It came to us in our dreams.
That’s how it passed, jumping from person to person, dream by dream. Some were lucky and woke with just a mild fever, but others weren’t so fortunate. They were never the same again following that dream, and sadly, some never woke at all.
Continue reading “The Dog in Our Dream by Chris Farrington”
Today’s interview is none other than one of our Founding Editors, Diane M. Dickson, who, along with Hugh, has been at the castle from day one–before the moat was dug and filled with dangerous Moat Beasts.
Diane is a successful crime novelist by trade, but she continues to contribute short works as well as give each and every last submission a read (which ain’t no easy task).
Now that we have met our Diane, let’s see what she has to say.
Thanks to Hugh and Leila for asking me to do this. It was fun.
Continue reading “Sunday Whoever”
Sensitive Side
I believe that there should never be violence of any kind directed at a child. But that presents a problem. There’s neither intelligent discourse nor diplomatic give and take with a two-year-old individual who considers it perfectly reasonable to shit her pants rather than heading to the bathroom while something she wants to watch is on TV. You cannot spank this person (not that you’d want to) nor can you take any disciplinary action that someone out there somewhere won’t find objectionable.
Continue reading “Week 454: The Sensitive Side of Evil and One, No, Make That Three Special Announcements”
Jennifer finished the last slice of defrosted quiche she’d bought from the freezer shop on Monday. She switched off the gas fire. In the kitchen she rinsed off the plate under the tap, pastry crumbs, and slotted it on the drying rack. She put on her coat, shoes, unlocked the back door, stepped outside, locked it, and walked the five minutes to the bus stop nearest her house.
Continue reading “The Circle Route by Paul Kimm”
Darla pulled into the alley behind the bar and parked under the streetlight. Before she undid her seatbelt she sat in silence for a moment. She adjusted her rearview mirror and looked at her bloodshot eyes, the rims rubbed red from blotting tears. Over the two weeks since Joe Harrington dropped dead, Darla struggled as much with the prospect of her own future as much as her loss. The same thoughts ran over and over thumping her mind like a shoe in a dryer. I’m 64, I have no retirement savings, no real family. I need to keep working but my knees hurt all the time. How long can I keep this up? Her tiny self-chosen family had just lost their most stable member; she had lost her best friend and former lover. She took a make-up bag from her purse and went to work on her eyes.
Continue reading “Joe Harrington’s Wake by JD Clapp”
Jimmy shut his curtains.
“That’s the Polis. Bitch must’ve got mail.”
“Whit?”
“Think about it Al, the only way that staff come near the rooms at this time is if they’re handing out our letters!
…I bet you it was shite too! They fuckin’ found her cause of some shite letter.”
Continue reading “Bonus by Hugh Cron (Warning – Adult Content.)”
After about seven months of being alone, Beth began to see the ghost of her son. Or so she thought. The audience knew better, but she didn’t.
The experiment had always been designed for Beth. It’s not everyday that a colleague’s child dies mysteriously, creating a rare opportunity for “Science.” She, of course, didn’t know this. She believed she had volunteered and won the opportunity fair and square. The opportunity? To stay in isolation for one year in a submarine on the ocean floor to test the viability of long-term survival in similar crafts. That’s how it was sold to her by the scientists, anyway.
Continue reading “What You See Is What You Get by Scott C. Thompson”
“Jimmy!” Grant whispered. He grabbed his sleeping brother’s shoulder and shook him. “Jimmy, wake up!”
Continue reading “Something’s Wrong with Mom by Warren Benedetto”
Every bone in her body warned Ellie Snyder to turn Bertha Miller away at the door; still, she took the haggard woman in and brewed the tea, fragrant as a Balsam fir in December. Clay Miller’d already saddled her with five kids, and one more might just put Bertha in her grave. Only problem with saving the wretch was Bertha’s need to make confession—it was religion that’d trip her up. The woman was a walking apology, a sinner perpetually pleading for redemption. Ellie hoped to hell she’d confess to somebody other than her damn husband.
Continue reading “Tansy by Nancy Smith Harris”
The clap of sandals as I lick my fingers, chocolate gelato leaking onto my wrists. Should I Google heatstroke symptoms? A young woman lies topless on the rocks below, her stomach chalky with dried salt. I take a swig of lager, the bitter foam spilling onto my beard.
Continue reading “The American by Ata Zargarof”
literally stories 