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by Jeff Chapman You’ve heard it said, “Don’t give up the ghost?”
“Hey, Jimmy. Are you coming?” “James,” he muttered. “My name is James.” His sister Alicia stood in the doorway to his bedroom, slapping her red wool gloves into her palm. “No thanks.” The Facebook game spread across his monitor flickered at him. “Scout or attack?” it asked, awaiting his command. “Dad and Mom are going to be pissed. Did you even get dressed today?” James shrugged. by Kristi DeMeester Dreams…or nightmares…can seem so real sometimes.
I won’t call it a nightmare because it wasn’t fashioned in the way of typical nightmares. There were no monsters, no killers chasing after me, while I – with heavy legs – found it impossible to move. On waking our bedroom felt alien. The walls pushed against me, wanted me out, so I left you sleeping there by yourself. by Pauline Creeden Survival means making hard choices. Just ask Jennie.
“Did you get it?” Mickey’s young voice echoed through the cold, empty grocery store. Jennie almost made a smart remark like: Does it look like I got it? But when she looked into her five-year-old brother’s sunken face as he hugged the other three cans to his chest, she couldn’t consider it. “I’ve got to go around to the other side to get it. Stay here.” by Christian A. Larsen And you thought ventriloquist dummies were dummies.
It was awful dark in there, that steamer trunk. Willie’d been locked inside for so long, he could almost smell the yellow coming off the crinkled newspaper wads that held him in place. If he could smell. But he couldn’t. Not really. Not when there wasn’t a drunk or a kid or someone’s cracked old grandmother to terrorize, because when they exhaled that fear, brother, it was like giving old Willie mouth-to-mouth, seeping from those rabbit-quick heartbeats into his body, all the way from the hand-carved cowlick of his painted-on hair to the cotton batting in his shoes. Willie loved that feeling. by Greg Rhodea A confession isn’t a confession unless one repents.
“Bless me, Father, for I have skinned.” Loren frowned and leaned closer to the mesh that separated confessor from penitent. He’d been at it for three extra hours now because Father Tim hadn’t shown up. Night had fallen, and the church outside the confessional was as gloomy as a closed mouth. This would be the last confession of the night, and Loren was tired and eager to get out of the ghetto and back home. He must have heard the man wrong. Yes, that’s it. “How long since your last confession?” A sound began on the other side of the booth, like someone snapping an empty nutcracker together. Click click click. It took a while for the man to answer, and when he did it came in a whisper. “Five hours.” by T. K. Kenyon Cats may have nine lives. Demon Lovers not so much.
I met my demon lover We danced and drank and sang old songs |
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Copyright © 2012 Fear and Trembling - All Rights Reserved |
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