The Inkblot Ruse (WINNER, JUDGES’ PICK)

By Lisa H. Owens

Dr. Rorschach presented another ink-stained page to the boy. He was pleased by the simplicity of the boy’s answers; a reliable method to test one’s level of madness, he thought.

The boy fell into the ink, felt the tickle of clouds on his cheeks. Smelled Father's newly planted crops—with a hint of something sinister. The ripeness of decaying flesh. Those he’d buried beneath cultivated soil once he finished his experiments. He savored their delicious screams.

“What do you see? There are no wrong answers, mein Junge.” 

“Puppies, Herr Doktor,” his eyes narrowed as the doctor scribbled in his journal.

I’m Not a Ghost (1st RUNNER UP, JUDGES’ PICK)

By James Hancock

The woman appeared in the bedroom again, standing in the corner, watching Martha sleep. But she wasn’t sleeping. How could she, with a spirit from the afterlife staring at her?

“I’m not a ghost.” The chilling voice stretched and echoed. Martha was terrified.

First there was the miracle of photography, then video cameras, and now we have time projection; the greatest way to relive memories or see loved ones from yesteryear. I enjoy visiting my great-grandmother, Martha when she was seven, sleeping in her bedroom… but can she see me? She looks afraid.

I whisper reassuringly, “I’m not a ghost.”

All That’s Left

By Sarah Turner

In the evening, Uncle Eddie’s lounge fell away to darkness, the television glowing like a moon. He never spoke; he'd barely said anything since the war, preferring instead to sit and stare and draw on the pipe that was fixed to his hand like a blackened limb. “Don’t be a bother,” Mum had said, rubbing my cheek with a spittled finger as we waited at the door. But I didn’t mind the quiet. Pretending to read my comic, I watched as he puffed ghosts into the room, and in the silver light, I almost thought I could see through him.

Necessities

By David Klotzkin

It was raining buckets.  Mom cried that she couldn’t take care of me, she had no money, and the government lady nodded and told me to pack my stuff, that I had to live somewhere else.

“Just for a little while,” mom said. 

“You poor boy,” said the foster mom, and tried to hug me, but I wouldn’t let her. One day I ran off and walked miles back to my house.  

Mom wasn’t home but I looked in the window.  She’d gotten a new TV as big as the wall!

That’s gonna be great when I move back.

We are the Good Guys

By Martin Tulton

John Everyman felt the bus shudder to a halt amidst shouting and the sound of missiles banging against its sides.

He looked down from the top deck at a sea of placards separated by a line of policemen. As he watched, a bottle hit a woman on one side of the line, gashing her face. A man on the other side screamed triumphant abuse.

John wondered how convinced of your cause you must be to think throwing bottles is virtuous.

He sighed. “If there were fewer good people in the world, I wouldn’t keep being late home for tea.”

A Different Viewpoint

By Val Roberts

We see the world differently. To me the rain is a hair spoiler, to him it is fresh, a garden saviour. Work for me is frustrating and stressful, constant emails and telephone calls; he is a sculptor, coaxing beautiful objects from wood or marble. His world is tactile, satisfying, mine is ephemeral, maddening. He sees beauty in nature; I don’t notice.Clouds mask the warmth of the sun. Look up, he says, free art. Can you see a horse here, a map of Britain over there? He is right. I can see them and my logical mind relaxes.

At the Zoo

By Olivia Todd

‘Look! Ollie’s excited to see us!’ My sister bounces at my hip and points to the thick, smeared glass enclosure. 

The otter’s webbed feet scramble against the pane. He releases high-pitched squeaks. 

Bending down, my sister matches her hand to his foot. ‘See? He’s playing tag. You’re smiling at me, aren’t you, Ollie?’

But it’s not a smile. Those fangs are daggers. His beady eyes are brooding whirlpools. He belongs on riverbanks with only sunlight streaming through the woodland, free from the harsh camera flashes he’s subjected to now.    

‘Otters don’t play tag, and they shouldn’t be given names, Bella.’

Through True Love's Eyes

By Kay Lesley Reeves

Look deep into the mirror of my eyes, oh my beloved. 

See the carefree young maiden with chestnut hair, tumbling around her shoulders in glorious disarray. 

See the deep, brown, limpid pools of her eyes, reflecting the depths of her love.

Look at her body, smooth skinned, slender waisted and tanned by the rays of the sun. Her breasts are budding still, pink nippled and waiting to be kissed. 

