Do you remember the night you went out, and all the cats were there? I can remember everything you told me, and you know that’s not how I usually am. You came in and sat right where you are now, and I was up on the chair. You waited till the programme finished, then you asked if you could turn it off. There was still a bit of cold in the air from you coming in.
Continue reading “The Cats’ Game by Ross Hetherington”
Tonight Jack would talk to the ghost. He took to the street. The warm wind is blowing on his face. Splash—pound—Nikes scrape the edge of a curb. Whoa that was close. He lets his mind wander down into his feet. His mind is splash-pound.
Continue reading “Are You Going to Kalamazoo? By Christopher Ananias “
Every night the pictures on his lampshade came to life. Rodeo cowboys on galloping stallions threw ropes at the moon.
The boy’s sister once called him “Nutsy-Crackers” because of the strange things he was always seeing. Later she shortened it to just Crackers.
In the middle of the night, he lifted the window (quiet as a thief) climbed out and lowered himself to the ground, praying that the weight of all the coins in his pocket wouldn’t rip through the material. The rest of the house slept.
Continue reading “The Old Fisherman by Joe Ducato”
The Montagues’ and Capulets’ disapproval of an ill-fated union was mirrored by the opprobrium this couple aroused in their Australian families. She was practical and ambitious while he gave imagination a free pass, a kind of poor man’s negative capability. What he wanted to do and what others wanted him to do, were not the same. Feeling hounded, they found work together in the U.S. Always happiest when fleeing responsibility, the sheer glorious relief, he hadn’t faced this fact yet. Without telling any relatives, they left their troubles all behind, or so they thought. When the U.S. didn’t work out, visas cancelled, they crossed the Atlantic.
Continue reading “Death in Damp Bracken by Ian C Smith”
The art of projection, in this instance, involves an ingenious contraption that allows me to float above ground while speaking grave truths to those I’ve been hired to frighten. Or to comfort. Or to confuse, as the case may be. Sometimes silence is all that’s required, but silence of a special kind, needless to say, the kind they call ‘loaded’, the kind that towers, or otherwise makes a portentous impression. Ghost is what I do. It’s a living, if you’ll pardon the expression; and a good one too, in that those who require my services, being usually very rich, pay very well. I’m familiar with the interiors of castles, manor-houses, hunting lodges, theatres, the odd inn. I’m given the requirements, told what manner of ghost it is needs to haunt the place, and adapt accordingly. Doubtless, to your bodily eyes, at this moment, I appear little more than a tallish man, bearded, bald and middle-aged, but trust me, when I’m clad in dusty servant’s garb or bedecked in faded finery, my face moon-pale, I’m altogether more imposing, unsettling – especially if observed from a short distance. Should a haunting entail my having to speak, I learn the words given me, no matter the language, and intone or croak or mutter or bellow in whatever accent is most appropriate. I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Old French, I’ve made cryptic pronouncements in Latin; I’ve cursed in Swedish, foretold ill fortune in Gaelic. I’ve been a judge who was hanged for murder, I’ve been a minstrel who drowned in a moat; I’ve even been a dead gravedigger, one said to haunt a particular cemetery adjacent to a certain cathedral. It wouldn’t do to be too specific. As I say, ghost is what I do. But never, never have I knowingly been party to any kind of plot or conspiracy or such like. My involvement in matters was always necessarily limited to brief appearances, a few words here, a protracted silence there. I was not privy to the wider machinations of those who engaged my services.
Continue reading “Apparitionist by Geraint Jonathan”
No one grows up wanting to build coffins. When she was little, Veralai wanted to be a mage, or as she said as a toddler “make life sparkle.” She was the daughter of a woodcarver, who sometimes helped the local undertaker carve his coffins. When her father’s hands started to quiver, Veralai took his place. Even though it was unintended, Vera fell in love with death. Over time, she became the Coffin Maker of Cortana, renowned for using her crystal ball to peer into the memories of the deceased and create their perfect coffin.
Continue reading “The Coffin Maker of Cortana by Kate O’Sullivan”
There are many Declans in this story, but let’s begin with ours.
Declan sits on the edge of his bed, absently sweeping his hands under the crumpled sheets in search of the remote. When that fails, he reaches beneath the bed without bothering to look, hoping his fingers brush against salvation.
Continue reading “Channel 7 by Gareth Vieira”
“What’s it like, being imaginary?” asked Lisa Hannigan.
She sat cross-legged on the edge of her bed, gazing down at her imaginary friends, Sally and Qney, who mirrored her posture on the carpet below, knees tucked neatly beneath their chins.
Continue reading “Imaginary Friends by Gareth Vieira”
Johnny Smiles was the unluckiest person in Hope County.
How unlucky? So unlucky that the town council passed a bylaw restricting him to his home. A motion that passed unanimously. A sentence he accepted without protest.
Although Johnny was an older man, most folks considered him an overgrown child. He was brilliant, in the way all children in Hope County were brilliant—a lingering side effect of the Disaster, that tainted the drinking water and perfumed the air with long-forgotten toxins.
Continue reading ” Unlucky by Gareth Vieira”
Dean cradles the pint glass like it’s the only thing holding him together. I don’t know how he survived losing Sophie and the baby in the same night, but eight months later he’s made it to The Lantern on Christmas Eve.
Continue reading “One for the Road by Neil James”
literally stories 