Every night the windows to her bedroom would be frosted over. She sat alone in her bed waiting for the finger-traced messages to appear.
No matter how hot it got during that Los Angeles summer, she refused to open a single window at night and risk meeting their chilly author.
Danielle grew up with a passion for all things literary. She first put pen to paper writing articles for a newspaper she designed and created during elementary school. Danielle’s creative channels evolved into writing poetry, short stories, essays, and children’s books. When not writing her own material, Danielle loves reading everything and anything she can get her hands on especially mysteries, suspense, and historical fiction. Some of Danielle’s other talents include finding new and creative ways to use sarcasm, spilling/dropping things, being supremely weird without even trying, knitting, and photography.
Hezekiah was “soul” caretaker at the Mount Airy Cemetery. He liked to call himself “the keeper of the bones.”
While he prided himself in the lush, green grass and carefully groomed rows, it was the unmarked grave in Row 38 that had given him the greatest amount of personal satisfaction.
Susan Gale Wickes enjoys writing and daydreaming about where it might lead.
We wander, hand in hand, threading our way through the long grass. Watched by dead eyes.
Among the mossy tombstones, shadows flit like ravens. You tug at my hand, eager to be free.
A bedraggled child appears, beckoning, enticing you.
It is time to let you go. My soul mate.
Alyson is an ex-teacher living in the UK who writes noirish flash fiction and spooky tales. Her work has been published in several online magazines and anthologies. She is a confirmed chocoholic who loves old movies, art, her cats, and her son, but she is still useless at maths. See more at alysonfayewordpress.wordpress.com
She strokes the talisman as the wind howls. She kisses the rosary and climbs into the musty bed. Branches assault the battered house; rain pelts the bolted windows.
She dreams of icy lips.
The shadow beneath her bed shifts, stirs. A bony hand strokes her auburn hair. “Abigail,” he whispers.
Debbie L. Miller is a Brooklyn, New York writer. She writes short stories, plays, monologues, personal essays, memoir, flash fiction, features, and humor pieces.
In the darkness of night, Stan heard a noise in his bedroom closet. He had seen a mouse run across the room a few days before and hoped it was just the mouse he heard. He got out of bed and slowly opened the closet door.
The mouse was dead.
Steve Carr has had short stories published in many publications. His paranormal/horror novel is in serialization on channillo.com. He writes full time.
“Well, who has a snake tattooed across his shoulders anyway?” Jason had never regretted the decision before, but as the ink moved across his shoulders and began to tighten itself around his neck, regret seeped into his mind. A butterfly would never have done this.
“Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.”
Darren Lester teaches all kinds of subjects in the south west of England. He’s planning to start a blog today, but should probably do the hoovering first.
At night their scaly tails became legs, so he hung bells around their necks to help find them in the morning. The bells hung heavy and pendulous, like a third breast. When his wife was away, he opened the shutters and waited for the scrabble of claws upon the windowsill.
is attempting to write 1,000,000 words in 2016. Please wish him luck!
Once, Harry’s big sister told him, “Earwigs creep into people’s ears at night.”
Nightmares followed of scuttling legs, tickling feelers.
Phobic, Harry took to wearing earplugs, his excuse the need for quiet nights.
Earplugs worked admirably and kept the insects out, but also, sadly, the buzzing of the fire alarm.
Viv Burgess is thinking of demanding a promotional fee as half her family and friends are now all writing 50 word stories – and to top it all, better than her own. It is giving her brain cell a good work out though, she says.
I sing to my mirror. And it sings back. We harmonize, match our lip movements perfectly.
I pull out the medicine cabinet mirror, and we are four. We look at each other and smile with one-half of our faces.
Once I’m done, we leave. All except the one with horns.
Brandon Scott is a man of Florida and a freelance writer with a love of dark fiction.