“Me win! Me win!” Sharpe shouted, hands raised.

With water streaming down his broad mahogany chest, he turned to see Ram Foot rising from the receding seawater. “Me think me going join Jamaica’s swimming team for the next British Empire Games.”1 Sharpe said, slapping his friend’s back.

Ram Foot chuckled. “Is how you think you going join the team? You a quashie–or better yet–a quaco2 boy from Westmoreland.”

Sharpe gave Ram Foot a shove. “Is how you call me boy when you and me is both twenty-five-year-old? And you know say me no like when you reference me by me first name.” Sharpe turned toward the road. “Anyway, I going beat you to Marsha house.” He took off, running toward the forested path.

Ram Foot bolted off toward the craggy slope.

Sharpe ran as fast as his feet would carry him. Up the long curvy path. Through the rocky hillside village of Hakin. Around the last bend leading to Marsha’s mother’s shack. Then he stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded. On the front step with his arm around Marsha, sat Ram Foot, an empty glass next to him.

Nearly out of breath, Sharpe sat down on the other side of Marsha, taking the glass of water she offered him.

Now it was Ram Foot’s turn to reach over and slap Sharpe on the back. “Them don’t call me Ram Foot for nothing. Eee, Marsha?”

She laughed, leaning into Ram Foot, causing Sharpe to sulk.

“No worry Quaco…me mean Sharpe.” Marsha gave Sharpe a side hug. “You know say me love both of you.”

Sharpe looked at her. “And that is the problem.”

Marsha’s mother called from inside, “Marsha! Come and finish help me with the cooking.”

She gave both men a quick kiss on the cheek, smiling back at them as she headed into the house. Lingering on the steps, neither wanting to be the first to leave, they heard Marsha’s mother say, “Me forget to tell you say Miss Lucy ask me to send you round to see her. She have something she want talk to you ‘bout, but she wouldn’t say what.”

Sharpe and Ram Foot looked at each other with the same quizzical expression.

Lucy was the village gossip maker, matchmaker, and all-round troublemaker. Few people liked her, yet they all knew they needed to heed her.

Marsha’s mother came out the door and swatted the two men with a dishrag. “Go ‘long! Go ‘long! Marsha don’t have time to idle with the two of you.”

They promptly got up from the front step, yelled their goodbyes to Marsha, and went on their way.

The next day Sharpe headed down to the river to bathe. He met Marsha coming up the main path from the river carrying a basket on her head with one arm balancing it.

“Where you coming from?” asked Sharpe.

“You know full well where me coming from.” She laughed, taking the heavy basket filled with damp clothes off her head and handing it to him.

“What a heap of clothes.”

“You also know say me wash some of the old people clothes in the village.” She gave him a light slap on his arm. “Stop playing the fool.”

Forgetting his bath, he turned with basket in hand to walk Marsha back to the village. As they talked and laughed, he noticed she was wearing a new pair of earrings.

“Me like you earrings. Them make you look pretty.”

“So you saying me never look pretty before?”

“No, no. That’s not what me saying. Them add to you already beautiful face.”

“That’s more like it.” She bumped him with her shoulder, lingering skin to skin a little longer than a playful bump would require. Pulling away, she added, “Is Ram Foot make them out of calabash shell and give me.”

Sharpe stopped and faced her. “You have to stop fooling with me and Ram Foot.” He looked her in the eye. “Marsha, me want you for me gal, but is which one of us you want?”

She sucked her teeth and looked away.

He stood waiting for an answer.

“You is a big, handsome giant.” She looked up at him. But sometime you too serious. Ram Foot handsome too, and he know how to make things and can even build house. But sometime him play too much.”

She started walking again.

Sharpe followed.

“Beside, right now me mind on something me have to take care of first.”

“Does it have to do with Miss Lucy?”

Marsha stiffened. “What you know ‘bout Miss Lucy?”

“Yesterday me hear you mother say Miss Lucy want to see you.”

She gave a feeble laugh. “She just wanted to talk ‘bout something stupid.”

Sharpe raised his eyebrows. “There is no such thing as stupid when it come to Miss Lucy.”

They walked the rest of the way to the village in silence.

The following morning, Sharpe met Ram Foot on the path headed to Marsha’s house.

“Me see you give Marsha earrings. You trying to slip in front of me like a snake.”

Ram Foot laughed. “How can I slip in front of you when you is not ahead of me?

“You know say she really love me. Yesterday she say me handsome and you can make things. Which one you think she really prefer? No worry, though. You will find somebody else.” Sharpe returned Ram Foot’s laugh.

Ram Foot’s brow tightened. “We will see who win.”

When they arrived at Marsha’s home they found her sitting on the front step crying.

Ram Foot sat down beside her, putting his hand on hers heasked, “What is going on, Marsha?”

“Nothing.” She wiped a tear from her cheek.

Standing in front of her, Sharpe responded, “Nothing can’t be going on and you crying.”

She sniffled.

Knowing Marsha’s mother could hear their conversation from inside the house and figuring her mother might have something to do with Marsha’s mood, Sharpe said, “Come. make the three of we go for a little walk.”

She nodded and got up from the step.

As they walked down the path, Marsha’s mother came out of the house, dishrag in hand, calling, “Where the three of you going?” She never received a reply.

With all of Ram Foot’s gentle coaxing and Sharpe’s pressing to tell them what was going on, the only thing they got from Marsha was what they had already figured out. It had something to do with Lucy.

Then a thought came to Sharpe. Stepping in front of Marsha, he asked, “Do this have anything to do with Magus?”

Marsha looked up at him wide eyed.

“Me thought so. What is it?”

She looked away from Sharpe. “Nothing.”

“It can’t be nothing.” Sharpe shook his head. “Magus is a bad man. Anything to do with him can’t be nothing.”

Marsha turned to go back, and Ram Foot followed her while trying to draw details out of her.

Sharpe remained where he was, mind calculating.

When Ram Foot returned with no more information than when he had left, Sharpe told him they had to find out what was going on between Marsha, Lucy, and Magus. He convinced Ram Foot, the stealthier of the two, to spy on Lucy, eavesdropping if he could. Ram Foot agreed.

Around noontime, Ram Foot found Sharpe having lunch with his uncle.

Seeing alarm in Ram Foot’s eyes, Sharpe excused himself and led Ram Foot out of earshot. “What you find out?

“It bad.” Ram Foot rubbed his forehead. “It really bad.”

“What is it!” Sharpe shook Ram Foot by the shoulders.

“Me couldn’t find out nothing from spying on Miss Lucy, but me did hear two women talking. And them say Magus is going have Marsha tonight?”

Not believing his ears, Sharpe questioned. “Have her? Is what you mean by have her?”

“You know what me talking ‘bout. Him going have sex with her. Tonight!”

Now it was Sharpe’s turn to rub his forehead. He leaned back against a nearby tree. “I know Magus is an evil man, but this is too much.”

Ram Foot threw his hands in the air. “What we going to do? He is an Obeah3 man. Me know say them say not all Obeah man is bad. But this one—him wicked! If we get involved, him will set all kinda guzzo4 ‘pon us.”

“Me no care ‘bout no guzzo. Is Marsha me care ‘bout.” With steel in his eyes, Sharpe looked at Ram Foot. “You did your part, now me a go do mine.”

“Watch out Sharpe. That Obeah man don’t fool ‘round.”

“No worry ‘bout me.”

At dusk, Sharpe headed up the hill toward Magus shack, holding a bulging crocus bag over his shoulder with one hand and carrying a machete in the other. Before he turned the corner to where Magus lived, he entered a thicket, which afforded him cover. He stooped down and turned to watch for Marsha coming up the path.

He sat there for quite some time, keeping an eye on the path while the muted ambers of dusk morphed to black.

In the night’s stillness, crouching against a tree trunk, Sharpe’s thoughts drifted to the past. He remembered his mother’s death when he was a boy and the emptiness he had felt. He remembered being sent to Hakin to live with his aunt and her husband and being grateful they had taken him in. But it had never felt like home. Since then, he had been looking for home. And now, in Marsha, he was hoping to find it.

Pulling his thoughts back to the present, he focused on what was about to happen.

About half an hour went by when Sharpe heard a voice further down the path. Growing louder by the minute, he recognized it as Lucy’s.

“We almost there. Stop the crying, girl. Settle youself. You no want Magus to see you crying. Him expecting you to be willing. Truth is, when I first went to him meself, me was scared, but it wasn’t too bad. And now me have a pickney for him. The more you settle youself, the better it will go for you.”

Sharpe felt his anger rising. He wanted to jump out and rescue Marsha right then, but he knew it would be worse in the end. He had to follow his plan. What was in the crocus bag was the only thing that could save her now.

Shortly after Lucy and Marsha passed him, Sharpe slipped out of the thicket, following quietly behind them until they were standing in Magus’ rocky front yard.

Lucy turned to Marsha. “You wait here.”

Sharpe, hidden behind a thick tree, watched as Lucy approached the open front door. Magus appeared, face deeply creviced, eyes looking past Lucy at what was to be his evening delight.

A shiver ran up Sharpe’s spine.

There was an exchange of a small pouch Sharpe knew had to be money.

Rage brewed inside his belly. But he knew he had to keep his head.

Looking over at Marsha, he sprang out of the shadows, causing her to gasp.

In a few quick motions, he dropped the crocus bag, pulled twelve coconuts out, and arranged them in a large circle around her.

Magus’s eyes widened in disbelief, and Lucy shouted, “What in hell you think you doing!”

Magus’s neighbors popped their heads out their windows and some came out of their dwellings to see the commotion.

Ignoring them, Sharpe took the thirteenth coconut out of the bag and, with two swift strokes, cut off the head, creating an opening for the water.

Perplexed, Marsha asked, “What you doing?”

“Trust me.” He offered her the coconut. “Drink.”

She took the coconut and glanced at Lucy and Magus, who were speechless.

Sharpe whispered, “Drink it. Me know what me doing.”

He looked in her eyes and saw fear, but he also saw trust.

She put the coconut to her mouth and drank, then handed it back to him.

Sharpe also drank, then poured some of the water over his head and over hers. Dropping the coconut to the ground, he held her face in the palms of his hands and pulled her toward him, kissing her, as he had wanted to do for so long.

The neighbors clapped, cheered, and carried on.

Sharpe took Marsha’s hand, pulling her around the inside of the circle while singing, “Brown girl in the ring, make me hold you hand. Brown girl in the ring, make me wheel and turn you. Brown girl in the ring, make me hold you hand. You look like sugar in a coconut water.”

Marsha began laughing.

Magus twisted his mouth like a screw, grabbed the pouch from Lucy, and retreated into his lair.

Lucy clenched her fists, letting out a shriek.

Sharpe spun Marsha, continuing his song. “Show me how you love me. Make me wheel and turn you. Show me how you love me. Make me wheel and turn you. Show me how you love me. Make me wheel and turn you. You look like sugar in a coconut water.”

With that, Marsha spun herself into Sharpe’s embrace, kissed him, then whispered, “Thank you.”

Picking her up in his arms as though crossing a threshold, he replied, “You is worth it.” Then he began retracing their footsteps down the path.

“One thing, though,” said Marsha.

“What is it?”

“Is not so the song go, you know.”

“Well.” He smiled. “Is so it go now!”

John Crow sit up pon coconut tree top, but him no mek de water touch him.

Brown Girl in the Ring: A Jamaican Tale of Love and Ritual, Copyright © 2022 by Dale Mahfood, Rockstone Publishing House, LLC, Florida.

Author’s Note

is an author whose work offers a rich and genuine exploration of diverse cultures and landscapes. Drawing from his roots in Jamaica and his experiences living in London and along the U.S. Eastern Seaboard, Dale brings a unique perspective to his storytelling. His background in English education and his active involvement in literary communities, including co-founding the Jamaica Brew Festival, highlight his dedication to the craft and to celebrating diverse voices.

Brown Girl in the Ring is an engaging backstory introducing Sharpe, a main character in his novel, When Trees Fall, a story with compelling characters and deep cultural themes. Currently, with Up From Mountains, Dale is taking a collaborative approach by sharing his work-in-progress on Substack, inviting readers to engage directly with his storytelling process. If you enjoy nuanced characters and stories that connect you to various places and histories, Dale Mahfood’s work is certainly worth exploring. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A quartet of poems:

  Autumnal Reflections, 8 November 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

By Halloween of 1933, our town had learned to keep secrets.

Ashfield sat ninety miles from Chicago, a place far enough to miss the parades and close enough to hear the trouble. You could smell winter carrying through the corn stubble. Storefronts wore paper pumpkins in the windows, smiling because the grumpy grocer Earl Stamm could not. Men traded news at the rail siding as if hope came in on the morning freight. The Works Progress crew had painted a bright harvest on the courthouse wall. Nobody believed it, not really, but the colour felt polite.

We had four of us that night, too restless for a church social, too young to sit quiet in a living room where the radio hummed the same songs. May Abbott pulled her scarf tight the way a person ties off a thought. Walt had a harmonica and the unfortunate habit of trying it in places better suited to silence. Leon, who had the shoulders of a farm boy and the ideas of a dog that spotted a gate left open, brought a lantern. I brought a pencil and a habit of looking at things until they looked back. Ruthie Hart, nearly eighteen, sworn reporter for a paper that did not exist yet.

“The maples will talk after midnight,” Leon said.

He liked to start with nonsense, then dare us to prove him wrong. “They say the leaves whisper the names of the folks buried under them.”

“Leaves whisper because air moves,” May said. “Names do not. Also, my mother thinks I am at Mrs. Riley’s, and Mrs. Riley thinks I am at my mother’s. So, if you plan to see ghosts, see them quickly.”

Walt raised the harmonica. May lowered his hand without words.

