Disdainful of the traffic, Bob, my golden retriever, bounded across the road towards me. This is very strange, I thought. Bob was killed by a truck two years ago.
As he cavorted and joyfully yelped beside me, I noticed that people had clustered around someone stretched out on the pavement.
John Young is an old chap, 73, a retired Criminal Justice social work manager in Scotland (CJS roughly equivalent to English / US Probation Service) and then University Hon Lecturer lecturing in Social Work ethics. He grapples with themes of limits, longings, and the images that these create.
Silver moonlight and swaying branches make dancing shadows. I see in them faces which I have not seen for years.
I wonder if any of them see my face.
The doorbell chimes. I open the door to a skull in a black cloak. “Rest assured that nobody thinks of you.”
Joey is good at remembering faces even if he doesn’t want to be. You can find him at joeytoey.com.
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.