Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

The Pretty Lights

Craig Crawford

The pretty lights first came to Daniella on a harvest eve.  Every young man had been smitten with her at one time or the next, and when the heavenly beings befriended her it was little surprise.

Daniella first spied them in the trees of Taingarey Wood, shyly ducking behind trunk and branch in the wan light of dusk.  Their angelic glow beckoned; their light soothing and gentle in the cool darkness.  Curiosity is a cynical vixen, and Daniella investigated alone.  She was gone the night and following day, her mother fearing the worst, and yet by second day’s end, she reappeared on the path, no worse in virtue nor vigor.

She told of her adventure, revealing new companions:  unlike us, yet yearning to befriend all in the village.  Daniella produced pastries and mead as promise of their goodwill.  The following day, Daniella led an ensemble deep into the den of timber, crossing dale and stream to meet the pretty lights.

Though only spirits without form, they offered delectable delights:  sweets from their gardens, honey from their trees, enchanting everyone with goodwill and charity.  So much so, the evening turned to dawn before they returned.  Daniella led more from the village each night, and mostly, everyone returned.

Mostly.

I succumbed at last, entranced by Daniella’s invitation.  Yet, as I left, my gran warned me grimly: “Gifts from strangers still carry cost,” and blessed me with a talisman of cold iron.  Still, I journeyed forth, Daniella hand in mine; allaying all my fears.

I witnessed the pretty lights, so beautiful they felt like music.  They danced and gamboled amongst my friends, tending their every need.  Lulled by the display, I was prodded to take my place alongside them.

Yet, the pretty lights retreated from me, hissing and reviling my name.  Confusion lay on my brow, but they cursed my breast, and fair Daniella entreated me to forsake my gran’s grace.

Fear flowered and my strength failed.  I grasped the talisman as a dying man begs God’s forgiveness, and the lights glowered red.  They thrust themselves against me, cascading curses, but Gran’s gift sheltered me after all.

Casting my gaze, I saw Daniella radiant no more, but a sallow shade of the goddess she’d once been.  The pretty lights sickened me in their pallor glow, and I stepped to leave.  Not undone, they whispered lies in villagers’ ears, and though those sprites could not touch me, the villagers surely could.

I ran.  Fleeing with God’s speed I raced home, people I’d counted as friends intent on my trail, assuring death.  They burnt my hearth and slaughtered my animals; me barely escaping with Gran.

We took the road and though I sorely miss my peers, Gran counts them lost.  We keep on the move, afraid to trod the forests, dreading the pretty lights.

 

The End

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

Love Kills

Theresa Jacobs

Heavy footfalls pound down the stairs, Brandy looks up to see her father, his face creased.

“What’s happened?”

“Grandma’s passed on. Hurry, get the rope. I’ve locked the door, but it won’t hold long.”

She runs to the closet wondering why they hadn’t tied her down last night. She freezes as a thud comes from above.

“Dad?”

“ROPE!” he screams.

An ear-splitting explosion rocks the foundation. Grandma bursts down the stairs, launching herself like a human cannonball. Even without teeth, her gums open her son’s jugular.

Now Brandy understands the stupidity of love as she rushes to save her dad.

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

THE EDITOR

By Andrew Paul Grell

“Some submission call, ey? Usually they just want email or Submittable, maybe post.  Never had ta shows up me own self,” the Newfoundlander observed.

“Consider the medium, sailor.  Otherwise people would just photoshop.

“Nice ink, by the way.  Sure you had enough room for a story?”

“No problem.  Girls have more skin to play with.  So to speak.  Imelda,” the athletic-looking woman stated, extending her hand.

“Willet Shea, Seaman, in that and all t’other things first class.  Pleasin’ t’meetcha, Miladyship. Gobsmacked there’s nay more here could use two thousand greenbacks.”

Imelda flashed a brief look of disbelief at her interlocutor’s name, deciding it must be a coincidence; Queens, New York might not be the only place with a Willet.

“The call had some pretty strict rules.  How many people have photos of themselves, naked, pre-ink?  Maybe the five of us are it.”

“I’s the one’d bet narry a one save me, never been known fer me smarts.  But what else ta’ do on such a mausey day, good bein’ inside.  But gutfounded I am, one’d think they’d a knacked some o’ yer New York bagels, maybe with smoked fish I mighta caught me own self.”

They were in a non-descript space in a midtown building known for short term rentals of such spaces.  Holiday Inn paintings, plastic flowers.  The receptionist called the submitters up one by one to collect photos and cover letters.  Two men wheeled in what looked like strip club pole-dance platforms.  Each author was asked to strip sufficiently to display their literary merit.  Every writer was put in B&D cuffs.  Finally, the Editor made an appearance, followed by three cloaked submission committee members, and began judging the submissions.