Maple Grove Cemetery sat beyond the grain elevator, past the split-rail fence that kept cows from believing grass was better on the other side. The gates, iron and too proud for a town where hunger liked to sit down and stay, stood open. The caretaker liked his evenings, and the dead had never wandered off. We walked past the angel with a chipped wing and into a geography of names. There were German stones from before the war, plain slabs with dates like bookends, a lot for soldiers and a lot for infants, two rows where the town had put the hard year of 1918. Somebody had tried to cut the grass after the last frost. The ground looked shaved and ashamed of it.

“You know,” Walt said, voice low, “I heard Mr. Hicks buried empty boxes in the paupers’ field. No families to check, just a ribbon and a prayer.”

“Mr. Hicks is a carpenter who moonlights as the undertaker,” May said. “He buries what he is paid to bury.”

“Sometimes he is paid in carrots,” I said.

A train blew far off, one long note and two short. The lantern showed our breath like we were small engines ourselves. Leon set it high and tramped on ahead. He had been the captain of nothing and leader of us on every night that went sideways. We followed the path that bent toward a stand of maple trees. Their leaves made a sound like skirts on a church aisle. I decided the maples were talking after all.

We threaded between stones that read Jenks, Talbot, Perez. My pencil tapped my palm; I intended to remember every odd thing and sell it to the Ashfield Chronicle once I printed the first issue in my head.

“Leon,” May said, “why are you walking toward the part with the fresh dirt.”

“Because that is where it will be interesting.”

“That is not a word the living and the dead agree on.”

He was right about the fresh dirt. By the light you could pick out a rectangle, dug that afternoon or the day before, bordered by a neat fringe of turves. The hole itself had a board laid across it as if that would keep a person from stumbling into the next world. The headstone was not set; a wooden marker waited in its place with a painted name. KLARA PIKE.

Klara had sewn dresses in the shop on Main and taken them home when people could not pay. She had vanished two nights earlier. The sheriff said she might have gone to a cousin near Joliet for work. The shopkeeper said nothing and counted buttons.

I did not say her name. You learn to respect a painted board.

“Somebody is sleeping,” Walt whispered.

We looked where he looked. Not twenty feet away, tucked in the shadows, lay a man on his side with his hat over his face. He wore a suit good enough for Sunday and shoes that did not belong to a laborer. For a moment I thought he had chosen the cemetery to drink in peace, then I saw the line of his body and the stillness of it. The night has its own kind of still, the kind that wraps a field and lets mice run. This was the stillness of furniture.

“Leon, do not,” May said.

Leon had already gone. He bent, set the lantern on a flat stone, and knelt beside the man. He took the hat and put it down. The face was town-known. Harris Bleviss, the banker whose door had a second lock and whose wife came to church in a coat that made people turn and consider if they were happy for her. The sight of him changed the air, as if the maples had stopped mid-sentence.

“Check if he is breathing,” May said. She was the only one of us who could give an order to Leon and have it land.

Leon put the back of his hand near the man’s mouth. Then he put two fingers under the jaw where a pulse should live. He shook his head once.

Walt took two steps back, then one forward again, the way you do when running feels both wise and useless. I wanted to write it down and tore a page from my notebook instead. The sound was loud enough to flinch at.

“We go to Sheriff Albright,” May said. “Now.”

Leon did not move. He crouched there like a person who had finally discovered that curiosity has a price. “There is dirt on his shoes,” he said. “Wet. Fresh.”

I looked at the rectangle with the board across it. Walt looked everywhere but there.

“We will not look,” May said, which meant every one of us looked. The wooden marker with KLARA PIKE seemed to watch us as if letters could hold eyes. The board creaked a little on its cinder supports, a sound as thin as a lie.

“Lantern,” I said.

Leon lifted it. The light threw shadows into the open grave that made it look deeper than sense. There was a white shape in the bottom, not cloth, not bone. My mind offered a dozen answers and liked none of them.

May set her palm flat on my sleeve. “If that is a sheet,” she said in a voice that had already decided to be steady, “we fetch adults. We fetch the sheriff. We do not poke the dead.”

“We have already found one banker,” Walt said. He was trying for a joke and failing, which is how you know a boy is frightened.

The wind shifted. The lantern flame bent. Leaves rubbed together and tried to sound like weather. Something cracked close by. We turned as one to find the caretaker standing in the path, a rake over his shoulder like a soldier’s rifle.

“You should not be here,” Mr. Ellis said. He was small and made of work. His face had the careful look of a man who spent his days pretending delicate tasks did not break his heart.

“Mr. Bleviss,” May said, and stepped aside so Ellis could see. “He is gone.”

Ellis took one look and stepped in as if he had been waiting on the edge of that decision for years. He knelt where Leon had knelt, then closed Bleviss’s mouth with a gentle hand. “I will fetch Albright,” he said. “You three wait by the gate. Leon, you wait with him.” He pointed at Bleviss as if the banker might get bored and wander off out of habit.

“We should go all together,” Walt said.

Mr. Ellis did not raise his voice. “You will do as I say.”

He trotted off with the rake like a staff, straight down the path toward town. The lantern made our circle of light small and friendly. Everything beyond it turned into the idea of trees.

Leon looked at the painted board again. “If Klara is down there, why is Bleviss here. If Bleviss is here, why is there dirt on his shoes.”

“Do not count the mysteries before breakfast,” May said.

We waited. The waiting felt like school held outdoors. Every sound pried at us. The harmonica in Walt’s pocket seemed to weigh ten pounds. I could see breath on the air from three living people and wanted, almost, to see a fourth who did not belong there. It was an ugly wish. I folded it up and set it aside.

When the sheriff came, he came with Ellis and with Mr. Hicks, the carpenter, who carried a coil of rope and the face of a man who understood that his skill would be asked to do something that would wake him in the night later. Sheriff Albright had a coat that looked borrowed and a mouth that read pain like it was a newspaper. He listened to May in full, then asked no questions at all. He lifted the board and set it aside. He knelt and dropped the rope into the hole as if kindness could be lowered on a line.

“It is not a body,” Hicks said after a long minute. “It is a mannequin from the dress shop. The one Klara put in the window.”

“Then where is Klara,” I asked, and heard my own voice as if it were a stranger’s.

No one answered. Ellis crossed himself, which in Ashfield passed for breaking a rule only when the rule did not matter.

Albright stood and looked at Bleviss with the sort of long thought a man has when he adds columns in his head. “Dirt on the shoes,” he said. “Ellis, fetch two more boards.”

“We did not push him,” Walt blurted, which made everyone look at Walt. He blushed into his scarf.

“No one said you did,” Albright said. He did not smile, but the corner of his mouth allowed the notion to visit. “Ruthie Hart, go home and tell your father I sent you. May, same to your mother. Walt, you walk May to her door. Leon, you stay with me.”

“Because I am strong,” Leon said.

“Because you ask fewer questions,” Albright said. He bent and set his hand, briefly, on Bleviss’s shoulder the way a person reads a language he has not practiced since school.

We obeyed because we were young and because the trees had finished their sentence and fallen quiet. On the path out I looked back and saw Leon planting his feet near the grave like a man bracing a door. The lantern lit his jaw and the sheriff’s borrowed coat and the white face of the shop window’s empty girl. Behind the maples, far off, the train gave one soft note that could have been a sigh.

In the morning Ashfield would tell a version. Some would say the banker came to make a deposit he did not plan to report. Some would say the caretaker had mixed up graves with the efficiency of poor pay. Some would say Klara had caught the early bus and left us a mannequin to stand in her place until the town learned how to fix what could be fixed.

I wrote it down as it happened, in a hand that trembled after the fact. The paper in my head needed its first front page.

I put the headline on the top line, neat and certain.

The Night Maples Talked.

Under it I wrote the only truth I could swear to. We were there. We saw what we saw. The air lifted, then settled, and for a few long minutes, the living and the dead felt very close, like neighbours who finally admitted they had always heard each other through the wall.

Copyright 2025 - Mark Kolke / Waterglass Press

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

Every morning for more than 22 years, has published his daily column, Musings+. His writing covers an emotional range of relationships and personal responsibility, as well as chance occurrences. He also provides a bright, inspiring 100-word start to your Monday with Monday Morning Minute, accompanied by an inspiring quote. When Mark writes about the news of the day, politics, or local issues, his voice is genuine and sincere. It’s sharp at times, but fair. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A Jamaican tale by :

  Brown Girl in the Ring, 5 November 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

No one takes me seriously, yet if I come to visit, it is for serious business. I’m in charge of monitoring what’s really going on around here. And then taking names!

Doctors in training. Student doctors. Residents and interns. It doesn’t matter. Lives are in their hands. And likewise, so are deaths. It’s tragic, really. Deaths that don’t need to happen; preventable, unnecessary, even careless.

I am charged with teaching these imbeciles what went wrong.

There is something called “Mortality and Morbidity Conference," or M&M, where the mistakes—both honest and stupid—that result in complications and deaths are discussed. It is an educational tradition that takes place in an amphitheater called “the Pit” on our hospital’s 12th floor. There, the wizened wise—the professors who can’t do but who, then, teach—are presented sad cases by the wannabe doctors for general discussion.

And indictment.

The salient points are plucked from their nervous, stuttering explanations and used to quiz those in the Pit evading eye contact. The person who has the power to fail them targets the presenter—now the person of interest, the caught, tried, and judged suspect who orchestrated their patient’s demise.

I attend every M&M conference. But I already know who the malpractitioners are. Today is no different—I have my list for the day. It’s not a secret list. When someone here dies, word gets around. The whispers—even the snickers from jealous peers—are circulated like dirty money.

If the Pit weren’t punishment enough, replete with reputation-tarnishing and career-killing theatrics that become lore, next is my duty to visit each of these buffoons personally. It gives them a chance to review, in private, their choices and decisions, without the suffocation of peer pressure; without ridicule; but not without significant laying on of guilt.

For that is my job as a teacher. There is no better teacher than guilt. Or me.

“Keet” Murphy was a resident on the Internal Medicine service. Keet was a nickname, short for “Parakeet,” which made fun of his absurd nose. There are some nose jobs that are obviously just that, but plastic surgery isn’t supposed to be obvious. Someone who did Keet’s nose probably had presented his case in the Pit.

Maybe not.

A lot of mistakes and botched therapy escapes the ravaging in the Pit. Some things aren’t reported or noticed; then, sometimes there is so much traffic of malpractice that one Pit just can’t get to them all.

If Keet’s nose escaped the Pit before, the rest of Keet was not so lucky.

There he stood, at the bottom of the architectural concavity. The killing fields. He held a patient’s chart. The amphitheater was packed. The professor walked in, stood next to Keet, and pointed at him. Keet began:

“Mr. D.B. was a 48-year-old man with diarrhea who was admitted with lethargy and weakness. His admission was at 6:30 AM on July 31. He was a frail man with a slightly discolored hue—yellowish.”

Professor Isador raised his finger. Keet stopped. The teacher looked around the pit, raising his eyes, which darted back and forth until making eye contact with one poor soul.

“You! What say you?”

“I think,” the student said—

“You think?”

“I know that this patient is probably suffering from liver disease, which would explain his jaundice.”

“From?” Isador demanded, pointing at another victim. “You!”

“Could be liver cancer,” suggested the newly fingered student.

“Really?” Isador barked. “Hmm…yes, I suppose it could be that. Do the rest of you suppose that? Do the rest of you think his ridiculous answer is the most likely etiology of his ‘icterus,’ his ‘morbus regius,’ or ‘king’s disease’?

None of the rest of them professed to think that. Nor did they know those other names for jaundice. All heads were down; all eyes were in their laps.

“What happened to Mr. D.B., Mr. Murphy?” Isador asked much too politely.

“He was found unresponsive on morning rounds.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Dr. Isador. A bedside electrocardiogram documented re-entrant arrhythmia.”

“Your patient died, Mr. Murphy!”

There was a hush from the spectators, as typically happened when the “D” word was invoked.

“Yes.”

Professor Isador frowned. “How did his admit labs come back, Mr. Murphy?”

“Well, sir, I was off duty at 7 AM.”

“Oh,” Isador said, “then it wasn’t your responsibility to follow up?”

This was a trick question.

“Read to us, if you would be so kind, your off-service summary, which is supposed to be written so the oncoming service could be apprised of Mr. D.B.’s situation—so as to maintain his continuity of care.”

“Um, uh…” Keet shuffled through his papers. “I don’t seem to—”

“Because you didn’t write one, Mr. Murphy.”

“I’m sure I did.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. As sure as I am that your patient died, Mr. Murphy. Let’s all take a moment of silence for Mr. D.B., who died of diarrhea.”

“No, cardiac arrest.”

“Diarrhea!” Isador screamed. The audience cowered in terror. Keet retook his seat; Isador called his next victim.

That evening, in his on-call room, Keet encounters…me. He had Mr. D.B.’s chart disheveled on the thin bed mattress.

“What was his potassium level, Keet?” I ask.

Keet wondered that, too. Now he found the admit lab values. Mr. D.B.’s potassium level was 2.2 millimoles per liter, a lethal level at which the heart falters. Cardiac arrest, yes, but from low potassium—itself from severe diarrhea.

And his alcoholism didn’t help.

Had someone only checked the electrolyte levels on his admit labs, but the on-coming service didn’t even know the results were ready. If they had, they would have called for them.

“Some potassium via IV, Mr. Murphy,” Keet heard. From me. “Even a banana would have helped, Mr. Murphy!” I screamed in a haunting shriek.

Do any of them ever hear me? I wonder.

It’s my job to make sure they do. It’s my job to haunt them with their stupid mistakes the rest of their lives.

No place has more ghosts than a hospital. And no one alive has more dead ghouls following them than a doctor. Even a good doctor—even a great doctor—has more ghosts than a drunk driver. And this ghost—me—isn’t about to give anyone a pass.

“Isn’t that right, Mr. D.B.?”

“Damn right!” Mr. D.B. answers me.

“Wanna come with me, Mr. D.B.?”

”Where to?”

“I’m on my way to Dr. Isador’s home, to his bedside, where I do all my best work, and where I go every night, because one night I will have finally succeeded in haunting that bastard to death.”

