Gus believes the strangest tales, including one that terrifies him—indeed, it’s his motive for never reading—about a pale, shroud-like thing that creeps behind you as you’re distracted, nose in a book, and which, being a courteous psychopath, waits for you to finish your sentence before it kills you.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and 50-Word Stories. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
He racked the pistol slide as the Byrds’ “Oil in My Lamp” played in the background. “Sing, oh sinner, to the King—keep me burnin’ till I burn away.”
He smiled with no hint of irony.
The crows outside the stained glass window flew dolefully away as the music faded.
Randal D. Williams is currently working on a doctoral dissertation concerning sacred and profane motifs in early hillbilly music. Mr. Williams proudly calls himself a hillbilly scholar and a scholar of all things existentially hillbilly.
Once a month, my mother got religion. It came on her in the night hard, a sheet-soaking fever. Sunday morning, I’d find her in the bathroom spackling the seams and chips in her forehead before painting an alien face over her own.
Like God wouldn’t recognize her Friday night self.
Sarah Freligh is the author of Sad Math, winner of the 2014 Moon City Press Poetry Prize and the 2015 Whirling Prize from the University of Indianapolis. Recent work has appeared in the Cincinnati Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, and the anthology New Microfiction (WW Norton, 20180). Among her awards are a 2009 poetry fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts and a grant from the Constance Saltonstall Foundation in 2006.
After the hospital, the bookstore café beckons. The geezers have already gathered. Although they still do not offer him a seat at their tables, when he comes in this time, limping, they shoot him a longer glance than usual, which seems, he imagines, to confirm the likelihood of imminent inclusion.
Ron. Lavalette has been widely published in both print and pixel forms. His first chapbook, Fallen Away, is now available from Finishing Line Press, and a reasonable sample of his work can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO.
Instead of returning home like a normal person the old witch blew the door off the hinges,
cackling as she swung her cloak, wafting the cape while twisting about.
But on this night the boy was ready, and the girl was ready,
their tripwire taut, the oven door wide open.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
My skin isn’t pleasant to look at. Ignoring the looks I get has never been easy. Living with it isn’t easy either. It itches constantly. Even without the gawkers when I leave the house, my skin gives me trouble.
Thank goodness I can take it off when I get home.
George Aitch is a writer from Blackheath whose short stories have previously been published in Massacre, Horla, and elsewhere.
The story of the week for February 25 to March 1 is…
Still by Miriam Stein
I’d like to have many hearts to offer you, like hand-made biscuits of several shapes and tastes.
I’d lie them down on the kitchen table, for you to choose one each morning.
Comes sun or rain, there will always be a leftover heart, misshapen, unwanted, neglected, to keep you alive.
Russell Hemmell is an alien from Mintaka snuggled into a (consenting) human host. His recent fiction has been published on Aurealis, The Grievous Angel, New Myths, and elsewhere. See more at earthianhivemind.net.
Knotty-pine rails and shorn winter grass,
pastures wandering aimlessly,
subdued air chewed to the quick.
Puddles notch the ground
(rough-hewn mirrors of regret)
at the hushed gate where he waited.
The morning of the horse’s passing,
a rickety world presents itself,
clouds cobbled together
in a pale and unfinished sky.
C.G. Thompson was once owned by a tall pony who was kind enough to listen to her talk about poetry. Sadly, he passed away before any of her poems about him were published. She had hoped to read them to him. He continues to be an inspiration.
He spoke only of the lighter moments.
Like when the weapons instructor asked, “What’s the definition of fine sight?” And a rookie’s quip, “Two dinners on one plate, sir.”
Or the drill sergeant’s caustic, “Bradley’s the only man in step!”
The rest lay buried, like the bodies of the fallen.
Originally from Belfast, Joan Skura has lived in Toronto for many happy years, but still can’t come up with a half-decent bio.