Abomination

by Ray Paterson


Hickory was born first.
Tiny. Furless.
Eyes bulging beneath closed lids.
Subdued by her ordeal.

Dickory followed twenty seconds later. Larger by several grammes.
Twitching whiskers and thrashing tail.
Her eyes a stigmata of blood.

Doc left the birth rat a lifeless husk.
Already alert. She watched. Her heaving slimy hackles raised.
Pink-red eyes aglow. Knowing.

The laboratory technician surveyed the carnage.
Cloned ears lay ripped from backs, and Doc had somehow levered her huge body between the bars of her prison cage. Her appendage was a bloody stump.
He stared in disbelief. Even at her death, was she grinning?

Author bio: Ray is still writing for "The love of it " and is actively seeking assistance to increase his web presence. Surprises are on the way.

Wounded

by John Xero


She drifts on a sea of sorrow. Her stomach clenches with each swell, her lips taste of saltwater.

With reticence, she wipes her face on the sleeve of her shirt. An act that breaks her on the reefs of reality, when all she wants is to drown.

She chokes back a moan. All she wants is to sink down, down, but her grief is like carrion in the water. The sharks sense it from miles away and they slink closer. They slip through the water to offer false comfort, smiles full of teeth as they take chunks from her soul.

Author bio: John Xero is an occasional blogger. Which is like an occasional table but less consistent.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse

He was recently a guest on the Bros and Cons podcast, where they invented a creation myth involving bees and transformers, and then talked a bit about his writing.

Vessel

by T. Gene Davis


In a watch awaiting predawn’s glow, a foxfire appeared floating before the captain and his helm. The dead sea witch’s beautiful form took shape.

“You have slain me,” she pronounced, “but one last curse I bequeath. At dawn, you and your vessel’s crew shall perish.”

After her solemn curse, the apparition dissipated.

“Step lively lads! Your lives depend upon it!”

In hasty assembly, the captain bestowed command of the man-of-war upon his first mate who made his benefactor captain of Her Majesty’s Life Raft.

Dawn’s crowning sun displayed a water devil taking the crewless captain’s raft, sparing his former vessel.





Author bio: T. Gene Davis is a Software Engineer with an English B.A. His stories, poems, and articles have appeared in magazines as varied as Java World (Software Engineering), and Lost Worlds (Fantasy). Visit him at www.tgenedavis.com or on twitter @TGeneDavis

Jinx

by John Xero


"What's the worst that could happen?"

Jinx danced on the crumbling cliff edge, only a misstep away from the cruel rocks and roaring ocean below.

She loved the sea almost as much as she loved taunting the gods, testing fate, and teasing whatever devils might be lying in wait.

As night stole the sky she skipped back to town by way of Murderers' Wood.

"It'll never happen to me," She laughed.

And on the shore she met her beau, young Jonah, and climbed aboard his boat.

"We'll be fine," she whispered in his ear as they sailed out to sea.

Author bio: John Xero knows you make your own destiny. Still, he's careful not to tempt fate, because, you know, just in case...
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Murder

by Christopher Hatch


The detective crouched near the body, examining the crime scene. Glass littering the ground crunched noisily underneath the detective’s boots. The detective turned over the body, looking for any signs of death. Finding nothing, he let out a defeated sigh. He stepped back and turned to the deputy on the scene.

“Why are we even investigating this shit? The chief has me neck deep in open homicide cases and then this? What am I supposed to do – it’s not even human, someone just wanted the power supply.” The detective stomped away, leaving the husk of the robot’s body behind him.

Author bio: My name is Christopher Hatch, a student at the University of Maine Orono, studying English Education.  I was born and raised on a small farm in Maine.

Chronic

by John Xero


Jerome flinched as he scratched his head and more hair fell away. His skin was dry, flaking, covered with livid sores. The blood beneath his fingernails disturbed him.

He squinted as he adjusted the chronal fibrillator, cursing his failing eyes.

Time fluttered around him.

His garage walls vanished, replaced by a broken wasteland stretching into the distance. The harsh air clawed at his lungs and rasped his eyes.

Then he was back in his garage, back in twenty thirteen.

