Inheritance

by Ann Hillesland

Dad is cutting Mom in half while I watch. I know it’s an illusion, but from the wings it seems real— the anger in Dad’s eyes as he calmly wields the saw, the fear in Mom’s despite her stage smile. I’m forced to feel both—the seething resentment toward the woman who tied him down, and the agony of legs crammed in the box, of waiting for the blade to fall and finally take away all ability to run.

Gob-Smacked

by Marjan Sierhuis

In the morning, Piper collapses on her living room sofa. She opens one of the business-sized envelopes that she has removed from her front porch.

Ring.

She listens to the automated messaging system. Her heart beats rapidly in her chest, her hands tremble, and the phone slips from her grasp.

Several days later, more envelopes land on her porch.

Ring.

She takes a deep breath, swears into the microphone and then listens to the speaker.

“Sorry, mother. I thought you were someone else.”

Piper decides it is time to move and change her service provider.

How to Happen

by G.J. Williams

Watch him sleep. How he scowls, mumbles, snorts, shudders, frets. I’ve yet to hear him wake with a shriek. But he’s getting there. The odd flail at first light. Bad dreams, he’ll say, nothing more. As ordinary as it gets. Were it not for those dreams he’d be brighteyed and bushytailed, no question. As if. How he sleeps is how it is. Who knows what world he wakes to. Other people’s daylight impossible to bask in. Friends hover, corners darken. He pales, gets paler, flirts with a statue, moons. He’ll continue or he’ll not. He panics: nothing is happening.

Move-In Day

by Cecilia Kennedy

The walls of the house lash out, whispering Mel’s name, telling her they’ve seen her hide some bodies.

An exorcism won’t do, so she calls a therapist instead.

“But do you feel scared?” the therapist asks.

“No—judged, which is worse.”

After her session, she paints over the walls, installs new floors, pushes ghost hands and feet into graves, posts the renovations, while the voices condemn her, but she sells the house and moves into a new one that’s freshly built. She digs her hands in her pockets, her fingers brushing old paint chips: a fine dust, ashes of whispers.

Famous Last Words

by Ina Briar

“It’s fine,” he said, wrapping the oily cloth around his thumb. He rolled back under the car, gripping the flashlight between his teeth.

His six-year-old threw up her hands and marched back to the house. “Mooom!”

Sirens blared, clearing a line through traffic.

“Another do-it-yourselfer,” grumbled the driver.

His wife watched them tow the car away. The service was at eleven. Flats, she decided, since she’d have to walk.