I wrote a fresh book about crime capers.

Is it any good or just a pile of papers?

By Mike Morrell

*****

A Pile of Papers

I woke with a little jump. Outside it was dusk, the streetlamps just starting to come on. Inside, the lights were all off except for those security lamps which make a sort of half-light that shadows monsters love. It was a wonder no one had woken me. Sure, I was kind of hidden back in a little alcove by a window, but you would think someone would do a last sweep to check for stragglers. I left my chair to return my books to their spot on the shelf, my belief in ghosts suddenly fortified by the towering dark forest of shelves. I had always loved to be surrounded by so many books. Not even to read them, just to be near them. Sometimes it felt like they had souls and if you closed your eyes and pretended you weren’t there, you could almost hear them talking to each other. At night, suddenly I was sure it was true, and my ears strained in the silence for the voices I thought were just beyond hearing, the dusty, raspy little whispers frightening rather than comforting.

I hurried down the dark aisle clutching the books to my chest. It took me a few minutes to find the right aisle, and then the right shelf, and I almost just put them wherever there was a spot just to get out a little faster, but part of me was a little ashamed to be scared of the dark still, at my age. Also, books out of order make me crazy.

I walked a little slower when I got out of the shadow of the shelves. They seemed to stretch across the floor in bizarre shapes to try to grasp my ankles, but I sidestepped the exaggerated corners. I thought the whispers receded just a bit as I approached the doors. I pushed, and the door didn’t move. Panic. I pushed harder, still nothing, and my heartbeat filled my ears as I abandoned dignity and all but threw myself against the door.

I felt so stupid when I noticed it said “Pull”.

By Abigail Eskew

The old man sat on the barrel at the end of the dock. The setting sun cast a halo around his disheveled hair and long white beard. A few of the sailors, who just got into port, started gathering in front of the old man.

“It was in the winter of 49 as we were rounding Cape Horn in a driving storm.” The storyteller’s eyes glistened from the gaslight above. “I have never in all my 50 years at sea have seen such a storm. The sky flashed bright with lightning, the waves grew higher than the mast. It was as if the gods were angry with us for what we did and wanted to destroy our ship.”

Just then a young man stepped between the crowd and the old man.
“Listen to me,” the young man shouted, “don’t listen to the ravings of an old sailor. I know everybody’s got a story, but this man is plumb crazy. I was there and that’s not what happened. This is the real story.”

Just then a bell rang and ended the story.

By Linda Scott

*****

Somebody’s Got a Story

from the prompt: “Everybody’s got a story…”

I heard that everybody has got a story, but I can’t seem to find mine. I think somebody hid it. Deep inside. From fear or shame.

If I share my story, do I still have it? Own it? Claim it?

Everybody’s got a story, but aren’t they all shared? Who else might lay righteous claim to my story?

I wonder whether it’s worth the risk to search for mine, to tell it true as I can, and face…. Who? What?

Perhaps I can disguise my story in facts and fiction to filter truth or essence beneath the tracks of time and title.

Everybody’s got a story, and each of us shares the pieces of many others’ stories. May we share the lessons of pain and joy without the claim of ownership, without the guile of ego, without the…the mystery of __________.

by Erv Barnes