The Cafe In the Village

It wasn’t December, rather, a grim October haunted by a relentless early chill. Dipping my hat, I hurried across the cobbled street. Opening the door, I delighted in the glow of table candles and the low hum of conversations. The place was charming and oblivious to the danger.

Our eyes met and the shooting began.


Ross Coppage.


Timeless Vigil

He would return, he promised, striding up to the road that warm autumn afternoon. Each footstep pulled at her reluctant heart.

Now, one-hundred-fifty years to the day, as October’s sun casts dark shadows, the yellowed lace wafts gently as her ephemeral face appears at the upstairs window.



Bruce Chronister.


Buried Secrets

She walked through the trees, pushing the leaves with the toes of her new boots. The sound reminded her of his hand sliding along the sheet when he swept the bedding to the floor. What a mad weekend that had been. Their last weekend together. His last weekend, period.

She knelt to bury the knife.



Laura Rittenhouse.

Autumnal time dance

Leaf Dance

Miranda watched a maple key twirl down, shimmering against the bruise-coloured sky. A handful of yellow leaves danced out of a tree and frolicked ahead of her on the path. She twirled in delight. A great gust of wind brought leaves raining down with an angry rattle. Miranda ran back to take her father’s hand.



A. Partridge.



She lies in the transitioning autumnal grass, soaking up the remaining warmth of the day, remembering.

Fingers skimming love, reading poetry between the summer breeze, they were utterly carefree. Love drenched, sun kisses led to swollen mouths.

The fertile earth’s scent now carries death. As autumn’s wind whisks fallen leaves, it snatches her dormant memories.


Grace Black.


Fair Weather Lover

My ardour falls with the temperature.

While others glory in the brilliant autumn colours, I lament the lack of lush growth. My sap stops running.

In my mind your face is already losing definition and fading into a sepia summer snapshot.

I’ve yet to share the warmth of my winter fireside with a lover.



A. Partridge.


Autumn Nights

I huddle next to the lake each autumn night, waiting for Cassidy to take her nightly walk in the moonlight. I wait to see her, her sweeping black hair, her deep brown eyes. I speak, but my words have no voice. I experience only sorrow, regret, and bitter memories of her sudden death last October.



Brad W. Beatty.


The Chestnut Tree

For eighty years I’ve been coming to sit beneath this tree, observing the cycle of birth and re-birth. Emerald springs spent playing under its blossom; golden summers spent picnicking with my children in its shade; fiery autumns like this one spent watching my grandsons gather its chestnuts. But now, as it must, winter is coming.



Sandra-Jane Goddard.


A Witness to the Horseman

A smothering silence fell upon the air, the trees and the dark.

Swallowing, I gripped tighter on the rains, slowed my breathing and strained to see the source of the struggle.

Squinting, my eyes fell upon an imposing soldierly figure.

There, silhouetted against the harvest moon was his jagged, headless neck.


He got Ichabod…



Ross Coppage.


An Elderly Couple Celebrates

After weather over water, news talk glazed over sugar-cured ham sandwiches, we sit hoping the other will break us from this dream where two people can sit across from one another and simply eat; everything needed to be said before the waitress comes clapping, chocolate cake with a single musical candle.



Doug Fraser.

Spooky Halloween graveyard in fog

The Graveyard Shift

Leaves crunch underfoot. Too noisy now but useful ground cover later. Tommy still doesn’t think this is the best place. Tough. This is where we’re putting him. Get digging. He does. A dog walker passes on the top path. We wave. It’s Hallowe’en; she thinks we’re doing something ghoulish. We are. We’re burying her husband.



Jane Cooper.



“Autumn’s a beautiful season,” Angela said, gazing out, admiring the reds and other warm colors.

“It reminds me of death,” Jonathan wheezed.

“Not surprising. Everything makes you think of death.”

“That’s because I’m dying. How can you be so callous?”

Not callous. Just pragmatic, Angela thought, stroking the divorce papers, now moot, in her pocket.


Michael Seese.


Powerless Morning

Delicate flakes of snow fall on my fragile autumn leaves.

The weight forces my branches towards the ground.

At my breaking point, I give in and release my limbs.

Power lines are helpless.

My city goes dark.

Everyone is forced to enjoy the real silence of the rising sun and falling snow.



David Seguin.


Falling Down

Sherbet leaves swayed with the potpourri breeze and one gently landed on my shoe. I picked it up and tore it.

“That was a silly thing to do, David.”

“Why, Tiffany?”

“It didn’t’ do anything to you.”

“Please, it’s just a crushed leaf now.”

“And, now, so are you.” Tiffany walked off, alone and smiling.



Eugene Chun.


Burning Leaves

Just once, every fall, I love to rake the dried leaves into a pile and light the match to watch it burn. Oh, the smell of burning leaves.

I feel the warmth of the sun, the fire, the brisk autumn air.

As I tend the fire I let my imagination run free with possibilities.


Deborah Lean.


The Fall

Mr. Autumn grew sleepy, so he decided to undress in public, leaf by leaf.

“Let all my bling, the red, green and white jewels hanging from my many arms feast the eye in the fading sunlight,” he said to Mother Nature as she tucked him in under a blanket of warm winter snow.



Alan Barker.

Single grave

Autumn’s Spirit

She drifted, like fallen leaves, through walls and doors… propelled as if by magic, drawn to a winter field. Feeling no wind, no cold, but part of the wind. On and on she went, on over fields, trees. Suddenly she was pulled down abruptly, shockingly! She hovered, helpless, over an open, yawning grave… “It’s mine!!”



Kerry Hall.


Sugar Maple

The tree on the ridge had fire in its boughs, sweetness at its core. Someone greedy bled it last March, tapped it 10 times, 15, drained it, sapped it. August’s too early glory has given way to bare grey limbs in the glowing forest. There’s a sweet girl on the ridge with fiery eyes.



Jennie Bryant.


My Rival

“I’m going to screw you where you breathe, and laugh.”

He blinked slowly, a lizard in the autumn sun, “Because of that thing?”

I didn’t answer, just stood up and threw money on the table.

“Try not to steal the tip once. Control?”

I walked languidly. His wife was waiting for me at the hotel.


Doc Krinberg.


The Witches Colony – The Spell

I felt it… I breathed it… the rustle of crisp leaves, the deep cool sky, the dusty, earthy scent of the harvest work.

So hypnotic, the smoke and the crackle of cherry logs, beneath the ancient iron caldron.

Naked, grasping her vile hand, I blissfully obeyed her dire request, and stepped into the boiling pot.


Ross Coppage.