I hear a mother scream. She is haunted by the ghost of all the empty tomorrows, the house that doesn’t creak in the night, the silent graveyard safe from superstitious breath.

I too have that scream inside me, its silence continuing to bounce off the walls, the pain reverberating both inside and out.

The trick or treaters are finally done for the night. Time for some soothing TV. Must be some
horror movie, some ghastly looking character is staring at the camera emoting “You’ll be dead
before the night is over.”

Must have a really late tricker, someone’s at the door now.

From Guest Contributor Doug Hawley

Late one night in a foreign town, I walked past two men just inside a dark alley. The larger one had the other pushed up against a wall with a knife under his chin. The smaller man looked at me with pleading, terror-filled eyes. When the larger man jerked to follow his gaze, I hurried beyond them up the street. No one else was around to turn to for help. I had no cell phone and no idea where the nearest police station was. So I just continued on my way, hands trembling, head down: voiceless, derelict, abandoning all rectitude.

From Guest Contributor William Cass

Corn maze stocks walk along, step by step, in endless motion. Lefts turned to rights back to lefts, leave us wondering and wandering alongside the corn maze. Eleven in the morning turns to seven at night, soon the moon will guide our way. Apple cider dances while the fire flickers, old folks singing folk songs. Knit sweaters insulate the warmth of your love, arms wrapped around my waist. Shadows once trailing, we now chase. Mama made a pie, pie’s been cooling on the counter, calling our name. One more corner, one more corner turns a long day to sweet dreams.

From Guest Contributor Mekah Baker

Mekah is a student of literature and the applied sciences at Pikes Peak State College.

Silas sprinted to the dock, ticket in hand, shouting for them to turn around. But his charter boat reached the line demarcating the no-wake zone and sped towards open water.

His only solace would be learning that his charter boat had sunk and everyone aboard eaten by sharks.

Rick stumbled into the alleyway hoping no one would notice him puking. The retching sounds could be heard one block over. He got back in his police car and drove away.

Just another night in the big American city.

The new boy lived in the old house on top of the hill. The house was abandoned years ago and every kid knew it was seriously haunted. If you rode your bike by at night, a witch could be seen standing in the window.

When it turned out the new boy’s parents were vampires, and every family in town was killed except the Landovers, it seemed a particularly harsh punishment.

The pulse of the city is becoming my own. I woke up with a thrumming headache this morning. The night and the dawn are a patchwork in my aching head. When I walk down the street, steam ripples off the pavement, as intangible as my disintegrating memories. How is my stranger? I wonder. The one from last night’s club. Gone now. He’s returned back to his own life after our brief collision: my drunken frame hung off his neck. His glassy brown gaze still holds me. Power lines cross my heart. My eyes swim in the summer sweat and rain.

From Guest Contributor Siri Harrison

There was a man who looked at her deep into her eyes. The gaze was strong. As strong as to peer through her soul. She saw him again and then again. Sometimes at the supermarket, then at the gym, and then at a night walking past by her. She was with another man, but their eyes locked. The guy noticed she was holding the hand of someone else and crossed by him. Their eyes met again. The girl found it pretty strange and in her innocence she told the guy that she often bumps into this stranger and wonders why?

From Guest Contributor Preeti Singh

Preeti is a novice cine writer and translator. In her free time she loves to hum and strum her guitar. Also, she is a nature lover who loves birds, plants and the skies.

We hug the coastline, the water lipping and lapping, squeezing us against scrub brush and pink granite boulders. Sophie stomps her feet in plops of seafoam eddying in the tide pools. We let her play. So much has been lost. But not this. Her innocence glinting in the sunlight, giggles clutching our heartbeats. We safeguard this last remnant, this singular, unsullied, untarnished, vestige. Otherwise, what is it all for? Trudging at night beneath ribbons of greenish-blue light, the auroras coxswaining us toward safety in the northern hemisphere. We press ahead. Agents two days behind at most. Our precious cargo intact.

From Guest Contributor Karen Schauber

Karen’s flash fiction appears in over 100 international journals, magazines, and anthologies with nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best Microfiction and the Wigleaf Top 50. Schauber curates Vancouver Flash Fiction – an online resource hub, and in her spare time is a seasoned family therapist. Read her at: KarenSchauberCreative.weebly.com