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Edition 6: Faye’s Diner by J.T. Seate
Faye’s Diner by J.T. Seate was placed third in the 2012 Story Quest Short Story Contest, and was deservedly given a winning award. This subtle horror piece explores the theme of the uncertainty of death, in a ‘down home’ setting. GH
Faye’s Diner was a haven for old timers. They got together to play games; talk about who’d died, or how the world was going to hell in a handbasket. The biggest event ever at Faye’s was when the twenty-one year young Judy Beth Dinglehooper came into the place, climbed on a tabletop, and took off her clothes to encourage donations for a one-way ticket out of town. Wearing only her red slippers, she’d raised enough for at least a start.
Three years had passed since that classic morning. The table she’d climbed on top of was still held in an odd kind of reverence by those who knew the story. Those who’d been in the diner for Judy Beth’s performance marveled at how quickly those three years had flown by. Lord, how time flew for old duffers.
By nine o’clock in the morning, the dining room smelled of men and fried onions. The usual crowd passed along greetings while Faye made the rounds with her coffee pot. The men ranged in age from mid-sixties to eighty, mostly Social Security wards. Josh Potts and the slightly cross-eyed George Fraily were already shoving dominoes around a plastic checkered tablecloth while they sipped coffee and waited for their orders of ham and eggs. Josh nibbled on the thumbnail of the hand holding a domino while George patiently waited for him to make a play. Josh’s turd-brown, porkpie hat, with the brim bent up in front, perched atop his head in glaring conflict with his faded blue overalls. He was a character seldom at a loss for words.
Edition 7: A Minor System by W. B. Stickel
Roger has the perfect life: loving wife, a writing career to envy and a loveable dog. Kept awake one night by stranger and stranger occurrences, he might find out that his life is not what he thinks. SY
The music was faint but definitely there, a droning whisper floating through the cool desert night.
“You hear that, El?” Roger Macklin said to his wife, Ellen, who lay next to him in bed, naked but for the thin satin sheet covering her. He glanced over to see what she thought but found that she was fast asleep.
“Sorry, honey,” he whispered.
Cringing, but glad he hadn’t woken her—she’d pulled a double at The Copper Queen in Bisbee earlier and deserved a decent night’s rest—he moved his attention to the bedroom’s open window and listened closer to the sound, curious if he could place its origin.
Edition 8: Digging In The Deep by Tonia Brown
When miners lose their jobs and start disappearing, it’s chalked up to desertion. Thomas knows better. He starts digging, but perhaps the family line of work is not the safest pursuit in these dark times… SY
“He’s my pa,” Thomas said. “I just want to know where he is.”
The officer nodded at him, but said nothing.
“I ain’t seen him in three weeks,” Thomas said.
“He isn’t in there,” the cop said. “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Thomas looked past the officer, into the darkened recesses of the mine beyond. “I know that. But…I mean…isn’t there anything you can do?”
The officer looked up to him, more exasperated than concerned. “Look, kid. A lot of men have supposedly gone missing in the last few weeks. Not just your father.”
“I know.” Thomas was sort of worried about the other guys too, but mostly about his father. Jack Barns was the first to go missing weeks ago, then Roger Wells a few days later, then Marcus Downey, then Jeremy Stills, then Donald Walker. The list went on and on.
Edition 9: Trophy by Jason Lairamore
Wilbur isn’t exactly a nice guy, and you could possibly excuse him because of the sexual politics mentality of the early 20th Century. Possibly. Sometimes, however, fate plays an off-beat game, and unexpected results ensue. GH
I arrived at the bank early, as usual. My driver opened the door to my new 1927 Packard as I checked my pocket watch. 6:00 a.m. I’ve got a good driver in, whatever his name is.
“A fine morning, Sir,” the doorman said.
I ignored him and rushed into the foyer, past the teller stations, up the stairs, and into the office where my desk waited loaded with ‘real’ work.
I worked for a while then lit one of my Cubans. I took one good puff and my young wife stepped into my office, unannounced and as bold as you please. Her presence made me cough on the fine smoke.
“Wilbur!” She shifted weight right then left then back again. With every movement her exquisite muscles played on her long legs. The dress she wore, though long enough to cover her proper was too tight by half. My heart skipped a beat and I almost dropped my cigar.
“Priscilla whatever are you doing here?”
Edition 9: Born Again by Nu Yang
Horror is about making the reader uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, whether it is with the sledgehammer of shock, or the subtle descriptive form that creeps the reader out as the narrative progresses. Nu Yang does the latter very well indeed, and we are pleased to have her return to SQ Mag in this story about a supernatural event that is closely tied with one of the most tumultuous events in US history in this century. GH
The note came on a Monday.