That same girl looks at me today from the mirror on the wall. Fifty glorious years together and still to me, as beautiful as the day we fell in love.

Window Hopping

By Eric Janzen

My eye catches the reflection as I walk by the window.  I carefully note the crooked chin, sunken eyes, and a nose now too long. I want to swear but I restrain myself. After all, it happens every day. I spoke to a doctor but he did not understand. My sensitivity to gravity is rare, but he did not need to be so dismissive. 

A pair of women walk by. “That’s a handsome man.” 

I look around but I must have missed him. I walk on. 

The next reflection will be even worse.

Shining Like Silver

By Julie Bissell

Great-Uncle James had a house in Devon and silver cutlery. As a child, I never thought to ask how a poor family like ours had such a wealthy relative.

 I found the answer in newspaper clippings and letters after his death.

James had been awarded the George Medal for an act of almost lunatic bravery during an air raid in 1943. He’d sold the medal in 1961 to buy the house. Two years later he secured a loan against the entire value of the house and spent the proceeds on impressing his relatives.

The cutlery was silver plated nickel.

Walking Out

By David Haworth

The long, straight road ahead, shimmers as if parting the sea. Tarmac burns her bare feet.  She starts at a scorpion’s scuttle.

Way ahead, a freight train severs the highway on its unhurried course to eternity. 

Up closer, not a train, but a black cat crossing, 

Is it in front, or behind, that’s for good luck?

Scents on syrup-thick air; tobacco, bitumen, blood. 

Draw near. Oily smear. A body? 

His body? If only. 

Ultra-cool city blacks. Leather gloves. Cat-gut hair dragged back. 

Within ten feet, the stench burns the back of her nostrils. 

Is it a pool, or a precipice?

Curiosity Does Not Kill the Cat

By Lesley Christensen Morillion

Tail twitching, he squints through the rain at the wire cage, the open door, the meat inside. A bubble of saliva escapes his mouth and mingles with rainwater. 

He hisses as lightning hits a pylon and a loose wire sizzles and snakes across the street, yet he stays, enticed by thoughts of a full belly. But he is uncannily perceptive. Backing away, he keeps his body low, his eyes on the trap. His foot dips down into the gutter of running water, the gutter with the live wire…...

It is perception that kills this cat; curiosity would have saved him.

Extinct

By J.L. Theoret

My new car is green, Hugh said. I’ll pick you up at the commuter lot. A last-chance dinner.

I waited at the lot. So many grey cars, slate and granite and mourning-dove grey. But no green Fords. I didn’t know then about the cataracts, the ones that tipped the world into my own personal palette. 

Hugh called later, furious. Where were you? Never mind. I’m done with your games. Goodbye.

He left the state. Moved to Nebraska to study paleontology.

Maybe someday I’ll go to Nebraska, and sift through the bone-beds of oreodonts, and saber-toothed cats, and extinct relationships.

Unanswered Calls

By Ann Struck

“Sharpshooters’ gun safety class ends at four. I’ll be home by four-thirty.”

We hugged.

Five-thirty. No husband. I rang his mobile repeatedly. Voicemail.

My imagination exploded—Breaking News: Elderly man, shot at rifle range.

Husband knew the history of my beloveds. Frank’s heart attack. Then George’s. Bill’s cancer. They hadn’t answered my call, because they’d died, shortly before it.

I’m telephoning hospitals again. “He’s here. Want to talk to him?”

Duh. A stranger answered. My neck spasmed.

I buzzed Sharpshooters. Voicemail.

Seven p.m. Husband finally answered my call, wheezing. “Sorry. Lost track of time.”

My blood pressure keening. Pulse, two-hundred.

A Matter of Perspective

By Alice Cooper

“We can’t go.”

“What? Why?”

“My hair won’t stay.”

“It’s lovely.”

“Messy.”

“Natural. Anyway, we can’t cancel, Dad’s excited.”

“Oh great, pressure.”

“No! Just be yourself, he’ll love you.”

“He loves you.”

“Yes, so he’ll love you.”

Kisses fill spaces between cuddles.

“Will anyone be enough for his Rhi?”

“You are. And more. He knows how happy we are.”

“We’re happy? This apartment’s tiny.”

“It’s intimate.”

“It’s dark.”

“Candle-lit.”

“It smells.”

“Of us.”

Smiles.

“I love you. Making me rethink. Seeing what I don’t.”

“We see the same things, it’s just a matter of perspective.” Kisses. “Now go get dressed!”