by Shannon Bell
The blade slices through flesh, seizes another death.
My father’s voice echoes inside me; “Prove your worth. Travel, to other worlds, dimensions, and times, gathering souls. When you have taken enough, the knife will glow. Only then may you return.”
I stare at the weapon. It remains dull. Hundreds of years, thousands of lives. How many more? How much longer? I can almost hear my father’s voice counselling patience.
Blood drips from the steel. I’m tired of travelling. I’m sick of slaughter. I plunge the blade into my stomach. “I’m sorry, father. I wasn’t worthy.”
Death approaches. The knife glows.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Collected is part of 101 Fiction issue 25.
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Horror. Show all posts
Sunday, 15 December 2019
Saturday, 14 September 2019
Cookbook
by Allen Ashley
I purchased a recipe book in a second-hand emporium on Charing Cross Road. The mouth-watering concoctions consisted of a variety of pies and pasties but, curiously, the author, a Mrs Lovett, had not specified whether one should use pork, beef, rabbit or venison. I ascertained that her culinary establishment was just a short carriage ride away in Fleet Street. Alighting fifteen minutes later, I was disappointed by the “Closed” sign on her door. Rich smells exuded from beneath as if bringing my clutched cookbook to life. I determined to enquire at the barber’s next door. Get a shave while here.
Author bio: Allen Ashley works as a creative writing tutor and is the founder of the advanced science fiction and fantasy group Clockhouse London Writers. He is the sole judge for the annual British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition. www.allenashley.com
Cookbook is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
I purchased a recipe book in a second-hand emporium on Charing Cross Road. The mouth-watering concoctions consisted of a variety of pies and pasties but, curiously, the author, a Mrs Lovett, had not specified whether one should use pork, beef, rabbit or venison. I ascertained that her culinary establishment was just a short carriage ride away in Fleet Street. Alighting fifteen minutes later, I was disappointed by the “Closed” sign on her door. Rich smells exuded from beneath as if bringing my clutched cookbook to life. I determined to enquire at the barber’s next door. Get a shave while here.
Author bio: Allen Ashley works as a creative writing tutor and is the founder of the advanced science fiction and fantasy group Clockhouse London Writers. He is the sole judge for the annual British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition. www.allenashley.com
Cookbook is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Snuggles
by TM Upchurch
She turned the pages, ‘Once upon a time…’ her fingers felt for the edges, twisting, sliding, brushing the paper aside as the words rounded the corner, ‘there were aliens who came to Earth and ate the mothers, all up, from the inside, except for the skin.’ Her eyes skimmed left, right, left, ‘No one knew if the mothers died, because the aliens left the skins intact, and lived within them. They moved a little jerky, paused occasionally, but they still looked, smelled, and felt the same.’
Her fingers faltered, found themselves, ‘And they all,’ she whispered, ‘lived happily ever after.’
Author bio: TM Upchurch lives and writes in a small house overlooking the Atlantic. Her fiction has been published in print and online, and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, Bath Flash Fiction Award, and HISSAC short story competition. She is working on her first novel.
Twitter: @tmupchurch Website: www.tmupchurch.com.
She turned the pages, ‘Once upon a time…’ her fingers felt for the edges, twisting, sliding, brushing the paper aside as the words rounded the corner, ‘there were aliens who came to Earth and ate the mothers, all up, from the inside, except for the skin.’ Her eyes skimmed left, right, left, ‘No one knew if the mothers died, because the aliens left the skins intact, and lived within them. They moved a little jerky, paused occasionally, but they still looked, smelled, and felt the same.’
Her fingers faltered, found themselves, ‘And they all,’ she whispered, ‘lived happily ever after.’
Author bio: TM Upchurch lives and writes in a small house overlooking the Atlantic. Her fiction has been published in print and online, and shortlisted for the Bridport Prize, Bath Flash Fiction Award, and HISSAC short story competition. She is working on her first novel.
