Standing Room Only

by William F. Smith

"Sorry you can't sit at your usual table today," tavern owner Jake McGinty told Patrick Murphy. "All my chairs were stolen last night, right under my big Irish nose. Can you believe it?"

"That I can," said Murphy, perched on the edge of a table. "I'm sure you'll want to tell me all about it."

"Friday, you know, is game night. So several regulars suggest musical chairs. It's rowdy great fun! Everyone stands up, one chair is taken away, and they all, including the waitresses, form a conga line weaving between the chairs and tables while I'm playing my accordion. When I stop the music, they all scramble to sit down. Anyone who can't find a seat is out, and has to stand around until the game's over. The chairs are removed one at a time until there's only two souls left and a single seat. When I stop playing, those two scuffle for it, 'cause the last one sitting wins the prize."

"So what happened to the chairs?"

"I was so busy with the accordion, I didn't notice. Later, someone tells me theye were passed out the door into a waiting van."

"But," Murphy objected, "there ought to be one chair left, the one the winner was sitting on. Haul it out and I'll use it."

McGinty grinned sheepishly. "I can't. The hooligans didn't get that one, but the winner took it home with her. It was the prize."

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.

 

You're Back

by Jenny Morelli

     I feel you before I see you.
     You approach with great caution. Curl your fingers around the rusted chain link fence like you did back then. Your feet crunch loose gravel. Fingers run along the jangly fence like a xylophone until finally, you pause.
     You pause because you feel me.
     You pause because you remember.
     You straighten your back when I heave. Dried leaves rustle into a frenzy with my wind whispers. I remember, too.
     You shrug off the breeze.
     You’re the one who did this! I gust.
     You gasp, eyes wide. Skittering twigs circle, bite your ankles. Bare tree branches click-clack. Come closer.
     Come closer...
     Your feet heed my call. You shake your head. Squeeze your eyes closed. Dig your heels into mud as I pull and pull and pull you toward the murky-watered pit.
     Come to me, I moan in the stiff breeze.
     You dig and claw and crawl away.
     Do you remember yet? It was you and your friends. Three clueless kids with formidable imaginations. Your shadows long like capes.
     Like witches’ cloaks.
     You clutch your head as lightning bolt memories pierce your temples.
     You studied the pit. Pointed. Named what bobbed within. Twisted tricycle. Filthy sneakers. Tattered doll missing an eye.
     You told stories. Giggled through your ghastly games. Turned serious when blades drew blood and sisterhood was sworn; declared this trench the Blood Bath.
     Then crows came and cawed their cautions.
     You left. Moved on. Forgot.
     But now, you’re all back, as if you felt my pull in your endless, relentless nightmares.
     You shiver. Search for the others. A pine breeze prickles goosebumps on your arms, snakes its scent into your nostrils as shadows writhe in the descending dusk.
     You left, I groan. You left, and I’ve been wanting and wishing and waiting.
     You fall to your knees on the edge of this quagmire, on the edge of sanity, as I churn in my liquid grave.
     You beg forgiveness. Tears carve down your cheeks as you sob your sorries.
     I climb and claw from the muddy maw. Emerge soaked and moldy, decrepit, corroded. I right myself. Pedal my trike. Clink my bent bike bell and giggle merrily.
     You flinch. Kick sticks and leaves and muck to retreat, but it’s too late.
     My pull is too strong. I pedal around you once, twice, thrice as shadows advance. My shoelaces trail crazy-eights, weaving around your wrists, your ankles.
     We pull you. Squelch.
     We drag you. Squish.
     Bell clinks as I tug your tied limbs into my boggy bath.
     You scrape through squidgy swamp, but I’m stronger than you.
     I’m stronger because you remember.
     I’m stronger because you believe.
     I’m stronger because I know what you did.
     I’m stronger because you’re the last, and now you’re back.
     Stay, sigh your silhouetted sisters.
     Stay, I sing, as you sink below the surface.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Jenny Morelli is a NJ high school English teacher who lives with her husband, cat, and myriad yard pets. She seeks inspiration in everything and loves to spin fantastically weird tales. She’s published in several print and online literary magazines including Spillwords, Red Rose Thorns, Scars tv, Bottlecap Press and Bookleaf Press for four poetry chapbooks. Website: JennyMorelliWrites.com

 

Beachcombing for Body Parts

by Ron Wetherington

The ocean deposits body parts, strewn across the wet sand at water’s edge like abandoned memories. Tissues, organs, some fresh and mushy, their glutinous surfaces still pulsing. I scoop them into a bucket and assemble them in my garden shed.

My selection is precise: only two kidneys, but a single bladder; two lungs, but a single heart. Long coils of splotchy colon. A liver all purply in its lividity. I carefully arrange them on the potting table, placing them correctly: pancreas behind the stomach, above the spleen but just below the gall bladder.

