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.