Twitter: @tmupchurch Website: www.tmupchurch.com.
Snuggles is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Peeled
by Shannon Bell
Georgia held the piece of skin up to the light. “Will it all be this translucent?”
“Of course.”
“So paper-thin and see-through. Your knife skills are exquisite.”
“Thank you.”
“Such delicate bones.” Georgia stroked the girl’s hand, held up the fingers. “Can you carve quills from these?”
“Absolutely.”
Georgia dipped her finger into the gore pooling around the girl’s leg, brought it to her lips, curled her tongue around it. “Can ink be brewed from her blood?”
“Most definitely.”
“What beautiful books we’ll make from you.” Georgia fingered the girl’s creamy thigh. “What stories we’ll tell now yours has ended.”
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Peeled is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Georgia held the piece of skin up to the light. “Will it all be this translucent?”
“Of course.”
“So paper-thin and see-through. Your knife skills are exquisite.”
“Thank you.”
“Such delicate bones.” Georgia stroked the girl’s hand, held up the fingers. “Can you carve quills from these?”
“Absolutely.”
Georgia dipped her finger into the gore pooling around the girl’s leg, brought it to her lips, curled her tongue around it. “Can ink be brewed from her blood?”
“Most definitely.”
“What beautiful books we’ll make from you.” Georgia fingered the girl’s creamy thigh. “What stories we’ll tell now yours has ended.”
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Peeled is part of 101 Fiction issue 24.
Monday, 10 June 2019
Neuds
by Daniel Gooding
[can u send pics first?]
[what was that?]
[can u send again?]
[wont download :(]
He hears the letterbox flap open. Lying on the floor is a mangled Polaroid, still wet from the developing fluid. As he picks it up, he tries to recall if Polaroids actually use fluid. Then he turns the picture over, and all other thoughts leak from his mind.
Something thuds heavily against his door, as if losing patience. His phone pings once more.
Author bio: Daniel Gooding was born in 1984, and his flash fiction stories "Chum", "Kindness" and "Seepier" have appeared previously in '101 Fiction'. He is also featured in the two latest anthologies by New Lit Salon Press, "Startling Sci-Fi: New Tales of the Beyond" and "First Came Fear: New Tales of Horror." He occasionally writes for The Guardian and currently lives in Bath, UK.
Neuds is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
[do u wont 2 mete up?]
[can u send pics first?]
[…]
[Image file:]
[Download failed.]
[what was that?]
[…]
[neuds]
[can u send again?]
[…]
[Image file:]
[Download failed.]
He hears the letterbox flap open. Lying on the floor is a mangled Polaroid, still wet from the developing fluid. As he picks it up, he tries to recall if Polaroids actually use fluid. Then he turns the picture over, and all other thoughts leak from his mind.
Something thuds heavily against his door, as if losing patience. His phone pings once more.
[OPN TH FUCKIN DOORE]
Author bio: Daniel Gooding was born in 1984, and his flash fiction stories "Chum", "Kindness" and "Seepier" have appeared previously in '101 Fiction'. He is also featured in the two latest anthologies by New Lit Salon Press, "Startling Sci-Fi: New Tales of the Beyond" and "First Came Fear: New Tales of Horror." He occasionally writes for The Guardian and currently lives in Bath, UK.
Neuds is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Veils
by Joanna Koch
Norma Desmond and I go way back, trading husbands, settling scores. We’ve always been big. It’s the insults that got small.
Hag heads bloom like black holes in your weddings albums, cigarette burns through white bridal sheets. Your cursor hovers over wives you’ve silenced by shoving more than cake in their mouths. Does a gentleman tag his ghosts? The technology’s beyond you these days.
Hold your phone over a candle until hags melt into holes.
Norma and I come through curtains in close up, burned. You were the first and last to tear open our veils.
We had faces then.
