Dare To Taste

“Ewwww...what’s that sickening smell?”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” Jack insisted. “Can you walk faster?”

“Why?”

“You don’t want to be stopped by she who lives there,” pointed Jack.

It could’ve been dried autumn leaves rustling in the wind, but they didn’t want to take a chance by looking back. They scurried past her unkempt lawn, not noticing the silhouette of someone sitting on the front porch.

“You boys hungry? Stew’s almost ready,” a woman’s voice shrieked.

The friends pretended not to hear.

“Rumour has it that she had four husbands,” Jack murmured. “No one has seen even one.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Soup’s On!

“Any luck, Paleo?” Keto asked his fellow cannibal as he approached the giant cauldron he was stirring.

“Nothing,” Paleo said. “Zero, zip, zilch, nada. No airplane crashes. No lost safaris. Not a single soul out there for dinner.”

“Well then, it’s soup again.”

“Ah, man! I need to sink my choppers into some nice juicy ribs or breasts, or wings or... Hey! Where’d you get that?”

Paleo froze, his mouth watering, as Keto dropped portions of two human legs into the pot.

“Let me have some of that meat!” Paleo yelled.

“Sorry,” Keto said. “I only have thighs for stew.”

From Guest Contributor Lee Hammerschmidt

Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of the short story collections, A Hole Of My Own, It’s Noir O’clock Somewhere and For Richer or Noirer. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!

Lady Macbeth

HISTORICAL FICTION ENTRY:

Life had become so boring, so beige boring. Every day it was hound the maids, light the candles, greet the guests. Then along came prophecy! What’s not to believe about a witch, let alone three? Once again, my world oozed with possibility.

What came to pass? Life in red, gushing red. There was blood in the soup, blood in the stew, blood on the hands of my husband. I thought about the plagues in Egypt, the Pharaoh who knew about miracles turned against him. I thought about science. That what flows, surely ebbs? While the old king’s blood ran blue.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda Lowe's poems and stories have appeared in Gone Lawn, Crack the Spine, What Rough Beast, New Verse News, Tiny Molecules and others.

The Wooden Spoon That Left A Scar

The wooden spoon has its many uses. Grandma used it to stir the pot as the sweet savory smell of her brown stew wafted through the kitchen door to the hallway. After a hearty meal, I was always waiting for the unknown. This caused all my childhood anxiety. Grandma’s mood – now dark. I winced as the wooden spoon landed on my bare buttocks, smack after smack. I couldn’t sit down. When my teacher found out, I ended up in care. It was very unpleasant. The wooden spoon left more than a scar. I panic each time I see one.

From Guest Contributor Ibukun Sodipe