Schoolyard

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by Brandon Korth

Living beside an elementary school is good fun during the day. Listening to the kids play ball, swing on the swings, and run around laughing can cheer me up in the foulest of moods, but that stops during the night. When the echoes of the kids continue to sound after the moon rises, the metal creaking as the swings sway back and forth, and the balls bounce off of the walls. Sleeping with my back to the first floor window as they bounce closer until they touch the glass and I turn to see nothing there. That’s what gets me.

Brandon Korth

Brandon Korth is a full-time, single dad living in Ontario. He used to write articles for Obilisk.co while earning two diplomas in policing at his local college.

 

The Invitation

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by G.B. Dinesh

The doorbell rings. It’s 3 a.m. God, who died?

I find a postman outside the door.

“Hello, Mr Smith.” He hands over an invitation.

An invitation to—

“Mister, what game are you playing?” I try to grab his collar, but I can’t.

I dash to the bedroom.

I touch my wife, I feel nothing. I kiss her lips, I feel nothing. I kneel down on the floor and weep. In her sleep, her face slowly settles into the most beautiful smile in the world. Holding that smile in my memory and the invitation to heaven in my hand, I leave.

G.B. Dinesh

G.B. Dinesh is a young Indian writer whose works span across many genres.

 

Jess Chua

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Jess Chua is an award-winning essayist and sketch artist.

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Lemonade, Mister?

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by Josh Hagen

Three nights in a row. Cars lined up for blocks through the neighbourhood. The crowd has grown from last time. More like a swarm. All searching for their sweet nectar.

I called the police again. The patrol showed up and got in line. Shuffling forward to receive their gift.

Enough of this. I storm outside in my robe and slippered feet. Three in the morning.

My temper flaring. “Hey! Some of us have to work in the morning.”

The mob turns to me, parting in unison to allow passage.

The kids at the lemonade stand offer a cup.

“Lemonade, mister?

Josh Hagen

After spending years as a storyboard artist for film and television, Josh utilised the power of coffee to focus on his writing. Bit by bit he has clawed his way up the overwhelming mountain that is the writing process in the hopes of one day becoming a professional author.

 

The Window Cleaner

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by Tracy Davidson

I know that whistle. That thunk of ladder against wall, those heavy footsteps hitting every rung. But never at 3 a.m. before.

I’d heard he was ill, close to death. Guess not. Through thin curtains, I see the shape of head and torso. The squeak of his squeegee gets louder. Where his eyes would be, two glowing orbs cut through the curtain, their light creeping up my bedcovers. I try to reassure myself I’m dreaming.

Whistle, squeak. Whistle, squeak. Finally…silence. I rise, move to the window. Nothing. I sigh, relieved. Until…bare feet step on a soaking wet sponge.

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

Neighbourly

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by Sheridan “Virgil” Seine

I’m new to the neighbourhood, and work night shift. Lately, I’m waking up to footsteps and a knock outside my bedroom window.

Wilson, my always smiling, retired neighbour, is on the other side of the glass; a wide-eyed stare coming through the blinds, the afternoon sun on his face. Chuckling, he reminds me that the grass needs to be cut.

But I’m on vacation this week and it’s the middle of the night.

I roll over in bed, and my eyes drift to the window at my shoulder. A bug-eyed smile just outside says, “Not yet. Go back to sleep.”

Sheridan “Virgil” Seine

Co-administrator of The Twisted Castle, Sheridan “Virgil” Seine has been a professional monster wrangler for over 20 years. In his spare time, once his wards have been safely returned to their individual habitats, Virgil researches various literary genres to produce content for his YouTube channel, Literally Books. He also lets his wife write his bios.

 

Queen of the Night

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by Jeff Currier

“Staring out his sliding door, wishing for sleep, Jacob spied his new neighbour, poised atop a beach towel, rubbing lotion over gleaming moonlit porcelain skin. Adjusting her scant blood-red bikini, she lay back as if starting a mid-afternoon sunbath.

Suddenly swathed in full moonlight, she blossomed blindingly bright. Blinking away afterimages, Jacob saw her towel, smouldering in the grass, empty. He rushed outside; stopped short. Basking, glowing, she smiled, moonbeams glinting off—what the hell? She brushed his arm. A sharp prick, then darkness.

Dew-covered, Jacob awoke, a throbbing rash wrapping his arm, radiating from an embedded porcelain-white cactus spine.

Jeff Currier

Jeff works three jobs, so has little time to write. Hence, he writes little stories.

 

Children of RaShell by Jodi Jensen

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In a world dying due to toxins in the air, water, and soil, no babies have been naturally conceived in years.

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We All Scream

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by Kristin Lennox

“London Bridge is Falling Down…” The piping calliope music was faint, but it pulled Cindy from sleep.

Instead of pondering why the ice cream truck was trundling slowly through the neighbourhood in the dead of night, Cindy frantically scoured her bedroom for loose change.

Broke and dejected, she barely recognised her friend Hannah in the moonlight, accepting a double-scoop cone from a white-gloved hand. So lucky.

Such a waste, though, Cindy thought, as she discovered the cone in the street the next morning, upside down in a sticky puddle of mint chocolate chip…

…and a splash of bright raspberry swirl.

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

 

Invited by Nicole Little

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A secret revealed. A legacy undone. A horror immortalised. For generations, the Berdeaux family name had been synonymous with hospitality and distinction. But that all changed in the summer of 1979, when Dewey Berdeaux’s “hobby” came to light. It was a revelation that stunned the town of Barrville, and ever since then, the Berdeaux family mansion has stood as a grim reminder—with its fair share of ghosts, if rumour is to be believed.

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