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

Who wrote four novels, five short story collections, a women’s health book, a children’s book, and even a conlang available (ebook & print) on Amazon, Smashwords, and others? Well… its ! Check out for more of his work. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A short story by :

  The Night Maples Talked, 31 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Sharon looked up from her Candy Crush game at the TV and nudged her husband Mike as he dozed on the sofa next to her.

“What?”

She turned the TV up and pointed at the news caster with the remote.

“You gotta hear this.”

The polished bobblehead on the screen looked concerned as she faced the camera.

“President Trump said today that over 300 million Americans died in illegal-drug related incidents last year. This is extremely worrying as the population of the United States is about 340 million people.” She turned to her fellow anchorperson, “Experts, as well as the average citizen, are concerned, Tom. Clearly most of us are now dead, but no one is quite sure which of us is deceased or how or when the government will let us know.”

“That is very alarming, Ann. We could both be dead right now and have no idea. And there’s no word at all on how the government plans to handle this situation?”

“None at all Tom. I for one am struggling, what do I tell my kids? Are my kids even alive?”

Tom turned to face the camera, “Stay tuned, we will be updating you on this tough situation as it develops.”

Sharon turned off the TV. “Honey, are we dead?”

“We don’t do drugs?” Mike scratched his beard with both hands.

“Well the president said we did.”

“He said 300,000,000 people did, that doesn’t mean us necessarily.”

“How do we know for sure? Oh, Mike, I don’t want to be dead.”

“Maybe they’ll send us a letter.”

“No one sends mail to dead people, I bet it’s the living who get letters.”

“So, no letter means you’re dead.”

Sharon nodded. “How long do we wait?”

“To be honest, I feel a little dead already.”

Sharon set her knitting aside. “What does it feel like?”

“It doesn’t feel like anything. I can’t feel if I’m dead, right?”

“If you’re dead, I’m dead, too. I can’t live without you.”

Sharon and Mike stood in line at the grocery store, a bag of dog food the sole item in their cart. Mike stood stooped, his greasy beard twisted in knots. Sharon smelled the sour decay coming off of their bodies. Her stomach growled, it was the sound of a body putrefying from the inside out. The bright lights felt like a weight. She sat down on the cold linoleum. Mike glanced down at her, then looked back up.

In front of them a woman in a dirty bathrobe leaned on a cart full of kid food, bananas, yogurt, cereal, white bread. One child sat crying in the cart, two others, filthy and tearstained, held on to her robe.

“Mama!” One of the kids, a little girl in a Mini Mouse t-shirt, screamed. The woman looked down, her shoulders heaving in a sigh. “That lady is on the floor.”

The woman looked at Sharon, her eyes swam in dark, gibbous bags. “Do you know how hard it is to parent live children when you’re dead?”

“We have a dog,” Mike cut in.

“They’re growing up in a dead world with a dead momma,” the woman turned back to her cart and her hollow-eyed children.

The line moved forward. Sharon used the cart to climb her way back to vertical. Ahead of them the dead woman with live children was arguing with the cashier. The conversation faded in and out of focus.

“…dead.”

“…still have to…”

“…dead.”

The woman walked out without paying.

Mike and Sharon moved up to the register. It took both of them to maneuver the heavy bag of dog food onto the counter. The cashier was masked and gloved and kept spraying air freshener all around her.

“You get to be alive?” Sharon asked, quickly snatching one of her fingernails from the conveyor belt. They’d been falling out lately. The cashier rolled her eyes.

“You people are so infuriating. None of you are dead. You’re just idiots who really need a shower.”

Sharon held out the fingernail she’d lost. “See, I’m decaying.”

“You’re starving to death, you fucking moron.” She scanned the dogfood and slammed the barcode scanner down on the counter. “$47. 73, and if you try to skip out without paying I swear to Christ you will remember what the pain of being alive feels like.”

Mike paid. He had a pension, but he was sure he wasn’t supposed to continue receiving it after death. He’d tried calling the fund managers to report the error, but they weren’t answering calls. Probably they had all died.

A screech and the crunch of metal, undercut by the hiss of the air freshener can, interrupted Sharon taking the receipt and she let it flutter to the counter.

Under the bright sun a car had driven onto a parking median and hit a small tree, the horn was blaring and smoke billowed out from under the hood. The driver got out and stumbled away, no one stopped the dead man. On the pavement in front of the store, a crowd stood around a small body. The little girl who had pointed at Sharon inside, she’d been run down by the car. Blood pooled underneath her head. Her mother stood over her, silent, stone faced. Sharon watched as the crowd started to dissipate. She felt, something, a tickle in her chest. A tiny electrical impulse in her brain that sparked, but just as quickly fizzled.

“Do you remember where we parked?” Mike asked.

“That way I think.” Sharon pointed. As they passed, her mother picked the broken child up from the pavement. Blood spattered the grinning Mini Mouse on her t-shirt.

“At least she’s dead like the rest of us now, it’ll be easier for her,” she said as she put the child’s body in the shopping cart on top of the food.

“It’s for the best,” Sharon said.

The woman nodded. “For the best.”

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

If you’re in the mood for horror that buzzes with spooky energy and swarms with mysterious plant life, you won’t be able to get enough of ’s work. Stories, poems, and flash fiction spawn lush nightmare-scapes grounded in research and folklore (The ‘Lab’ series shines where plants are both inspiring and horrific. Take the African Violets, “a plant that can keep nightmares and wandering ghosts at bay if put under your pillow, or as a protection from hexes and witchcraft if carried on your person!”). Honeygloom’s horror doesn’t merely spring from scare-the-kids frights—instead, she carefully constructs a haunted atmosphere in which every vine and leaf looks to be harboring terrible secrets.

She’s also developed a fantastical universe, one involving Deadwater, the surreal California town that is ground zero for an ancient celestial war. This setting provides a balance of eco-horror with supernatural battles and haunted characters that will stick with you after you leave the pages.

For those who want to wander even deeper, her premium content includes the voice of an ancient forest witch whose sharp wit and dark tales will keep you coming back for seconds, along with a gnarly grimoire of plant-based black magic that is simultaneously real and horrific.

Whether you enjoy haunted towns, chilling short stories, or botanical nightmares, the lush, shadowy world of Honeygloom is one that readers will want to return to again and again. Subscribe to Honeygloom by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies, 29 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Moonlit trees swayed outside. Misshapen fingers created grotesque imitations of hands. They waved to residents who cowered, terrified of shadows, afraid of their own. The misunderstood deaf-mute in Room 392 was the nervous kind. Those intricate cityscapes flowing in black ink onto his whitewashed cell walls reflected hidden corners of a mind that had compartmentalised the traumas of his youth.

The man in the white coat stared in, wondering how someone could sit so still, crosslegged precisely in the centre of a concrete cell, yet produce such vivid animations. While the man watched, the shadowy arboreal fingers wiped left and right, trying but failing to erase the dystopian conurbations the artist had imagined into being.

Stormy nights were the worst.

Unfamiliar sounds heightened tensions. Inky black darkness and the stage lighting conjured by lightning or moonbeams lent a macabre edge to the unfolding story of the William Penright Asylum (for the criminally incurable). Like a Frank Miller comic book, images flashed then disappeared, a showreel for an institution brought to life as a horror-filled cartoon Sin City.

Stormy nights were the best.

For curious observers of oddballs, neurotics, perverts and killers, wild moonlit nights provided unlimited streaming, endless episodes starring those locked up for the protection of a society they had once terrorised.

Even those appointed seven long years ago to serve the aims of the Institute felt it. Nervousness, perhaps. A quiet unspoken fear. When he had first set foot in the place, there had been flutters, contradictory shivers of both fear and excitement, threat and opportunity.

The Gothic edifice set the stage, all creaks and groans, long echoing corridors that magnified the softest moans and loudest screams. It took hold of a man, such was its all-pervading malevolence. What was that lyric, way back in a life before this one. “You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave”. He pulled the white coat tighter knowing he’d be stuck with that tune all night, whatever unfolded, his head filled with easy listening and twelve string guitar, accompaniment for the chorus of voices.

Those damn voices.

Soundlessly, he moved through the central corridor into the recreation area. While he considered the games people played, he took in his surroundings, as if with fresh eyes. Who had let that noticeboard get into such a state? Out of date announcements for coffee morning readings about the latest research. Stupid titles by trendy unqualified writers. ‘Bi-Polar Expeditions’ by Scott and Amundsen. Ha, good one, he’d still got it. Seven years and they’d not taken everything. The wit was still there, the words still sharp. But that cork board pissed him off. Scrappy thoughts on cheap paper, homilies for no one in particular next to long-winded Health & Safety notices that no one read. Ass-covering tokenism. God, it was tiresome. Someone should torch the place. Don’t think he hadn’t thought of it. He’d thought a whole bunch of stuff. But he wasn’t paid to think so he kept it inside, buried deep.

You didn’t need posters on staff notice boards to know the responses. Observe it often enough and it got drilled into you. Not drilling like the new guy in Room 347. He’d made his victims watch while he practiced bone-crunching DIY skills on their fragile bodies, his bright crimson ear defenders shutting out their pitiful reactions while he created blood-soaked tableaus.

No, actual drills. The order of things. Procedures to be followed ‘in the event of’. If you spent enough time at the Penright you’d know how much time you had. How long it took to make the call. You’d factor in the 20-minute drive and add seven for kitting up. You would ignore tannoyed warnings by a corpulent donut-muncher in Control, his voice cracking as the mayhem unfolded through a reinforced glass observation window.

Get your timings right, and don’t get caught up in it.

You had to know your stuff if a situation unfolded.

Remember you’re gonna be locked in with all the crazies. Watch your back for the clever ones. Patients here could pass for physicians. Knowledge picked up, obsessive brains archiving the details. Put a white coat on them and it would be impossible to distinguish the madman from the Masters student, the doctor from the deviant.

The clock was ticking.

He’d started his personal countdown eighteen minutes ago. He could hear the mayhem and surprisingly the sounds thrilled him. The rage and the fear, the executioners and the victims, the strong, the weak. By the time they’d kitted up and accounted for everyone, dead or alive, he would be found in a cell, shaken, disturbed, a sane man locked down in the madhouse. He would appear as victim, not perpetrator. Dressed in a bloodied white coat, he would be a medical man to be rescued, not the nightmare patient he had been for the past seven years. It would be the performance of his life.

Four minutes, three … he started to scream. Curtain up.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

Barrie Thomson and JoJo Thomson co-founded Feasts and Fables, an inviting website for adventurous spirits who cherish travel, delicious food, and meaningful connections. Their creative endeavors also include Encourage Meant and Just Write, Right, which help grow community and provide enriching resources for all seeking inspiration and support.

Just Write, Right resonates with those who love genuine storytelling. It’s a lively challenge that inspires Barrie to write fiction daily, embracing personal growth and authenticity rather than striving for perfection. Fans of heartfelt, evolving stories will find it truly inspiring.

Born from the warm, cozy heart of their beloved coffee shop and delicatessen in rural mid-Wales, Encourage Meant radiates kindness, support, and inspiration. Through monthly prompts, JoJo and Barrie foster joy, self-improvement, and a sense of community. The Encouragement Manifesto beautifully emphasizes encouragement as a superpower.

Whether you’re looking for fresh ideas, motivation, or meaningful connections, these lively spaces feel welcoming and full of possibility. Subscribe to Feasts and Fables by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  Dead Undead, 25 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

“I brought you here to kill you.”

James looked curiously at the girl sitting next to him.

He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d heard. His heart was still thundering in his ears, blood racing through his veins, making his body thrum like a freshly played guitar string.

They’d been making out on this rickety old bench, with its peeling green paint and crumbling supports, for a while now. It was perched precariously on a grassy knoll at the top of one of the steep, tree lined streets in Glasgow’s west end.

Darkness had enveloped them.

It was late.

The rest of the world seemed to have taken on a strange consistency. Like it was a thin, distant mirage and the two of them existed in a universe of their own creation. Free from everyone else.

His thoughts were muffled and confused. What was her name again?

Breathing out slowly, he tried to clear his mind.

He had been at university for just over a month. It had taken a few weeks to find his feet, but James was a personable lad and soon made friends both in his course, and the wider community. His group had been in the midst of a raucous evenings at the student union, where they regularly gathered to pickle their livers and put the world to rights, when someone had pulled a poster from the bulletin board.

“Fancy dress Halloween party! We gotta go to this!”

And so it was they ended up traipsing up Byers Road dressed as musicians, gangsters and movie stars.

Not one of them a monster, ghoul or ghost.

Everyone else seemed to have got the same memo on costumes.

Except her.

That’s why she caught his eye.

She stood tall in a long black dress that highlighted her pale, unblemished skin. A sparkling ruby red choker was around her neck. Dark, curled tresses tumbled over her shoulders and framed smoky eyes that watched carefully as he walked over, without waiting for an introduction.

“You look incredible.”

Her ruby red lips curled into a smile over sharp teeth. “Thank you, James.”

Wait, did he know her?

She looked about the same age as him, but it was hard to tell. Was she in his year? His mind was already racing to catch up with his actions. He was never normally this forward.

They ended up talking for hours about the important and vital things that only seem to matter when you are young and still have hope for the world. Then, when she asked him if he wanted to take a walk, he didn’t hesitate.

And so he found himself in the middle of the night, next to a beautiful girl whilst dressed as Indiana Jones, trying to figure out why it was, the longer he sat next to her, the more unsure he felt.

They kissed again and he tasted fruit, smoke and something much deeper and full. His worries fled and he looked into her eyes again, completely smitten.

“You know I saw my family being murdered.”

The statement was so sudden and blunt that James lurched back in shock.

“What?! That’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

“He kept me alive long enough to watch. Saved me for last.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated lamely.

James was flailing, as he tried to grasp on to what he was being told. He wished his teenage mind could conjure more comforting words to ease her terrible sorrow, but he’d had too many beers, and nothing seemed enough.