Dear Mr. Fisher,
I would like to meet with you sometime this week to discuss Maribel’s behavior in class. Please contact me at the school at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely, Mrs. Allen
When Ryan asked his daughter what her fifth grade teacher wanted to speak about, Maribel shrugged. “I think it might be about this history report I did.” She was huddled over her homework at the dining table. “She told me to see her after class when I turned it in.”
“What did she tell you?” Ryan asked.
“Just that she didn’t like what I wrote.” Maribel chewed on her bottom lip. Her green eyes stayed downcast.
Ryan leaned against the kitchen counter. “Do you have the report with you?”
Edition 10: Drunks by Michael C Schutz-Ryan
Neil is the most beautiful man in the room, but his past pursues him. Rob ought to watch out for himself. A creepy tale about your past coming back to haunt you. SY
When I first met Neil, he was drinking Heineken at Jim’s party. Well dressed and very drunk gay men stood around a veritable garden of potted plants; they watched each other watching each other and tried to appear disinterested.
A small crowd of three or four gathered around Neil. I didn’t know him then, but wanted to, so I drifted over.
Neil’s eyes were glassy and bright and returned my (light-hearted) stare far more often than he peered into any others’ eyes. He had black hair twisted and tangled like one of those lucky trolls that were popular years before. Beer in hand, he leaned his lithe body forward, one knee on the cushions. He was ten years younger than anyone there.
He was telling a story; his voice surprised me—it was too gravelly to come out of that face. I’d come in late, and caught only the punchline: “So I took down the sign!” His laughter made the room smile.
Edition 10: The Visiphorical Art by Michelle Ann King
There is much that is not plain to the naked eye and Marcy is someone who can see past the every day into the shadows of the past. A clever and emotive short addressing the gritty underside of life we all suspect is there. SY
There are remnants of lives all over the house, drying out and growing mould like abandoned plates of half-consumed meals. They lie in wait under the surface of reality like landmines, like unexploded bombs. Waiting for the unwary, the ones who don’t watch their step, to explode them back into the world.
But Marcy isn’t one of the unwary, the clueless. She’s careful, she’s a bomb-disposal expert. She picks her way through the booby-traps of memories and the tripping hazards of lost opportunities with skill and delicate flair. She’s intangible, untouchable, an interloper in the territory of the dead. A ghost among ghosts.
The image pleases her. Ghosts have power, after all, even if they don’t know it.
Read the rest of this entry
Edition 11: Finders Keepers by John W. Dennehy
A simple snowshoeing trip leads Jack and his daughter Keelin to a payload of money. How has it lain so long undisturbed in the wilderness? Best leave mysterious money caches. Unfortunately, human greed is such a grasping need. SY
The woods were quiet as Jack and his ten-year-old daughter trudged down the trail. A blanket of fresh snow draped over the forest, cleaving to bare branches and evergreens. Lost in contemplation of the woodland, their peaceful sojourn seemingly left behind adversity from the outside world.
While unloading their snowshoes from his aging Volvo wagon, little Keelin had hesitated about heading off into the shaded woods. Jack encouraged her to forge ahead. And as they busied themselves fastening the snowshoes to their boots, she appeared content about the venture.
Jack could only hear the sound of their snowshoes crimping the trail and an occasional swishing of Keelin’s snow pants as they plodded forward. Keelin quietly plugged along beside him, up and down steep hills, and around bends flanked by bubbling brooks and old stone walls.
Edition 11: Flagman by Jim Lee
It is a hard task to live up to all that is asked of us, our names and our parents’ expectations. Casimir is worn down with world-weariness because of it. He’s hearing a voice, calling on him to be more. As the flagman signals, will Casimir continue to obey? SY
Casimir Pulaski Williams felt no particular relief as his dusty compact shuddered its way along the four-lane. Another day was finished. It had been no worse than most. Meaning only that he had felt useless, trapped and bored.
Tomorrow?
More of the same.
Another thread in the small gray fabric of his life.
Once, Casimir told himself, he had been proud.
Proud of his mother. Of her steady, uncomplaining nature. Of her perseverance. And of her determination to make their lives secure. Even, at some point, proud of the name she’d given him.
Edition 12: Crawler by B. T. Joy
Delve into the mess that is Martin Serper’s mind. Having seen the creature pulled up from beneath Kingston, he finds himself slowly losing his sanity. How many legs? Why is it coming for him? Your skin will crawl. SY
He sees himself again.
Deep in the red shadows, and in the after-images of light, something is moving.
Shut up! Shut up!
He ignores the darker shapes. They are sidling, in the peripheries, through those coloured rags of illumination potent enough to seep through tight eyelids. They are easily ignored for now. And besides, he has promised forgetfulness to himself. Promised himself he won’t face what he encountered. Beneath the earth. Under the city. Not until he absolutely has to.
SQ Mag 