“Let’s see.  H. H. Fallon.”  The micro-flash writer presented his butt.  “I am Taylor Meade. This is my ass.  Andy Warhol can kiss it,” the editor read out loud.  “Derivative,” he observed, turning to the committee.  “Hmm.  They like it.”

“Rhonda Montaigne. I’m ridden hard and – put up wet again again – Enough for this horse.  Very nice.  You’re in.”  The men released her, and the receptionist handed her a check.

“Willet Shea.  Let’s see.  Out on the rioling sea, arctic char come to me. Quinaniche and cod, this fishing’s much too odd.  Typo.” A committee member power-sanded the offending word, correcting it much too close to a vital external part. “Thank you, you may go.“  Imelda and the remaining hopeful shared a worried look.

“Elinor White?  Really? My little horse must think it queer between the woods.  No! Redaction! Poems!”  Imelda watched in horror while a committee member flayed the entirety of Elinor’s flesh containing the monstrosity.

She steeled herself.  The editor got five words into “Ode to a Real Pretzel” before a man uncloaked revealing a Tom Seaver uniform.

“Gary, what the fuck are you doing here?”

Imelda’s ex-husband seared the cheese steak and square pretzel poem from her back and tarred the Philly Phanatic tattoo.  Then pulled a rope, causing $2,000 in coins to bury his disloyal wife.

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Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

 

24 Hours

by Darlene Holt

24 hours.

That’s how much time we had. Do what you please, they said. Make the most of it.

So I did.

I slashed my husband’s throat for the affair he had two years ago with the nanny.

My newspaper-stealing bastard neighbor never saw my Glock 26 coming.

My creepy, womanizing landlord took six blows to the head with my Brooklyn Crusher.

The fire’s still raging at the lavish estate of my greedy, embezzling boss.

24 hours.

That’s how long I’ve been in police custody.

But I wouldn’t have done it, had I known.

Because the damn meteor never hit.

Voting is now open via a poll on our Facebook page. Deadline for votes is the end of September 13^th.

THE MOTEL HEART

By Gemma Paul

I hear this thumping. Faint, but there. This dum dum, dum dum, dum dum. It’s even, rhythmic, steady.

This isn’t my room.

I’m staying at a Motel, one of those off-the-beaten tracks ones in the middle of nowhere. Not my choice. The company I work for booked it for me. Cheapest they could get I guess.

I lie in bed listening to the thump. The noise becoming as irritating as a ticking clock. No matter how much I close my eyes and try to block it out… I can’t. It seems the deeper the night becomes the louder it gets.

I get out of bed intent on finding the noise. I reach for the light switch. Darkness still. The lights on the bedside clock are out too. I reach for my phone. Its screen lights up brightly, 1:58AM. I throw the covers back, shivering slightly as the cold room air hits me. I move towards the wardrobe, the one right by the door. The nearer I get the louder the noise.

I grab the handle of the wardrobe. The noise almost deafening as the thumping echos around my ears. I yank it open quick, it rocks on its hinges with the force. I move my phone inside to light up the space. It’s empty, only a small chest in the bottom.

I pull the chest out, it’s old with ornate carvings over the wooden casing. I lift the latch and slowly open the lid. The thumping gets faster, its verging on erratic now as I lift the lid higher. Light shines inside. There’s something there. It’s hard to tell just what in the dark with only my phone for light. It something roundish wrapped in paper, big enough to fit inside my palm. It’s soft with a handwritten note tied to it with brown string.

“Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

The girl this belongs to is dead,

And soon you will be too.”

Putting my phone down the light illuminating the room, I open the package pulling tentatively on the string. The note falls away landing on the duvet. The paper sticks to the object. It’s damp, sticky. I peel the paper away.

There’s a screaming, high-pitched, pain ridden. The thumping beating loud in my ears. The screaming stops, replaced by a gurgle.

I’m struggling to breathe. Blood trickles down my chin. I look down to see a large butchers knife sticking out of my chest and a heart in my hand beneath the paper. The thumping I can now feel against my ear as someone holds me up against their chest. Their heart is beating wildly. Fast, chaotic. I can feel it. Just as I can feel mine slowing. Dum….. dum……….dum……….

“Roses are red.” My eyes open wide as a deep gruff voice whispers, his hot breathe against my ear. “Violets are blue, You’re about to join the dead, And I’ll take your heart too.”

 

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