fiction
A Plea from Her to Me
CATHY DE BUITLEIR
I keep dreaming about the house we’re buying. I’m in the kitchen, fretting over ugly cabinets. A familiar voice calls to me from upstairs. I follow it, my shoes silent on carpeted steps. The voice grows louder as I reach the bedroom door. I grasp the doorknob.
I wake up.
It’s a probate sale. Elderly woman, distant family. Terracotta tiles in the kitchen. Patterned carpets up the stairs. Sacred Hearts and Pope John Paul on the walls. Chilly bathroom, a fold-out stool in the shower. A hospital-style bed in the bedroom. Mould around the windows.
I call the estate agent. They promise to clear the place out before handover.
Every night, I’m back there. Carpet patterns twist underfoot. John Paul side-eyes me on the stairs. I hear her voice. I feel something like understanding.
While awake, I work. Research insurance, new kitchens. Email the solicitor. Probate is slow, they say.
I sleep. I hear the voice, pleading.
I’ve started hearing echoes of it when I’m awake, when I’m wishing that we loved the house.
A message from the solicitor. Keys next week.
I climb the stairs, reach for the doorknob. It twists under my hand. She’s there, sitting up in bed, her hair frost-white, her eyes sunken and despairing, her upper arms skeletal and withering.
My hair. My eyes. My arms. I’m her, she’s me.
My voice, her throat: “Don’t…”
I wake—first to terror, then clarity. At least the house is affordable.
Cathy de Buitleir is an Irish writer, published in The Interpreter's House, Martello, and FlashFlood.
How to Pack a Poltergeist
BEN DAGGERS
I beckon towards the oak flask’s ornate aperture. “Fernando, please get in. The truck’s waiting outside.”
I knew moving out would be stressful, but never imagined it would be this bad. Then again, I never imagined I’d be best friends with the ghost of a 16th-century Spanish pirate.
Fernando whooshes past me towards the foldout table in the middle of what used to be our living room. The ashtray resting on top begins sliding towards the edge.
“Don’t you dare—”
Glass and ash litter the floor.
“For fuck’s sake, Fernando, that was antique! Ok, fine, I’ll leave you here for the next occupant to deal with.”
A trail of dust flies up as Fernando slinks to the corner.
“Sorry I lost my temper, buddy.” I kneel beside him. “This job in Seattle’s a big deal. You want me to be happy, right?”
The ash on the ground swirls until it forms the word SÍ.
“You don’t want to go?”
The ash dances again. NO.
“Or stay here alone?”
NO.
“You’re…scared?”
SÍ.
I pat the air tenderly. “You’ve battled armadas and sea beasts. This move’s nothing by comparison. You’ll have new neighbors to scare the shit out of, new cats to terrorize, plus your favorite telenovelas will still be on TV.”
Fernando musses up my hair before sweeping the glass and ash into a neat pile. The flask wobbles as he flies inside.
“Alright Capitán, time to…set sail!”
Even from inside the flask, I can feel him rolling his good eye.
Ben Daggers is a close-up magician, escape room creator and light sleeper based in Osaka, Japan.
Another Chance (at Evolution)
MEGAN DIEDERICKS
“Mom, is ‘war’ good?”
Nova nearly choked—did the question have to come this early in the morning?
“Depends on which war.”
The answer clearly wasn’t accepted within Celeste’s whirring thought-processor.
“Why?”
“I have to write an essay about our war against Earth. Is it still going?”
Nova opened a portal—the gateway led to the frontal window of the spaceship. Celeste observed her mother set up the telescope.
“See that? That’s Earth.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Because it’s without Humans.”
Celeste’s magnified sight made her jump backwards.
“But I just saw one!”
“Really? Well, let’s hope they do better this time.”
Megan Diedericks is a very normal writer (probably not a vampire) whose latest book, The Coffin Chronicles, is about vampires.
Mercy Planet
MIKE MURPHY
Boothby hoped Slyvak Prime would offer what he was longing for.
He landed his ancient starcraft and fired up its antiquated sensors. The scans reported an alphabet soup of harmful gases in the atmosphere. Boothby smiled. At last! Months of searching were finally over.
He opened the ship’s hatch and shuffled down its exit ramp to the planet’s boggy surface. He left the starcraft behind as a gift to whoever found it.
The atmosphere’s gases quickly entered his lungs. Boothby swooned and collapsed. In mere minutes, they had taken his life—and his agonizing cancer—away, just as he wanted.