Author bio: Author Joanna Koch writes literary horror and surrealist trash. Her short stories have been published in journals and anthologies such as Synth, Honey & Sulphur, and In Darkness Delight: Masters of Midnight. An artist and Contemplative Psychotherapy graduate of Naropa University, Joanna lives near Detroit. Follow her monstrous musings at horrorsong.blog.
Veils is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Norma Desmond and I go way back, trading husbands, settling scores. We’ve always been big. It’s the insults that got small.
Hag heads bloom like black holes in your weddings albums, cigarette burns through white bridal sheets. Your cursor hovers over wives you’ve silenced by shoving more than cake in their mouths. Does a gentleman tag his ghosts? The technology’s beyond you these days.
Hold your phone over a candle until hags melt into holes.
Norma and I come through curtains in close up, burned. You were the first and last to tear open our veils.
We had faces then.
Author bio: Author Joanna Koch writes literary horror and surrealist trash. Her short stories have been published in journals and anthologies such as Synth, Honey & Sulphur, and In Darkness Delight: Masters of Midnight. An artist and Contemplative Psychotherapy graduate of Naropa University, Joanna lives near Detroit. Follow her monstrous musings at horrorsong.blog.
Veils is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Itch
by Lucy Billington-Murphy
She admired her new tattoo: a black wolf, fangs bared, eyes blood red.
“It’ll itch,” he said. His tattoos were all predators, bloody-jawed after the hunt.
She woke that night with an itch in her arm that practically burned but when she looked at it her skin was clean like the needle had never been there. Across the room, red eyes glowed and something in the shadows moved so suddenly she never even blinked.
The tattooist slept. An image stalked across his arm, like ink on wet paper. A black wolf with red eyes, clutching a head in its jaws.
Author bio: Lucy loves to write and is starting to explore micro-fiction, which she finds an interesting challenge. She has been published at The Story Seed Vault and amongst other things, likes photography, tea, cats and mythology. She can be found on twitter @Tea_Faerie
Itch is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
She admired her new tattoo: a black wolf, fangs bared, eyes blood red.
“It’ll itch,” he said. His tattoos were all predators, bloody-jawed after the hunt.
She woke that night with an itch in her arm that practically burned but when she looked at it her skin was clean like the needle had never been there. Across the room, red eyes glowed and something in the shadows moved so suddenly she never even blinked.
The tattooist slept. An image stalked across his arm, like ink on wet paper. A black wolf with red eyes, clutching a head in its jaws.
Author bio: Lucy loves to write and is starting to explore micro-fiction, which she finds an interesting challenge. She has been published at The Story Seed Vault and amongst other things, likes photography, tea, cats and mythology. She can be found on twitter @Tea_Faerie
Itch is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Dearest
by Susi J Smith
The scars deforming me don’t show, but I feel them, encasing my soul.
Each night hatred, revulsion, regret, battles fear, need, love. I watch out of uncurtained windows as night scurries into cracks and crevices. Constant nausea slims my frame, my clothes hang loose, unwashed. Photos of happy times mock me from my bedside and I rise to forage the empty kitchen.
In the living room my mother lies unconscious, her crack pipe on the bare floor. Her body jerks. Foam froths at her mouth then she stills. I pick up my school bag and head for the door, hopeful.
Author bio: Susi J Smith has been writing for over ten years and enjoys writing short stories and flash fiction. She is also a member of a local writing group. Susi has previously been published in 101Words.org, Zeroflash, and McStorrytellers. For more information, follow her on Twitter: @susi_moff or check out her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/SusiJSmith/
Dearest is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
The scars deforming me don’t show, but I feel them, encasing my soul.
Each night hatred, revulsion, regret, battles fear, need, love. I watch out of uncurtained windows as night scurries into cracks and crevices. Constant nausea slims my frame, my clothes hang loose, unwashed. Photos of happy times mock me from my bedside and I rise to forage the empty kitchen.