I take pictures for my biology teacher, before decay sets in: the jellyfish-kidneys and the stringy kelp-colon will begin to smell soon; the sea cucumber-lungs and the anemone-heart will begin to dehydrate and shrivel. I clean it up before Mom sees it and screams.

I expect to get an A, though.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology living in Dallas, Texas. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction pieces in this second career. He also enjoys writing creative non-fiction. Read some of his work at https://www.rwetheri.com/.

 

Troll

by J.S. Apsley

I flee down the tunnel mouth below the river; confused, breathless. The heat and darkness oppress me. Above, behind, everywhere; a snarling: the creature I dare not see. Must not see.

I stumble, aching for neon lights which signify “Exit”. I see a figure there; incandescent with fear. He has my face; he is me. Guilt excoriates my senses. What have I done?

Her body, crippled and bloody, flashes in my eye. I stop as though struck by a bullet, clapping my hand to my forehead. I am the ugly creature that lurks in the shadows.

I am the troll.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
J.S. Apsley is the pen name of an aspiring author from Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Publishing short story prize 2024 for his debut fiction submission, Immersion. See www.jsapsley.com

 

Finding what matters

by Louisa Prince

Where I once slept, you’ll find a path to what matters most

The looping script, written in a journal, led her here. Twelve days since her grandmother’s death and three days since Clare found it taped under a bedside drawer.

Legacy’s key awaits,
where the nation’s wealth began

In front of the ornate Victorian building, she glanced down at her watch. Ten minutes until the vault closed. Her hands dug into her bag, fumbling for the key, and rushed inside.

Clare focused on the counter tucked away at the rear of the room. She weaved through chatting customers. “I’m here to access my locked box,” she said.

The woman behind the counter nodded. “This way, please.”

Their footsteps echoed off stone floors while traversing the wide corridor to the vault. Her eyes widened, taking in the large marble pillars marking the entranceway, echoing her grandmother’s words.

Beyond pillars of stone,
in drawers of steel layered row by row

Her hands trembled when she turned the key, and the small sturdy metal box flipped open to reveal a jumble of papers stuffed inside. Clare reached in and lifted out a twine-bound bundle. A faded snapshot slipped out, fluttering to the cool metal surface of a nearby table. The sorrowful eyes of her grandmother, cradling an infant, peered back—Clare at six months. A frail voice, raspy with age, drifted around her along with the last lines of the poem.

Sits treasures left,
cradled by fragments of stories once told.

Her tear-filled gaze turned to the collection of recipes torn from cookbooks, old photos, and a yellowed page that peeked out from between the string. With tingling fingers, she untied the layers of paperwork until revealing it—the deed to the family farm.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Louisa Prince is a self-proclaimed late bloomer, living in Melbourne, Australia whose writing often focuses on family and health. Committed to honing her skills, she is an active member of The Society of Women Writers Victoria and Writing Victoria. Her work is forthcoming in Certain Age Magazine, appeared in CafeLit Magazine, New Plains Review, was longlisted for SWWV’s Margaret Hazard Short Story Award. Website HERE

 

College of Philosophy

by Derek McMillan

The College of Philosophy were holding their annual general meeting in Scoresdale Village. We did not anticipate any trouble from a group of philosophers, not compared to punk rockers for example.

Among other things they were selling a handkerchief which appeared to have one pattern when folded and a different pattern when opened out. It "represented the complexity of life" apparently. At £5 each it also represented the cost of living.

‘Have you seen this?’

Constable Burgos always read the Daily Star after putting up with all that banter about him being illiterate.

He read deliberately.

‘Underwater slavery. ‘

‘Women have been lured by romantic weddings including some underwater ceremonies. The weddings, mostly involving the same groom, are fake but the domestic slavery is all too real.’

‘A woman dubbed ‘the masked avenger’ (the mask was scuba gear, he explained) put a spanner in the works by cutting the air pipe of the groom which led to his doom.’

‘That’s a mixed metaphor,’ he said proudly. ‘Groom and doom rhyme,’ he added.

In a cafe in Scoresdale, one of the small dramas which were a feature of the AGM of the College of Philosophy.

The philosopher nominated as "murderee" Doctor Amanda Scrace was sitting having a meal in a popular local restaurant. Leading celebrities of the College were in attendance.

So were we. We had an anonymous tip off that Doctor Scrace was in fact the soi-disant "masked avenger". Constable Burgos was just looking around at the celebrities around him with awe and I had to keep reminding him to keep his mind on the job.

The nominated "murderer" entered the restaurant to applause. He stalked up to the murderee and said dramatically, ‘I have come to kill you’

In accordance with tradition, Doctor Scrace responded, ‘Obviously you are not or you would have done it by now. Will you talk me to death?" ‘ Her companions applauded.

