Like A Woman

By Eric Scot Tryon

She first haunted me on Sundays. In church. Whispered threats tickling past me like ancient hymns. Then the car. Misheard warnings in the static-space between songs. Then our house. Books toppling, picture frames tilting. Only your photos. I’m sorry. When she visited our bedroom I should have said something. When the sheets billowed and you felt the marshmallow touch of uncalloused hands trace your clavicle, I should have known. When you moaned at the tissue paper bones that wrapped around your neck, I should have told you. How strong the gentle can become. How quickly the caress becomes the squeeze.

Eric Scot Tryon is the Founding Editor of Flash Frog. He writes, he says, “because he would make a lousy plumber.”

Long-Lost Roommate

old roomBy Jenna Tramonti

My dad always said New England had a history to it. I put my suitcase down in the tiny apartment doorway and decided that was the case. The wooden floor creaked as I moved. Small square windows gazed out to Boston below. I smiled.

The landlady seemed to materialize behind me, gesturing in welcome.

“… And don’t worry about Emily,” she said after, making for the door.

“Who?” I asked.

“Oh, she died here in 1894. She’s very smart. You might learn from her.”

Then I was alone. A box near the kitchen moved on its own, slightly to the left.