In the living room my mother lies unconscious, her crack pipe on the bare floor. Her body jerks. Foam froths at her mouth then she stills. I pick up my school bag and head for the door, hopeful.
Author bio: Susi J Smith has been writing for over ten years and enjoys writing short stories and flash fiction. She is also a member of a local writing group. Susi has previously been published in 101Words.org, Zeroflash, and McStorrytellers. For more information, follow her on Twitter: @susi_moff or check out her Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/SusiJSmith/
Dearest is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Disfigured
by Bob Thurber
This is Lola in black and white. The turtleneck accentuates the sharpness of her birdlike bones while concealing her bruised throat.
Here she is in colour with her hair pinned up, minus the shirt.
That blotchy discoloration runs ear to ear.
A physician informed us the ruptured blood vessels may never recover.
So Lola uses makeup to hide the fact I took too long to rescue her.
My penknife was sharp but the rope, fisherman grade, was coarse and thick. I had to work at an impossible angle, one-handed, while shouldering her weight.
Lola’s lighter than a shadow.
But still…
Author bio: Bob Thurber is the author of "Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel" and the recipient of a long list of awards for short fiction.
Visit his website at www.BobThurber.net
See his books at: https://www.amazon.com/Bob-Thurber/e/B004XPMPCO
This is Lola in black and white. The turtleneck accentuates the sharpness of her birdlike bones while concealing her bruised throat.
Here she is in colour with her hair pinned up, minus the shirt.
That blotchy discoloration runs ear to ear.
A physician informed us the ruptured blood vessels may never recover.
So Lola uses makeup to hide the fact I took too long to rescue her.
My penknife was sharp but the rope, fisherman grade, was coarse and thick. I had to work at an impossible angle, one-handed, while shouldering her weight.
Lola’s lighter than a shadow.
But still…
Author bio: Bob Thurber is the author of "Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel" and the recipient of a long list of awards for short fiction.
Visit his website at www.BobThurber.net
See his books at: https://www.amazon.com/Bob-Thurber/e/B004XPMPCO
Disfigured is part of 101 Fiction issue 23.
Sunday, 10 March 2019
Terminal
by Shannon Bell
Darkness drops its anchor, spreading like ink. Silence holds me gently as my existence unrolls before me like fragile, ancient parchment.
Failures, sins, stains; the pins that track an empty, wasted life.
I scream into the void inside me. I rake my nails across this map of my soul until it is disfigured, shredded, destroyed.
Malignant fingers pull at the threads, stretching them tight.
Light fades and drains away. I am as black as death inside. Wings flutter toward me, stitching death around me like a spider wrapping its prey.
The map burns. Soon I will be ashes and dust.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Darkness drops its anchor, spreading like ink. Silence holds me gently as my existence unrolls before me like fragile, ancient parchment.
Failures, sins, stains; the pins that track an empty, wasted life.
I scream into the void inside me. I rake my nails across this map of my soul until it is disfigured, shredded, destroyed.
Malignant fingers pull at the threads, stretching them tight.
Light fades and drains away. I am as black as death inside. Wings flutter toward me, stitching death around me like a spider wrapping its prey.
The map burns. Soon I will be ashes and dust.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Terminal is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Treasure
by Ross Jeffery
X marks the spot, denotes where to break soil. This land is too familiar, a peach-coloured map of my own creation, if I were a cartographer I’d be proud. But the contour lines seem to move at will, negating their original purpose. Lines wriggle closer, mountains give way to valleys. Rivers change course, carving up the familiar into an unacquainted landscape. Since the parasites, things have not been easy. I glance up, see the X in the mirror. The infiltrating forces converge, fidgeting under my flesh. An X upon my heart. I pull the scalpel back and drive it home.
