Ben Syverson

Kristen Myers

Emily Grossberg

Sean King

Sam Becker

Nat Steinsultz

Marcus took off his sunglasses and put down his beer. "Hello? Is anyone there?" He craned his neck so he could survey the entire room. With his heart beating a mile a minute, he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower.

There was a ghost hovering in the bathroom doorway.

"Who's ther—OH, oh god, I'm so sorry, I didn't know there was anyone in the shower. I'll just leave," said the ghost.

The ghost went from a white translucency to a deep red with embarrassment as he floated down the hallway. He stopped to look in a mirror and said “I look high.” His mind drifted to when he was alive, and the high he used to get was from Becky. Oh, sweet Becky and her dank weed.

These days, Becky is mainly concerned with the weeds in her garden. She keeps it immaculately tended. Neighbors think she has a green thumb, but she’s really try to keep the spirits happy. Specifically the ghosts of the people she had to kill, whose bodies rest under her garden.

Becky found herself singing this morning as she frantically uprooted the overgrowth from her menagerie of souls. Do not suffocate my babies you nasty weeds she sang, slightly off-key. What Becky didn't know was that her ruse was almost up. Trouble lurked across the garden.

A small horde of hungry monsters approached. Becky rushed into the living room, only to find the window closed. She peeked out, and was only about halfway through the room when the door flew open. With a howl, the horde ran through the open window, smashing the couch to rubble.

Soul Patch

Zoe Becker

Jack Becker

With a curious mind but a tentative step, Marcus pushed the kitchen door slightly ajar. He'd been smelling his mother's famous chocolate chip cookies for hours, but hadn't his parents left for vacation the day before?

Just then the timer went off. How could the cookies be ready if no one was home? Marcus glanced out the kitchen window at his empty driveway. Was he allowed to open the oven? Was he really home alone? Right as he put on the first oven mitt he heard a thud come from upstairs.

Marcus barged through the second floor bedroom door to find his friend’s grandma incapacitated next to a spent aerosol can. As he started putting the pieces together he felt strong grip of someone’s hand on his shoulder. I guess he wasn’t home alone at all

"Holy shit, that was some kind of party!" 
Marcus recoiled at the man's breath, which smelled of stale beer and rancid taco meat. The man before him couldn't have been younger than 80 years old, and for some reason, was completely naked, holding a gun aimed right at Marcus' head.

"Take it easy, old man," said Marcus, slowly backing away from the deranged elder. He kept backing up until he met the corner where he knew stood his coat rack. He also knew his blazer pocket contained his trusty throwing stars.

Marcus slyly reached into his sport coat and pulled out his secret weapon. In one motion he threw the razor-sharp projectile at his geriatric intruder. But his aim was off. The whirling device severed the cord of a hanging lamp, sending it crashing down on the breakfast table.

And like that, poached eggs and the hot slop of steel cut oatmeal was strewn about the coral shag carpet. Face to face with the elderly stranger, he noticed this man’s respirator gauge was running dangerously low. Would Marcus turn the knife or call for help?

he plunged the knife into the old man’s chest, cracking the sternum and sawing away until he found what he was looking for. After a few calculated yanks, a bright red heart sat In his palm. It was perfect for the ritual tonight. What he didn’t know, is someone wanted that heart.

Retirement Home Alone

The night was dragging, and Franny knew it was only a matter of time before her last chance of leaving this city would come and go. She mumbled an excuse to her distracted mother, picked up her bag, and started for the back door. 

The lyft driver was already waiting in the driveway by the time the screened door slammed shut behind Fanny. Throwing her backpack into the trunk, she climbed into the back seat. "International Terminal, please, I'm in hurry."

The driver sped off, but not without offering Fanny a complimentary tiny bottle of water or a phone charger for various types of devices. Fanny waved him off and tried to relax, but that abruptly came to an end when the driver came to a screeching halt. 

Fanny had never been in a car accident before and that fact was the first thing she thought the moment her limo collided with a hulking moose on a barren stretch of highway North of the city. She didn’t consider checking on her driver before bolting toward the wounded animal.

The moose was collapsed in a damp, furry pile 10 feet in front of the car. As intuitively as breath left her lungs, her veterinary training kicked in. She reached for her medical kit. 

The source of bleeding was immediately clear. But what could have caused the antlers to break at the same place on both sides? Peering into the dusk-lit shoulder of the county road, she had her answer. 

It couldn't be. It was impossible. She had left his body on the same stretch of road a decade earlier. He was dead, but yet, there he stood, chainsaw in one hand and perfectly sliced antlers in the other. 

It was so dark Fanny could barely make out the contours of his disfigured face. He was a small man, but held the antlers and chainsaw with unnatural ease. After staring at each other for what felt like minutes the man fired up his chainsaw and screamed, “who’s the animal now?!”

Fanny had dealt with mythical dwarves before, surely, but this was unlike any she'd seen. With a shriek, she ran the other direction, but could hear the muffled chainsaw reverberations gaining on her. 

Feeling the dwarf's labored breathing upon her perspiring neck, Fanny turned around, resigned to a final confrontation. But what she imagined was an implement of war, was in fact a strange musical instrument, the likes of which her wildest dreams could not have portended. 

“This will take you anywhere you want to in time,” said the sweaty Dwarf. “Just blow this simple tune and say outloud, where you wish to travel.” He demonstrates the tune with a whistle, a deep solemn tone. “But, there’s something you must know...”

“If your motives are not pure, you will be sent somewhere ghastly, a place from which you may never return.” He handed Fanny the sweaty, time-worn flute. She hadn’t finished a note before a gleaming winged moose swooped in and carried her off. The dwarf’s eyes watered with pride.

Emily Grossberg
@emilygrossberg

Awards
Earned

Member
Since

Awards

Emily's Stories

Emily Grossberg@emilygrossberg

AwardsEarned

MemberSince

Awards

Emily's Stories

Emily Grossberg
@emilygrossberg

Awards
Earned

Member
Since