“Now Autumn’s fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.” — William Allingham
Hello, LCP Family! The leaves are turning colors and there's a chill in the air! It's time to grab a hot mug of your favorite drink and enjoy a brand-new issue of Loud Coffee Press!
Our fall issue is packed with poetry, flash fiction, and artwork, not to mention Amanda Trout's winning story from our 2024 Microfiction contest!
We have print copies for preorder at our store! Each print copy of our magazine is hand-made with care and each purchase goes a long way to keeping us up and running year after year! You can purchase a full-color print copy of the magazine for $5 by visiting our shop!
Summer Microfiction Contest Results
In July, we held our 2024 Microfiction Contest! We want to thank everyone who participated. We received many entries and had a tough time selecting a winner! You can read Amamda Trout's winning entry in our fall issue.
We selected the following entries as runners-up!
Microfiction Contest Runners-Up
Knock knock
by Orville Ketchum
Knock knock.
A sound that slips through the spaces that exist in the gap in the doors and the rotted out rust scarring the once bright paint.
Aged wine, old beer, skeletons, and the memories of each and every one of them. Placed there for a reason — though what they were is now even a mystery to me.
Knock knock.
They continue calling. Drink me, share me, put me to rest. Needing light to exist; needing darkness for me to join.
Knock knock.
Burdens buried but bound to be found when I’m just like them. Hidden away, a fading memory. The last cork popped, the last drip dropped, and the last bone faded.
Come in. We’ve been waiting.
Orville Ketchum, also known as Greg Harr, spends less time writing and more time watching movies. He cohosts Stabby Stabby, a podcast about weird and obscure horror movies. https://stabbystabby.buzzsprout.com/
Laundry Day
by H.M. Lightcap
Laundry takes an hour. Drying can take two. Folding and putting away can take weeks. As someone who loathes the latter task, I’m guilty of letting clothes pile up for months. Stiff denim pants support the teetering tower overflowing the basket. I put the excess in a laundry bag and go to my cellar door. The heavy hinges squeal as I lift.
I expect daylight to flood the subspace. Yet there is only impenetrable darkness. A viscous membrane encases the landing, swallowing light into a dull emanation. It quakes as specs of ivory push the organ wall. Sweat tickles my neck despite wintry fear twisting my insides as I drop my basket.
The teeth float like murmurations of birds. Dull incisors with sharpened dog canines, fangs of cats, molars of horses and delicate specks from rodents coming within millimeters but never colliding. The caustic mass has worn them all into a pearly white. Unintelligible whispers overlay in never ending waves, competing for my attention and working in tandem. Their whining, lurid persuasions tickle across my skin. Adrenaline both paralyzes and sends shocks through my body in contradictory demands.
I’m jolted into action when the mass roils forward threateningly. I throw the basement door shut. The fabric overstimulates my fingertips as I gather my laundry. My plastic basket clatters in my passenger seat as I speed down the driveway. It takes a comically long time to load quarters into the laundromat machines as my hands shake.
H.M. Lightcap was born and raised in Pennsylvania. She works at a nonprofit food pantry while attending college part time. Previously, Sliced up Press published her overseas in an anthology, as well as the Montgomery County Community College literary magazine. Though she's known for horror, she's not very scary and spends her time taking part in local and international writing communities.
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