Author bio: Ross Jeffery is a Bristol based writer and Executive Director of Books for STORGY Magazine. He is an avid reader of an eclectic mix of fiction and is a lover of the short story form. Ross has been published in print with STORGY Books Exit Earth (Daylight Breaks Through), Project 13 Dark (Bethesda) and Shlock Magazine (Toilet Trauma) – his work has also appeared online at STORGY Magazine, About Magazine TX (After He's Gone) and Idle Ink (Judgements). Ross lives in south Bristol with his wife (Anna) and two children (Eva and Sophie). You can follow him on Twitter here @Ross1982
X marks the spot, denotes where to break soil. This land is too familiar, a peach-coloured map of my own creation, if I were a cartographer I’d be proud. But the contour lines seem to move at will, negating their original purpose. Lines wriggle closer, mountains give way to valleys. Rivers change course, carving up the familiar into an unacquainted landscape. Since the parasites, things have not been easy. I glance up, see the X in the mirror. The infiltrating forces converge, fidgeting under my flesh. An X upon my heart. I pull the scalpel back and drive it home.
Author bio: Ross Jeffery is a Bristol based writer and Executive Director of Books for STORGY Magazine. He is an avid reader of an eclectic mix of fiction and is a lover of the short story form. Ross has been published in print with STORGY Books Exit Earth (Daylight Breaks Through), Project 13 Dark (Bethesda) and Shlock Magazine (Toilet Trauma) – his work has also appeared online at STORGY Magazine, About Magazine TX (After He's Gone) and Idle Ink (Judgements). Ross lives in south Bristol with his wife (Anna) and two children (Eva and Sophie). You can follow him on Twitter here @Ross1982
Treasure is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Quest
by Serena Jayne
Despite my promise to protect your hidden treasures with the avarice of a dragon, my queen, you grant no guidance to aid my quest. Do you fear that once your secrets are revealed, I’ll abandon you to seek new challenges?
The paths lead nowhere. Dead ends abound. With neither compass nor map, I am lost; frantic to find my way.
Now my arms ache with my attempts to reach the centre of your labyrinth. The effort makes me sweat. Makes you bleed. Destroys you from the outside in. Yet, I come no closer to solving the puzzle of your heart.
Author bio: Serena Jayne received her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. Before becoming a writer, she worked as a research scientist, a fish stick slinger, a chat wrangler, and a race horse narc. When she isn’t trolling art museums for works that move her, she enjoys writing in multiple fiction genres. Her short fiction and poetry has appeared in Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, the Oddville Press, 101Fiction, Switchblade Magazine, and other publications.
My social media links are as follows:
https://www.facebook.com/SerenaJayneWriter/
Twitter: @SJ_Writer
Instagram: @jayneserenawriter
Website: serenajayne.com
Despite my promise to protect your hidden treasures with the avarice of a dragon, my queen, you grant no guidance to aid my quest. Do you fear that once your secrets are revealed, I’ll abandon you to seek new challenges?
The paths lead nowhere. Dead ends abound. With neither compass nor map, I am lost; frantic to find my way.
Now my arms ache with my attempts to reach the centre of your labyrinth. The effort makes me sweat. Makes you bleed. Destroys you from the outside in. Yet, I come no closer to solving the puzzle of your heart.
Author bio: Serena Jayne received her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University. Before becoming a writer, she worked as a research scientist, a fish stick slinger, a chat wrangler, and a race horse narc. When she isn’t trolling art museums for works that move her, she enjoys writing in multiple fiction genres. Her short fiction and poetry has appeared in Crack the Spine Literary Magazine, the Oddville Press, 101Fiction, Switchblade Magazine, and other publications.
My social media links are as follows:
https://www.facebook.com/SerenaJayneWriter/
Twitter: @SJ_Writer
Instagram: @jayneserenawriter
Website: serenajayne.com
Quest is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Sight
by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Jenny listens at Clara's bedroom door, hears scratching.
No one likes babysitting Kooky Clara, with her spooky silence and blank eyes, but her parents pay well, and Clara's no trouble. Usually.
