Drift Away

by Jenny Morelli

Another late work night has me driving home way past my bedtime and I’m finding it hard to keep my eyes open.

I keep drifting off and wondering whodunit in the book I’m reading, which is right now splayed out on the passenger seat. I’m lost in thought as the miles tick by when my nightmare introduces itself, pounding my car with a wind-whipping storm. I struggle to find the lane lines to avoid drifting into other cars. To calm myself, I reach for a wedge of my snack-portioned apple from my vintage Snoopy backpack and crunch-crunch-crunch to the beat of the hard-working windshield wipers as my car slips and sloshes slowly up the bridge.

I’m soon funneled into a merging lane as blinding-bright flashing lights redirect traffic away from the crumbling cement wall separating the southbound lanes from northbound. Startled, I overcorrect my steering when a wiper-wand breaks free from my windshield, flying off into the night. Fat raindrops continue with a vengeance sluicing down the glass in hypnotic patterns that draw my attention away from the road.

My biggest fears collide like the bolts of lightning stabbing the ground as I hydroplane into a painfully powerless drift, drift, drift from one lane to the next until there are no more lanes and I’m screeching into the metallic barrier. Careening over the edge of time and space and I’m falling. Freewheeling. Flying.

Before I can register all that’s transpiring, I’m smashing into my steering wheel as my car splashes into the indifferent waters, a white spiderweb appearing and growing and spreading across my windshield. Blood trickles from my forehead into my eyes as a red void presses in around me, sucks me down, swallows me into its abyss, into a great unknown, into a great beyond, and I float, suspended, with Snoopy at my side.

I float and flounder inside my car, pingponging from front to rear, from side to side, as reality pressures in around me, and without a whimper, without a scream, with just the slightest of apple-scented inhales. I close my eyes and embrace the implosion. Let the briny blanket of the sea cocoon me as the book I’d been reading slams into my face. Splays open to the last page, the one that reveals who, in fact, has dunit as I drift away into the deepest annals of time, of space, of oblivion.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
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

 

The Mark

by Sara Buku

My neighbour had a dog with a black mark on his nose. It was a medium-sized, dark brown German Shepherd, and my neighbour was an alcoholic redneck. He liked to put beer cans on his porch and draw on them with a Sharpie to later use as targets. He also liked to throw parties on Tuesday nights and work on junk cars on weekends. I didn’t really like him at all.

One day, as I arrived home from a long shift, I was relieved that, for once, the damn dog wasn’t barking at me. I figured it was asleep or digging something up instead of coming for my throat. Later that night, I was woken up by shouting. It sounded familiar, as the neighbour’s son got into trouble quite often, and then his dad would discipline him. I grabbed my glasses and rolled out of bed to approach the window. I looked outside right when the noises stopped. That was quick, I thought, and went back to sleep.

In the morning, when I went to my car, I saw my neighbour. We never exchange more words than necessary, but my curiosity got the best of me. I just had to see how he would react, so I turned to him:

”You know, I could get used to not being assaulted by your dog all the time.”

He sighed and looked at me as if I were the taxman banging on his door.

”Last night my kid was shooting the rifle, told him to aim at the black mark... dumbass got the wrong one.”

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Sara Buku is a humble university student based in Budapest, Hungary for whom writing in the third-person is frankly a bit jarring. She's never been published before, yet has a million stories to share. She sincerely hopes you will enjoy this.

 

Ghosts

by Selene Ibarra Rubio

Rain pattered on the train’s roof as it glided through the hills surrounded by crumbling mountains. I observed the other souls on the train- a pale little girl with a hospital gown, an elderly man with a missing arm, and a female with numerous slashes. And I- my tattered suit, bloody violin case, and bloody thighs with dangling skin and exposed bone- couldn’t remember how. I’d asked the charred man ahead. He said that was common for new souls. He told me I’d remember eventually as we voyage on the never-ending train ride; but I still felt I’d forgotten something.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Selene Ibarra Rubio is an eighteen-year-old woman. She is currently attending San Jose State University for a degree in mechanical engineering. She also has an upcoming story publication with Collective Tales Publishing in their new anthology "Darkness 102: Lessons Were Learned."

 

The Moment on Wednesday

by Zary Fekete

Travis dropped his pen on the desk and pushed himself up from his chair with enough force to rattle his monitor. “Come on, not again.” He yanked open the printer and dislodged the crumpled sheet.

He sat back down and clicked the print icon three more times, jabbing at it like it might learn a lesson. Finally, the printer whirred. He glanced at the time and sighed. He was due on the third floor for the quarterly performance review. He couldn’t be late again. Not this quarter. He grabbed his phone and the earnings sheet and stood up, banging his knee on the corner of his desk. He winced and half-hopped toward the door. Great. The elevator was still in the basement. No time to wait.

He pulled open the stairwell door and started up by twos…but then stopped.

There was a faint crackling sound from the landing below.

He glanced at his watch. Ninety seconds. Maybe less. He took another step upward, paused, then felt something behind his ribs. Not pain exactly. Pressure. Like someone tapping gently from the inside.

The crackling grew louder. The air vibrated faintly. Warm.

He closed his eyes for a beat, deciding. He’d been waiting for a sign, though he’d never have admitted it aloud. Then he turned and descended to the lower landing.

It was a burning bush.

Flames leapt red and blue, dancing up through branches that didn’t blacken or smoke. The green leaves shimmered, untouched. A soft, pulsing glow reflected off the concrete walls.

Travis stood still. The stairwell was silent but for the hum of flame.

He felt something…not a voice in his ears, exactly, but in his chest. A recognition. A knowing. Like someone saying his name without sound. His breath caught. He could feel the calendar of his life rearranging itself.

He looked down at his shoes. A moment passed.

Then he bent, slowly, and removed them.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary. He has a debut novella (Words on the Page) out with DarkWinter Lit Press and a short story collection (To Accept the Things I Cannot Change: Writing My Way Out of Addiction) out with Creative Texts. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter and Instagram: @ZaryFekete Bluesky:zaryfekete.bsky.social

 

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.

 

A Griffin’s Ransom

by Catherine Brown

I crouch, hidden in the dragon’s garbage pile. It reeks of fresh blood and ancient decay. Her snores reverberate off the stalactites and the phosphorescent walls of the cavern.

I mustn’t fail. Her gold is my cherished griffin’s ransom. I creep past the hollow ribcage and snaking spine of an elephant.

Cramming gold in my pack, I take only what I can lift.

Silence. My knees tremble. Her left eye opens, revealing my distorted reflection in her inky pupil. It wasn’t a snore. It was a purr. She’s not purring now.

I grab my pack and unsheathe my sword.

━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━
Catherine Brown’s flash and short fiction has been published in Havok Magazine, The Offbeat, The Veggie Wagon Journal, and a 2 Elizabeth’s anthology. Her short fiction has been a finalist or placed in multiple writing contests, including the grand prize in the Chanticleer Book Awards SHORTS Contest. Website: https://www.chbrownauthor.com/