We hoped the bad dog was gone. We couldn’t put off seeing our daughter’s family in upstate New York but they had a mean pit bull who they said was as gentle and loved kids.

“Isn’t my Bruno cute?” She said. “He’s smiling at you.”

From Guest Contributor Paul Beckman

The darkness was like ink, but that did not bother the mouse’s keen eye sight, and smell told him where to go for the food. Its tiny heart was racing with fear because its mortal enemy was out and about as well. He’d lost several of his litter mates to that awful feline beast, but tonight things may be different.

Suddenly there was that awful snarl. Behind him its claws slashing through the air, where he’d been just seconds ago. Twisting and turning, he dodged; suddenly that awful snap of the trap! The cat cried out, the mouse scurried away.

From Guest Contributor Derrick Fernie

I always said I was scared of nothing. I wasn’t afraid of the dark, or death, or even lizards, mice and cockroaches. I didn’t disbelieve in ghosts, but they’d done nothing to make me believe. Nor was I frightened of Judgement Day, because I am a conscientious person. Until the moment I heard the sound of footsteps approaching my room, I was truly scared of nothing. But when his shadow crept into the bedroom and his sinewy hands stifled my scream before tearing off every scrap of modesty on my being from that moment on, I became scared of everything.

From Guest Contributor Namitha Varma

Namitha Varma is a media professional based in Mangaluru, India. She has publishing credits in over 15 literary journals including Sahitya Akademi’s journal Indian Literature, eFiction India, Hackwriters, MadSwirl, FIVE Poetry, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Postcard Shorts. Her micropoem has been read out on NPR Radio as part of the National Poetry Month 2014, and a poem of hers features in the Authorspress anthology ‘Resonating Strings.’ She blogs on narcissistwrites.blogspot.com and tweets via @namithavr.

Shadows stretch through yellow light, grabbing at her moving outline on the sidewalk. Quickly now, quickly. In her pocket, she slips her middle finger through the ring of her keychain, the metal spines porcupine out from between the knuckles of her tightening fist. Quickly now, quickly. The time between the taps of her heels on the pavement shortens with her breath. Quickly now, quickly. Her ears swim in an ocean of rushing blood. Quickly now, quickly. Behind her, footsteps. Quickly now, quickly. She is almost there. Quickly, now, quickly. She stumbles, falls. Quickly, now, quickly. It is too late.

From Guest Contributor, Laura Fitch

Laura is a writer and a reader of a whole bunch of things. Her fiction and non-fiction has been published in print and online, but she’s not about to tell you where. She likes fat cats and wine.

I absolutely hate the Church. They’re all up in my kitchen, telling me what to do, what I can’t do, what I’m allowed to think. They’ve hung a heavy dose of guilt around my neck and it gets so heavy sometimes I can barely move.

I think about waging war, taking on the Church and all the elders and giving them a taste of fear like they deserve. But it’s just a dream. With the shame sheets they’ve tied around us, every sin shows up red, and they know who needs punishing. It’s best to stay as pure as possible.

Billy was consumed by fear. Somewhere on the other side of the closet door was the man come to kill him.

It was not long after the incident that Billy checked himself back into rehab. Three days spent in the closet, hiding from the mailman, finally drove home the point that his marijuana addiction was out of control.