Jenny goes in, gasps.
A map of their town covers the walls, floor to ceiling.
Clara can't reach.
Buildings, roads labelled.
Clara can't read, write.
Slashed X's over all the houses, except Clara's. Two girls huddle in the basement. Clara circles them again, again.
Clara can't see.
Screams tear through the streets.
Jenny grabs Clara. They run for the basement.
Halfway down the stairs, they are plunged into darkness.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Sight is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Jenny listens at Clara's bedroom door, hears scratching.
No one likes babysitting Kooky Clara, with her spooky silence and blank eyes, but her parents pay well, and Clara's no trouble. Usually.
Jenny goes in, gasps.
A map of their town covers the walls, floor to ceiling.
Clara can't reach.
Buildings, roads labelled.
Clara can't read, write.
Slashed X's over all the houses, except Clara's. Two girls huddle in the basement. Clara circles them again, again.
Clara can't see.
Screams tear through the streets.
Jenny grabs Clara. They run for the basement.
Halfway down the stairs, they are plunged into darkness.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Sight is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Shore
by Michael S. Manley
The Chrysanthemum ran down a westing, hull broken, wedged across the leviathan’s back. Captain had harpooned the barrel-wide eye, piercing deep some monstrous part of monstrous brains.
Thirty-odd noondays since, Navigator shimmied up the wine-dark dorsal, pointed the astrolabe, crawled back to the fo’c’sle where hanged the salvaged lunars, marked off blank distances on vellum scrolls from the hold: Here Cook lies at rest. Here Cabin-Boy. Here Stevedore.
Great Old Ones willing, you’ll soon draw new borders, Captain said again. Soon, I’m sure.
They wept when Lookout called from the crow’s nest the sweetest word in any tongue at sea.
Author bio: Michael S. Manley lives in Chicago, where he works as a software engineer. He maintains an online presence at https://michael.manley.org/
The Chrysanthemum ran down a westing, hull broken, wedged across the leviathan’s back. Captain had harpooned the barrel-wide eye, piercing deep some monstrous part of monstrous brains.
Thirty-odd noondays since, Navigator shimmied up the wine-dark dorsal, pointed the astrolabe, crawled back to the fo’c’sle where hanged the salvaged lunars, marked off blank distances on vellum scrolls from the hold: Here Cook lies at rest. Here Cabin-Boy. Here Stevedore.
Great Old Ones willing, you’ll soon draw new borders, Captain said again. Soon, I’m sure.
They wept when Lookout called from the crow’s nest the sweetest word in any tongue at sea.
Author bio: Michael S. Manley lives in Chicago, where he works as a software engineer. He maintains an online presence at https://michael.manley.org/
Shore is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Pyrate
by John Xero
The captain’s coat was like wet tar, thick and heavy with a mean dark shine; his tricorne too. His face was shadow, but his eyes... his eyes were embers, red and dangerous.
Javier could not keep the tremor from his voice. “Thissus the Mappe, yer fearsomeness, to Cap’n Webb’s treasure.”
Crooked hook-nailed fingers curled like talons around the yellowing scroll and tossed it to the nearby brazier. Greedy flames devoured the old paper.
Javier grabbed for his cutlass, faltered.
The captain’s gaze burnt brighter. “What the fire consumes it knows forever, and the Pyrate needs no map but the flames.”
Author bio: Stare into a fire long enough and you realise it knows everything, if only you could understand what it was trying to say. John Xero feels that way about the world.
Flaming shots: @xeroverse
Around the camp fire: xeroverse.com
Afterimages: instagram.com/johnxero
The captain’s coat was like wet tar, thick and heavy with a mean dark shine; his tricorne too. His face was shadow, but his eyes... his eyes were embers, red and dangerous.
Javier could not keep the tremor from his voice. “Thissus the Mappe, yer fearsomeness, to Cap’n Webb’s treasure.”
