by Terri Mullholland

"Imagine your ideal world," whispered The Weaver, "and I will make it come true."

On her loom, she began to weave a whole kingdom. By her hands, my dreams blossomed—a castle and forest of soft threads. 

All night she toiled. 

In the morning, she spread her silk-spun land on the barren earth outside her cottage—where nothing had grown for generations. 

Immediately, it sprouted and spread, sending forth a forest with a winding pathway. 

"It will grow as you walk to your castle. Follow it. Do not stop. Do not look back. I will meet you there. I promise."

* * *

Terri Mullholland (she/her) is a writer and researcher living in London, UK. Her flash fiction has appeared in various journals and anthologies. She loves stories, cats, and tea. 

by Linda M. Crate

​when best friends
transition to
ghosts,
this aching heart
feels as if it will
ache forever;
i wish i could let her go
but she was my childhood— 
i still see the auburn and gold
of her hair in the summer sun
when i look at the childhood in my past,
how am i supposed to simply forget her
as she has me?
i hate living ghosts,
at least you know where to visit the dead. 

* * *

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: 
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Twitter

by Ed Ahern

Years ago, hunting deer in a forest, I stumbled onto an abandoned farmstead. There were no traces of roads or pathways into the site, no wood or glass or iron. Just the stone cairn of a chimney, and tumbled rock fences, strewn by trees. Connecticut is stoney soil, the clearing and stacking would have been the labor of years.

A chill, soft rain was falling, birds and animals were silent and still. The smell was of sodden leaves and the mold of rotted trees. As I moved cemetery-slowly through the grounds, I wanted to put a name to the ruined labor—the someone or other house, the something or other farm. But there were only age scattered rocks.

And there, where I thought a sitting room might have been, was a neatly stacked cairn, three feet high, that weathering could not have accomplished. A body perhaps, or a keepsake interred at the home it belonged to.

I propped my rifle against a sapling and lifted off the cap stone, intending to burrow down to discovery. And hesitated. And put it back. Undisturbed. What I imagined was more than I could discover, more than I could unearth.
​
I moved on, the farmstead undisturbed and unrecorded. And have long since forgotten its location.

* * *

Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had about 500 stories and poems published so far, and ten books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he manages a posse of seven review editors, and as lead editor at Scribes Micro.

by Jeffery Johnson

I retired six years ago, and in a fit of perceived liberation, I discarded all my dress clothes. I’d live the rest of my days in jeans, shorts, and sandals. I was at a sartorial disadvantage, therefore, when I got the news.

Jonathan Francis Glidden’s wife, Danielle, called with the news that about five thousand steps into his daily stroll, he dropped over dead from a massive heart attack. “Oh, Denny, he was gone just like that,” she reported. “Would you do the eulogy? You’re the best talker in the group. It’ll be next Thursday.”   

​    ~*~

Johnny had led a pretty mundane and undistinguished life. I’m sure there must have been many things that deserved recognition but damned if I knew any of them. Oh, I had plenty of funny stories to tell, but this was problematic as well. Johnny was the constant butt of our collective jokes growing up. How could I tell any of the narratives immediately coming to mind without making him look like a fool or an idiot?

He never had a prestigious career, But being a father was his forte. His son and daughter flat-out adored him. They each recounted times when he had been loving, generous, and wise. So, I was able to come up with a fine little speech that paid tribute and even got a couple of good laughs.

Oh, lest I forget. I looked pretty damn good too. After a careful survey of my closet, it was clear that I needed to start from scratch. Dress shoes, shirts that really fit, and a lovely grey suit were in order. It was a thousand or so bucks well spent.

I kind of suspected that I’d reached that point in life where I’d need the ensemble again.

* * *

​Jeffery Johnson is a retired professor of philosophy and an aspiring mystery and short story writer.

by Paul Lewthwaite

She is envious of her shadow.

It flickers in and out of existence, oblivious of bills, bawling kids, screaming husband, and the toothache that’s bothered her for months.

Would she swap? Escape the noise and grind for grey-scale monotony? 
​
Perhaps not, but when life burns too bright, jealousy still lingers.

* * *

Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful cat. He’s always surprised when he can write a story. Some appear at Dark Moments, fiftywordstories.com, and 101words.org.

by Michael Brockley

My white German shepherd’s ghost sleeps in the passenger seat as I wrestle my road-weary Silverado onto the Ghost Road. We have survived half-resurrection and tombstone blues in magic cities. And practiced nighthawk songs with devils in blue dresses. Sadie barks as I shuffle through the biography of a phantom. As I grope for the name of Bluebeard’s first wife. Lady Blue or Black Cherry. Last night a blue angel serenaded us with a song coaxed from a rose drum. I’ll let Sadie sleep through the cross-dog hours. Through the three shades of dream. Even ghost dogs get the blues.