How did it all end? When did it begin? He'd only jumped three years forward that time, and still too late.

Author bio: Time gets us all, in the end. The future is like quicksilver – a distorted mirror, hard to grasp, fatal.
I'm on twitter! And I blog (occasionally).

Definition

by Sandra Davies


"'Tumour' and 'tumescent,' is there a connection there?"

I looked over the top of my Financial Times to her head on my belly.

"Are we talking medical or etymology?" regrettably aware of my immediate manifestation of the power of the spoken word.

She snorted with amusement and, retaliating, I murmured, "You can take the girl out of the farm but..."

A mistake; the nip of her sharp teeth completed the rout.

She slid off the bed. Muffled, as she pulled her dress over her head, she answered, "Etymology," then, suddenly lucid, "but you really should get that lump seen to."




Author bio: Sandra Davies usually writes romances, but at other times blames the company she keeps. Currently she blogs most regularly at http://100dayendings.blogspot.co.uk/, with illustrations.

Heritage

by John Xero


Son, please, listen to me, for your sake. My father tried to warn me about the curse, but I didn't listen. I understand. When a madman tells unbelievable truths, how do you pick those rare gems out from among the ravings?

It begins as whispers, son. Whispers and whimpering, like angels sobbing. Never ending.

It's a tumour, filling the sane places inside with a crawling, gnawing sickness.

Believe me. My father warned me. And that day on the farm, when I killed him, it came to me. It will come to you, too.

For your sake, son, don't do this.

Author bio: John Xero writes. He's trying to write more. That's going OK.
He's trying to tweet less. That's going OK. @xeroverse
He's also trying to blog more. That's going less well. xeroverse.com

Curse

by Rowan Whiteside


First, choose your victim. Remember, revenge is a dish best served cold.

Collect the ingredients; this may take some time, some are specialised.

Gather the coven.

Wait for a full moon.

Deep breath - are you sure you want to do this? Yes? Do they really deserve it?

Oh, I understand. He used you. Bastard. Next time you’ll find someone better. I promise.

I’ve got a lovely spell which causes impotency if you’d rather?

No? This one is irreversible, you see.

I know, it hurts. It always does.

But you definitely want him dead?

Of course.

Very well, shall we begin?

Author bio: Rowan has three zombie apocalypse contingency plans, a taste for red wine and an obsession with words of all kinds. You can find her on twitter, @dilystolfree, where she mainly tweets inanely about food and books. 

Infestation

by John Xero


I am coming unstuck. The stars are like jellyfish, bobbing gently – you could reach out and touch them but the sting would be killer.

Mankind has been picking and poking at the seams of the universe for too long. Pushing physics to breaking point, picking, picking, picking, free energy, limitless resources, got to be in there somewhere, pick, pick, pick.

Where are your golden eggs?

I grow weary of this ridiculous charade. Fuck etiquette. This is my body, my innards, my soul you have your grubby hands in, and I say: Get out.

Get out. Get out. Get out.

Vermin.




Author bio: John Xero is fascinated by notions of a sentient universe, in whatever form it might take, and what it must think of us, if it thinks of us at all...
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Parallel

by Jess Cochrane


Professor Elkins grew entirely dissatisfied with the world of today, and so he sought to find something else - a new world and a better today. His fervent tinkerings resulted in a most marvellous machine, capable of moving sideways through the multi-faceted universe and thrusting its user into parallel worlds.

Delighted, Elkins went off in search of a new home.

Sixteen days later, the professor returned. As it turned out, parallel universes were, indeed, parallel - nothing more than carbon copies of our own world, right down to the absent Elkins-copies, each looking elsewhere for something better that could not be found.




Author bio: Jess Cochrane is an Australian writer, currently "working on a novel" as all writers tend to do. Her short stories, random ramblings and tributes to villains can be found on her blog: http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com

Dusk

by John Xero


Marking the days made Dr. Cooke feel more human, somehow. Her battered almanac predicted an eclipse.

The sky revealed nothing. Just clouds of ash, as usual.

She tried to remember daylight, the sensation of sun on skin – tantalising memories, out of reach.

