Cold Iron

Walking to the back of the old house, Samuel noticed the changes since last time he'd been home. There were weeds growing up from the foundation. The chicken coop had probably been empty for more than a year. But none of the of the deterioration moved him. He had no nostalgia for this place. In truth, this was no longer his home.

The smithy was the one part of the farm almost as he remembered. All the tools hanging in just the right place. Except the forge wasn't burning anymore, the anvil had long grown cold.

Dad was truly gone.

Cursed Sword

Dark ripples spread across the surface as I wade into the water. I hold my breath and dive. To my surprise, the sword lies among the weeds, quite within reach. It’s mine. I chuckle with joy. I kick my legs harder, needing to go only a few inches deeper, but I can’t reach it. No matter how long I swim, I can’t grab the sword. I can’t hold my breath anymore. I struggle to the surface, but I’m yanked down. I tear at the weeds tangling my feet, but, as I sink, all I see is the sword’s gleaming wink.

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, Yukari’s writings have appeared in The Crypt, New World Writing, and The Wondrous Real Magazine, among others.

A Grass Dog

After my death, one half of my soul rose to the heavens, and the other half slept underground. My blood seeped into the roots of weeds. When the village held a festival, my daughter cut the grass and wove my halved soul into a dog-shaped chugou. She placed me beneath my husband’s bed. After a while, my husband tossed about and moaned in sleep.

“Don’t kill me!” he screamed.

My daughter stood over him and flung down her hatchet. His blood dripped through the mattress and onto the floor. I chuckled as I learned who had murdered me while asleep.From Guest Contributor Yuki Fuwa

Translated by Toshiya Kamei

Yuki Fuwa is a Japanese writer from Osaka. In 2020, she was named a finalist for the first Reiwa Novel Prize. In the same year, her short story was a finalist in the first Kaguya SF Contest. Translated by Toshiya Kamei, Yuki’s short fiction has appeared in New World Writing.

Life, A Very Short Story

You talk to family photos, suffer from migraines, play Chopin with unshowy facility on the parlor piano. Strangers often comment on your eyes – gull’s eyes, someone called them. The sea heaves just outside your door, and from the back window, you can see the cemetery where your father is buried. Weeds have sprouted up overnight among the headstones. You aren’t interested in stories of success, only failure. “Sunshine,” you say, “is an overrated virtue.” The words echo. There’s a feeling that something terrible is about to happen. You watch for a while and then shrug. Maybe because it’s all disappearing.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press and Spooky Action at a Distance from Analog Submission Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Ireland's Descent

Niamh clambered down the rocks, grasping grass to ensure balance. Her eyes widened with adoration each time she peered over her shoulder espying tides crashing carelessly against bustling coral. To others it was an empty beach clinging to the base of Irish pastures, but to Niamh her struggle over the roughened pebbles opened the gates of Eden.

Her lens captured what she saw; pulsating amber beasts clinging to years of compressed life, silvery fish darting around with grand families and crabs working hard, hunting. Emerald weeds flowed through natural pools capturing the life of the sun. Images she trapped forever.

From Guest Contributor Kerry Kelly

Bountiful Harvest

“Beautiful garden,” a man interjected. “Looks like a good harvest.”

Judy paused from pulling out weeds. “Not really. July was too rainy. Zucchinis are rotting on the plants and maggots have infested my apple tree. It’ll be a chore to salvage what’s edible.”

“Do you need help? I have lots of time being on my own.”

“Sorry, it’s getting dark,” Judy answered.

The man turned around and started walking.

“Wait!” Judy called out. “Pot roast is almost ready. Would you like to join me for supper? I too live alone.”

Harvest became bountiful with the start of a new friendship.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her work has been published at: Nailpolish Stories, 50-Word Stories, 100 word story, 101 Words, Boston Literary Magazine, From the Depths (Haunted Waters Press), ShortbreadStories, SixWordMemoirs, and Espresso Stories.