The 7 Garages of Kevin Simpson

by Alan Baxter

‘Seven garages?’

‘Yes, Mrs Baker. Your father’s will identifies each one and dictates that they have all been left to you, along with the family home.’

Claire sat stunned for several seconds, staring across the solicitor’s desk. ‘Seven garages?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ The solicitor was smiling. ‘Mostly on industrial estates, commercial lock-up garages, in suburbs around northern and western Sydney, though there is one on a farm property just outside Burrawang on the Southern Highlands and one in North Bondi.’

Claire looked at Ben. Her husband shrugged. ‘You don’t think this is weird?’ Claire asked him.

‘Sure, it’s weird. But not really any weirder than anything else your old man ever did.’

. . .

Continue reading here.

In Bloom

by Caspian Gray

Willy was waiting for me with his hat in his hands, pinching the brim and rolling it back and forth. I tried to smile to show him how it would go, but in the dark I don’t know if he saw anything but teeth.

Papa keeps the gate greased, so it opened real silent, and Willy only took a moment to follow me in.

“Are those them?” he asked, pointing at the flowers that keep the dead down.

“They are. You’re lucky they’re just buds now, though. Once they bloom they’ll smell something awful.”

The window in my bedroom faced the garden, so all August I had to smell them flowers. They was big showy things, with a stink like jasmines and gardenias and lilies of the valley all tied up with twine and then tossed in the river to rot. They said it was the smell that warped my family into thinking it was okay to handle the dead, but the truth is it wasn’t so bad, and you never had to be warped at all just to dig a hole and put something in it.

Songs For Dead Hearts

by Mandana Faridani

“What do you want him for?”

“Um…” Mr. Amoon recovered himself and cleared his throat. “My wife would like to have a word with him.”

“You cannot ask him about the other world.”

“I know.” Said the wife in a trembling voice. “I only need to talk to him.”

“And he has to go back, I might add.”

“I know. I know.” Said the weeping Mrs. Amoon. “Do it. I beg you.”

The young man looked at Salem’s body again.

“Of course I need not tell you that he will be in the physical condition in which he spent the last hours of his existence. And judging by the way he looks, I dare say, it is not going to be a pleasant one.”

The Amoons only nodded at him eagerly. The young man sighed.

“Very well then,” He said. “Bring me water.” And then, as if he’d just remembered an unpleasant matter, the corners of his lips twitched downward. “And close the door for heaven’s sake.”

The Line

by Grady J. Gratt

“I bet you to cross The Line!” Tommy Carlson says.

The crowd of boys goes quiet, Mikey Sloan’s eyes widen, Samantha Hammond gasps, and Tommy Karlson knows that he has just gone too far.

The Line is located on the other end of the park, past the playground, past the baseball field, just at the far end of where the park slides into a steep ravine. It is a small patch of concrete. The adults know it to be part of an old drainage ditch, or a fill-in for a sinkhole, or some kind of marker that the city placed, a long time ago. The story is never consistent. The truth is that none of the Adults can remember why there is a 7 foot long, 5 foot wide rectangular patch of concrete at the far end of the park, right next to the ravine that is the park’s boundary. The cement itself is light grey and ordinary. Cool to the touch, except on warm days like this, and slightly buried, so the perfect 90° edges and corners won’t scrape anyone who passes by. The cement patch is only an inch or two thick; a child could spend a day slowly digging a small hole at the side and wiggle their finger underneath the slab and feel the rough underside. All children are in agreement; there is nothing wrong or special about the grey slab that The Line is on.

The Line itself is a different story. It is a long, bright red stripe that divides the middle of the slab. At 4 inches thick and 5 feet long, it doesn’t cross the entire slab. A child can stand on the cement patch and walk around it. (Of course, everyone knows that that does not count as crossing the line.) The Line has not faded or peeled since it was painted. The children say it was painted long ago, before the dinosaurs. The mothers say that The Line has just been there since ’82, when the city did some construction. The fathers agree with the mothers, but then they would start to mumble about how that particular area of the park is dangerous, and all children should stay away from it.

The Talisman

by Heather McDougal

They were moving toward her quite quickly, and she stopped, watching. Something was wrong; there were too many of them.

They were no longer yelling, or even talking, but moved down the hill with a curiously desperate stride, their arms flung up as they slipped and slid in the leaves, their anoraks glaring harshly in the monochrome of the forest. There were people behind them, large shapes in odd colors, moving more carefully but just as swiftly.

Eugenia felt a strange contraction in her stomach, and moved behind a small stand of trees to watch. The group of tourists slithered to the bottom of the ravine and began scrabbling to climb up the other side. Behind them, curiously threatening, came a group of other people: very large, broadly-built people with blurry faces, dressed in what looked like golf clothes. The Germans seemed to be terrified of them, and as they approached, neither slipping nor slithering, one of the young men began squealing a little as he clawed his way up the bank.

Lights

by Jack Westlake

The city’s shadows deepen, darken. The sky turns a thicker shade of grey, and then to black. The moon glows behind a cloud. I rest my head on the windowsill. Far away, two cats fight. A distant gunshot like a clapping of hands makes me snap my head up. I’m still not used to this.

And that’s when I notice the light on the other tower block.

My eyes widen. I stare. A red light blinks on, blinks off. Blinks on, blinks off. I wonder what it is. This new thing – this variation in my evening – hypnotizes me.

I watch it for hours. Blinking on, blinking off, over and over.

Dearest Daughter

by Kate Marshall

When you call me to your room, we both know you’re going to die. Your bones are so frail I think they’ll crack under the weight of the thin cotton sheet; I think your skin will burn under the harsh lights of the hospital room. You push a shoebox toward me with a hand so withered the bones shine through. A letter for every year of my life, you say. You try to smile and your lips crack, bloodless, more like torn paper than broken skin.

“Don’t open them early,” you say, voice weak like it’s forced through cheesecloth. “Don’t read them too soon.”

After the funeral I almost tear them open all at once. I have the first one in my hand, my finger working its way under the flap, but I force myself to put it back, close the box. I wait.