And yet a question was itching at the back of his mind, if he could just find the clarity to ask it.

“It was a long time ago,” she sighed. “I made sure he paid for his crimes.”

She made a strange low growling noise at the back of her throat.

“What …?” James asked. Fear beginning to outweigh all other emotions.

She leaned in close to him.

“Where do you think we go when we die, James?”

The night sky and its millions of stars shimmered above, reflecting the dazzling city sprawled out before him, like a painted reflection of its celestial magnificence.

“I was raised a Catholic,” he began uncertainly. “Now I’m not sure anymore. Hopefully we see the people we’ve lost again. I hope so, but …”

His words trailed off. He looked at the girl sitting next to him and shuddered. Her hooded eyes glinted yellow in the jaundiced street lights, as a blood tear rolled down her porcelain cheek.

Then he finally understood her earlier words, and knew death was coming for him.

“I’ve got to go.”

He frantically tried to rise but his legs were pinned to the bench.

The growl came again. This time more guttural and hungry.

“I wonder …” she muttered huskily.

Her face was changing. Skin bulging and stretching. The jaw snapped and crunched, becoming elongated and angular. James tried to move, heart racing in terror, but his body was still fixed in place. He would witness this unfolding horror before the end came.

“I need you to see, James. See what happened to me and not let it happen to others. They must be stopped. I have chosen you. Do you accept this burden?”

“What? Who?” he whispered.

“Hold my hand.”

Her voice broke on the last word. He wrapped her ice cold fingers in his warm, shaking palm and did as he was told.

Long, sharp serrated teeth, like bleached white razor blades, pierced her gums, flesh tearing open, yet no blood came from the wounds. Goblets of flesh splattered wetly onto the bench between them as her mouth became a glistening, gore drenched maw of death.

James felt his mind start to break as it struggled to comprehend this monster in front of him.

It leaned forward, eyes now slits set deep in a narrow canine shaped skull. No longer human. Something foul and ancient and evil. A red, forked tongue slithered out and caressed his neck.

“Yessss,” the creature whispered.

Suddenly it scrambled back with a shriek.

He looked to the horizon and saw the first glimmers of dawn break over the city.

The creature tried to pull away, but it’s hand still held tightly onto his. Two souls fighting for supremacy in one host.

As the sun continued to climb, filling the sky with its golden radiance, there was another shriek of pain and James saw that the monster was shrivelling back, its face becoming human once more.

Its body convulsed with a hacking, spewing cough, and puked out a long, black slug like creature with straggly white veins running through its slimy body, onto the grass. As soon as the sunlight touched it, the thing burst apart with a pathetic high pitched squeal, and exploded in a wet plop of puss and blood.

The girl let out a shuddering sigh, and James was stunned to realise he was still holding her hand.

Her skin was even paler. Almost translucent.

“You saw?” she gasped and he could only nod. She removed her hand from his and he noticed that her choker was lying in his palm. “This shows you when they’re near. I’m tired of being their killer. I’ve fought it so long. It’s up to you now, James.”

Tears came to his eyes and he shook his head.

“I don’t know …” he began.

“My name was Rose.” The words were faint. Her skin started to glow in the red of the early morning light. “Find them. Hunt them. Avenge us.”

As the last words left her lips, the sun fully crested over the hill and set her body aflame.

James scrambled off the bench and stood watching as the fire consumed what had once been, many centuries before, a teenage girl, and yet now was also a monster straight out of his nightmares. She didn’t scream or cry out, but instead let the all consuming inferno take her, with a calm look of relief, her eyes never leaving his.

The swirling orange embers floated up and away, towards the brightening sky, taken on a never ending autumn breeze to dance and be free amongst the wonders of this world.

To be at peace.

And then it was over.

No mark was left on the wood of the horror and magic that had happened there.

Just a young man, standing with an ache in his heart, and deep fear in his soul.

Face turned to the blue sky, he let out a breath he had been holding for too long. The plume of air misted in the cold, like he was expelling part of what he had once been, and drifted solemnly away.

Then heat began to radiate from his hand. He opened his clenched fist, staring down at the scarlet gem lying in his palm.

It was glowing with a bright, desperate light.

James looked to the sprawling city he had once trusted, as it crouched menacingly below, and nodded.

His fingers closed over the jewel.

He knew what he had to do.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author's Note

is a passionate short fiction writer who discovered his love for storytelling when he was just twelve years old! He has a knack for crafting captivating microfiction, spinning tales that range from 50 to 100 words, often with a delightful, eerie twist—perfect for curling up by the fireplace on those chilly nights. Daniel is also a huge fan of sci-fi and fantasy.

Besides his stories, Daniel shares essays about TV shows, movies, and books on his Substack, Dans Deliberations. He also takes every opportunity to say why his all-time favorite film is John Carpenter's classic, The Thing. In 2024, he was honored as the Most Valued Writer from Top in Fiction, which is pretty exciting! So, come join Daniel on his adventures through the weird, bizarre, and uncanny worlds of storytelling and entertainment! Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by Barrie Thomson of :

  Seven Year Itch, 22 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Suzie Carter drove her Ford Fiesta down the dark, deserted road, peering through the windshield as the wipers tried to clear the relentless rain.

‘In other news,’ the radio presenter said. ‘A dangerous patient has escaped from Woodland Falls Psychiatric Hospital…,’ Suzie switched to a classical music station.

As the sounds of music from long dead composers washed over her, static blared out of the radio. Cursing, Suzie leaned over the dashboard, trying to change the radio station. She had only taken her eyes off the road for a moment, but that was enough.

The man seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Suzie screamed and slammed on her brakes as the car struck him. He rolled off the front of the car and fell out of view.

For a long moment Suzie sat there, her heavy breathing, the only sound in the small interior of the car.

Suddenly the music blasted out of the radio speakers as the signal came back, causing Suzie to scream again. It was a heavy metal song about demons and death. She hated heavy metal. As screaming electric guitars assaulted Suzie’s ears, she silenced it with a violent twist of the knob.

Suzie tried to fool herself that it was a deer she’d hit. But unless it walked on two legs, it was a man she’d struck. She told herself to ‘pull herself together’ and see how bad the man was.

Suzie got out and the rain struck, flattening blonde hair to scalp. With trepidation she rounded the front of the car to see a figure of a man, lying prone in the road.

Suzie reached towards the man and touched his sodden back. The man groaned, Suzie pulled her hand away, as if it had been burned. She held in another scream.

The man rolled over and looked up at her. In the harsh glare of the head lights Suzie guessed he was in his late twenties, like her, and was quite handsome in that rugged, outdoor kind of way.

‘Shit woman, didn’t you see me?’

‘Sorry, no, you ran out in front of me. Are you okay?’

The man slowly sat up and did an internal check.

‘Don’t think any bones are broken. No harm, no foul,’ he said.

‘What you doing out here anyway?’

‘My car broke down a couple miles back. Can you take me to Rockwell Ford?’

Suzie paused. The man must have seen the hesitation in her face.

‘Don’t worry; I’m not a mad axe murderer. The name’s Josh, Josh Murphy.’ He stuck out his hand. Suzie shook it limply.

‘Suzie Carter. Yes, of course, let’s get you out of this rain.’

‘So what’s a nice girl like you doing out here alone on Halloween?’ Josh said as he leaned back in the car seat. Josh could see the swell of her breasts under the wet shirt that looked a little too small and old for her. What a tease, he thought.

Suzie didn’t like the way his eyes scanned her ample chest and subconsciously pulled her coat tighter around her.

‘I’m driving home from a business conference,’ she said.

‘Where’s home?’

‘Near.’

Josh smiled. She was playing hard to get but he was sure he’d have her eating out of his hand or something else by the end of the night.

They rode in relative silence and Suzie was pleased when the country road finally led into a small town. The houses and shops on the main street were cloaked in Halloween decorations; skeletons, vampires and other horror monsters looked out of windows, smiling insanely. A few brave Trick or Treaters were on the streets, heading home, soaking wet.

As they approached a gas station Josh asked if they could pull over.

‘Need some cigarettes and gum,’ he said.

Suzie watched as he ran to the gas station.

Josh found a small shelter at the back of the gas station, lighting a cigarette. He’d had an argument with the stupid gas attendant and now needed to charm down. Composed now after his smoke, Josh ran back to the car. It was locked. He looked through the side window—empty.

As he looked across the forecourt he saw Suzie running back to the car.

‘Sorry,’ she said, blushing. ‘Bathroom.’

Soon they were back on the road.

Detective Felts looked at the murder scene and shook his head. Blood moon on Halloween and all the crazies come out.

He watched with cold detachment as the medical examiner conducted his grim work. The gas station attendant lay on his back, behind the counter; a metal baseball bat had been used to cave his head in, before the end of the bat had been rudely shoved into his mouth. It stood up out of the bloody, smashed maw like a giant, aluminium penis.

‘I’ve seen the tape it’s definitely the escaped patient—used the poor guy’s own bat,’ Felts said.

‘Looks like some of his brain’s been eaten,’ the MD said, leaning in closer to the smashed head. ‘There’s a lot of rage here.’

Felts looked up and saw blood and brain matter on the ceiling.

‘No shit.’

‘Do you mind if I put the radio on?’ Josh asked.

Suzie shook her head.

Josh found a station that was playing Halloween themed music. Suzie gripped the steering wheel until her knuckles turned white. They had left the oasis of civilisation and were back in the woods.

The music was interrupted.

‘We interrupt this broadcast to announce that the patient who escaped Woodland Falls Psychiatric Hospital earlier tonight has killed a…’

Josh turned the radio off.

‘Why did you do that?’ Suzie asked.

‘That’s just the next town over. It gives me the chills.’

‘Oh, my God, it’s you. You’re the killer.’

‘What? Don’t talk shit.’

‘Please don’t hurt me.’

The car skidded across the wet road as Suzie panicked. The front wheel hit a pot hole, bursting the tire.

The car shuddered to a halt.

‘Like I’ve already told you, I’m not a mad axe murderer. Now pop that fucking trunk, so I can change the tire and get the fuck out of here.’

‘No.’

‘Now pop that fucking trunk or I’ll pop you,’ he raised a fist.

‘Okay.’

Josh got out of the car and opened the trunk.

The body of a dead woman lay there. Josh focused on the corpse, taking in the details. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed only in underwear. A plastic lanyard from a business conference wrapped tightly around her neck, dead eyes bulging, and tongue sticking out of her twisted mouth.

A pair of scrubs lay beside the body, the legend, ‘Woodland Falls Psychiatric Hospital,’ emblazoned across its back, in black stencil.

As Josh backed away, a pain erupted in his head. He slowly turned as blood trickled down his face, mixing with the rain. In the moonlight the blood looked black. He had time to see Suzie smile before she swung the tire iron once more.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

is a storyteller who transports us through the darkest parts of humanity and the strange, eerie unknown. With a skilled touch for weaving suspense, horror, and crime, he creates stories that grab your attention from the very first sentence and keep you hooked right to the end. His talent for blending atmospheric tension with complex characters and twists you don’t see coming shows a keen sense of the darker side of storytelling.

On his Substack, Jason Duck—A Writer’s Journey, he delves into the macabre with a close eye for detail. His love of dark genres comes through on every page, making him a compelling voice for fans of the shadowy and sinister. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  Day Dreaming, 18 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

“Do we have to be here?” inquired Veronica Evans as they carefully picked their way through the foggy graveyard on a dark night.

Seth Geist searched among the headstones to get his bearings. “I thought it would be better to take a shortcut back to your house rather than walking all the way around the cemetery.”

“Normally I would agree with you but on Halloween night it’s probably not a good idea.”

Seth stopped short and looked at Veronica “Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“Normally they don’t bother me. On Halloween night the graveyard is not the best place to be. The boundary between the living and the dead is the thinnest. With the full moon trying to shine through the fog I am a bit uncomfortable.”

Seth put his arm around Veronica. “I’ll protect you!”

“Who is going to protect you?”

“I don’t need protection.”

Crack!

“What was that?” queried Seth with a touch of nervousness.

“The door on the Pedlar Vault cracked open.”

“How do you know that?”

“I walk through here all the time. I’ve got my bearings.”

Snap.

“What was that?” Seth asked.

Veronica looked over her shoulder. “Someone stepped on a branch.”

“Who’s there?” stuttered Seth. Receiving no answer he took hold of Veronica’s hand and began pulling her along the road.

Thud!

Seth sped up a bit causing him to let go of Veronica’s hand and cross between the headstones quickly.

“Ahhhhh,” thump.

“Seth,” called Veronica.”Seth. This isn’t funny.” She peered around in the dark spotting a mound of soil. She walked over to the prepared grave and looked down. Seth lay face down at the bottom of the grave. “Seth?” she inquired softly.

“Who goes there?” a voice called out in the night.

Veronica froze and searched the fog for the voice. Slowly a gigantic figure appeared. “It’s my boyfriend. He is down in the grave.” she called out.

“Grave robbing is he?” inquired the giant.

Mortified Veronica responded. “He is not! He fell in while running away.”

“What was he running away from?”

“Ghosts, noises, Halloween jitters. Look, he needs help getting out of there.”

The giant picked up a branch and prodded Seth. “Hey you. Boy.” Seth did not respond. “Oy. We got a problem here. Is he human?”

“Of course he is human,” replied an indignant Veronica. “What else would he be?”

“Here comes the help,” he said as he turned towards the candles that began filtering into the cemetery.

“”It’s All Saints Eve!”

“Aye and I might be going now,” replied the giant as he slipped between the trees. Veronica gaped at him before turning towards the candles.

“Over here,” she called. Soon the All Saints Eve revelers were inquiring about her presence. She explained about Seth. They held their candles high as they looked into the grave.

“You were here with your boyfriend?” inquired one person.

“Yes.” She couldn’t bring herself to tell them they were only a couple of dates into their time together. “He is face down in the grave.”

“Nae. There is no one there,” came the reply.

Veronica stepped forward and looked down. The grave was empty.

