Some say a gentleman’s crimes, no matter how well-intended, are permanent. That they affix themselves to his brow, or shine from the skin of his neglected soup, or find some other way to creep about his person and stamp themselves into the mold of his legacy. Continue reading Necro-Dandies By Alex S. Johnson
Keshav Singh was convinced that katars would be suitable for the task. Brass knuckles; kubatons; switchblades would not do the trick. On the other hand stilettos, karambits, or combat knives perhaps performed the job too well. Though they did not exactly fall under the category of “concealed,” he believed he had found the perfect compromise – a hybrid of stealth and functionality. The Singh family katars, rumored to date back hundreds of years to the Mughal Empire, would not only enable them to die with style, but it would be poetic due to ancestral support. Continue reading Mosh Pit Massacre by Dustin He
Krissy swerved back into her lane and shot a futile glare at the oncoming convertible as it whizzed past. Continue reading The Dashboard Dreamcatcher by Kimmy Dee
I’m the Ural owl. I haunt and possess you. If you see me in your dreams, you’re a dead human, a rotting corpse.
Stacy held her black, stiletto heels in one hand, her new Coach clutch in the other as she weaved across the empty garage towards her beat up Subaru. The parking garage of the Ritz-Carlton was packed this evening before her cousin Jessie’s wedding reception. Now, her car stood alone among the echoing aisles. Continue reading BROTHERS by Jeff Dosser
Everyone has their talents. My parents and teachers spent decades labouring over finding my quirks and talents, like they were mining for some valuable metal. They were disappointed when I flunked all my classes, out of disenchantment more than anything else. My poor mother and father enrolled me into every after school class imaginable, all coming up empty. Continue reading Born This Way by Jen Hughes
Jeanne Duval tried to stop herself from scratching her arm, a thing she did compulsively whenever she was nervous and there was no way to pace. Sometimes she scratched so much she drew blood, which at least would be appropriate today. Jeanne looked at her collage of photos covering the gallery wall.
Father Trevor rolled the rosary beads round in his hand for the twentieth time in the last twelve minutes. He knew exactly how long it had been, since the hands on the old wooden clock hanging just overhead ticked down loud, extra noisy, reminding him. He could see that both the hands and the digits had been painted on the clock’s face years ago, bold and dark green, against a pale cream colored backdrop, making them hard to miss. Under the ancient timepiece sat the calendar with the day’s date circled in red; December 31, 1949. Continue reading The Abyss by Lisa Ciarfella
Christopher Matthews was a dedicated teacher who touched the lives of many children throughout his thirty-five years teaching music. Thoughts are with his family and friends at a small funeral service there on this wet Easter Sunday afternoon, and all the students at St Cecilia’s Academy who have lost a teacher. There are large candles placed around the church which give the illusion of warmth but it is a cold and hollow place. The air smells strongly of mixed perfumes. The last time I was here, it was my last day at school before I was sent away. Too many bad memories, yet my psychiatrist said I should go. If you face pain, she will give you an ointment to stop your wounds from festering. The service starts, conducted by the same priest with the same dreary voice from before. Even the altar boys look similar to the ones before.
After dark, I’ll return to the crimson room at the top of the stairs, my tiny home in the seedy part of town, where the junkies and alkies O.D. on a cornucopia of poisons and feast on freaky visions. But in the early morning or afternoon, I sit in Eros Park and count the myriad objects of beauty. Some mornings, I come to the park about an hour before dawn. I wait for the light, the crepuscular insects, and a glorious, gold sunrise. I take a few deep breaths, close my eyes, and listen to the holy rhythm that soothes me, and imagine I’m floating in a sun-baked ocean or lying in the hot iridescent sand on a pristine beach below a tropical sun. And I listen to the melodious ebb and flow of the turquoise waves. Continue reading THE CRIMSON ROOM AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS By Dr. Mel Waldman