The gun went off and the guest of honour sank gracefully to the floor. By tradition she would then get up and make a meandering speech about the futility of existence.

Not this time. She was very dead. The College had two medical doctors (in fact it had five). Two certified the death as a heart attack.

By tradition the College applied to the authorities for what they called a Viking funeral.

The shrouded victim was put into a long boat which was set afire at a safe distance from shore. Members of the college thronged the shore and unanimously confirmed they had seen Amanda’s soul leave her body. She gave the College a tedious benediction which was well received.

A Scoresdale local saw Amanda rising from the remains of the shroud and yelling ‘YOU BASTARDS!’ but the resident knew better than to say anything. The underwater slave trade resumed after a decent interval. No link to the College of Philosophy was established. In addition to doctors, they also had some very expensive barristers.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Derek McMillan is the author of the cheerily entitled "Murder from Beyond the Grave" which is available on eBay.

 

Bright Pools of Solace

by JS Apsley

Sleep is a stranger. Do I hear my neighbour's TV through the wall? I grapple with an over-active mind; imagining her lying there, prostrate. Her lifeless eyes peering upwards. Unease drips over me like tar. It’s not the sound of the TV. It’s not the thought of her body slowly seizing up like stone. It’s those damn open eyes, forever searching, never seeing; unforgiving in dark repose.

Yet, I realise I should applaud the fertility of my imagination; for with Damascene revelation, I understand her open eyes are bright pools of solace.

If I’d closed them, I’d have left fingerprints.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
JS Apsley is the pen name of an aspiring author from Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Publishing short story prize 2024 for his debut fiction submission, Immersion. See www.jsapsley.com.

 

Knock-knock

by Ron Wetherington

The knock on the cabin door is faint as Cynthia pours her cup of tea in the kitchen. Startled, she raises her head, pausing to listen more attentively. There it is again, knock-knock, cautious, hesitant. She stands motionless. It’s raining out, windy, just past dusk.

Who could it be? Not a neighbor, she’s certain. The nearest cabin is halfway down the mountain. No one knows where she is except Joan, who offered to let her stay here for the weekend to recover from her breakup with Corey. She needs to get away from him, his anger, his threats. He’s even stalking her!

Knock! Knock! A bit less hesitant, now. Cynthia senses a note of urgency in it. A traveler in distress? A lost soul on a chilly evening? She leaves her tea and moves towards the front room. The heavy pine door has no peephole, no sidelights. She switches on the porch light, leaving the room itself dark except for the flicker from the fireplace.

“Who’s there?” she calls out. No answer. The wind? Could anything be rattling against the porch?

“Hello?” Her voice is raised now. “Who is it?”

A window is set in the wall five feet away to the right. Cynthia quickly moves to it, holding the heavy drape aside as she peers out. The light barely illuminates the porch. She stares at the emptiness, the sweeping rain. The deep gray of late evening spreads beyond. The yard is almost invisible, the distant road in total darkness. She stretches to look back to her left. There is no one standing at the door! Cynthia’s skin prickles. She quickly draws the drapes together and moves to double-check the door. She locks and chains it, exhaling in relief, startled that she had left it unlocked.

Breathing rapidly now, she hugs herself against a sudden chill, her self-control threatening to unravel. The telephone on the kitchen wall suddenly rings. She hurries down the hallway.

“Hello?” The line crackles with static.

“Hello?”

More static, then a dial tone. Staring at the receiver, Cynthia slowly replaces it, struggling to make sense of everything.

Knock! Knock! It comes again from the front door, not visible from the kitchen. Frozen in fear, Cynthia clutches her mouth to still a scream. Breathing deeply now, desperate to regain her composure, she moves quietly to the kitchen drawer, opens it, and takes out a large chef’s knife. She turns off the kitchen light, pausing at the hallway entrance while her eyes adjust. She cautiously moves down the dark hall, her palms sweaty, grasping the knife more tightly.

The fire’s glow illuminates the front door. It’s now unchained! In terror, she suddenly realizes why the porch had been empty. The knocking had come from inside! Frantic, exposed in the hallway and shaking, she looks in disbelief as a dark figure approaches. Thick with panic, her knife-thrust is as forceful as it is frantic. The figure screams, crumpling to the floor.

Her heart racing, Cynthia flicks on the hall light, staring down into Corey’s fading anger, her knife in his chest, his own remaining clutched in his hand.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Ron Wetherington is a retired professor of anthropology living in Dallas, Texas. He has published a novel, Kiva (Sunstone Press), and numerous short fiction pieces in this second career. He also enjoys writing creative non-fiction. Read some of his pubs HERE.

