The metallic aftertaste of recycled oxygen lingered in my throat, each breath a sweltering struggle to survive. I tracked the merciless white sun as dust devils spun in the distance. Their swirling forms juxtaposed against the still figures before me.
Continue reading “Chrome and Marrow by Maudie Bryant”
What do bombs do?
They shatter.
How does the sky feel?
Broken.
Where do the bullets go?
Everywhere.
What do the children say?
Help.
What do the mother’s scream?
Stop.
What does the world say?
Nothing.
What does God say?
We don’t know, yet.
Continue reading “All History in a Day by Ismael Hussein”
The congregation came to him in the merest tendrils of the dawn’s earliest and sickest light, the sky’s face the same faded blue of an overdose.
They came to him like faces in a fever dream, seeking answers as they always did. The preacher didn’t have them. He was looking for answers of his own. He was dope-sick after all, the slow crawl of heroin fidgeting in his collapsing veins as it made its retreat, making the marrow of his bones ache. His body was already begging for more liquid forgiveness, and there was the other issue that he needed to attend to, the issue that made his need all the more desperate, the issue that had marooned the preacher in the sleepless raft of his stiff bed with nothing but his anxious thoughts to sustain him.
Continue reading “Spite by Alex Sinclair”
When the poor shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat their children.
Or starve, was the unadded addendum. Many had chosen to starve. Many had not.
Continue reading “When the Poor Have Nothing More by Sparrow Grace”
When hunting season started, my brother Isaac and I brought out the Remington and shot down angels by the creek. We’d descend the hill at dawn and lug back the carcasses in the evening. We bottled the blood for chapels and sold the bones for change to research teams on the black market. Whatever was left, Isaac kept in jars under his bed.
Continue reading “Dissecting Angels by Mason Koa”
Näkki is a mythical creature from Finnish folklore, often described as a water sprite or demon. Näkki is said to dwell in murky waters and drown any human that crosses its path.
Continue reading “The Ghosts of Their Daughters by Veera Laitinen”
Today, the monster steps into the world. Today, unhooded, he is seen.
He has done this for many years now, ever since he began to understand the possibilities Halloween offers him. For one night, the town is transformed, becomes a wonderland of the ghoulish and grotesque. A town made for him.
Continue reading “The Monster And The Boy by Jaime Gill “
John works in the vampire processing room. A beep sounds and an open box rolls in on a conveyor belt. He grabs a stake with his left hand. Holds his mallet with the right, and drives the stake through the vampire’s chest. Then he hits the large red button, signaling he’s ready for the next. Mallet, stake, button. It’s how he survives. Mallet, stake, button.
It’s morning now, and he’s waiting for the battered old Ford truck that picks up factory workers.
Continue reading “Mallet, Stake, Button by Ed Kratz”
“We create monsters and then we can’t control them.” –Joel Coen
Looking back through the window of memory with all its scratches, I’m driven to tell my story not to frighten but to enlighten because in the end—that cocky, inescapable end—-it’s truth, not reality, that transforms us. According to Dr. Hornsby, the men shuffling cards at my kitchen table that December at 3 in the morning were part of what he called my ongoing childhood fantasy— except that, unlike all the other fantasies, this one was the first that could be fatal.
“It’s called paracosm, Peter,” he informed me. “None of it is real.”
Continue reading “Hooked by Jack Kamm”
As one of the new faculty members at a small Midwestern college, I used to get the short straw when it came to various off-campus activities, such as ‘community outreach’. Basically, that involved a long drive out to some godforsaken rural township in the middle of nowhere to give a talk on local history to a bunch of bored Shriners. Who never asked questions, never showed any more interest than ‘that’s another event ticked off the calendar’ and who wouldn’t even stump up for dinner afterwards. Which meant hunting down a diner somewhere for a slice of pie as a reward to myself, partnered with a stay-awake coffee and refill.
Continue reading “Gentlemens’ Agreement by Steven French”
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