Crooked hook-nailed fingers curled like talons around the yellowing scroll and tossed it to the nearby brazier. Greedy flames devoured the old paper.
Javier grabbed for his cutlass, faltered.
The captain’s gaze burnt brighter. “What the fire consumes it knows forever, and the Pyrate needs no map but the flames.”
Author bio: Stare into a fire long enough and you realise it knows everything, if only you could understand what it was trying to say. John Xero feels that way about the world.
Flaming shots: @xeroverse
Around the camp fire: xeroverse.com
Afterimages: instagram.com/johnxero
Pyrate is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Hunger
by Scott Paul Hallam
He explores my tattoos with his tongue.
“My body is a map. Follow the dragon’s scales. I assure you, treasure awaits.”
He’s rough, his kisses clumsy from whiskey. At the bar, I laughed at his jokes, feigned interest in his band. Now, his lips travel up my thigh, past my stomach, where the black dragon twists around skulls with leering eyes.
The beast’s elongated neck curves around my breast, its head rests on my shoulder, its fiery tongue licks the nape of my neck.
His final kiss exposes his jugular, pulsating, ready for my teeth, ready to satiate my hunger.
Author bio: Scott Paul Hallam is a dark fiction writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. His work has been published in Cease, Cows; Switchblade Magazine; Night to Dawn Magazine; Unnerving’s “Hardened Hearts” anthology; and Sanitarium Magazine among others. Follow him on Twitter at @ScottHallam1313.
He explores my tattoos with his tongue.
“My body is a map. Follow the dragon’s scales. I assure you, treasure awaits.”
He’s rough, his kisses clumsy from whiskey. At the bar, I laughed at his jokes, feigned interest in his band. Now, his lips travel up my thigh, past my stomach, where the black dragon twists around skulls with leering eyes.
The beast’s elongated neck curves around my breast, its head rests on my shoulder, its fiery tongue licks the nape of my neck.
His final kiss exposes his jugular, pulsating, ready for my teeth, ready to satiate my hunger.
Author bio: Scott Paul Hallam is a dark fiction writer living in Pittsburgh, PA. His work has been published in Cease, Cows; Switchblade Magazine; Night to Dawn Magazine; Unnerving’s “Hardened Hearts” anthology; and Sanitarium Magazine among others. Follow him on Twitter at @ScottHallam1313.
Hunger is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Headlights
by Brianna Dimarino
Check the map Sarah, check the map. I hear it, it’s faint. I hear it over and over. Check the map Sarah, check the map. It’s dark, impossibly dark. I feel numb, like I no longer have a body. It was raining, I can hear the rain. There’s arguing, I am arguing, we are arguing. Check the map Sarah, check the map. Our yelling is loud. Too loud. We were lost, I am lost. Then, there’s a horn, a loud horn. And lights, bright, bright lights, headlights. There’s a crash, then there’s nothing. Check the map Sarah, check the map.
Author bio: Brianna is a freshman at the Savannah College of Art and Design and is studying production design.
https://twitter.com/b_dimarino
Check the map Sarah, check the map. I hear it, it’s faint. I hear it over and over. Check the map Sarah, check the map. It’s dark, impossibly dark. I feel numb, like I no longer have a body. It was raining, I can hear the rain. There’s arguing, I am arguing, we are arguing. Check the map Sarah, check the map. Our yelling is loud. Too loud. We were lost, I am lost. Then, there’s a horn, a loud horn. And lights, bright, bright lights, headlights. There’s a crash, then there’s nothing. Check the map Sarah, check the map.
Author bio: Brianna is a freshman at the Savannah College of Art and Design and is studying production design.
https://twitter.com/b_dimarino
Headlights is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Saturday, 8 December 2018
Whispers
by Levi Krain
Every morning, he looks for her in the bathroom mirror. Dimly seen, her luxuriant hair frames an ivory grin.
At noon, his office phone rings. It's only whispers, barely audible except for the sweet tone of her soft voice.
