To all the things we leave behind,

The broken hearts, the dying dreams

The gravestones and the unknowns.


Is it better to be the one who’s gone,

Or the one who’s left behind?

To be haunted by the ghosts of death,

Or the ghosts of unknown Fate?


December Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

Hello, dear readers. Welcome back to the Confabulator Cafe for our final month of stories for this year.

Our prompt for this month is “goodbyes.” We bid this year, and all of you, a fond farewell.

Here’s the schedule for December.

Monday, December 2: “Farewell” by Isabel Nee
Monday, December 16: “Kate and Tate Were Great” by Eliza Jaquays
Monday, December 30: “Of Fathers, Ghosts, and Beans” by Dianne Williams


The Tower

I had tried every alternative, yet nothing had worked. The room lay silent as I paced, light swirling around me, lush velvet floors whisper soft beneath my boots. A key fashioned from your own bone, the prophet had said. But whose bone? Those of the entrapped, or those of the one who wish to enter? The prophet hadn’t answered then. The room offered me no answer now.


October Stories at the Confabulator Cafe

Autumn is officially here, Halloween only a month away, which means here at the Cafe, we finally have permission to up our creepiness level.

The prompt for this month was: “To open the door, a person must use a key whittled out of one of his or her own bones.”

We hope you’ll enjoy the two stories we have for you this month. Here’s the schedule:

Tuesday, October 15: “Bone Deep” by Sara Lundberg
Tuesday, October 29: “The Tower” by Isabel Nee


Blood and Darkness

We lay naked, spooning, on her four-poster bed, the silk sheets having been thrown back during our nocturnal activities. I curl my body up, trying to avoid skin contact, but she curls more tightly around me, not letting me get away, this time.

“It will only hurt for a second, my love.” Her voice is nearly a purr in my ear. I tuck my hair behind my ear to keep it in place, to keep her breath from making it dance, tickling me.

“I don’t care about the pain.”

She traces a finger along my side, and I force myself not to flinch.

“What is it, then?”

I take a measured breath to avoid sighing. “You know what.” I may not be afraid of pain, but I am afraid of death.

“Oh, dear heart. You shouldn’t fear that. You are strong enough.”

Her tone, rather than making me feel better, makes me feel worse, like she’s talking an ignorant child, lying about how bad the day’s rations were going to taste. We always knew.

“How can you be sure?”