by R.S. Bohn
A billion stars spread like marbles across his lap. He flicks one off; it scares the cat and crashes into the radiator. A terrible metal pinging: my heart loosening its hold in my chest.
I ask him why as he fingers another marble.
"Because you were never here when I wanted you," he says.
It's true. And as each marble marks its awful trajectory, I long to fly over them, away from my god, to another. Over a hundred glittering glass stars that mean nothing to me anymore, to a place where I'm alone, and I am my only god.
Author bio: RS lives in Detroit, where they aim for a zombie theme park. She thinks one already exists in her head. Admission is free: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com
Friday 28 September 2012
Wednesday 26 September 2012
Minotaur
by John Xero
His bovine huffs and snorts are carried through the labyrinth on fickle drafts, echoing my own laboured breathing. I pause, testing the humid air for his scent. It is there, but it is everywhere, like my own.
Then I see him, lit in shifting orange by the guttering, sputtering torches. His muscular body is tense, poised, and he lowers his horned, craggy, bull’s head to charge. My guts churn with hatred, fear, and boundless anger at the sight of my twin.
I, too, charge, bellowing.
Our father’s revulsion weighs grievously on my mind, heavier than the island over our heads.
His bovine huffs and snorts are carried through the labyrinth on fickle drafts, echoing my own laboured breathing. I pause, testing the humid air for his scent. It is there, but it is everywhere, like my own.
Then I see him, lit in shifting orange by the guttering, sputtering torches. His muscular body is tense, poised, and he lowers his horned, craggy, bull’s head to charge. My guts churn with hatred, fear, and boundless anger at the sight of my twin.
I, too, charge, bellowing.
Our father’s revulsion weighs grievously on my mind, heavier than the island over our heads.
Author bio: John Xero definitely doesn't have a twin locked away in an underground labyrinth who is fed stray children and urban foxes in exchange for 101 word stories. You can't prove anything.
Friday 21 September 2012
Sacrifice
by Ray Paterson
I’d wanted a rearrangement for weeks. Better access to computers. With the air conditioning down, I wanted everything nearer the window. Better ventilation and light.
‘A change is as good as a rest,’ they say.
I had unexpected help...
Three removal men, grey of face and boiler suits. Silent. Pulling out cables, cabinets, and bookcases. Smashed computers dumped outside the window.
They re-arranged desks… then left. Two returned, expressionless, supporting a battered soldier who leaked blood over my executive blue shag pile.
Well, I thought. May as well go home. We all have to make sacrifices in time of war.
Author bio: @oldhack55 on twitter. Unpublished but a trier. Write for the love of it.
I’d wanted a rearrangement for weeks. Better access to computers. With the air conditioning down, I wanted everything nearer the window. Better ventilation and light.
‘A change is as good as a rest,’ they say.
I had unexpected help...
Three removal men, grey of face and boiler suits. Silent. Pulling out cables, cabinets, and bookcases. Smashed computers dumped outside the window.
They re-arranged desks… then left. Two returned, expressionless, supporting a battered soldier who leaked blood over my executive blue shag pile.
Well, I thought. May as well go home. We all have to make sacrifices in time of war.
Author bio: @oldhack55 on twitter. Unpublished but a trier. Write for the love of it.
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Rewrite
by John Xero
Saint Araxis (XI) is dead, headless.
He lies slumped across the tactical map desk in the war room of his battle barge. Little wooden ships, tanks and soldiers have been scattered to countries far removed from the current conflict. This redeployment has been recorded by sensors built into the oak desk and corresponding orders have been issued.
Quizzical transmissions are coming back from the front lines; the battlefield commanders are understandably concerned.
The assassin has been subdued, however, and the overwritual has been initiated; his memories are being overwritten by Araxis’ last backup.
Long live the immortal Saint Araxis (XII).
Saint Araxis (XI) is dead, headless.
He lies slumped across the tactical map desk in the war room of his battle barge. Little wooden ships, tanks and soldiers have been scattered to countries far removed from the current conflict. This redeployment has been recorded by sensors built into the oak desk and corresponding orders have been issued.
Quizzical transmissions are coming back from the front lines; the battlefield commanders are understandably concerned.
The assassin has been subdued, however, and the overwritual has been initiated; his memories are being overwritten by Araxis’ last backup.