In the evening, she stares out the kitchen window, shoulders trembling, and stands in the shadows of the living room, eyes round, mouth set firmly.
At night, he curls up, eager for morning's glimpse. Tries to keep his eyes off the wet form by the bed. Tries to ignore her bulging eyes, grey skin, the seawater leaking from her slack mouth.
Author bio: Levi Krain rose from a clear, cold northern lake and enveloped a small American city. Since then, he has moved on to bigger and better things and now resides in the heart of New England where he spins tales and refuses to drink the water from the well.
Twitter: @LeviKrain.
Every morning, he looks for her in the bathroom mirror. Dimly seen, her luxuriant hair frames an ivory grin.
At noon, his office phone rings. It's only whispers, barely audible except for the sweet tone of her soft voice.
In the evening, she stares out the kitchen window, shoulders trembling, and stands in the shadows of the living room, eyes round, mouth set firmly.
At night, he curls up, eager for morning's glimpse. Tries to keep his eyes off the wet form by the bed. Tries to ignore her bulging eyes, grey skin, the seawater leaking from her slack mouth.
Author bio: Levi Krain rose from a clear, cold northern lake and enveloped a small American city. Since then, he has moved on to bigger and better things and now resides in the heart of New England where he spins tales and refuses to drink the water from the well.
Twitter: @LeviKrain.
Whispers is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
Retribution
by Shannon Bell
I run my fingers through the dust that has settled on these forgotten things, in this darkened room.
My soul is dry. Guilt spins memories like cobwebs in my mind. I remember their pain, their screams and their fear. I recall their torture, their blood, the taste of their deaths.
If only I had known their misery would fester within me, rupture inside me.
They see me, these shadows, these ghosts, these remnants of lives I slowly tore apart. They part the air and step through.
Lonely hearts. Broken minds. Emptiness. This damage cannot be fixed.
I await their vengeance.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Retribution is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
I run my fingers through the dust that has settled on these forgotten things, in this darkened room.
My soul is dry. Guilt spins memories like cobwebs in my mind. I remember their pain, their screams and their fear. I recall their torture, their blood, the taste of their deaths.
If only I had known their misery would fester within me, rupture inside me.
They see me, these shadows, these ghosts, these remnants of lives I slowly tore apart. They part the air and step through.
Lonely hearts. Broken minds. Emptiness. This damage cannot be fixed.
I await their vengeance.
Author bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon on Twitter at @ShannonBell1967.
Retribution is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
Caught
by Holly Karlsson
She slashes the rusted bayonet left, right, a wild flailing in the dark. She can hear her own breath, panting, hitching. Something is splattering against the walls with every swing of the broken steel. She’s yet to realize it’s her own blood, flying away from gashed palms.
He’s laughing again, a delirious undulation of elation and rage, and the sound skitters across the back of her shoulders, her naked neck.
“Please, Will.” She slashes again, sobs as she spins, meeting nothing.
He giggles wildly, soul caught along the bayonet’s edge, mirroring her as she moves.
She clings to the blade.
Author bio: Holly Karlsson is a storyteller and fervent mountain roamer. Her flash fiction can be found online at hollyjkarlsson.com.
She slashes the rusted bayonet left, right, a wild flailing in the dark. She can hear her own breath, panting, hitching. Something is splattering against the walls with every swing of the broken steel. She’s yet to realize it’s her own blood, flying away from gashed palms.
He’s laughing again, a delirious undulation of elation and rage, and the sound skitters across the back of her shoulders, her naked neck.
“Please, Will.” She slashes again, sobs as she spins, meeting nothing.
He giggles wildly, soul caught along the bayonet’s edge, mirroring her as she moves.
She clings to the blade.
Author bio: Holly Karlsson is a storyteller and fervent mountain roamer. Her flash fiction can be found online at hollyjkarlsson.com.
Caught is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
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