Utterly bewildered Veronica took a few steps back, looking around wildly not believing her own eyes. The All Saint’s Eve procession continued on its way along the cemetery roads. As their lights and voices faded a voice spoke from behind her causing Veronica to jump.

“Tis better they are on their way. Now we can get down to business.”

Veronica turned and faced the giant. Much to her shock Seth stood beside the giant pale in the moonlight.

“That was a close one,” said Seth.

“How did you get out of the grave?” she said, her voice becoming more angry with each word.

Seth looked at the giant. “She doesn’t get it,” he said as he rose from the ground.

“No school. No family. You didn't want to meet my family or friends.” she backed up onto the road.

“Yes.”

“Boo,” she said as candles were lit around her.

“It’s now All Saints Day,” a voice boomed. “Spirits begone!”

Seth and the giant stood looking horrified before they slowly vanished.

Veronica could see more as the lights gathered close around her. She walked with them back to the main road wondering how she didn’t see Seth for what he was. Maybe taking a short cut through the cemetery wasn't a good idea. Veronica stopped up short. “Why didn't I see it before? Geist - ghost. I really need to pay closer attention.”

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author's Note

’s writings at Observations in Time give us a wonderful look into the human experience. With his thoughtful choice of words, he captures the charm of everyday life—those little moments and interactions that truly shape who we are. He has a special way of crafting endings that linger in your mind, encouraging you to ponder long after you’ve read a story. His stories gently invite us to reflect on our own lives and the world around us. Each piece serves as a lovely reminder of the beauty and complexity we all have in common. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  Blood Moon on Halloween, 15 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Five weeks had passed before Gray could bring himself to resume his daily ritual of walking the trails of Miller’s Grove, so named for its proximity to the old Miller farm. Without the encouragement he had gotten from his wife to walk today, Gray might still be sitting at his writing desk staring at a blank screen, trying to will his fingers to start typing.

He finished pulling on his walking boots, then looked reflexively at the newel post at the base of the bannister, spotting Luna’s bright red collar hanging there in its usual place, a reminder that he would be walking alone today.

He inhaled sharply; his sinuses filled and his eyes began to burn. He paused for a moment to collect himself, then he grabbed a light jacket and called out to his wife, “Ok Grace, I’ll be back in a while,” before exiting the house, Grace’s reply trailing behind him as the storm door slammed shut.

Gray set out on the tenth-of-a-mile walk through the woods of his own property, which adjoined Miller’s farm. As he approached the clearing that led to the Grove he could see a light fog forming over one of the farm’s fields—an apt metaphor, he felt, for the fog in his own head, the inevitable residue of too much scotch the night before.

It was late-afternoon, and the weak sunlight was already fading. Gray knew he didn’t have time for his usual hour-long walk before darkness set in, and he wanted to get home in time to help Grace with the trick-or-treaters, the first of whom would probably be arriving a little before sunset. So he quickened his pace in order to cover more ground in the limited time he had.

Entering the grove, Gray trudged through a blanket of brown, dead leaves—brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow just a couple of weeks ago, they now crinkled and crunched under the weight of his boots. The faint odor of a wood fire hung in the air.

As painful as it still was to think about Luna, Gray allowed himself to recall their times in these woods. Luna would have loved it out here today, Gray thought. He could see her large black frame twenty feet ahead, pausing occasionally to bury her snout in a pile of leaves, huffing, then looking back to make sure Gray was still there before forging ahead again.

These fond memories, still so fresh, quickly gave way to the ritual second guessing that had plagued him for the last five weeks. His mood darkened and he felt the burning behind his eyes again.

It was hard to accept the sudden loss of Luna, Gray’s constant and loyal companion of eleven years. Her absence alone left him feeling empty, but what was harder was the dreadful feeling of moving on to a life without her, which felt like forgetting.

The choice had been uncomplicated—the inoperable tumor was bleeding into her belly; the animal was in pain and the tumor could rupture catastrophically at any minute. This was all laid out in clinical efficiency. Gray and Grace were in a box. The decision tree pointed to one horrible choice—euthanasia as quickly as possible. Gray and Grace were grateful that their vet had agreed to make a house call on the following day to euthanize Luna.

The fact that this was the least evil among evil choices didn’t make it any easier, and when the vet made the final push of the plunger on the syringe, Gray felt the massive weight of the decision crashing down on him—the bond and trust that had been forged between Luna, Gray, and Grace and reinforced daily for eleven years was shattered in what felt to Gray like a final act of betrayal.

The life in Luna’s eyes faded and her tongue slipped out of her mouth. Gray and Grace both let out involuntary yelps, followed by sobbing, then soothing words whispered in the ears of their dear departed pet. For five weeks Gray had been replaying this scene and the terrible calculus that led to the inevitable result.

Lost in this maze of sorrow, grief, and self-pity, Gray hadn’t even noticed that he had turned around and was headed back home. It was then that he was jolted from his brooding by the rustling of leaves and the hurried scampering of feet over the forest floor about fifty feet away toward the interior of the woods.

This startled Gray and he could feel his pulse quicken. It was too dark now in the woods to make anything out visually, but Gray heard the quickening footsteps cross his path and then move toward the clearing. Suddenly the noises stopped. Silence.

Then, just as suddenly, a few moments later and fifty yards away in the clearing Gray made out several small, ghostlike figures streaking across the field in the fading light, then laughing and shrieking.

“Halloween!” Gray laughed out loud.

Gray emerged from the woods as darkness was falling. He made his way to the front door and spotted the candy bowl on the bench in the foyer as he entered.

Grace emerged from the kitchen and greeted Gray, “Hi hon.”

“I’m back.”

“Good walk?”

“Yeah. Nice. Quiet. Trick or treaters?”

“A half dozen or so.”

“Looks like I’ll have something for dessert!” Gray said, trying to sound cheerful.

By 7 o’clock the last of the trick-or-treaters had left, and Grace turned out the porch light and returned the candy bowl to the kitchen.

By now Gray was into his third scotch, but they were heavy pours and he fell into a deep sleep on the couch in less than an hour without having eaten.

He dreamt of his walk in the woods and the fog covering the field at Miller’s farm. A black dog wearing a red collar sat in the middle of the field, looking back at Gray.

The dog gave two barks, rose to its feet, then started to walk slowly away from Gray, giving one glance back at him before continuing. Gray pursued. Walking at first, then breaking into a full out run. But the faster he ran, the harder it was to see the dog through the fog.

He called out, “Luna! Luna!” Then burst into tears as the fog lifted and there was no sign of the dog in any direction.

It was nearly midnight when he was startled awake by the sound of scratching on the storm door. Two scratches, pause, then two more. Then silence.

Gray sat up suddenly, apprehensive, trying to separate dream from reality. He was sure that the scratches at the door were not part of his dream. But who would be at the door now?

“Trick-or-treaters?” he muttered, still trying to shake the cobwebs from his head. He looked at his watch—11:50 pm. Sometimes the older kids came around late on Halloween, but never this late.

He turned on the hall light and made his way cautiously to the door. He stopped when his eyes came to the newel post and he didn’t see Luna’s collar. He knew he’d seen it early in the evening. Goose bumps rose from the skin on his arms.

He flipped on the porch light and looked out, half expecting to see the McGarry twins from next door—fun loving practical jokers, Gray thought they might be pulling a trick. He scanned the front yard, looking for unfurled toilet paper or broken eggs spattered on his car in the driveway. Nothing. The neighboring houses were quiet and dark, no sign of anything or anyone.

Gray was shivering slightly. He slipped on his boots, opened the door, and stepped out onto the porch.

Looking to his left he was startled to see Luna’s collar on the porch, sitting on top of a piece a paper that had been folded in half.

His heart quickened and he felt a rush of adrenaline. He looked around again and saw nothing, heard nothing.

Gray bent down and picked up the collar and the piece of paper. He unfolded the paper and read the note, written in what looked like a child’s scribble.

“Hi. I found this collar with your address on the tag in Miller’s Grove earlier tonight and thought you might want it back. I hope you didn’t lose your dog. Happy Halloween.”

Fighting back tears, Gray remained on the porch for several minutes.

He went back inside, turned out the porch light, then replaced Luna’s collar on the newel post before smiling and ascending the stairs.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author’s Note

D. Mann occasionally writes stories and loves discussing mathematics and philosophy. His stories are genuine and grounded in real-life experiences, as he shows in his story, Barbecue. He also has a knack for capturing the little, heartfelt moments that make our connections with pets so special. He currently does not have a Substack, but from time to time talks about starting one that deals with current events.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  A Dark and Dreary Night, 11 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

The Town Council Meeting was called to order.

“This oughta be good,” Ted nudged his wife. Their kids long grown, they didn’t have a dog in the fight. Per se.

“Never understood the fuss about Halloween,” answered Jan. “It’s become near as big as Christmas. Doesn’t move me at all.”

“No?”

“I don’t scare easily, I guess.”

“It’s good for the kids.”

“Yup.”

The Chairwoman ascended the podium and began her opening statement.

“The last thing we need in our country today is socialist witchcraft. This so-called holiday of Halloween is both. Accordingly, this year and henceforth there will be no ‘trick-or treating’ permitted within town limits.”

There resulted understandable hubbub.

The speaker lowered the gavel with force enough to paint the walls with anything in its landing zone.

“This ban is nothing new. We have longstanding regulations on the books against loitering, trespassing, and panhandling. What else is this than that?”

“Your grandkids?” asked a plucky observer.

“Will be at a private event. This is no occasion for implicit government sponsorship. We need to teach capitalism. Get up and go. Not asking for handouts.”

One beleaguered mother stood. “But I’ve already bought the kids buckets and costumes.”

The Chair was ready. “Ugh. Haven’t we been through the whole mask thing already. We can’t have citizen identities obscured, putting at risk the sanctity of our precious institutions, like voting.”

“They’re seven and nine.”

Another concerned voter tried a different angle. “When you retired from your job, didn’t you get some free gifts! ‘Handouts’, in your parlance?”

The only reply a look of utter confusion. She’d never had a paying job to retire from, nor the need.

She steered the proceedings towards a close with her concluding, in her mind conclusive, argument. “It’s also devil worship.”

That produced a hive of response.

“The virtue of giving freely is all over the Bible, it’s expressly encouraged. Demanded even.”

From another precinct, “And manna from heaven. Joyfully received. Unearned.”

“And costumes. Tamar disguised as a prostitute,” offered a pious parent unhelpfully.

At which point the audience microphone seemed to flicker and fade.

Then a hush fell over the boisterous crowd as all eyes turned to one of the attendees. A young lad clad in last year’s Spider-Man costume, a bit tight around the chest and frayed at the cuffs.

The small child strode to the podium. With purpose. Handed over a sparkly silver wrapped confection.

“Who doesn’t like candy,” ventured Jan, hoping an icebreaker had emerged. “That’ll soften her heart.”

Ted was born at night, but on a night 74 years ago. So he’d accumulated enough callus to recognize an unsinkable iceberg when he saw one. “Bet you a dollar,” was all he said.

The Chairwoman flipped over the treat. Read its wrapper. “Switzerland,” she sniffed. Placed it on the lectern. “Now this is exactly the kind of thing I’ve been talking about. Fostering a negative trade imbalance with a nation of cowardly bystanders. Think of our long-suffering cocoa farmers in Kansas.”

Jan handed a crisp bill to her husband.

She spoke first. “I stand corrected. Now that’s scary.”

The tot retreated empty handed. Confused.

With that, the Chairwoman adjourned the meeting with a thwack of her hammer.

As she left the dais, she pocketed the sweet.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author's Note

’s work has appeared in Trash Cat Lit, Shotgun Honey, Punk Noir, 10 by 10 Flash, Flash Fiction Magazine, and many more. Flash fiction is his preferred medium, stories of roughly 500-1000 words. Scott posts at least one new story a week at his Substack, Son of Ugly. Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by D. Mann:

  Homecoming, 8 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Luke’s black Lexus glided into a spot near the far end of the grocery store parking lot. Though the sun still shone overhead, black clouds loomed to the north, swelling with malice. Luke almost imagined he was hearing far-off whisperings.

We’re coming for you … don’t think we’re not.

Lucy interrupted his eerie trance. “You think we can finish shopping before the storm hits?”

His wife's words brought Luke back to his senses. “We should be fine.” Then he mussed his son’s curly hair. “And even if we run out of time, rain’s no big deal, right?”

“Puddles!” Logan shouted.

Laura, 7 going on 17, gave 3-year-old Logan a withering look. “You love puddles, but you’re scared to death of thunder, remember?”

Logan’s excitement faded.

“Thanks for reminding him, Laura,” her dad scolded, but then Luke softened his tone. “Come on, crew. The Four L’s have a mission—stock up on Halloween candy before the locals strip the shelves clean.”

“Yay!” Laura and Logan cheered, both their moods improving with a speed only kids could muster.

Laura took her brother’s hand and guided him through the parking lot toward the sliding doors. Almost without thinking, Luke reached for his wife’s hand. At first he couldn’t find it, as if Lucy was avoiding his embrace, but then it was there, soft and warm. The four of them slipped inside, turned toward the produce department—and stopped short. A towering wall of Halloween candy blocked their way. The store sure knew how to hook its shoppers. The display overflowed with Snickers, Milky Ways, Reese’s, and M&Ms. Enough sugar to raise spirits and rattle nerves.

Off to the side, there was a smaller section with its own bold sign: SPOOKY. Whoever set this up had a wry sense of humor. These shelves offered severed fingers, wax lips and fangs, and blood-red gumballs that burst when you bit down. Of course, Laura and Logan’s eyes locked on the SPOOKY display. But their mommy stepped in before they could grab anything.

“No spooky stuff,” Lucy said. “But you can choose from any of the rest. I’d rather have candy that everyone can enjoy.”