Long live the immortal Saint Araxis (XII).
Friday 14 September 2012
Silence
by Michelle Ann King
People. Everywhere. Swarming, like insects. Like bugs. They got in his way, tripped him up, blocked his path, breathed up all his air and left him bruised and gasping.
So many people. Too many. Unnecessary. Obscene. So many flailing, gross bodies everywhere, filling up all the clean spaces and making him ill, making his head hurt. Too much noise, all those heartbeats, all those pointless, meaningless sounds flapping out of their disgusting wet mouths. No stillness left, anywhere.
It had to stop. He had to find a way. Guns, gas, fire. Purification. And after the screaming, there would be silence.
Author bio: Michelle Ann King writes speculative fiction and horror, and loves the discipline of the drabble. Links to her published stories can be found at: http://michelle-ann-king.blogspot.co.uk/p/stories.html
People. Everywhere. Swarming, like insects. Like bugs. They got in his way, tripped him up, blocked his path, breathed up all his air and left him bruised and gasping.
So many people. Too many. Unnecessary. Obscene. So many flailing, gross bodies everywhere, filling up all the clean spaces and making him ill, making his head hurt. Too much noise, all those heartbeats, all those pointless, meaningless sounds flapping out of their disgusting wet mouths. No stillness left, anywhere.
It had to stop. He had to find a way. Guns, gas, fire. Purification. And after the screaming, there would be silence.
Author bio: Michelle Ann King writes speculative fiction and horror, and loves the discipline of the drabble. Links to her published stories can be found at: http://michelle-ann-king.blogspot.co.uk/p/stories.html
Wednesday 12 September 2012
Crone
by John Xero
When I think about what I did for this country...
Of course, they don’t like to talk about magic, officially. The things we did in the wars, in secret. We saved this world from the worst of Nazi death magic and what has it come to?
These tacky little skinheads trying to steal my pension, with their filthy mouths and switchblade bravado.
I’ll teach them how to curse for real. I’ll bewitch those blades right up their backsides.
And when they’re done bleeding out, I’ll re-animate their corpses. I'm getting old, I could do with a hand on the allotment.
When I think about what I did for this country...
Of course, they don’t like to talk about magic, officially. The things we did in the wars, in secret. We saved this world from the worst of Nazi death magic and what has it come to?
These tacky little skinheads trying to steal my pension, with their filthy mouths and switchblade bravado.
I’ll teach them how to curse for real. I’ll bewitch those blades right up their backsides.
And when they’re done bleeding out, I’ll re-animate their corpses. I'm getting old, I could do with a hand on the allotment.
Author bio: John Xero is John Xero.
Friday 7 September 2012
Presence
by Erin Cole
Malevolence looms. It’s not the weight of the dead, the pull
of unseen eyes, but more like a coiling snake - dangerous and ready to
strike.
I’ve searched through collectables in the store. Breathlessness
near paralyzes me as I dwell upon its source. The stray dog, Red, stays close
to me, seemingly distraught. A bone-framed mirror in the back unnerves me. Stepping
closer, my reflection is no longer visible.
But what must be behind me, for it’s not in front of me, is
Red mutating into a dark, wraith-like form. Initially, I think mirror trick. What
I learn next… terrifies.
Author bio: Erin Cole is a writer of dark, strange fiction. She has work published and forthcoming in Shotgun Honey, Fiction365, Aoife's Kiss, and Every Day Fiction.
Author bio: Erin Cole is a writer of dark, strange fiction. She has work published and forthcoming in Shotgun Honey, Fiction365, Aoife's Kiss, and Every Day Fiction.
Wednesday 5 September 2012
Alibi
by John Xero
They found Charlotte Mills on Sunday, but a dead body is never the beginning.
Today is Monday and jackbooted insistence splinters Julian’s front door. They yell at him, wave their guns, cuff him. But he is not a murderer. Not yet.
Harry Mills killed Charlotte last Friday, not the first notch on his knife, but the closest to his heart. He framed Julian, the quiet neighbour.
On Friday Julian was building the Final Bomb.
What God created in days Julian will destroy in hours.
The countdown has begun. There will be no more murders. No more Mondays. No more anything.
Author bio: John Xero has an alibi. He was writing when it happened. Or, at least, he should have been... In reality he was probably on Twitter.
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