When you say ‘dirt nap’ it’s supposed to be frightening, right? But who doesn’t love a nap? It’s not menacing enough as a threat. Maybe if you said ‘dirt bath’ or ‘death nap’ or something. Then it would have a lot more weight. I mean you went through all the trouble of getting a gun and putting on that mask, and you’re undercutting the effect when you mention nap.

Well the last thing I’m going to be thinking about as I bleed out is a quiet nap in the dirt, and that doesn’t sound so bad…

She waddled when she walked. Her left arm hung like a donkey dick. She loved to sit in the tub with lots of bubbles and read those silly magazines from the grocery checkout. Those were all she could mentally comprehend. She probably only looked at the pictures.

The paramedics knew her by name.

From Guest Contributor Laura Shell

Laura quit her day job to become a full-time writer. She will be published in Calliope, eMerge, WINK, and Literally Stories, and will have an anthology of horror stories published in February. When she isn’t writing or reading short fiction, she watches horror movies with her dog, Groot.

“How much to bypass this process? Fabricate a report for the court?” Mr. Jacobs asked, frustration evident.

“Whatever belief hinders seeking help, I hope you unlearn it,” she called, urging him to think things over.

From Guest Contributor Seyi Adedayo

Seyi writes fiction and poetry. He writes because every now and again the urge to put pen to paper takes hold of him.

I’m having trouble concentrating and so I close my novel with a thump. Then I curse, having had a headache for several days that I can’t get rid of. On the coffee table there are piles of bills that I haven’t paid in months. Hence the headache.

I’ve been evicted from my apartment.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

He never uttered the word curse, but Dante had no doubt his life was marked for tragedy.

Most of those who knew poor Dante blamed his lack of willpower. But they might have thought differently had they realized every misfortune occurred at exactly 3:13 PM. The same time he’d broken his grandfather’s lucky watch.

I didn’t grow up surrounded by art and culture. There were newspapers scattered around the house but few books on the shelves or paintings on the walls. One day I sat drawing in my room – I must have been 12 or 13 years old, just starting to figure shit out – when my mom stuck her head in. She watched me for a moment, then she said, “Why are you wasting paper?” I have had kind of a bad feeling ever since, like the farmer’s wife is still back there in the kitchen torturing three blind helpless mice with a knife.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie’s newest poetry collection is Heart-Shape Hole (Laughing Ronin Press), which also includes examples of his handmade collages.

Muma is crying like a child while we are watching the river runs red and dead. The hills above us are crumbling away into the deep, giant sinkholes. The ancient forests are cut down or burned. Muma’s hand is so cold, her body is trembling like a leaf. Muma’s lips are motionless but I can hear her silent curse…

Now I understand the meaning of those untold words and feel the real wonder and power of her inner voice. The end is near because we are human and humans must be punished for all crimes against our dear Mother Nature.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

Sharon was proud of all the drugs she’d done. Enough drugs to supply a hospital or fund a revolution in Eastern Europe. Enough drugs that her memories of the last seven years had melted together like the rainbow of candle wax she’d made for her fifth grade science fair.

Sharon did not win that science fair, an injustice she still clings to even in her most lucid moments.

Many years have passed since both horrific creatures, Count Dracula and the Wolf Man, fell over the cliff’s edge, plummeting into the sea below. Never seen or heard from again.

But, I can never die.

From Guest Contributor Jason Jenkover

CONTEST SUBMISSION:

I see you and think of stars but they are just stones. I think of you as Moon but it has scars. Maybe Sun but it is just a fireball. A stream of water is what you are off course, your fun never ends. A flower at times, I know your trace is always here and like a flower shall have a small life. You are like my guardian always helping me in this nonsense world, insensitive to blind. You fly, run, cry, have fun. Let me tell you once and for all, you are one of a kind, Bitch!

From Guest Contributor Manmeet Chadha

Manmeet is an Alumunus from the London School of Economics & Political Science. He works in India as an Economist & Writer. He can be reached at http://linkedin.com/in/manmeet-chadha-8b606924