Carl W. Bosch

The Walmart was packed, checkout lines were long, and Simon, with the bags he hefted, headed to his car, if he could only remember where he’d parked it. “Why didn’t I get a cart? Why didn’t I pay attention when I parked the damn car?” he muttered. It was almost seven o’clock, and the sun had already set. The overcast sky made the world as gloomy as the October day it actually was. He maneuvered up and down a few rows of the slowly emptying lot, thinking he had minutes before

The streets of Trieste were washed with a gray rain that mirrored the sky and the Adriatic Sea. Gone were the hot days of summer with bathers crowding the beaches, tan lines slowly fading from young topless women and men sporting thongs. A cruise ship had crossed from Venice with its tourists ready for a journey to the Mediterranean despite the weather. Café-goers had moved indoors to enjoy lively conversation, aperitivi and white wines. School had begun, and few children cou

“OK, what have we got here?” Doctor Khalid’s tone was quick and alert. Two nurses flanked him as they pushed the gurney quickly to a waiting ER room. The night had been impossible: two gunshot wounds, one cardiac arrest, a fall from a fourth-floor balcony into a hedge, and now this. It was 2 A.M., and things were looking not only exhausting but bad. The paramedic, Matt Jones, responded in the same manner, abrupt and clear: “White male, we’re guessing mid-twenties. Hypothermia

Redmond sat in the Quest office waiting to have his blood drawn and lamenting every minute of the wait. It was early on a Tuesday morning, and the waiting area, usually crowded and grumpy, was almost empty. Redmond sat across from a single elderly lady perusing her phone. He thought polite conversation might be the order of the day, but he just didn’t feel like it. That’s, of course, when she spoke up. “Nice day outside,” she offered. “Yes, quite nice,” Redmond responded. “I

Ten is such a reassuring number. Complete. Orderly. Ten fingers. Ten toes. A perfect ten. We count to ten to calm ourselves down. We measure decades by it. Ten feels like a number that has everything under control. Which makes me suspicious of it. Ten years is a long time. The days unfold, some slowly, some fast, and suddenly: a decade. Stories are the same way. Some come quickly. Some have to marinate for a long time. After all these years, the soup of these stories is still

Five stories, five Halloweens, one long haunting. Since 2020, Mr. Tricks has shadowed Brunswick’s life—appearing in doorways, lakes, lighthouses, and dreams. Each year he’s changed shape, but the story has always been about something more human: growing up, carrying fear, and learning what it means to face what follows you. Thanks for walking through these Halloweens with me. Now, one more turn down the path—back to Brunswick, back to the shadow, and back to Mr. Tricks. But

”Let’s do this. You and I. A pact of a sort. It will send a message to our friends, and to our enemies. To the world.” ”Edgar, you’re mad, but with a madness that bears thoughtful consideration. How long have we known each other? But going on six months. I enjoy our letters and shared insights. Our occasional drink and a meal,” Henry motioned with a slight gesture to the almost empty establishment. ”But what good favor that we both ended up here on our respective jaunts, read

The four of them met every year just to shoot the shit, keep updated, and drink shots. They didn’t really know how it all began, but this bar, these very seats, every June they came. All in their early thirties it had been 15 years. Fifteen long years since high school ended so abruptly. Melinda, always called Mel, and Franklin, always called Franklin, still lived in town. Rob lived in New York City, only 75 miles away, and Becky lived in Charleston, but that never stopped he

Quinton Alsop bought 10 scratch-off tickets, a copy of the New York Post, and three Snickers bars at the 24-hour convenience. His bill came to $10 bucks for the lottery tix, $4.75 for the paper, candy, and tax. The clerk, speaking on his phone the entire time, gave Quinton a quarter, which he stuffed in his front pocket with the candy bars. At one point on his walk to the park, reaching into that pocket, Quinton dropped the quarter onto the walkway. He never paused or hear

Barry was only eight when the first dream came. It was lucid, clear, and alive as best an eight-year-old can recall. He wasn’t accustomed to nightmares, but this was definitely a humdinger. He never even called his mom or dad, even though he was terrified. He just couldn’t. It was some kind of a creature. Not quite a person, not an animal. About the size of his dad. Barry thought the thing was actually in bed with him. Beneath the covers. Lying right alongside his body like h