Holiday Ravens

by Dolores Davis Once there was a raven couple that followed Woman on her morning walks, because she fed them from a bag of treats. He was stout, with a hooked beak and a bold presence. She was smaller, cautious and demure. Woman named them

“Helpin’ Out Daddy,” a short, short story

Red sun blisterin’ hot, dryin’ out morning dew.  No money till pickin’ time.  Plastic sheets coverin’ sulfury-smellin’ dirt, screechin’ underfoot.  Findin’ her place, bucket in hand.  Endless rows of plump fruit fixin’ to swamp her. Mr. C. livin’ in her head, pushin’.  “Hey, girl, you late.  No profit in dallyin’.  Finish yer row, have somethin’

The Third Floor – a true ghost story

Ghosts don’t exist. They belong in the realm of fairies, goblins, hobbits, and other fictional characters. At least, that is what I believed until my trip to Italy. I flew to Milan with the intention of staying at Pension Carrobbio, a three-story hotel near the Piazza del Duomo. My friend who suggested the place said

Crossing the Cemetery on Halloween Night

It was a dark and stormy night. The rain had paused but the fickle moon often hid behind the thunderheads, plunging Morganville into Stygian darkness. As I neared the cemetery, my 1975 Hornet coughed, sputtered, and rolled to a stop. I did the usual things, but it wouldn’t restart. Another car approached, and I tried

The Fairies of Garden City

In Science, one thing sort of leads to another. So it was with the Parallel Euclidian Eye-space Polarization Experimental Research Station. The theory is generally accepted, now, but in 2035 it was not generally believed that light could be polarized along an axis parallel to the motion of photons. Scientists were divided into two camps:

BACK WOODS JUSTICE

“That him?” I nodded. The man crumpled to the ground, bawling like a baby. My brother, Johnnie, leveled the rifle. “What d’ya want me to do?”

The Misadventure of the Perilous Porcelain, a Parody

NOTE: This is a continuation of the Misadventure of the Sacrificial Sheep, a Parody “He’s coming ‘round, Lestrade.” Someone was attempting to pour brandy down my throat. I erupted in a paroxysm of coughing and soon wheezed to full consciousness, the apparent objective of the brandy-wielder. “You fainted, Watson,” said he.

The Misadventure of the Sacrificial Sheep, a Parody

NOTE: This is a continuation of the Misadventure of the Empty Trunk, a Parody. “It was merely a jest, Watson, a bit of whimsy on my part,” said Holmes, setting down the tea tray beside where I huddled, shivering, before our fireplace. He was referring to his inexplicably rude behaviour of the previous evening, which

The Demon Box

The phone rang. Dagon Emberly, my magician boss, twirled an imperious hand. “Hullo,” said I, picking up the black receiver. “Is this Emberly?” “He’s busy.” “I need to speak to him.” “About what?” “The Demon Box.” “Who is this?” I asked. “Keller.” I was speaking to my boss’s hated rival, the world’s greatest magician, Harry

The Misadventure of the Empty Trunk (A Parody)

It was ten o’clock in Baker Street. Holmes was sawing away at his violin, producing a creditable imitation of a cat fight. I saw no reason to tell him so, as I’d already mentioned it thrice that evening, to no avail whatsoever. I was idly perusing advertisements in the Times. An astonishing number of women