Kid crashed his car into the River at 2:03. It was just as the sun came into his eyes and flared that he’d swerved. Or didn’t realize he’d swerved. Not that it mattered.

He comes in those moments before sleep sweeps across my brow, sinks me into nothingness. His words mere whispers. In my ear? My mind? I can never tell. They encoil my heart and steal my breath as terror surges through me, awareness of my mortality palpable. His presence a shroud embracing me. Portending that which lies beyond my end.

We are at the brink of October, that time of wandering souls, Samhain and otherworldly vibes. Here at Ink & Oak, that means we are sending out a call to all you tortured souls and twisted Triangle-based writers to hit us with your finest flash fiction, micro-fiction, and short stories that bring out the dead, the undead, and all that occupies the liminal space between.