Corpus Delicti

Every day there’s a funeral – actually, several. You peer into the open casket and immediately regret it. I have that kind of face. There has just always been something about me that provokes people to anger and upset. “Hitler should come back and gas you!” they would yell, as if the very idea of me threatened them. An unknown caller once even left a series of gunshots on my voicemail. Now I’m being lifted off the bier and swiftly carried down the aisle and out the door. A desolate rain is falling. I don’t remember a time when it wasn’t.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest book, Frowny Face, a synergistic mix of his prose poetry and handmade collages, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.

Only Words

She replayed his voicemail message. ‘Sorry I missed you, I’m just catching the plane now.’ Then an airport announcement sounded in the background and almost drowned out the next words. ‘I left a note on the kitchen table. Read it when you get home.’

Now she picked up the note and read it for the umpteenth time: I love you. See you next week. I’m counting the seconds.

It may have been only words, but they were important. Especially now. How she wished she had gone too, then she would not have had to listen to news of the crash.

From Guest Contributor Henry Bladon

Henry lives in Somerset in the UK and writes all types of fiction. He has a PhD in creative writing and runs a writing support group for people with mental health issues. His work can be seen in Writers’ Forum, MicrofictionMonday, FridayFlashFiction, 50-Word Stories and Writers’ Forum, amongst other places.