Mike has had over 150 audio plays dramatized, won many awards, and had two short film scripts produced.
Through
JAY CASTELLO
On the surface of the lake, the moon was a silver coin paying the boatman. The women dove beneath, caressed by weed and embraced by water. They sank with purpose, eyes open. They sank through time, though the water remained the same, and the moon, too. They sank to the depths. They saw the foundation of things, where the weeds rooted and the water settled and the moon touched only lightly, scattered and shaded. They scooped handfuls of mud and let the silt run through their fingers, cling under their nails. They burrowed. The moon watched them go.
Jay Castello is a writer, editor, and creative found by the river or at @jaymcastello.bsky.social.
Apocalypse
ASHER BOMSE
Earth had been sick for a while
Humanity being the root cause
A spiral that only went deeper as time went on
Everyone knew, saw the signs, did nothing
Then, as predicted by so many, it’d finally happened
Humanity was facing its demise by their own hands
Earth was getting rid of the infection that’d been slowly killing it
At long last in the eyes of Mother Nature
Floods, Tornadoes, Volcanic eruptions, Typhoons, everything in between happening
The weather was taking over, washing everyone away
Much like the Biblical floods once did, only worse
Nowhere was safe from anything
People dying instantly while others died slowly
Millions dead within the first twelve hours
Leaving millions of others knowing they were likely next
A fate that seemed worse than death being what it felt to them
Five million survived out of eight billion
They’d did what they’d needed to survive
They began using what they could to survive and rebuild
All five million were unsure of their future
Knowing they still very well might be on borrowed time
No amount of planning would help other
Too many unknowns to attempt it
They came together anyway in hopes of rehabilitating Mother Nature
Asher is a Transgender Man living with Disabilities. He writes to help others in some way through their writing
Tombstone, April 2020
LEAH MUELLER
You walk down the wooden sidewalk with your husband. His steps are slow, hesitant. Boards creak underfoot. When you round the corner, a woman springs out of a restaurant. “We’re open!” She sounds hopeful, yet desperate.
She means takeout, since it’s illegal to dine in a restaurant. The iconic bars sport heavy padlocks. Big Nose Kate’s. Doc Holliday’s. The Four Deuces Saloon. Closed indefinitely, until owners get the all-clear.
The main street is empty, except for a photographer with a fancy setup. He’s standing in the middle, snapping away. His apparatus looks like a mechanical praying mantis.
You think of old Warner Brothers cartoons. Tumbleweeds roll down the street like spiked bowling balls. The desert is a harsh and unrelenting place, but roadrunners always rise again.
Usually, Tombstone’s streets overflow with gunslinging cowboys, searching for tourist dollars. “Goin’ to the gunfight today?” they snarl.
If you say “no”, they follow you down the street. “You sure?” Insistent, like they might shoot if you say no. “Two PM. Watch them fall like they did in 1881.”
Death isn’t a kitschy joke anymore. It’s a real possibility. Everyone’s huddled indoors like the cavalry might appear at any moment. You take a deep breath of the dusty air and snap a cellphone photo of an overhead sign. “Ghosts and Legends.” Ominous shadows stretch into the distance.
Your husband’s cancer treatment begins tomorrow. Still, you feel oddly peaceful. Tombstone has never been so quiet. You clasp your husband’s hand and keep walking.
Leah Mueller is everywhere and nowhere. Her work is published across the internet and in print.
Leisure Suit Yourself
LEE HAMMERSCHMIDT
“My God, Shade,” Minx McCambridge said, letting out a heavy audible sigh. “Is that what you’re wearing on our date?”
“Pretty spiffy, huh?” I said, tugging on the lapels of my vintage 1974, powder blue, leisure suit.
Minx let out the sigh again.
“You know we’re going to Molalla Estates for a wine tasting, right?”
“Yep. I never touch wine, so the jacket’s huge inside pockets come in handy.”
I opened the coat to reveal the PBR tallboys stuffed inside.
Minx sighed again, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” she said. “When you got the proof of Mario’s infidelity, getting me my huge divorce settlement, I thought a little celebration would be in order. You are kind of attractive in a rugged, gothic sort of way. But it turns out you’re crass and uncouth, with no sense of style or decorum.”
Another sigh.
“Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “This wouldn’t be much of a date. You’re just gasping at flaws.”
Lee Hammerschmidt is a Visual Artist/Writer/Troubadour. He is the author of nine collections of short stories and illustrations. Check out his hit parade on YouTube!