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Superpresent, and Dreams of Rust and Glass, Volume 2. Poems are forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal and confetti. 

by Chip Houser

We are the occupants of the village you created, the village you abandoned. We are here because of you, but we are not yours. We are not your property or your prisoners, your mistakes or your consequences, your problems or your solutions. We are all of these things, and not. We are here because of you, but we are not here for you.

We are the street cobbles, heel-polished and moss-ringed. We are the cats, languid wanderers, sprawling on sun-warmed stoops. We are the dry leaves skipping along empty streets.

We are the rocks cleared from surrounding fields, set into walls. We are the mice, eyes shining in the damp shadow of a broken terracotta pot. We are the grapevines climbing the tower, roots grasping plaster.

We are the brick archways, mortar receding like gums from the pocked teeth of our inverted smiles. We are the lizards, darting out of sight. We are the lichen blooming across clay roof tiles.

We are the empty windows, the sagging doors, the crumbling defensive walls. We are the wild boar, foraging for pomegranate and fig in overgrown gardens. We are the pines, stretching for more light.
​
We are not your village, we are ourselves, and we are all each other. We are the village now, together, and we have grown beyond your reach.

* * *

Chip Houser's short fiction has appeared in Pulp Literature, Bourbon Penn, Every Day Fiction, and elsewhere. Red Bird Chapbooks published a collection of his very short fiction in 2023 called “Dark Morsels.” 

by Philippa Ramsden

As autumn settles, 
poppies continue to appear 
and bloom, albeit 
under a veil of raindrops.

* * *

Following a career in international development, Philippa Ramsden returned to Scotland somewhat adrift and has now settled in East Lothian. Her writing draws from life and work in Nepal, Mongolia, India, Sri Lanka, Myanmar and Rwanda and her Scottish surroundings.

by Linda M. Crate

let me change like autumn,
transform into my prettiest colors;
let everything dead fade
away into the sky;
bathe me in a golden sunset
that could heal every
broken thing in my soul. 

* * *

Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose works you can find at her social media links: 
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by Sarah Das Gupta

Witches steal the milk from cattle,
shapeshift into brown hares.
In the hidden witches’ garden
grow pink foxglove fingers,
yellow clumps of spindly ragwort,
deadly to man or beast.
Witches ride in the Wild Hunt
high in inky darkness,
they form dark silhouettes
across the face of the harvest moon.
In elder trees they hide,
under the spiked blackthorn,
among monkshood and aconitum,
mixing strange concoctions,
bringing certain death and gloom.
Yellow and red flames
consumed them once.
Yet in the darkness of the pinewood,
in that other land under the hill,
they survive, to curse and cure us still.

* * *

Sarah Das Gupta is a slowly emerging poet from Cambridge, UK who started writing a year ago when her mobility became limited to 20 metres. Her work has been published in over 20 countries and she has been nominated this year for Best of the Net and a Dwarf Star award.

by Lucy Barker

I watch you enter. Sunlight penetrates the stained-glass, suffusing your pale cheek.
Once, from that  pulpit, the Reverend Swales preached forgiveness, his gimlet eyes resting upon me; the sinner of his flock.

I reach out. I have come too close. Startled, you flee towards the headstones encircling those weathered walls. My empty, unmarked grave lies beyond; above the wind-buffeted waves raging far below.

He waits for you by the lych gate.

With venomous whispers I bid you not to go.
​
Convinced it is merely the rustling of trees, you rush inexorably towards him; oblivious of my pursuing shadow.

* * *

Lucy is a retired tutor living on the beautiful South Coast of England, which inspires much of her work. For some strange reason she is fascinated by the eerie and macabre, but that’s another story!

by Michael Brockley

The red maple rises above the crowns of pears and serviceberries. Trees an arborist planted in my yard twenty years ago. Now the maple’s roots girdle the trunk, and the bark darkens with stoic resilience. In the evenings, I spread the palms of my hands across the knobs where limbs were trimmed back so a mower could cut the grass beneath the canopy. I ask what songs the neighborhood forest sings through its underground choir. What sustenance might be received from nearby silver maples. From spring’s transient redbuds. My calendar reads mid-October. The tree’s leaves still green. And summer strong. 

* * *

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in The Prose Poem, Superpresent, and Dreams of Rust and Glass, Volume 2. Poems are forthcoming in Last Stanza Poetry Journal and confetti. ​

by Lorette C. Luzajic

The seagrass, like woodcut lines zigzagging across the dark water. Rippling cords all tangled in the shallows like some kind of labyrinth. The soft moon illuminates a hushed halo over her brow. Sometimes she wails for her drowned child and the eerie sound fills up the whole world. Sometimes there is mere silence. No wind, no waves. I crawled off of the same shore, the epigenetic trauma of hate and war. Want spun through and through my story. Like a ghost, I wandered after her, needy and damaged and desperate, tugging at her silk nightgown, begging her to see me. 

* * *
​
Lorette C. Luzajic reads, writes, edits, publishes, and teaches flash fiction and prose poetry. She is the founding editor of The Ekphrastic Review and The Mackinaw.