The kids started to protest, but a sudden boom froze them mid-complaint. As the storm announced its arrival, the store lights flickered off, then back on. Luke sighed. It looked like they’d all be getting wet before this trip was over. Then again, since he was usually the one who had to run out to the car, it was more likely only he’d get drenched. Maybe he’d drive away and leave the three of them standing there, wondering where he’d gone. But he cast that wicked thought aside with a shake of his head—and returned to reality.

Luke and Lucy let each child choose not two but three bags of regular candy. Their neighborhood attracted about thirty kids on a typical Halloween night, so there’d be plenty leftover to enlarge Lucy’s bottom and Luke’s belly.

After marking candy off the list, they headed to the produce department. All they needed there was cabbage and onions. Out of the corner of her eye, Lucy spotted Laura sinking her teeth into a Granny Smith apple. She scolded her daughter sharply, but Luke only shrugged. “At least it was an apple and not a severed finger.”

On they went past the deli and cheeses before making a sharp turn into the bread and cracker aisle, where they added hamburger buns, Triscuits, and corn chips to their candy-laden cart. They then took a U-turn into the next aisle just as another blast of thunder struck hard, startling all four of them. The lights flickered again, only this time the store went dim for several ominous seconds. There was something about the thunder that frightened Luke more than it should have, making him feel a bit dizzy and disoriented. He turned to Lucy for support, but her smile was frozen, and she stared at something he couldn’t see.

The strange moment passed. Luke and Lucy steered the kids toward the freezer aisle, but the store’s persistent hum still felt different. Another low rumble of thunder shook the building, causing Luke to shiver. He glanced around—and froze. Laura and Logan were gone. Not hiding, not lost, simply nowhere. As if to further cement his unease, a can of soup toppled from a nearby shelf and clattered to the floor, though no one had appeared to touch it.

Luke’s vision blurred, and the fluorescent lights only made it worse. The aisles seemed to shift in ways his eyes couldn’t follow, filling him with an uneasy dread. He held Lucy’s hand even tighter. It was the only thing that felt real.

Memories of laughter, names, and small moments flickered through his mind—and then it all faded. Everything that had once felt familiar was now foreign, as if the store had slipped into an otherworldly dimension. Luke blinked, trying to steady himself, but the sense of loss clung to him like dried blood. Fear crept up his spine. He took a shaky breath and stepped forward, every nerve on edge. But he couldn’t deny the obvious. His children were gone. And worse than that, he couldn’t remember their names.

Luke’s stomach clenched. He tried to call for his children, but his words stuck in his throat. Faces blurred, laughter drained away. By the time he reached the racks of wine, even Lucy’s hand had slipped from his memory. He clung to the thought that she had been real, that they all had been real. But the harder he grasped, the more the illusion crumbled. There was no wife. No children. Never had been. Just him—a man who had long ago traded family dinners for bottles of cheap wine and whose dreams had quietly died along the way.

An old woman wrinkled her nose at him, and suddenly it all made sense. Who would want to marry him? He had lived alone his entire adult life—no girlfriends, no friends, nothing. Hygiene was no longer a priority. It was easier to go home to the clutter and the stench, to drink until he blacked out, to pretend none of it mattered.

The checkout line dragged on forever. With each passing second, the storm outside grew more intense. By the time he wheeled his cart into the parking lot, the sky had erupted. Luke struggled to the back of the lot, where his rickety car waited like a weary minion. He scrambled to unload the groceries as fast as he could.

It took three turns of the key to start the engine. The old vehicle groaned, then eased forward. Rain hammered the windshield as Luke drove onto the main road. The wipers squeaked and scraped across the fogged glass, struggling to keep up. He could barely see anything. It felt as if the whole world was crying.

Luke drove slowly into the maw of the howling maelstrom, disappearing into a bitter darkness of his own making.

Halloween Guest Author Series

Halloween Candy | Spooky Season | Homecoming | A Dark and Dreary Night | Blood Moon on Halloween | Day Dreaming | Seven Year Itch | Dead Undead | Spoiler: Mr. D.B. Dies | The Night Maples Talked

Author's Note

is a talented novelist and writer focusing on epic and dark fantasy. His gripping series, The Death Wizard Chronicles, aimed at mature audiences, spans three volumes and has won an impressive 7 major awards. His epic fantasy trilogy, Dark Circles, for readers of all ages, has garnered 14 literary awards, including being recognized as a double finalist in the 21st Annual Best Book Awards.

In addition to his fantasy works, Jim enjoys exploring a variety of themes in both fiction and non-fiction. If you're curious about his creative journey, be sure to check out his Substack newsletter, Jim Melvin’s Realm of Fantasy. He shares a captivating, multipart series that reflects on over fifty years of his experiences as an aspiring novelist, filled with the ups and downs of pursuing his dream. It's a great read for anyone who loves storytelling! Subscribe to his Substack by clicking the button near the end of this page.

Upcoming…

• A story by :

  Spooky Season, 4 October 2025

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

With a full heart, I tell you of the passing of a dear friend’s father and my friend, Herb Horowitz, PhD. A clinical psychologist, a beloved father, and a cherished friend, Herb touched the lives of many with his profound insights and gentle demeanor. His passing on Wednesday, May 22, 2024, leaves a void in our hearts, but his legacy will forever live on.

Herb was not just a clinical psychologist; he was a beacon of wisdom and compassion. Through his work, he offered comfort and guidance to countless individuals grappling with the complexities of the human mind. His ability to listen, understand, and provide support was unparalleled. Herb’s unique way made you feel seen, heard, and comforted by his words.

Herb’s impact extended far beyond the confines of his office. He served as a friend, confidant, and inspiration to many. His presence reminded us to live with intention, question everything, and find meaning in adversity. Herb made me think about life and death in profound ways. Be it through deep conversations about death and dying or thought-provoking discussions about family dynamics.

One of Herb’s contributions to literature was his book “Escape.” In this novella, set in August 1940, a group of fifty refugees from Germany and Austria are living in Luxembourg, desperate to escape the Nazis and reach the United States for a chance at a new life. The Nazis have taken over most of Europe, including Luxembourg, and the German authorities have granted the refugees permission to leave. They will travel in a convoy across occupied France to the Spanish border, where they must reach Lisbon and secure passage on a ship to the US.

A unique aspect of their journey is that the Germans have assigned a sergeant to accompany the group. He serves as their translator and ensures their safe passage to the Spanish border. Herb (the author) and his parents are part of this group, and his father is the appointed leader of the refugees. His role is to work with the sergeant to ensure a smooth trip, despite facing many obstacles and threats to the group’s security.

Another literary contribution is his short story “The Clasp Knife,” which he kindly posted as a guest author last August on this website. Herb’s introspective tale delves into the complex themes of abuse, healing, and the transformative power of self-discovery. He used his words to create a vivid picture of the human experience, reminding us of our shared connections through hardships and victories.

As I mourn the loss of Herb, I also celebrate the beauty and impact of his life. I remember the warmth of his smile, the twinkle in his eyes, and the gentle wisdom that flowed from his lips. I honor his memory by carrying forward the lessons he taught, embracing compassion and understanding, and seeking truth in the face of adversity.

In sorrow, memories of Herb bring solace. His profound influence lingers on. May his soul find eternal peace, and may his memory bless all who knew him.

Rest in peace, dear Herb. Although we will miss you, your light will forever shine brightly.

Today, Laura Simon, gives us a new ending for the Blue Chevy Malibu writing challenge.

“Live a little?” Mel thought.

 Really? He knew her story. She had lived more than a little. Maybe it was time to slow down, for both of them, she thought.

Mike was just coming out of a messy divorce brought on in part because he couldn't help himself when a pretty girl walked by. He never should have married. It wasn't in him to stick with one person. But now he was saddled with an ex and two young children who would see him on weekends, he hoped. He had moved back home to live in the space over their parents' garage, hoping that the courts would find it sufficient to grant him visitation rights.

His career wasn't much better. Floating from one mechanic shop to another. Always blaming the owner or the manager for his inability to get along with people. Not able to just do what was asked of him. He couldn't just be content. Always had to be right.

Her story wasn't much better, she knew. Never finding a person worth investing in, at least that was the excuse she told herself. A quiet voice occasionally reasoned with her that maybe she was the problem, but she ignored that mostly.

At least her career was solid, right? Yeah, it was boring, but she could afford to live on her own, at least, and that was something.

So, who really was “living a little” she questioned.

It didn’t really matter though, the car was slowing down. Mel looked up and saw smoke coming from the hood.

 “Uh, Mike…” she said.

 “Yeah, I see it.” He swore something under his breath.

Mike steered the car to the shoulder and put the blinker on. Then popped the hood and hopped out.

 At least he’s a mechanic, Mel thought.

The Beginning | Escape | The Final Frontier | Cabin in the Woods | Living… A Little

⭐Submission Guidelines

Author’s Note

• This is a fourth ending for Blue Chevy Malibu.

• Credits for photo used in the video I created (with the help of Canva) to introduce this post on Instagram and other social media, go to alex_tok on Getty.

Upcoming…

• Poems about war and peace:

  Bombshell, 13 January 2024

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, D. Mann weaves a story of a man as he grapples with the heart-wrenching task of saying goodbye to his beloved old dog, coping with his own sorrow, and the profound impact of the loss of the dog on his wife and child.

There she lay, on a cream colored cotton blanket, bracketed on one side by a wooden privacy fence and tall arborvitaes, and on the other by green grass and a gray brick patio.

It was early evening—a hot, muggy night; mid-summer in a mid-Atlantic suburb. There were mosquitoes and summer night sounds—pre-teens and teens running and playing in neighboring yards, traffic from the highway half a mile away, a blast of music from the radio of a passing car, the occasional siren.

Moments earlier she had been breathing. It was a labored breathing, but she was alive. Now she was lifeless. Sandwiched between those two states was an injection of a barbiturate—administered by a veterinarian he’d found who made house calls to euthanize animals—followed by involuntary muscle spasms and a shrill yelp that sounded like a dog in the middle of a nightmare.

Her owner responded in turn, sharply screaming, “No!” in a voice that did not seem to be his own, that seemed to come from a dream. The veterinarian’s explanation that this was a normal reaction—a result of the release of chemicals from the animal’s nerve endings—and that the animal was not in pain, was comforting, but didn’t make it any less upsetting. He felt as if his heart was in his throat, and his eyes welled with tears.

All pretense left him. He knelt and lowered his head, laying it to rest on her body. He pictured her running through a meadow, her ears flopping and her tongue hanging out of her mouth. Pepper—God had never created anything finer. She was perfect in life and death. A sleek, muscular body, wrapped in a rich coat of soft, jet black fur. A smiling, happy dog, loyal to the end.

The next four hours would be a test of endurance as he battled heat, flying insects, exhaustion, and heartbreak while he labored in the dark to prepare her final resting place—a rectangular hole in the earth, large enough to hold a 100 pound animal.

Just before midnight he lined the hole with large plastic trash bags, then he lay her in it as gently as he could. He placed a favorite stuffed toy alongside her in the hole, placed his hand on her chest one last time, then lay the cream-colored blanket on top of her. He said a small prayer, then covered her with the same earth that he had just dug out of the ground.

When he came inside through the basement door, he heard muffled sobs and soothing words, then spotted his wife and teenage daughter hugging in the family room. As they concluded their embrace, his daughter looked at him, red faced, swollen eyed, cheeks wet with tears, her mouth screwed up into a painful, mute grimace. In her grief, all she could say was “Why?” Not so much a question, but an accusation that left him defenseless and feeling as though an arrow had pierced his heart. She then raced upstairs to her room.

He and his wife moved to the couch, where they took up places next to each other, holding hands, silent. Playing through his mind were those last days when he would sit up with the animal through the night, comforting her through the last stages of liver failure, when she had almost no control over her bladder or bowels. Guilt gripped him as he wondered if he had given up on her.

His wife spoke after a long silence—“Did we do the right thing?”

More silence.

He spoke. “She was suffering.”

To which she replied, “When Dr. Shermer got here, she actually got up and walked to the door. Her tail was wagging.” The last sentence was spoken with bitterness, something close to anger, anger at herself for not asking if the procedure should be called off in light of this encouraging sign.

Her husband comforted her, saying, “Sweetheart, dogs can overcome great pain in their effort to please us. She was suffering. It was hard to see her like that. If we’d put it off we’d have just prolonged her suffering. We’d have been questioning our decision the next day and would have been right back on the phone with Dr. Shermer.”

After a moment, his wife just said, “Life is suffering.”

They were silent for many minutes after that. Then his wife said that the pain of this loss was too much. She said she could not endure the prospect of facing such pain again. She asked him to promise that they would never have pets again, even as she knew she would ask him to break that promise some day.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, Kris E. D. skillfully weaves a short science fiction tale of an abrupt awakening on a spaceship.

I’m in a field with tall grass, bright light, and chirping birds. My eyes stay shut as I listen to the chorus of birds. Then beep, beep, beep.

The ship shakes and the cryo pods wake up the passengers—the bridge crew first, while the others remain in stasis until awakened manually. The beeping becomes more distinct, a clanging alarm.

“Proximity alert, proximity alert.”

I open my eyes, feeling groggy, my limbs stiff. Half awake, I punch in the code to open my pod. A hiss, then some steam. I step through, stumble, and fall to my hands and knees. How long has it been? Six months? A year? As I get my bearings, the ship gives a huge jerk and shakes, bringing me fully awake.

Wondering about the alarms, I stumble to the bridge. We shouldn’t be at our destination yet.

“What the what?”

As I sit down, I see a planet getting closer, fast. I push buttons, trying to figure out where we are as I right the ship.

Then Ahma’s voice as she walks in, “What happened, where are we?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Ahma.”

“Well, at least turn off that bloody alarm, Nyema, so that I can think.”

I punch in a code and the alarm turns off.

“Bring up the flight path and I’ll get her straightened out and prepared for landing, so we don’t crash and end up a bloody mess.” Ahma says.

I swivel to the flight panel and bring up the pre-arranged flight path. Planets appear and a slight, curved line with a blinking dot renders. I type in a command to see where we are in relation to our end destination.

