When the elevator got stuck, her heart began to pound. Her feeble hand stretched out for the call button. She couldn’t reach.
“Anyone in there?”
She gasped for the air to respond.
“Guess not. We’ll have maintenance take a look at it on Monday.”
They taped up a paper sign.
Sarah Hausman finds inspiration in her apartment building’s shoddy maintenance. She posts updates on her writing at facebook.com/sarahhausmanwrites, but probably only her mom checks it.
In college I had a roommate who kept “borrowing” my clothes.
I made a salt perimeter around my closet door as a passive-aggressive joke, but when it worked too well I tested it out on the refrigerator.
I reimbursed her for the week of take-out and we called it even.
Sarah Krenicki is 90% sure all her non-feline roommates have been human.
Children shrieked as goblins, witches, and werewolves jumped out at them. Children screamed when they saw corpses and body parts oozing blood and gore.
It was the best haunted house ever, and the children remembered it for the rest of their lives—which, for some, was only a few seconds.
Harry Demarest Likes to write Halloween Stories. This is the first one to be published.
As I rounded the corner, he shot out. Nearly the size of a small dog, running like he was headed for the border.
Terrified, I screamed and ran the other way.
Armed and determined, I returned, roach spray in one hand, shoe in the other.
He never stood a chance.
Susan is a Curriculum Developer at a mortgage company. She is widowed with two grown daughters and two stepsons, and four awesome grandchildren: two boys and two girls.
“Isn’t Darryl joining us?” I ask my host.
Otis grunts, gnaws on a BBQ rib. Should ribs be that big?
They’d argued… I heard thuds. This is hillbilly country!
A bruised Darryl appears. “Dang, Otis! Don’t freak our dinner guest.”
Then he stage whispers, “You know fear spoils the meat!”
Mary Sheehan hails from southern Ireland and is vegetarian…
“He fell. Hard. We’ve called 911.”
I was terrified. His eyes were closed.
“Severe concussion,” they say. Serious head trauma.
“CT is clear. No bleed. He needs rest.”
No contact sports. No TV. No colouring.
“Physical and cognitive rest.”
How do I possibly keep a six-year-old boy still?
Michelle is a freelance writer; who writes both fiction and non-fiction. She is a regular contributor to the Briar Crier Magazine, and has had her work featured recently in the Voice of the Farmer newspaper, and the Focus 50+ newspaper. In April 2016, she was shortlisted as a finalist at the Ontario Writers Conference Story Starters Contest
I can’t forget the first year I got to go tree-chopping. Displacing snow drifts heaped like cairn-stones, Dad and I trudged over hills and through hollows until he whispered: “Stay here. If you see red snow, run.”
It’s a shame there’s bloodthirsty trees in this world. And one less Dad.
Leigh Ward-Smith is a writer who subsists almost entirely on sweet tea, literature, and the weirdities of life*. She also loves dogs and other critters. When there’s time, she blogs at Leigh’s Wordsmithery
Darkness crept over him like a sheet of ice. Is this the end? he wondered. He shuddered as the light was extinguished, leaving him alone in the emptiness of nothing.
Suddenly, a beacon of light pierced the blackness.
His mother always made sure to turn on the nightlight.
Jonathan is a freelance writer in Southern California. He loves writing almost as much as he likes In N Out
, which is to say: a lot.
Telephone poles and streetlights streak past as I stare up from my bed on the car seat. Dad is driving fast. Mom has her hand on me, patting.
We stop; they fling the door open, haul me onto a gurney. The hospital doors whoosh open as they wheel me in.
Laurie is a retirement wannabe who enjoys petting dogs and admonishing children.
It was a nightly ritual. “Daddy, there’s a monster in my room.”
All the parenting journals promised: “Let her cry; two nights, and the crying will stop.”
Proud Daddy noted that after only fifteen minutes the crying had indeed stopped, as the monster dragged little Dana into the closet’s depths.
Alison spent many a night tucked under the supposed safety of her sheets, crying for Mommy and Daddy to rescue her from night terrors and other perceived threats. She is still wary of the closet and what lies under the bed once the darkness comes.