regrets giving her son the spare key. The bedroom door bursts open and her granddaughter Molly is holding a white and brown spotted purring kitten. “Grandma, this is your new husband,” little Molly says. “Can you name him Stan like grandpa,” she asks. Some hearts can be mended.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Kesaran-Pasaran

When I walked into the village, white fur balls kept falling from the sky.

“What are they?” I asked a villager.

“They’re kesaran-pasaran.”

They floated through the air like dandelion spores. On sunny days, they fell and covered the ground. On rainy days they spread and multiplied. The dead ones fueled the city. Their spirits harvested crops and generated electricity.

“What do we know? Our livelihood totally depends on them,” the villager said, laughing.

One day I left the village. When I turned back, the village was gone. Instead, white fluff balls spread as far as the eye could see.

From Guest Contributor Yukari Kousaka

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Born in Osaka in 2001, Yukari Kousaka is a Japanese poet, fiction writer, and essayist. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, her short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

Haunted

More than spirits, ghosts are the chill of a finger tracing your spine, a whisper only loud enough for you to hear, a memory of something long gone. What happens when the ghosts I’m afraid of are the ones that are alive? Will they continue to feed on me until there is nothing left? Will I join the other ghosts then? Piece by piece, they keep picking away until I am nothing. Will they pity me? The girl they once knew was full of life; and now, she is no better than the rest of them. A bag of bones.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well.

Dust To Dust

NATURE SUBMISSION:

The dust swirls through the late evening sun, catching the light just so. Growing up, people used to say the dust was your dead skin. A few of my more morbid friends even said it was the skin of dead people. Dust to dust after all.

I wonder if that's true. The poet in me wants to believe it is, that we're surrounded by our ancestors at all times, that their spirits live for eternity on the winds.

The claims adjuster in me turns back to my computer screen. Perhaps if I concentrated a bit more I'd be home already.

From Guest Contributor Angie Thrush

Halloween

Harold is frightened into a jolt. “Who’s there?”

He recognizes the silhouette standing before him. “Lois?” he answers staring wide-eyed. “If you’re here, who’s in your grave?”

“Spirits are allowed to visit on Halloween, the first anniversary of their death. I’ve come to say I love you. Now I must go. We can only appear and say what we’ve desired.”

“Don’t go, Lois!”

She backs away into the trees.

Harold awakes, his head leaning on Lois’ gravestone. “I can’t believe I dreamt I’ve seen Lois.” He drives away out of the darkness, and Lois appears blowing him a goodbye kiss.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher