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.

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

Long-Lost Roommate

By 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.