 

Tit For Tat

by Sarah Das Gupta

‘Arnold, could you wheel me to the corner? I want to see the angle of the cloister noted by Peasbody.’ As usual his brother had a tome balanced on his wasted legs while Arnold wheeled him round the ruins of Burnley Abbey. He’d have to listen for another hour to that infuriating whine, citing historical sources.

Arnold couldn’t explain what happened next. Perhaps he had cut the corner in his frustration? Perhaps he had released his grip, a little? The wheelchair had twisted as it fell, throwing Archie out of his seat and hanging by one leg from the leather safety strap. Agonisingly slowly, it had fallen two floors to the turf which now covered the monks’ refectory.

Naturally, ten years later, Arnold was not enthusiastic about re- visiting the Abbey when his nephew, Fletcher, pestered him. His sister, anxious for a Fletcher-free afternoon, had argued he should ‘face his demons’.

Climbing the steep staircase to the second floor, Fletcher kept turning and yelling, ‘When we going to see the headless monk, uncle?’ With a shock, Arnold noticed how similar Fletcher’s voice was to Archie’s. ‘Headless monk’ echoed and re-echoed round the spiral staircase sounding very like Archie’s ghost.

Arnold had just reached the top step when an apparently headless figure sprang towards him, whining, ‘I’m the ghost of Burnley Abbey!’

Before Fletcher could pull his shirt off his head, Arnold stepped back into space. His ghostly screams echoed as he fell, senseless, to the ground floor.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Sarah Das Gupta is a writer from Cambridge, UK. Her work has been widely published in Europe, North America, Asia, Africa, the Caribbean,and Australia.

 

On Being Phil Marlowe

by James C. Clar

Detective Spangler moved behind my chair. Breeze, his partner, stood in front and said, “We’ve got two stiffs connected to the Matthews dame you’re working for. It’s time to spill what you know.”

“Sure. And to hell with detective-client confidentiality, right? Go pound salt!”

Spangler’s sap hit just behind my ear. From the floor I watched the dust motes dance gaily in the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the window of my office.

Marlowe, I thought, you’re an ass. It’s like you’re always playing out a scene in some cheap dime novel. You really need to mature as a character!

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between Upstate New York and the mean streets of Honolulu, Hawaii.

 

The Duel

By William F. Smith

Unable to agree on their company’s future direction, two bickering business partners decided to settle their differences permanently by having a duel. Winner take all!

They were able to agree on weapons – revolvers – and a place – a deserted stretch of beach just where Old Ocean Road came to an abrupt end. There would be no seconds, no witnesses.

Howard Tucker was certain he would win because he considered himself an expert marksman who could knock the eye out of a gnat at sixty paces, the agreed-upon distance between the combatants when they would fire. He had never mentioned his skill to Jack Foxx, who considered himself an excellent shot.

“You go south and I’ll go north," Foxx said casually. “At thirty paces we’ll turn and fire.”

The two stood back to back, then began walking, Tucker counting the steps out loud. At twenty-five paces he sensed something wrong, turned around and shouted at Foxx, whom he shot through the heart as soon as the man turned to face him.

Foxx, dying, managed to raise his head to see Tucker sinking into the ground. Foxx had been sure he would win because he had arrived at the condemned beach well ahead of time and had removed all the warning signs. He knew that before Tucker completed thirty paces, the quicksand would suck him downward to death.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.

 

Stairway to Nowhere

by William F. Smith

Inspector Norman Goodenough descended the long, curved staircase that crossed over the narrow inlet and led to the garden patio on the lower side of the chasm. He stood on the flagstone terrace, facing the ocean, and contemplated the magnificence of his surroundings-- the cool green foliage of the trees, the shimmering blue water of the Pacific bay upon which the late afternoon sunbeams were creating thousands of golden crowns. The enthralling beauty did little to alleviate the inspector’s disgust with himself, and the brilliant day shed no light upon the most baffling mystery in his long, successful career.

Reluctantly he recrossed the stairs to the Huntington Château, stopping on the last step to regard what remained of the structure: the concrete foundation and the immense void which had been the basement. A robbery or a murder Goodenough knew he could solve. But this was impossible! Sometime during the preceding week the entire mansion had vanished, and he and his associates had not one single clue, not an inkling of how the feat had been accomplished.

Dejected, he pulled a small cell phone from his coat pocket and punched in a number. “Mr. Huntington? Inspector Goodenough here. I’m sorry, but we have been unable to find a trace of your château. I’m forced to admit that this case is beyond the talents of ordinary policemen.” He took a deep breath, then swallowed hard. “What you need is a good house detective.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
William F. Smith's stories, humorous verse and photographs have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mike Shane Mystery Magazine and Reader’s Digest. His stories have been included in several anthologies.