The wan light dimmed further and she saw something slink between crumbling tower blocks in a scuff of shadows and dust. She stiffened. In this penumbra between bright civilisation and the new dark ages only the hostile survived.

She licked her knife of jagged bone. Only the hostile thrived. All that remained were predators, preying on each other.



Author bio: Who knows what monsters lie within us civilised folk? Waiting for an excuse to take control, to lose control, to save us from the monsters all around...
John Xero is at one with his monster, they discuss humanity over tea and crumpets.
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Openings

by Carla Girtman


There was a doctor who longed for his true love. He had offers and blind dates, but remained alone and lonely.

His last patient was a woman. She sat on the examining table showing signs of cardiac distress.

As he leaned in to listen to her heart, something clinked against his stethoscope. He opened her paper gown, and centred between her breasts was a heart-shaped lock.

She blushed. “Mama always said there was someone who has the key to my heart.”

He slipped off his glove, revealing his key-shaped finger. “Papa always said I would unlock my true love’s heart.”

Author bio: Carla enjoys the challenge of 100 word stories. Although her three cats claim they write better, they lie. She has taken up the Nano novel challenge where words will fly.


Read the other half of the 101 Fiction Valentines double bill: Roleplay

Roleplay

by John Xero


“We dropped so many hints,” the women said. “Now we're going back to Venus because you weren't paying attention.”

“But it's not our fault,” the men cried, “it's a well known fact that you're riddles wrapped in enigmas wrapped in alluring curves and bumpy bits.”

“Too late,” the women replied, “you didn't buy us the good chocolates often enough, the Belgian ones with the swirls and the caramel crunch.”

“But, um,” the men cast their eyes down, “we're kind of addicted, we'll miss you.”

“You'll miss us?” The women's gazes softened, “That was, well, all we really wanted to hear.”



Author bio: John Xero is easily pleased. Though he would prefer an Eccles cake and a good cup of tea to a box of chocolates.


Read the other half of the 101 Fiction Valentines double bill: Openings

Outing

by Sandra Davies


"Mount Grace."

"Is that an order?"

Crudely pretending I'd suggested something I'd no intention of allowing. "Carthusian, it's a priory."

"So it's nuns?"

"No, it's monks."

"How does a priory differ from a monastery?"

"I just thought it’d be a good place to..."

"Mount Grace?"

I changed my mind. I had thought it the ideal setting for a proposal but he was no longer the man I wanted to marry. I tried to dodge his suddenly encircling arm, his lips close to my ear.

"It’s what I've always wanted, Grace, to mount you," flicker of a knife, "on my wall."




Author bio: Sandra Davies usually writes romances, but at other times blames the company she keeps. Currently she blogs most regularly at http://100dayendings.blogspot.co.uk/, with illustrations.

Wildwood

by John Xero


The dawn mist hung low and tattered through Shawton Wood. The gnarled hawthorn trees were riddled with bulbous galls and their split bark oozed dark sap.

To drunken Toby there were shadowy assailants behind every trunk and he jumped as a low branch touched his shoulder. He took a deep breath.

The branch wrapped tightly around his arm. He pulled at it but more wound round him, pulling against each other until his body could take no more and he came apart in a gushing, splattering rush of blood.

The woods creaked like the fog-dampened screams of a dying man.




Author bio: John Xero knows never to go into the deep, dark woods. Not in the real world. But sometimes the deep, dark woods of the mind are where the best stories sleep...
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Principles

by Milo James Fowler


There would be no stopping them this time. Already the pirates had managed to breach the hull of the Effervescent Magnitude and phase-shift through walls and floors, straight to the engineering deck.

"They plan to cripple the ship at its core." Captain Bartholomew Quasar pensively chewed on his knuckles. Then he shouted, "Blow the reactor!"

"We'll never survive!" countered his first officer.

"Neither will they." Quasar struck a meaningful pose in his deluxe-model captain's chair. "Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good."

"Whose good, sir? There's no one else out here."

"It's the principle of the thing, dammit!"




Author bio: Milo James Fowler (@mfowler76) is a teacher by day and a speculative fictioneer by night.