Writing Life
Aufnahmeschreiber Grussman spends his days recording casualties in the camp Death Books, his precise calligraphic script:
Korperschwache: Exhausted
Korperschwache: Exhausted…
Some days he inventories possessions: gold teeth, hair [by the kilo], wedding rings, clothing.
Berga’s inmates hate him for his regular soup, separate room, abiding hope for continuing life.
Occasionally, he smuggles anonymous notes to older children in the camp. A birthday greeting or a playful drawing from Aesop’s fables.
When prisoner Schiff loses her starving husband of eighteen years to typhus, Grussman gifts her three inscribed lines from Euripides: Come back. Even as a shadow. Even as a dream.
Gary Thomson writes micros and short fiction from his Canadian home on Lake Ontario. In his rec moments he riffs Beatles and blues on his Hohner harmonica, and reads medieval themed whodunits. His work appears in outlets hither and yon.
Choices
A heavy, repeated knock resounded from the cabin door.
His grandfather was asleep, but it didn't stop, so Bobby went and opened it.
A young woman stood there, maybe a teenager like him. He thought he might have seen her before on his long walks at twilight. Bobby figured that was something people could do in the country.
He always loved walking in the cool night air. But that wasn't a good idea back home in the city.
He'd been sent to stay with his grandfather because, he overheard, he made bad choices back in the city.
He'd been with his grandfather for a week, and he was enjoying the peace, the quiet nights and the sounds of insects echoing in the paths. And, he realized now, seeing that young woman. "Yes?" He said to her, smiling.
She held a long wooden stake in her hands. "You left this on the lawn."
Bobby stared at the stake. His grandfather had gone out that afternoon. He said he needed to pick up some special supplies; He seemed more excited than Bobby had ever seen him. His grandfather told him, "Tomorrow will be a great day."
Bobby had no idea. "Grandpa!" He shouted. Why would grandfather want a stake?
"It's not yours?" She stepped forward.
The moonlight caught her long, dark hair.
"Why would I have a stake?"
The woman smiled again and came closer. "No. You don't look like someone who would want to use a stake."
His grandfather rushed out and pushed Bobby out of the way. "Go. Go now," the old man shouted.
She leaned past his grandfather, close to Bobby. "You don't need to use that. We're different, but we're not monsters. We don't hurt humans anymore."
"Get out. You are not invited. " Grandpa screamed again. He slammed the door almost in her face.
"Grandpa, why were you so rude?" Bobby said. He threw the door open, stepped out into the moonlit night. Was she gone? Already?
What was happening? Back in the city, Bobby got in trouble. Poking his nose in, kids said. Getting involved when bullies beat someone up or chased after someone who was different. What was he involved in now?
His grandfather said, "You won't find her. But we will find her tomorrow. We will find all of them and kill them."
"Kill them?"
"Kill them all. Because they are vampires. We are vampire hunters."
"No."
"You're part of the family. So you'll do it."
Furious, Bobby tried to break the stake. He banged it over and over against his knee, even though it pained him.
His grandfather gently touched his shoulder. "You'll hurt yourself. You'll never break that. We've used it for years. Rest. And be ready at first light when they're sleeping. There's nothing you can do."
Bobby went to bed, but he couldn't sleep.
Late that night he crept into the dark living room, and he found the stake and held it in his hands. He thought of the shy, quiet young girl.
His grandfather snored peacefully in his bedroom. The stake was long and sharp, and hard.
"Kill them all," his grandfather had said.
Bobby looked to the room where his grandfather slept. And he thought about what he could do. What he had to do.
Ed Kratz is a retired computer specialist who has been published in Daily Science Fiction, Flash Fiction Magazine, Sudden Flash and a few other places
Subway Stories
Em was deeply interested in the stories of her fellow travelers. There were a group of lovely, twenty-something women of all ethnicities chatting cheerfully. Near the door sat an Asian mother and her little boy. He was sitting on her lap, and they were both fast asleep. She was worried that they might miss their stop.
