STEP 1 – When the undead thing scratches at your window and asks if it can come in, say no.
STEP 2 – When the thing says something that stirs your soul and awakens your senses, and when it promises that it doesn’t want to hurt you, it just wants to be with you, and when it asks to come in so you can have a really good talk about it, say no again.
Continue reading “How to not keep a Vampire out of Your House (in Eight Easy Steps) by Bob DeRosa”
The pedestrian crossing ticked slowly as the little man flashed red.
Emma sat alfresco in her favourite café watching from across the road.
She knew it was her by the perfect silhouette. Tall. Slender. Dark hair pulled back into a low bun. Chunky gold earrings catching the morning sun and the approval of fellow pedestrians.
Continue reading “Kinda Blindsided by Karen Uttien”
James put another piece of birch on the fire, the stove hinges creaking with hot dryness as he closed and latched the door. The papery bark crackled immediately to life, curling black and sending smoke and flame up the stovepipe. On days this cold, the single-paned glass in the old cottage windows looked triple thick owing to the rime coating the inner surfaces. He reached out to touch the slick, silvery skein, feeling his fingertips numbing and a rivulet of meltwater running down and then along the underside of his hand. The bottom panes were frost jacketed, those higher less so, the hot, rising air from the stove keeping them clear.
Continue reading “James and Pruina by Mitchell Toews”
I’ve kept this screensaver because it connects me with my dad. Every morning, he gets up, opens his flaps (of his tent) and is greeted by a sunrise. Wildlife and country air, instead of a phone alarm, wake him. I’ve never been camping, but I would like to; I’d love to camp with Dad, but the social says I’m not supposed to see him without supervision, and I doubt his tent would fit three of us. Still, one more year, they won’t be able to stop me.
Continue reading “My Dad the Dragonfly by James Staynings”
Last Day by JD Strunk
MODEL #392748: “GLENN”:Run program:// tap dance
Glenn glided through the factory door doing an impromptu tap dance. “Last day of work!” he said, shimmying up to Larry.
Continue reading “Last Day by JD Strunk”
(Adapted from the prose-poem, Mademoiselle Bistouri, by Charles Baudelaire)
I knew him for a doctor right away. He wasn’t tall, and he was dressed in black, from top to toe. A gentleman and a doctor. On a night visit, I shouldn’t wonder. Come with me, I said, even though he’d said he wasn’t a doctor. Not a doctor? Haha . . . Just like a doctor, that. It’s the humour. I’ll treat you, I said. I only live round the corner. You just call me Miss.
Continue reading “Sunday Whatever – Doctor Everywhere by Geraint Jonathan”
Concerning Boys and Men
Shirley was eavesdropping one night when she heard her mother say that lonely people can’t help but do terrible things. She was bedridden, her mother, laid up with a debilitating melancholy after her latest episode. Her father was in there with her. Shirley imagined him to be glowering over the bed, hands on his hips, but she couldn’t be sure.
Continue reading “Homecoming Queen by Adam Dorsheimer”
The locals call it The Warp: the confusing intersection of roads named Past, Present and Future. It’s where travel signs, traffic lights, arrows and alerts, create a blurry sense of time and direction. Cross-eyed motorists take wrong turns or stop suddenly, like Tim in his sage-green hatchback.
Continue reading “Inside The Warp by Philip Matcovsky”
If you found this letter, it means you went home with Kenzie. She’s a monster. You need to leave as fast as you can. Take this paper and run. Do not keep reading until you’re clear of her apartment. Stop reading. Explanations later. Get out! Go! Now!
Continue reading “Maneater by Devin James Leonard”
The moan of miller Beale’s crude bell is nearly swallowed by the third week of February cold. Gray stirs in his haybunk, clinging to Leith. There the marshlands stretch toward the North Sea, and Elspeth—his bride—walks the rain-dark fields beneath a graphite sky. Their daughters run in widening circles through the grass: Isobel serious beyond her years, Alisone all wild curls and laughter, and wee Violet stumbling after them, gap-toothed and breathless. Pregnant clouds drag their swollen white bellies across the Lowlands. The wind tastes of salt.
The bell tolls again.
Once.
Gray sits upright.
Continue reading “The Fields of Leith Christopher Kostyn Passante”
literally stories 