The ghostly spectre silhouetted against the dark window sighed, the symptom of Death’s long-suffering passion.
Inside, cold breaths rattled through the lungs of Enid Westerhapf, 112 years old and at long last preparing to die.
Having awaited her for so long, Death finally welcomed her to stand by his side.
This story was based on a title provided by Master Gunner.
“Whoa, stop right there, bud.”
“I BEG YOUR PARDON.”
“You’ve got to wait your turn. Adolescence and young adulthood only just passed by. Middle age is up next.”
“BUT THERE’S ROOM TO FIT MY BICYCLE IN RIGHT THERE.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but in the parade of life, Death rides last.”
This story is based on a title suggested by @GreatTrollKing.
Bottles, half-alive mounds of clothing, sauce-stained plates, and dead cigarettes groan in a growing sea of torment. His children scream eerily, tearing round. Insane frenzy.
(Neighbors whisper. Shiftless.)
Blue eyes vacant, he sits in the wreckage, thinking of how she looked like a blooming tea rose before the casket shut.
Constance is addicted to writing, getting her inspiration from abandoned houses, panthers, and peanut butter.
“Look, Pa! A dead rat!”
“Lemme see, Gerald,” said Pa. “Ah, it’s only a skellington and a bit of skin. Musta died a long time ago. Funny how nice he’s sittin’, like he went out calm and peaceful. Makes you wonder, kinda.”
Deep inside Ratankhamen’s corpse, a long-preserved soul-spark flared.
In a Brooklyn apartment complex, she’s one anonymous echo among many. She doesn’t know anyone’s name. One day, she finds a dead ant outside her door. She wonders how it survived in a world where everything was bigger than it. She gives it a name. She feels very large.
Kyle Hemmings is the author of three chapbooks of poems: Avenue C (Scars Publications), Fuzzy Logic (Punkin Press), and Amsterdam & Other Broken Love Songs (Flutter Press). He has been pubbed at Gold Wake Press, Thunderclap Press, Blue Fifth Review, Step Away, and The Other Room. He blogs at http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com.
“You have been a great comfort to me, softening the hard times and cushioning the blows. Without your support, I would have found it much more challenging to sleep on so many difficult nights.”
With these words, and a waterfall of tears, I eulogized my dear, old friend, the sofa.
She had preferred it when her table was simply empty. An empty table could some day be filled.
What could you do with a table once it had become a grave?
Stilling her only child’s dying spasms, she emptied herself of tears, filling the empty places with resentment, determination, revolution.
This story is based on a title suggested by Ryan Culley-Waters.
As the hot sun descended, frightened by the rising of the cold blue moon, I stumbled on a root and fell headlong into nightmare.
Within myself, I chased and fled, pursuing sanity and evading madness.
I grasped sanity’s skirt. She pulled away, saying, “Your daughter is dead.”
Madness ensnared me.
This story was based on a title suggested by @KittyCatalyst.
Dr. Ruination slapped the red button that lowered John Bolt, handsome and impeccably dressed spy, into the huge aquarium.
Bolt found himself afloat in a stagnant pool of foul smelling water, surrounded by decaying fish carcasses.
Dr. Ruination was horrified. “Who turned off the oxygen pump for the barracuda tank?”
This is the second in a series of five stories by King Kool.
The reporter looked away as the private’s family marched out to face the television cameras. A soggy flag drooped at half-mast on their porch. They spoke of a kid who led rubber band fights, flashlight tag, bicycle jousts. His pen paused, hovered. A phrase consumed his mind: pornographer of sorrow.
Joseph S. Pete won a four month’s supply of Pabst Blue Ribbon by placing second in the poetry category of the 2010 PBR Art Contest. John Donne couldn’t say the same.