A few stops later, she saw a mother and a little girl boarding their car. The little girl had a stuffed toy, maybe a penguin, and she sat in a vacant seat. Her mother was standing. She had a pink backpack and as soon as the girl sat down, the mother handed her an electronic device and a pair of headphones. The inner critic in Em came alive. She wondered why the mom would give the girl the electronic device when she didn’t even ask for one. They might have hardly 10 or 15 minutes to get to the destination. She wondered if the child could not be left even a tiny amount of time without any electronic gadgets. Well, it was none of her business though she was mentally rolling her eyes about parents today.
Suddenly, the train stopped for a few seconds and the screen on the little girl’s device paused. The girl looked around her, and Em saw the girl go into panic mode and sit there like she was frozen. The mother bent over her and tapped on the screen and the girl started watching it again. As if reading Em’s mind, the mother looked at her smiling and said, "She is claustrophobic and gets scared in a crowded subway car and the only thing that calms her is the music with calming video. I make sure to hand her the electronic device and the headphones as soon as we board the train".
Jayashree Sitaraman is a scientist and a passionate writer. She enjoys writing about nature, travel and life in general. Her work has appeared in the anthology Poet In Verse, Bright Flash Literary Review, LOL comedy, The Leafline magazine, The Journal Of Expressive Writing, The Beacon newspaper (print and online) and her poem has won second prize in the DearReader contest 2025.
It Wouldn't Kill You
When I was four, my mother told me to kiss Reverend Van Tassell. He smelled weird. “It wouldn’t kill you.”
When I was sixteen, Stewie Grant asked me out. Mom made me go. “It wouldn’t kill you.” When he felt me up, I refused. “Come on, you want it,” he said.
When I was eighteen, Rich Emberson pushed me onto his bed, pinning my hands, his beery tongue gagging me. It wouldn’t kill you. I never told.
When I started my first job, the supervisor tucked his hand around my waist, saying he’d look out for me. It wouldn’t kill you. Who was I to make waves?
When I was twenty-nine, Tom wanted to get married. I wasn’t sure, but we were already living together. It wouldn’t kill you. So, we did.
When the kids left home, Tom wanted me to quit work so I could take care of his sick mother. “It wouldn’t kill you,” he said. “It might,” I said, and left him.
Jan English Leary is the author of three books published by Fomite Press. Her short fiction has appeared in such journals as Pleiades, Carve, The Minnesota Review, Ghost Parachute. She lives in Chicago.
Parasite
You hated It from the moment Ma placed the tiny bundle–wrapped in your favourite pink blanket–in your lap. This was not meant to be - this wrinkled, whining, mostly-sleeping human never featured in the stick-figure family portraits you drew for Ma and Pa.
Hug your little sister, beta… talk to her, Ma coaxed. You looked away, out of the window, at your friends playing in their yard. Free birds, without siblings clinging to them like the parasite in your arms.
You secretly prayed for the stork to take it away.
It - you christened the baby your parents brought home on your 7th birthday.
You are a didi now! They chirped, gazing at the sleeping bundle–not you–ON YOUR BIRTHDAY.
You received your birthday gifts–the ones you wanted–the next week.
Even the cake.
Stale. You learned the word at school. How nice it felt as you rolled it around in your mouth before you spat it out at Ma. Her kohl-lined eyes were horror-stricken as the cake-laden tray slipped from her hands. The clang woke the baby; the cake messed up the kitchen. You stuffed your hands into your pockets and ambled outdoors.
The wailing human grew, following you on all fours, like a puppy you didn't want. A real puppy was what you had asked for.
You prayed harder, every moment of every day.
Finally, one day, your prayers were answered. Almost.
The not-the-real puppy followed you into the laundry room. Fascinated by the huge washing machine, It bent into the monster’s gaping mouth, lost Its balance, and tumbled inside. You shut the door noiselessly and skipped out, humming your favourite tune.
“It's not dead, okay!” You yelled from the naughty corner, while Ma clutched the baby to her heart and Pa comforted Ma.
You held out your arms to Pa, silently pleading with him to hold you, comfort you; your eyes red, your cheeks tear-stained from the sobbing after the accident you did not cause.
Or maybe you did.
Shilpa Gupte is a freelance content writer and artist from Mumbai. Her work appears in The Write-In, Flash Flood, Suddenly and without warning, and MeanPepperVine. Website: Fictionista
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