Something Spooky 2022
ISSUE VII — FALL 2022
— prose —
Nameless
BY JOANNA ELIZABETH BENITEZ
She was the type of little girl that hid, crouched and small, from the adults. The silent type too afraid to give voice to her wants. So despite being tired, she lay awake in bed, waiting. She was good at that. Sometimes she wondered if people even knew she was there, that she was a little girl and not a wall.
Just Another Story
BY KAURA GRANDE
It didn't take much convincing from Miles for me to agree to follow him into the canyon in search of Katie. Why she went there specifically is a mystery. We knew she loved the waterfall, tall limestone walls, and of course the ghost stories, but to run away to the canyon alone after dark? That seemed unnecessary, even by her standards.
Marmarna
BY ELSA VALMIDIANO
Before I wake, I am lying in a cradle-like bed. It is hot as if I were being cooked alive.
I slowly rise from the prison of the small bed. My tiny feet slip onto the floor. My eyes sink deep into the darkness. I walk. Behind me, arms wrap around my head while palms are pressed against my eyes. I struggle to see that which hunches in the corner…
Everywhere and Nowhere
BY DEANNA NGUYEN
Miro’s forehead almost slammed onto the counter when the door opened, letting in a breeze that roused him and the goosebumps along his arms.
“Welcome in,” Miro called out, not bothering to look past the shelves of dusty books. He rubbed his tired eyes, pushing his glasses up his forehead. An audible yawn escaped from his mouth.
In the Silence That Follows
BY A.M. JOHNSON
In the silence that follows I am reminded that I am a ghost in life as much as I will be in death. My joke has landed at the party flat, like uncapped soda left in windowed sun. Desperate desperate desperate. I need to tie myself back, to wrap a ribbon around my waist and pull until I’m almost sliced in half, but not, just bleeding and bandaged, but I can’t. It’s too late.
Roomie
BY DEANNA NGUYEN
When Haru returned home after being stuck in traffic for two hours, he almost didn’t make it past the front door because exhaustion dragged him down. Once he kicked off his shoes and tossed his keys on the kitchen counter, he threw himself onto the couch, ready to sink into the cushions and sleep.
— poetry —
Fruit
BY ANDREA GUERRERO
something is eating the rats,
mangoes rot on the branch where
topsoil licks worms clean,
felled from forests,
money we will never see grows on trees
Presence of a Phantom: A Collection
BY HANNAH RYAN
It was a rebirth
From a broken start
Endless warmth from sun
As well as skin
Pungent cologne
With broad shoulders
Deep galactic eyes
A Message From a Mummy
BY HEATHER MEATHERALL
You were always heartless
always say that organ was worthless
Could never understand
how I could follow mine so blindly
so maybe that's why
when you left
A Hunt in the Hollow
BY HEATHER POWELL
The wind no longer comes to touch the trees
That stand unmoving like my horse and I.
These days, nothing stirs much anymore.
I’ve traveled this wood for years, yet never seeing
it as others do, as I long to.
Everything looks dull and lifeless now
Since the last head rotted off.
To the Men who Take Selkies for Wives
BY HEATHER MEATHERALL
you only ever saw her
as something to claim
to tame
a creature to capture
and carry your name
The Harsh Mistress
BY HEATHER POWELL
The night erupts with mournful wailing cries
Howling curses to the moon whose gentle
Glow evokes a softness hiding spite.
A lunar rhythm beating in the hearts
Of mortal beings touched by fate’s cruel hand.
She watches, waiting as she spurns the waning.
Glowing orb with gentle light, she grasps
The hourglass of time and breaks the bones
And twists the forms of all her wayward pawns.