“Interesting, we are way off course. How is this possible?”

The ship gives another huge jerk. I hold on to the console, knuckles turning white.

“Sorry, sorry, smoothing out now.”

The ship hisses, slows down, and descends in an arc instead of straight down.

“Okay, what is this…why’re we off our plotted course?” Ahma asks as I type in another command and bring the map up on the main screen.

“This isn’t possible. It can’t be!”

“Ahma, I double-checked the equation and we are 100 lightyears beyond where we’re supposed to be.”

“Did someone or something alter the coordinates?”

“Checking....”

The ship emerges through the clouds and the code shows no signs of tampering. I glance out the ship's window. Green, blues, purples, oranges. We see a planet filled with an abundance of dense greenery and unfamiliar vegetation—it’s what we learned to identify as a jungle. A giant bird soars through the sky. Where the heck are we?

“Where are we? Nyema, what does the map say?”

“It says we’re in the Zednous galaxy, unknown planets and galaxies. It’s so far out that we haven’t even charted it yet.”

“How did we come this far?”

“Great question, Ahma, but let's find a landing spot first.”

I point to a flashing icon on the dashboard, showing our ion batteries are running low. Ahma quickly Lidar-scans the surface after entering a command.

“There, a clearing; punching in coordinates.”

As the ship turns, Ahma and I prepare the ship for landing. It decelerates, hovers for a couple of minutes, and lands.

“My scans detect breathable air, the same atmosphere as old Earth.”

“Well, what good luck! Nyema, open the hatch and let’s check out our surroundings.”

I walk towards the back of the ship, don the required space uniform, and grab the taser closest to it. I enter a code into the panel and the hatch opens with a slight hiss, like a bottle of carbonated water.

The light is blinding. Is this planet in proximity to a star, like the Earth's sun? I find and grab UV-polarized sunglasses. As I walk down the ramp, I pause. A sense of déjà vu hits me.

I am in a field with tall grass, bright star shine, and birds chirping. I close my eyes to listen to the chorus, trying to decipher what they are saying, and breathe in the sweet, cool air.

“Well, Nyema, wherever we are, we better wake the others. No point in keeping them in stasis any longer,” Ahma says.

As a feeling of familiarity washes over me, one word resounds in my mind as I stand in the field: Home.

Author’s Note

The inspiration for this short tale comes from Octavia E. Butler's book Dawn—the initial installment in her science fiction series Lilith's Brood—as well as the AppleTV show Foundation.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

This week, I am pleased to introduce Kris E. D., who takes us on an intimate voyage of self-exploration and embracing oneself via a poem that speaks of personal development, strength, and ultimately finding love and empowerment within.

This is me
An innocent girl
Without a care in the world
Curious asking questions

This is me
With a huge imagination
Singing in the front yard
Thinking of being a star

This is me
Wishing to have made better friends
Trying to survive
Emotions dark and stormy

This is me
Breaking through the barriers
Coming out of the closet
Learning to accept me for me

This is me
Almost forty, finally feeling comfortable
Loving myself, feeling strong
This is me

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, I am pleased to introduce Laura Simon, who skillfully weaves a narrative that delves deep into the complexities of familial bonds and the profound impact they have on shaping one's identity.

The soft curvature of the water left an arc imprinted momentarily on the sand. Another wave erased it moments later, leaving its own arc, as if saying "look at me". He watched the imprints overtaking themselves repeatedly. It was calming, quiet except for the gentle bubbling and fizz that died out as the waves receded.

A cold, small hand appeared on his knee. He looked at a boy whose face was as calm as the sea. The gentle waves also mesmerized the boy. “What do you see?” he asked the boy.

“Um, bubbles and holes in the sand.”

“Yes, but is it enough? Is that all there is?” the man asked.

After a long pause, the boy said thoughtfully, “For now, yes.”

The father nodded and held his son’s hand. They watched the slow, undulating waves for a few minutes before heading back to their car.

As they drove down the lonely road to town, the father considered the ever changing wave imprints he had seen. Were they enough? For now, he reasoned. For now.

Charlie had a Nintendo. Sam had a Gameboy. For his 10th birthday, Ben’s parents gave him a battery operated Tetris game with a 2-inch screen—a sickly one-color against a black background. This, they thought, was innovative. Modern. He thanked them politely but hid it when his friends came over. Embarrassed.

Ben’s parents were older than his friends’ parents. He was their miracle baby; they had said. His father studied Political Science at the University of Wisconsin and embraced the anti-establishment sentiments of the 60s. His aim was to teach others to resist government influence on their lives. He ended up in Hawaii teaching at the University there and eventually meeting Ben’s mother. She was 5 years younger than Ben’s father and felt disconnected from her Korean family, who had difficulty embracing American capitalism and was resentful.

They raised him by drilling into him that capitalism had its evils and it was better to live simply with social values being paramount. It was easy to live with that philosophy in Hawaii. With the high cost of living, many found it easier to live without. Besides, who didn’t love the beauty that the natural landscape gave so freely? Breath-taking scenery. Pristine beach landscapes. Whales and dolphins waving offshore daily. It was paradise.

But he still wouldn’t have minded a Gameboy.

The town had grown—going from sleepy to urban. A Walmart on the outskirts. New construction near it with a big sign promising a Sam’s Club. Main Street used to only have a 4-way stop sign. Now round-abouts dotted the roads, confusing tourists and aggravating locals. Ben knew when to take side roads to avoid bottlenecks. He pulled up to the newly renovated townhouse and gently pulled young Joey from his car seat. The sleeping 3-year-old was heavy against his shoulder as he climbed the stairs to his room.

The window in Joey’s room looked out onto where the various hard plastic climbing sets dotted the backyard. Tricycles and smaller toys scattered about. Ben sighed. Was it enough? It was for now.

College was a blur. For all the protestations his parents had about capitalism, school was a necessity. They encouraged him to go to the small, private, liberal arts college that he chose in Oregon and didn’t balk at the $40k+ yearly tuition. His parents appreciated the fact that the college was near some of his mother's estranged family in Portland. They would be there for emergencies, they reasoned.

He was an average student and floated around before picking a major. Finally, he settled on philosophy. It wouldn’t get him a career, but he could figure that out later, he argued.

After graduating, he stayed in Portland. He had become close to his mother’s relatives and liked the lifestyle there. He met a woman who was older than him. She had a steady job, and he moved in with her and her mother. They adopted a dog together.

His parents would visit occasionally and pressure him to find work. At one point, he worked for a bank and asked his parents for some money for a used car, so he didn’t have to rely on his girlfriend for rides. His mother said they would give him more than he asked for to ensure he had a reliable vehicle. He never bought the car.

A friend had told him about day trading: quick turnaround on investments with high risks. It was addicting. It easily consumed his modest bank salary. The loan from his parents vanished.

He never told them. They never asked.

His phone pulsated in his pocket. The muted ring tone was for an unknown caller. He glanced at it and then let it go to voicemail. He had his suspicions, but he just wasn’t up for it.

Danielle was in the third bedroom, next to Joey’s room. It was a makeshift office for now. Hopefully, another baby would fill the space in the future. But for now, Joey was enough. Enough for now.

“Joey’s asleep,” Ben said.

“Uh huh”, Danielle grunted without looking up from her keyboard.

Ben turned to leave the room. “Hey, don’t you have that seminar this afternoon?” she asked.

“Oh yeah. I forgot.” Ben rushed down the stairs and grabbed his backpack by the door.

They had reconnected online. Part of a virtual reunion of his high school alumni. They had lost touch when Danielle had gone to the East Coast for undergrad. She had returned to Hawaii after graduating and worked with her father in his law office while she got her JD. Now she ran her own business of investing and property management. Ben found her ambition and acumen for business attractive. She had a drive he never found in himself. They decided he should end his current relationship in Oregon, leave his living situation, and move back to Hawaii. They would attempt to make it work.

A year later, they were married. He worked as a property manager and lived just a few miles away from his parents, yet barely spoke to them.

His values had changed, they said. He disagreed.

They felt Danielle symbolized the things in capitalism that they hated. He said that they weren’t being fair to her.

Danielle grew distant and angry with them and told him how it hurt her when they said these things. Ben sided with his wife.

His mother, never known for her tact, said some particularly nasty things to Danielle. She stopped visiting them. Ben would meet his father occasionally for a pickup basketball game or a quick swim, but he shut out his mother.

One day, his father told him they had left their estate to charities. It blindsided Ben. It was like a slap, even though he hadn’t needed their money for years or knew of anything worth inheriting. He felt like they were saying, “If you are cutting us out of your life, then we will cut you out of our death”.

They did not explain their decision. Ben didn’t ask.

He saw his father even less after that.

Joey was born the next year. Despite her hurt and caution, Danielle recognized Ben's parents' desire to see their only grandchild. She encouraged Ben to let them see Joey. They visited twice.

Ben’s father got sick a few months later. His mother had been insisting that there were signs. She hadn’t asked Ben for help. Only telling him through a relative after his father was gone that Ben should have known. Ben focused on his job, getting his MBA, his marriage, and a young child. How could he have known? He reasoned.

Ben’s phone rang again as he got into his car. He answered, even though it was the same unfamiliar number.

“Ben…” his mother said.

Ben was silent. Even though he had attended the funeral and played the dutiful son, his mother’s voice was coated with emotions that he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

“Is it enough, Ben? That’s all I want to know,” she asked.

After a moment, he said, “It is for now, Mom. It is for now.”

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay, please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, I am pleased to introduce Herb Horowitz, who gives us a thought-provoking story of a vivid dream where the protagonist encounters his deceased father. With poignant introspection, Herb weaves a tale that explores the intricate nuances of abuse, healing, and the transformative power of self-discovery.

When I wake up, I’m disoriented and don’t have a clue where I am. The small room is dimly lit; it surrounds me like a white rectangular cave. The fake red leather chair in which I sit is the only thing I can distinguish. I’m feeling very uncomfortable.

I survey my surroundings and gradually understand where I am. A bed, raised high, is just a few feet ahead. It seems unoccupied until I spot a sheet-covered body. Thin gray hair combed back matches the gray pallor of the visible head and hands. I notice the widow’s peak that defines the contour of the forehead. It's a man's body, I realize. I shockingly realize that he's my father. His eyes are closed. There’s no movement under the sheet. I can’t tell if he’s breathing.

Confusion and apprehension rush through me. I know my father died 23 years ago. I helped bury him. It's unclear if he's alive or dead from his appearance.

He looks frail and small under the sheet, and it's frightening me. While I’ve never seen him look like this before, I know, without a doubt, it is my father who’s lying in front of me.

His lids snap open, and he’s awake. His eyes are large and round, the gray pupils sending out laser beams. I recognize his expression, the menacing way he can look at you. I witnessed it often, even during his old and sickly years. Two small suggestions of a smile grace his thin-lipped mouth. When I was young, that look was like pouring acid on me. To me, it always meant that he was in charge. Under that scrutiny, I became nothing. It was a potent laser that made me feel nonexistent. As I grew into adolescence, this power he had over me weakened. His look, the glint in his eyes, dared me to take him on. I met his gaze fearlessly, daring him to try.

He gestures towards the night table and tells me to get the knife in the drawer. As I give it to him, I recognize it as the clasp knife he used every night to peel apples. It’s one of my clearest memories from my younger years. He had bought that knife in a Paris flea market when he was a young man. Its wooden handle has small white mother-of-pearl plates on each of its sides. An inlaid plate had a broken piece, revealing the underneath. Two rusted screws protrude from the wood. It felt familiar in my hand.

Then my father says, “Get me that apple.” He’s pointing to the green one on the dinner tray. Despite his thin, reedy voice, I recognize the familiar curtness and trademark ordering around. The voice always demanded my compliance. To me, the young child, it was a sorcerer’s voice. I followed the sorcerer's orders, though I loathed being indentured.

I get him the apple.

Handing it to him, I have the impulse to throw it at him. But I don’t. The question in my head: why did you do that? You forgot you don’t have to do what he says. I catch myself and realize I’m thinking about him as though he’s alive. This entire scene is surrealistic. I think I must be dreaming.

Studying the way he works the knife, I remember every motion. He is meticulous in the way he strips the apple of its skin. It’s like an old movie I’ve seen thousands of times. The precision with which he guided the knife between thumb and finger just under the peel had always fascinated me. Turning the apple, he keeps cutting until there is a long, scalloped strip. He then frees the strip with a last cut, throwing it away.

He slices off a piece of the apple and gives it to me just as he used to. It's one of my few fond memories of him. He reaches forward a little to me; the segment sandwiched between thumb and knife. I bite into it and enjoy its juicy, tart taste. He eats another sliver in the same manner. The memory echoes of such naked nurturing relax me. My chest feels warm.

After another few moments, he cuts me another chunk, a larger piece, and I take it from him. I hesitate when I see his eyes, catching a hint of his old malevolence, a shifty quality in his eyes. It was so ingrained in him it felt like a removable black vest.

I bite into what he’s given me and there’s a horrible taste that brings with it overwhelming disgust. I spit it out into my hand. In my hand, a part of a live worm wriggles out of its home. I grab the napkin on the tray and dump my hand’s contents into it. I squeeze the napkin into a small ball and toss it angrily back on the tray.

“What the hell is this? You knew, didn’t you?”

He is silent, but there’s a subtle smile at the corners of his mouth that lets me know I’m right. He always knew what he was doing. I was certain of that when I was young. It was part of the bewitching. As I got older, I came to understand that couldn’t be. The belief in his omniscience repeatedly captured me. It was irresistible then, and it comes back now.

Anger filled my voice. “What is with you? You’re always coming after me. Aren’t you trying to get me and enjoying every bit when it works again? Why? Why do you do that?”

He remains silent. A tense atmosphere fills the room.

“Why? I thought we had reconciled when we last spoke. What are you doing, starting it all over again?”

