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.

Cowboy

Billy had never been drunk before. That’s why he didn’t feel much pain.

The stars above were bright.

The runt of the family, he’d run off from the farm and joined the ranchers. They had gone to the saloon.

The strumpet at the bar had smiled at him. After his seventh whisky she winked.

Billy felt like a man. He was somebody.

“Move over boy,” the stranger said.

Billy stood his ground. There were words, then the challenge.

Outside, Billy got shot in the chest. Alone, he lay dying.

Tomorrow they would bury him. A nobody in a nobody’s grave.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian is originally from South Wales. He studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He currently lives in Taiwan with his family and is a high school teacher there. He has also been a freelance writer for over 12 years, writing articles for Taiwanese educational textbooks. He has had short stories published in various genres on Short-story.me, Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

Karaoke Superstar

The sweaty man standing behind the microphone had been a pop star of some renown once upon a time, many years ago. Everyone in the room, even those paying more attention to their drinks than the immolation occurring in the corner of the hazy bar, could tell the man had the voice of an angel. One or two heads turned, thinking the man sounded somehow familiar even though they couldn’t quite place him. A woman, half drunk, nodded a buzzed nod and winked at the man, who barely noticed her, so focused was he on finishing this one last song.

From Guest Contributor Dan Slaten

Surprise

He always smiled when she appeared. Today, he also winked.

No one else gave her a second look. At school, girls called her names. Boys threw stones.

She placed a chocolate bar on the belt. He rang in the price. She paid.

“Not getting your favourite?” he asked.

“You’re out,” she answered.

“It won’t happen again.”

She tore the wrapper off exiting the store. Took a mouthful. As she started walking home, a car pulled up behind her. The driver’s window opened.

“Found these in the back of the store,” he said handing her a caramel chocolate bar.

“Thanks, Grandpa.”

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

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