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Snowflakes-Fiction by Randy Numann
The Moveable Feast-Fiction by Roy Dorman
The Baker Street Motel-Fiction by D. V. Bennett
Freddie's Back-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Gangsta Girl-Fiction by J. Brooke
The Black Beast of Fulham-Fiction by Alice Wickham
The Supermart...Special-Fiction by Michael D. Davis
Star of Vengeance-Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
The Watcher-Fiction by Jacqueline M. Moran
Royal Curse-Fiction by Donald D. Shore
Order Up. One Alibi to Go-Fiction by M. A. De Neve
The Man Under the Bed-Fiction by Sharon Frame Gay
Fly-Fiction by Doug Hawley
Spiral Face-Fiction by Willie Smith
Stegmann's Basement_Flash Fiction by Peter DiChellis
It's Just Me-Flash Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Kid's Games-Flash Fiction by Tim Frank
Converse Canvas Tennis Shoe Lying on the Road-Poem by Daniel G. Snethen
Solution #1-Poem by Abe Nore
boo!-Poem by Meg Baird
Childhood Effigies-Poem by Ron Torrence
Nocturne-Poem by Melissa Dobson
The Name-Poem by Melissa Dobson
Direction-Poem by Jonathan Butcher
The Escape-Poem by Jonathan Butcher
Rolly Pollies-Poem by Alex Salinas
Smoke Dream-Poem by Alex Salinas
Son of a Gun-Poem by Christopher Kenneth Hanson
Stand-Up-Poem by Christopher Kenneth Hanson
The Artificial Lighting-Poem by John D. Robinson
Free Doses-Poem by John D. Robinson
Here We Are, You & I-Poem by John D. Robinson
Wanderer-Poem by David Spicer
Raconteur-Poem by David Spicer
Desperado-Poem by David Spicer
Strange Days at Cafe Bizarro-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
Night Revelations in Bizarro Country-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
The Room with a No-Exit Sign-Poem by Dr. Mel Waldman
The Nameless-Poem by John Grey
The Time of the Spider-Poem by John Grey
Good Luck to Whoever Finds My Body-Poem by John Grey
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
The Gazing Ball
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Kevin Duncan 2019

It’s Just Me

Kenneth James Crist


“Mommy, is weer-woofs real?” From the other end of the house, I could hear Lisa talking to her mom. Sweet Lisa. My only daughter.

“No, Honey, werewolves are just made-up stuff, like Frankenstein and the Mummy. Just stories. Let me tuck you in, Sweet Girl.”

“’Kay, Mommy, but who made ‘em up, if they’re not real?”

“Werewolves came from European folklore, probably to scare little kids and keep ‘em in line. There ya go, Baby. G’night.”

The tiny hairs in my pointed ears allowed me to hear my wife as she walked almost silently from my daughter’s room. Marie, my gorgeous blonde wife. I could smell her, too. Her menstrual cycle would cause her to flow heavily tomorrow. I could smell her that well.

I heard her as she went into the kitchen and started loading the dishwasher. Her smell was intoxicating. I really should go, now. Especially since she had no idea I was even in the house. We had been separated for four months now. The trouble was over my absences. Once a month, I would be gone for several days and I never had a good answer when she wanted to know where I went. She suspected I was cheating, but I wasn’t. At least, not in the way she imagined.

She was finished with her kitchen chores. I heard the dishwasher start. I should really have left right then. No hesitation, just get out. I could have just slipped out the door, and she would still be alive. If only she hadn’t screamed when she saw me . . . the screaming always brings it on more quickly.


*     *     *     *

Sebastian and Thompkins agreed; the crime scene was one of the worst they had ever seen. The man had not just murdered the wife and child, but the horror of the arterial spray on the walls and ceiling, the entrails draped on the furniture, the woman so brutally violated . . . and yet, the child appearing so peaceful in her bed, merely dispatched as gently as possible, by suffocation. The wound tracks on the woman suggested he’d used a serrated knife, but so far, they hadn’t found any weapon at all. Like all good cops, they would suck it up and do what was required, but they already had the confession. All they were really doing was putting the final nails in the guy’s coffin. . . .


*     *     *     *

The moon is in a position where I can see it through the bars of my cell. It is rising right now, fat and bloated and magnificent. I’ve been here a month, awaiting trial and very soon now, I will begin the change. When this first started, I dreaded it. It was painful and took hours to complete, but now it happens in mere minutes, and when it does, it is almost like a sexual release. I look forward to the increase in strength, the sharpened senses and even the dulled intellectual functions. I know that when I change, these bars will not hold me.

And, man, is that fat little guard with the big key ring and cocky attitude gonna be surprised. It’s coming now and so is he . . . yeah, relax little fella . . . run that key ring along the bars for the last time . . . come to Papa . . . oh, my, what big eyes you have . . . see? See it all?

Yeah, little fella, it’s just me. . . .

Kenneth James Crist is Editor Emeritus of Black Petals Magazine and is on staff at Yellow Mama ezine. He has been a published writer since 1998, having had almost two hundred short stories and poems in venues ranging from Skin and Bones and The Edge-Tales of Suspense to Kudzu Monthly. He is particularly fond of supernatural biker stories. He reads everything he can get his hands on, not just in horror or sci-fi, but in mystery, hardboiled, biographies, westerns and adventure tales. He retired from the Wichita, Kansas police department in 1992 and from the security department at Wesley Medical Center in Wichita in 2016. Now 75, he is an avid motorcyclist and handgun shooter. He is active in the American Legion Riders and the Patriot Guard, helping to honor and look after our military. He is also a volunteer driver for the American Red Cross, Midway Kansas Chapter. He is the owner of Fossil Publications, a desktop publishing venture that seems incapable of making any money at all. His zombie book, Groaning for Burial, has been released by Hekate Publishing in Kindle format and paperback late this year. On June the ninth, 2018, he did his first (and last) parachute jump and crossed that shit off his bucket list.

Kevin D. Duncan was born 1958 in Alton, Illinois where he still resides. He has degrees in Political Science, Classics, and Art & Design. He has been freelancing illustration and cartoons for over 25 years. He has done editorial cartoons and editorial illustration for local and regional newspapers, including the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. His award-winning work has appeared in numerous small press zines, e-zines, and he has illustrated a few books.

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2019