Seconds pass as neither of us says anything. As I stare at him, I’m struck again with his frailness, but somehow it does nothing to soften the overwhelming anger that surges through me. Except for an ancient anger I have polished for many years, I felt nothing towards him.

“Well, say something. And don’t tell me you’re too weak, because I don’t believe it.”

He spreads his arms out slowly to each side, a gesture I know well. It gave him an innocent disguise behind which he could ask, What do you want from me? Then deny my request when he saw I was in need and he had control. Oh, how he loved those times. There were many times like that.

I remember wanting to watch the Knicks play the Celtics at the Garden. My friends and I had made our plans, but I found at the last minute I was short fifteen dollars. I approached him timidly and asked him in the most delicate voice if he would lend me the money. I knew he would refuse, but I don't recall his reasoning. All I remember is his arms spreading out to the sides like he didn’t have a choice to turn me down. He looked so pleased. I felt like a bug squashed under his shoe. I believed that was his intention.

He looks at me with that old fake helplessness. “Can’t you see how incapacitated I am?”

“NO! I don’t believe you for a second. You're not incapacitated at all. I see that sadistic look. You don’t know any other way to treat me, do you?”

Now I’m like a dog with a bone that I’ve dug up from my favorite burial place and am enjoying like hell working away at it with my teeth.

“What’s wrong with you again? No… What’s wrong with you STILL?”

His reedy voice says, “Everything’s wrong with me. It’s not obvious? I’m at death’s door. It’s time for me to go.”

“What are you talking about? You died 23 years ago. What are you doing back? Why was I asked to come here?”

“I didn’t ask you to come. You just showed up.”

“I said goodbye to you 23 years ago. How can you be dying now?” I hear a little tremble in my voice. I am jarred again, remembering he is dead.

His voice sounds distant and like a neutral commentator as he says, “Maybe you didn’t say everything you needed to.” It sounds like a genuine offer, but I’m suspicious.

“No, that’s not true. I expressed everything I needed to. When I cried at your funeral, it was with a sense of relief that I wouldn't have to deal with you anymore. No, there’s nothing more to say.”

Silence takes over again.

I have thought little about my father in the years since his death. For some, relationships with loved ones continue after death. That hasn't been the case for me and my father. When I buried him, I evicted him from my mind. In this strange hospital room, the reincarnation of our relationship pains me. Having to engage with him again is boggling my mind. I keep reminding myself that he is dead.

“So, I’m waiting,” he says.

“What are you talking about? Waiting for what?”

He responds with a riddle. “The one thing you have access to and which is only mine.” Hearing this, I once again see him as the Classics professor he had been his whole life, the one always testing his students—and his children. That professor who had self-created a mission to ensure that we all met his high standards of brilliance. The riddle he’d just put to me gave me a familiar sense of being toyed with. It sounded like a question Odysseus would need to answer swiftly to avoid execution. I saw his challenges as unbeatable tests. That’s the way I feel now as I turn his riddle over in my mind. Despite myself, I found myself hooked.

My thoughts squirm around in my head, searching for the solution. I can see he’s studying me with a neutral expression. I was bracing for an attack. Yet, I accepted the challenge willingly.

My initial reaction is he's expecting something that's due to him. Growing up with him, I had learned a lot about his expectations of me and my brothers. I always thought I had met them, but always unwillingly and grudgingly. It always seemed that he had shaped and molded my behavior. My father’s way never entailed physical coercion or punishment. He didn't have to do that. Besides, it would have been outside his ironclad standards of what was right. His way was that of a self-appointed judge with complete power to approve or condemn. His rapier-delivered disdain was world class.

One thing my father demanded from us was attention. We had to endure elaborate explanations on topics we had no interest in. I learned how to simulate listening, to let in a sufficient amount of information to show that I had listened in case he tested me. Back then, I often wondered if he knew how hollow my attention was. Would he have refrained from those lectures? I doubt it.

So, he got what he wanted, but only through my deceit. I, of course, paid a high price. I lost all sense of integrity.

Respect? My father also demanded that. It was difficult to know what he considered disrespectful. Once someone gave him tickets to a championship boxing match. I was both excited and envious upon hearing this.

Without meaning to offend, I blurted out, “You lucky dog!”

He wheeled around at me and pinned me with those blazing coals that had replaced his eyes and said icily, “That's no way to speak to your father.”

Then he ordered me to bed without supper. My brothers and I would often compare notes and joke about his latest fascistic antics.

Living with him meant living with fear of him. My brothers and I had developed a powerful fear of him early. My mother feared him also, and that seemed to legitimize ours. If she couldn't handle him, how could we?

My father was always talking about loyalty and insisting we give it to him. His meaning was unclear to us. But he often reprimanded us for disloyalty. Later on we knew what he meant, but by then we enjoyed being disloyal. As adults, when we heard criticism of him by my mother’s family, behind his back, we gloated with the confirmation. We didn’t have the slightest inclination to come to his defense.

Liking? Was that what he wanted from me? To like him? The idea of that was a joke. What was there to like? My father was not someone you could laugh or play with or have genuine enjoyment with. The closest I came was during a family vacation to England. We’d gone to Cambridge, where he’d gotten his doctorate years before. Naturally, he was the supreme, all-knowing tour guide, pointing out all kinds of things, giving the history of all the sights in excruciating detail. One afternoon we all went punting on the Cam. He’d been showing off how well he could steer the flat-bottomed boat. Then we got to the turnaround point. He’d turned the punt almost completely around when he lost his balance and went toppling into the water headfirst. We pulled him into the boat, and he laughed even though drenched. For a rare moment, he endeared himself to me by laughing at himself and joining us in slap-stick appreciation. I have only felt that way once.

I couldn't solve his riddle, even after exhausting my list; I was tired of trying to figure it out, and I wanted out.

“Well, I give up. Stop playing with me. What do you want? Give me a clue.”

“All right. How are you fixed for erasers?”

“Erasers?” I was confused and felt he was playing with me.

“Yes, erasers. Like the kind you use on a blackboard.”

“Ran out years ago.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Too bad for me or you?”

“For both of us.”

And then I thought I understood. Was that what he was asking for—my forgiveness? It surprised me he wanted that. Was forgiving him possible? Could I give him that? Forgive all the domination and endless sense of inadequacy he was always wrapping me in. Could I forgive the miles of shame with which he’d paved my sense of myself? Forgive the contempt he’d splattered me with because I was not the son he’d needed me to be for his friends and colleagues. Could I forgive him for disappointment in me? Before he died, he gave me a brief list of his accusations. But he’d delivered it in a more muted way than usual. He only appeared to have changed my "death sentence" to life imprisonment. In this surreal hospital room, it's clear I'm still imprisoned, and he's the warden.

Forgiving him seemed impossible. I couldn’t think of one reason I might.

I looked over at him, letting him know silently that I understood what he wanted, then shook my head slowly but firmly, indicating no. Now it was my face that showed a malevolent smile.

He looked hurt. Was that my wish fulfilled? He lifted his limp gray hand towards me, reaching cautiously for my left hand. In my head I hear: OH NO! I WIN THIS TIME. Moisture gathered in the corners of his eyes. I had never seen him cry in all the years I knew him. But he was now, unquestionably. Had I failed to recognize the man's capacity for tenderness? Still, I would not surrender, so strong was my fear of his manipulative gyrations and the revenge I sought.

My hand acted autonomously. It moved toward him gingerly. The hands met in a gentle, mutual caress.

With the index finger of his other hand, he beckoned me toward him. Guardedly, I leaned closer to his head. He said something in a raspy whisper. I could make out the words. I asked him to say it again. He did and what I thought I heard was: “I love you, even if you don’t forgive me.”

Just then, the sound of the phone ringing startled me awake. It was one of those times when a dream becomes the compelling reality, usurping actual reality. I felt a strong desire to continue my dream.

I sluggishly got up from the couch and answered the phone. It was just a brief business call confirming an appointment I had set up. When I hung up, I began jotting it down on my calendar. As I did that, I noticed today’s date: December 14, the day my father had died 23 years earlier.

I spotted the photograph of him among the large group of family photographs on the mantle, the one taken when he was on vacation in Italy a few years before he died. I’d always like that one. He looked relaxed, like he might have been enjoying himself.

I picked up the photograph and stared at it for a while. Then, bringing it close to my mouth, I whispered at it, “Maybe.”

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, I am pleased to introduce Heather Wilmot, who has crafted a moving poem that captures the essence of love, hope, and the bittersweet nature of life's most challenging moments.

May the road to health and healing
Be open wide to you today
May wisdom and understanding
Be with you always 

May today be filled with promise
All maladies from you will flee
And caring folks surround you
So alone you'll never be 

Listen well to instruction
If given a road to choose
Think well, with knowledge and wisdom
On which one you will use 

May peace and understanding 
Walk with you today
Strength and courage to support you
Throughout the coming days 

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend

Today, D. Mann gives us a gripping short story that delves into the unsettling dynamics of a family invited to a friend’s house for a barbecue.

The first sign of trouble was when David picked up the football and asked if anyone wanted to play a game of touch. The afternoon of drinking in the hot sun at the neighborhood barbecue had left him light-headed, edgy, somewhat uninhibited.

Even sober he was direct and aggressive, and often perceived as intimidating given his size and military bearing. Honed through years as an Army drill instructor, he found that this approach to dealing with people was not only effective, but the visible fear that it inspired—which he often confused with respect—also gave him a rush and a sense of superiority.

The potent mixture of booze and athletic competition were always enough to accentuate these sadistic tendencies in David, which often left his wife and stepson feeling anxious about what was to come next whenever such occasions arose.

“Go deep, Ricky,” David commanded to his stepson, who dutifully started running in a straight line to the deepest part of the yard. He fantasized about snagging the aerial with a fancy one-handed catch, but he turned too late, and the ball sailed past him before he could even extend his arms.

“Am I supposed to catch the ball for you, too, Ricky? It’s not enough that I throw it?” chided David with a look of mild disgust on his face. This prompted some of the adults and children to snicker nervously.

This was just the latest in a string of insults that David had lobbed at Ricky over the course of the afternoon. Other targets included Ricky’s rail-thin physique, his black plastic eyeglasses with their thick lenses, and his awkwardness around girls. “Just playful teasing,” David would say. But to Ricky, a self-conscious pre-teen, they struck at deep insecurities and fueled fantasies of revenge.

Ricky, red with embarrassment, head held low, muttered something unintelligible under his breath before retrieving the ball and throwing it back to David, giving it all that a skinny 11-year old could muster. But the ball merely fluttered before landing weakly about 20 feet in front of David.

“I guess the NFL will have to wait,” David said, drawing more uncomfortable laughter from the guests and deepening Ricky’s embarrassment.

“Leave him alone, David,” his wife, Eve, cried plaintively. “You can’t expect him to throw as far as you can at his age.”

This didn’t phase David, who was not through with his campaign to publicly humiliate his stepson. “Ricky, even if you can’t play, I know how you can contribute on the football field,” David said.

David then pointed to a swing set about 25 yards away and said, “See that?”.

Looking puzzled, Ricky nodded and said “Yes.”

“I want to kick a field goal over the top of it.”

This didn’t solve the puzzle for Ricky. He hesitated, then, with his head cocked to one side, said, “You want me to hold the ball for you?”

“Sort of. I want you to be the field goal tee.”

The angle of Ricky’s head deepened. When it dawned on him that David was serious, he was overcome by a mix of fear, dread, shame, and disbelief. He suddenly felt woozy. “You want me to be the tee?”

“Yeah, lay down on the ground over there and hold the ball on your nose so I can kick it.”

Ricky, paused, then, with resignation and faith, he walked to the football, picked it up, walked over to the indicated spot on the ground, and, finally, got down on his haunches. Praying silently for an intervention, he thought that an earthquake would be nice right about now.

The assembled guests and even the homeowners were stunned and did nothing but gawk at David. Some were fearful, others simply couldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Eve had seen enough. She walked up to David purposefully and said, with as much composure as she could manage, “Stop this right now, David. You’re embarrassing us and frightening Ricky.”

“Maybe Ricky needs some toughening up,” David said.

“You’re being a jerk, David. Now stop it,” Eve replied.

David then grabbed Eve rudely by the upper arm and said through clenched teeth, “Don’t you ever talk back to me, woman.”

Seeing his mother in danger and fueled by a reservoir of hatred that had built up over the years, Ricky overcame his fear and charged at David, his fists circling almost comically in a windmill motion.

David laughed at the sight of this, then thrust Eve aside, forcing her to the ground. He grabbed Ricky in a bear hug then tossed him on his back.

Among the guests, the men just continued to stare, their mouths open in disbelief.

Finally, Jennifer, who, with her husband, was hosting the gathering, strode angrily toward David. Then, from inside David’s personal space, close enough to smell the booze on his breath, she stuck her finger in his face and screamed, “You’re a complete prick and an asshole. Why are you picking on your son?”

David seemed nonplussed but also mildly amused.

Several others now joined in the admonishment, with several other women backing up Jennifer in a show of solidarity. Then Calvin, Jennifer’s husband, finally said, “David, you need to leave now. Eve and Ricky are always welcome here, but you shouldn’t come back.”

Jennifer followed with, “We’re calling the police.”

David said nothing, and his face betrayed no emotion. He began to walk toward his 1968 green Camaro. He walked slowly, as if to make it clear that he was leaving because he wanted to and not because of fear of a confrontation. About halfway to his car he looked back at the guests and said, “You’re all a bunch of candy asses,” before returning to his trip to his vehicle.

Now that the threat had passed, the men joined the women in administering aid and comfort to Eve and Ricky.

David got into his car, slammed the door shut, turned the key in the ignition, then revved the engine several times. He stuck his arm out the window and flipped the bird at the guests. Sirens could be heard in the background as he drove away.

Thanks very much for reading, subscribing, and sharing the stories, poetry, and essays in this space. If you like a story, poem, or essay please click on the heart. Also if you are so moved, please leave a comment. You also can show your appreciation by buying me breakfast.

Subscribe now

Refer a friend