October Photo Prompt Contest Winner

"Lights Out" by David Robert Kozma

“Who’s killing?” asked Cadence. “Who’s recording?”

“Why can’t we both kill them,” replied Remington, his twin brother. “We both killed our unborn sibling.”

“There was no recorder in mom’s tummy. One of us has to record.”

“Let’s play rock, paper, scissors,” suggested Remington. “Winner kills.”

“That’ll take hours. We tie on everything.”

“Then, let’s play lights out. That’s how we decided on who killed our dog.”

Cadence and his brother grabbed their glass jack-o-lanterns and lit them in the backyard. They held them up to the wind. Whomever’s light went out first had to work the camera.

Strangely, the wind blew both lights out at the same time.

“We tied!” shouted Remington.

“Well, you got your wish. We’re both killing them.”

They each grabbed their weapon of choice from the garage. Cadence grabbed his dad’s hunting bow and Remington picked up an axe. They went inside, turned off the lights, and waited in the dark for their parents to get home. It wasn’t long before they heard footsteps approaching the front door. They assumed position as the door opened.

There stood Beverly, their sister, whom they strangled in their mother’s womb before they were born. An umbilical cord was raveled around her neck and her skin was blue. She held up her glass jack-o-lantern with the light still lit and said: “I win. Winner kills? Right?”

Screams of two young boys filled the night. Screams that would haunt the neighborhood for years to come.

September Photo Prompt Contest Winner

"Piece of Life, Peace of Death" by Jaime Villarreal

Roger died, leaving his antique shop to his grandson Phillip.

Phillip received a letter with specific instructions, concerning the shop. The storefront sign is to always remain on: ‘CLOSED’. Unlock the doors at sundown and leave it unmanned until sunrise. Empty the tip jar before locking up in the morning.

He was sure that merchandise would be stolen overnight, but nothing ever was. Oddly, the tip jar was never empty in the morning. In one month’s time, there was enough money to cover rent for the shop and extra for leisure. Who was leaving the tips? And why? Phillip had an overwhelming need to find out.

One night, Phillip decided to unlock the doors and hide inside the shop. He waited for hours and eventually fell asleep on the floor. A tap on his shoulder woke him. He jumped to his feet, gasping in fright, “Grandpa? But how? You’re dead.”

“Yes, we are all dead,” nodded Roger.

Phillip glanced over his grandfather’s shoulder and saw strangers standing behind him. They were all scowling at Phillip.

“The dead come here,” said Roger. “They borrow their piece of life. Sometimes, it’s the only peace they find in death. And you’re taking that from them just by being here. The musicians were hoping to play tonight. That’s where most of the tip money comes from.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it right,” said Phillip, exiting the shop. He passed the storefront window and watched as the tuba and the case with the saxophone disappeared.

May Photo Prompt Contest Winner

"Man Number Four" by Jaime Villarreal

I begged her not to let him move in with us. She said I was too young to understand anything. There was something wrong with that man’s smile—it wasn’t real. His eyes held dark secrets. How could she not see that? He never cared about her. He just needed a place to stay, someone to cook for him, someone to do his laundry. These apartments aren’t cheap—he knew that. He promised to help mom with rent, but that never happened. He’s been with us for three months and hasn’t even looked for work. This is her fourth relationship since dad died. I’m young, but it doesn’t take a genius to know that someone’s a creep. Mom has a knack for falling in love with creeps. That’s probably why they call them creeps, because they somehow find a way to creep in. Several minutes ago, I caught him with the woman next door. He doesn’t know I recorded them. He just knows that I saw him cheating. If you look up and squint your eyes, you’ll see my mom’s boyfriend looking down at me. I’d point him out if I could, but I can’t feel my limbs: my toes, my fingers, nothing. I can’t even turn my neck. In fact, I can’t even blink my eyes. I’m not sure if I’m still alive. He thinks mom will never know what happened. I sent the video to her phone just before he pushed me. I saved her from man number four.

March Photo Prompt Contest Winner

"The Chicken Coop" by Katherine Bonnie Bailey

Wilbur worked at a dirty chicken shack off I-65. Except he didn’t. His name wasn’t Wilbur, that’s just what his nametag said, and “The Chicken Coop” didn’t serve fried chicken, that’s just what the sign advertised.

He was only ‘Wilbur’ the first time I met him, but, for me, it stuck. The next time, he was ‘Dave’. The time after, ‘John’. It was odd, but he could fry up a mean batch of Jo Jo taters- thick cut, seasoned magnificently, and crisped to perfection – so I ignored it.

He cooked customer favorites behind the counter while Joyce and Sharon, two elderly waitresses, shuffled around the little hole-in-the-wall scrubbing tables and mopping floors, their arthritic knees creaking.

It couldn’t have been a profitable business. It was rumored Wilbur’s brother financed it to keep him occupied, and I believed it.

Wilbur liked to talk, and over batches of potatoes I learned about my strange friend. In July, that he’d never been in love. In October, that he hated Halloween. In January, that he was ready for a new start. In April, that he’d murdered his brother the previous week.

I listened to his matter-of-fact reasoning while I ate my last three taters, then I wiped my mouth with a napkin and settled my bill. My hand on the doorknob, I paused and asked Wilbur a question, which seemed to surprise him. To my disappointment, he wasn’t able to answer.

I was a good mile down the road when I dialed 911.

February Photo Prompt Contest Winner

"Sunset at the Antenna Motel" by Jim Carls

The note laying under my door was simple: “Antenna Motel 8pm Monday.” That was the way distribution ops started, just a note to meet, no details leaked to someone who doesn’t show up, someone who finds he’s a “person of interest” in a room of stone-faced cops with some real info he can trade.

It had to be one of Oggy’s jobs, though, because there is no Antenna Motel. Me and Oggy Peters used that for the old Hatchie Motel, on the Memphis side of Brownsville near Stanton, when we were kids throwing papers full of news instead of meth.

I pulled into the lot off Highway 70 at five til. The thick, hot air tried to push me back into the cool of the car. That’s summer in Tennessee. Distant crickets chorused approval.

The motel sign looked old and industrial against the sky. In the 60’s, with business getting sucked down SR 222 to the new interstate, the owners tried to pull in Jackson and Memphis stations with a new antenna stuck on top of it. Now the name “Hatchie” was long gone, along with any business that didn’t come from pimps and pushers — but the only sign they needed was “Motel.”

The place was just a single row of rooms. I walked around to the blank wall at the back. The crickets seemed to start screaming louder, and the county cruiser sitting there told me who the person of interest was tonight.