The note on my door said I had passed away yesterday and my memorial service was tomorrow.
“What is going on?” I wondered. My neighbor had passed me without speaking.
I opened my door and the house smelled of roses. Everyone knew I loved roses.
I sat down and cried.
Linda’s dream is to do nothing but write but she has to eat so there goes the dream.
It was terminal, sure. That didn’t mean she’d give up.
Even now, when visitors were few and far between, she never left his side. Devoted to a fault. She’d lost her job and apartment, but not her heart.
“I love you, dear.”
Those six feet felt like infinity.
James P. Spitznogle is an aspiring writer from the amiable hills of West Virginia.
Again I hear our neighbor arguing with her husband. Some days she is more quiet, on others she screams and often cries. As a new resident in the old apartment, I wait a few months before reporting it to the landlord. “The poor widow,” he responds, “really misses her husband.”
Debbi Antebi (@debbisland) exhales oxygen while writing stories. Follow her at debbiantebi.wordpress.com
Every year, on the anniversary of the last time he looked into her eyes, he wore the same outfit: a threadbare tweed suit and the ugly necktie she’d always hated. But then, corpses rarely change clothes.
Neither do prisoners, it turned out, because she always wore orange for the occasion.
Michael is a part-time lawyer and a full-time dad. You can read more of his creative writing at timintemecula.wordpress.com.
Jessica spotted a present by the Christmas tree. Excited, she rushed over and picked it up.
Her eyes studied the words on the gift tag: From Hubby.
“No, it can’t be.” Trembling, she turned around.
Her dead husband stood before her with the knife still in his chest.
Nicole J. Simms is a UK horror writer who also likes to explore other genres, such as crime and fantasy. She has been writing stories for over two years, and has so far had five short stories published, including “Caught up in Murder”, which can be found in the Dark Bard anthology. You can visit her at nicoles-designs.co.uk/NicoleJSimms
Chewy sniffed his master’s leg before biting it. Who could blame him? He was a hungry dog. His master beat him more often than he fed him.
His master could not beat Chewy now for biting him. All he could do was keep lying on the floor, feeding his dog.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 23 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
He is dead.
I’m lying beneath the stars in this tranquil, idyllic paradise you built. Our own Eden. The clock ceased from ticking, the moon stripped of its shine, and I’m asking the leaves to teach me gently how to breathe.
Come back. It’s not too late, not too late.
Alex Alvarez is a pre-med student who wants to be a writer and not just someone who writes.
Frustrated, Raymond slammed his head onto his keyboard. I can’t keep mother waiting! he thought.
Dejected after days of searching through hundreds of online classified ads without any success, he pressed on and eventually found exactly the item he needed: “For sale, one wooden casket. Barely used. $100 or best offer.”
M.H. Camero lives in southern Illinois with his beautiful wife and earns tens of dollars a year with his writing.
What if his taxi had arrived after instead of before me? If we hadn’t met on the steps? I wonder at possibilities and am no further ahead. Did he hate me that much for wrecking his business?
All the imponderables leave me exactly where I am: shot, in a coffin.
Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her poetry, “A Summer Father”, was published by Frontenac House of Calgary. You can see more of her writing at www.1960willowtree.wordpress.com.