By Philip Elliott

He kissed me in the labyrinth. That’s not a vague metaphor—it was one of those maze gardens behind a mansion that once belonged to some rich asshole or another. Snow coated everything—this was up near Canada—and the world was white and forever. I know what you’re thinking: The Shining. This isn’t that kind of story. Or maybe it is. The labyrinth was closed, officially, but can a labyrinth ever really be closed? Or open for that matter.

Dylan helped me under the barrier and slipped on the snow when it was his turn. He laughed for a full minute, his slightly overlapping front teeth forming that imperfect smile I adored.

Inside, we had crossed over to another realm. Curved snow-walls towered around us, the resilient green of fir peeking through. There was a smell of absolute freshness in the crisp air. My cheeks tingled from the cold, fingers sore beneath the gloves. But my blood was alive.

“I bet if I ran away in here you’d never find me,” he said and poked my spine.

“What makes you think I’d want to?”

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By K. C. Frederick

It was in September of 1949 that Mrs. Skoda saw Father Guzlowski drop the chalice: a sudden flash of gold, a dull clang. She knew it was a sign that something awful was going to happen. That night, she dreamed that the earth swallowed up St. Conrad’s, the green towers of the church buckling as the broken edifice plunged into a slowly rising cloud of thick, choking dust.

Father Guzlowski was worried. The old priest had been having dizzy spells lately. When the chalice fell from his hands, he wasn’t aware of it, he didn’t hear the sound of metal hitting the marble floor of the altar. All he saw was his altar boy, Billy Koss, asking, “You O.K., Father?” His eyes were big with fear.

When Billy told his mother about the incident, his aunt was over having coffee with his mom. Aunt Helen shook her head. “This is a bad sign,” she said. “Father’s O.K.,” Billy insisted. “Said he just had a spell or something.”

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By Courtney Watson

It was a Magic Money weekend at Waterfront Automotive—crazy deals! $1000 cash back! No payments for three months!—when the first apparition appeared at the competitor’s dealership—Buzz Tarver’s New and Pre-Owned—across US Highway 19. A pearlescent shadow of a ghostly face and thorny, haloed crown the color of an oil slick bloomed overnight on the mirrored black glass of the Customer Service Center. It was snowbird season in the small Gulf Coast town, and word spread fast. Crowds of the faithful, among others, flocked to the edge of Tarver’s pre-owned lot as the owners of Waterfront Automotive watched in dismay.

“That goddamn redneck…,” Hector Petrelis said. Slight and fit at 45, the Greek frowned deeply at the spectacle across the street.

“Buzz Tarver is a devious man,” Hassan Tariq agreed. “But not a fool.”

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By William Hubbard

I brought you home after three days. That’s all the hospitals let you stay now. Insurance they say. I’m not sure how that works. It’s probably for the best anyway. People get sick in hospitals. They get infections and viruses from all the other sick people. You’re safer here.

I worked for months getting your room perfect, of course at first you will sleep with me. I’m afraid I won’t hear you when you wake, hungry or wet, in the night. Your room is too far down the hall. It’s easier to feed you this way as well. All I have to do is bring you in the bed. We can both rest that way. You’re safer here.

At first, your father wanted us to come live with him. But as the months went by, I knew that couldn’t happen. His apartment wasn’t going to work. It is filthy, full of scurrying at night. I tried to explain it was no environment to raise a child, an infant not capable of escaping the creepies and crawlies, the night biters. He said I was imagining things. He said I was delusional. Then he said threatening things. I’m not sure I ever truly knew him. I don’t think you will. You’ll be safer that way.

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By Ruth Sanders

Very few things brightened Jake’s day quite like the end of it. Relief washed over him every time he punched out. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to be, no family waiting for him in his cramped studio apartment, just an old goldfish that had outgrown its tank a long time ago. Jake fumbled with his keys, the hours of answering customer service complaints slowing his brain processes to a crawl. Normal human interaction for him was helping hopelessly inept people troubleshoot electronics. And yes, turning the computer off and on again fixed the problem ninety percent of the time.

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By Margaret Grant

No news from the home front again today. She waits by the window. She sits by the phone.  She isn’t looking for you. This is the real story of everything you ignore, perpetuating the myth of your waiting, long-suffering mother. Well, no, actually.

She was born squalling, just like you, and was just as much trouble. She looked at you the same way she was looked at twenty-odd years earlier, with her mother’s same smug, Mona Lisa smile hiding waves of regret and the long, sliding fall into where the hell did my life go?

So, if you imagine she waits by the window, by the phone, then must your decision not to call or visit be deliberate? She knows, you see. She understands more than you know. You don’t come, and she knows why because she didn’t visit her mother either. She tried to tell herself if you don’t go, you’ll regret it, but she didn’t go, and she didn’t regret it and neither will you.

Quiet, cold, and dead, and you’ll be free of the nagging belief that you should have done better. That is the point at which you will discover  it was never her voice in your head, but your own.

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