by John Xero
They say the pier is haunted.
Years ago, me and Lily used to fool around under there. We had this secret spot at the top end, where it was always damp, always dark. Right below the seafood guy. People would be above us, eating their cockles and muscles and shrimps, and Lily would be trembling beneath me and I’d be kissing her hard to keep her from crying out.
But in the damp and the dark, our lust woke something, something old and lascivious. I made it out, but Lily...
They say the pier's haunted; it’s Lily’s moans they hear.
Wednesday, 31 October 2012
Friday, 26 October 2012
Disease
by C.B. Blanchard
There. You see her? Hunched inside a filthy coat? Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking. See that sheen on her like on meat going off.
See her bump into that man, and touch that woman and cough on that child. See that queasy, greasy shine transfer to them. Watch them spread it further and further. In two days, the first of them will die. The rest will follow.
The woman sheds her coat, sheds the body. She keeps the rotten gleam. It suits her.
Disease will spread and cull the weak. This one’s the big one.
Her true masterpiece.
Author bio: C.B. blanchard is your future apocalyptic dictator. She blogs about the apocalypse over at incaseofsurvival.com and can be found talking a load of rubbish on twitter (@gingerkytten)
There. You see her? Hunched inside a filthy coat? Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking. See that sheen on her like on meat going off.
See her bump into that man, and touch that woman and cough on that child. See that queasy, greasy shine transfer to them. Watch them spread it further and further. In two days, the first of them will die. The rest will follow.
The woman sheds her coat, sheds the body. She keeps the rotten gleam. It suits her.
Disease will spread and cull the weak. This one’s the big one.
Her true masterpiece.
Author bio: C.B. blanchard is your future apocalyptic dictator. She blogs about the apocalypse over at incaseofsurvival.com and can be found talking a load of rubbish on twitter (@gingerkytten)
Wednesday, 24 October 2012
Peacemaker
by John Xero
Sand gusted gently. The crowd quieted in taut anticipation.
A moment of tranquillity held the arena.
And in that moment, Bran didn't feel the shield straps tight about his arm, the battered helm forced onto his head, or his sword's grip beneath his palm. Everything focussed on one exhalation, one breath, one tiny huuuh of life.
Magatoria, king's champion, a sword in each of his four hands, his spirit anointed by the blood of uncounted humans, leapt at Bran.
Calm became chaos. Blades danced in veils and ribbons of blood. Life became death.
Bran closed his eyes.
Sweet silence returned.
Author bio: John Xero likes ambiguity. Ambiguity fuels imagination.
Twitter | Blog
Sand gusted gently. The crowd quieted in taut anticipation.
A moment of tranquillity held the arena.
And in that moment, Bran didn't feel the shield straps tight about his arm, the battered helm forced onto his head, or his sword's grip beneath his palm. Everything focussed on one exhalation, one breath, one tiny huuuh of life.
Magatoria, king's champion, a sword in each of his four hands, his spirit anointed by the blood of uncounted humans, leapt at Bran.
Calm became chaos. Blades danced in veils and ribbons of blood. Life became death.
Bran closed his eyes.
Sweet silence returned.
Twitter | Blog
Friday, 19 October 2012
Fullback
by Stephen Hewitt
Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels and let her sink like a cloud. Got it on his fingers. Even swallowed a bit. That was the end of Mercy and the beginning of a new 49ers season – every pert lookin’ groupie knew it. But now his kit is rotting in his locker, and he’s rocking backwards and forwards, watching grey mud totter towards him in fits and starts, reeking of sour seawater. It’s the final pass in the fourth quarter, coming in from a long, long way backfield, and Alamo ain’t gonna get a finger to it.
Author bio: Still suffering flashbacks from hacking 158 words down to 101, Stephen skritches his weird fiction over on Café Shorts.
Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels and let her sink like a cloud. Got it on his fingers. Even swallowed a bit. That was the end of Mercy and the beginning of a new 49ers season – every pert lookin’ groupie knew it. But now his kit is rotting in his locker, and he’s rocking backwards and forwards, watching grey mud totter towards him in fits and starts, reeking of sour seawater. It’s the final pass in the fourth quarter, coming in from a long, long way backfield, and Alamo ain’t gonna get a finger to it.
Author bio: Still suffering flashbacks from hacking 158 words down to 101, Stephen skritches his weird fiction over on Café Shorts.
Wednesday, 17 October 2012
Nihil
by John Xero
I was born in a place that is nowhere. No coordinates, no address, no website. Ground Zero.
I was created by no one.
I am not even real.
What you do not know, can hurt you. What does not exist, could kill you.
I am plague, phage, ageless, undying, death.
I am fear-borne, and I have gone viral. Is there any more efficient transmission vector than social media? Mind to mind to mind.
Warn your friends, vaccinate them. Just a little of me, a little nothing, inside you all. That's a lot of nothing. Enough nothing to swallow the world.
Author bio: John Xero continues to chart the ways in which the world ends. And he will always be right, until the end is witnessed and all the possible apocalypses collapse into one.
blog | twitter
I was born in a place that is nowhere. No coordinates, no address, no website. Ground Zero.
I was created by no one.
I am not even real.
What you do not know, can hurt you. What does not exist, could kill you.
I am plague, phage, ageless, undying, death.
I am fear-borne, and I have gone viral. Is there any more efficient transmission vector than social media? Mind to mind to mind.
Warn your friends, vaccinate them. Just a little of me, a little nothing, inside you all. That's a lot of nothing. Enough nothing to swallow the world.
Author bio: John Xero continues to chart the ways in which the world ends. And he will always be right, until the end is witnessed and all the possible apocalypses collapse into one.
blog | twitter
Friday, 12 October 2012
Learning
by Asuqi
”Come,” she whispers, dreamily, and I comply. Eagerly.
It´s been some time since she's been like this; relaxed, naked, inviting.
I've been reluctant to adjust her settings. I've checked and nothing seems to be wrong. So I've been waiting. There's some grand pain in that, it's like when I was little and touched my eyes after stroking the cat; the itching was almost unbearable.
Now, finally, she wants me.
I touch her perfection, she trembles.
I come too soon and search her beautiful eyes. But she's learned something new: she's crying.
And I think I've known nothing of pain before.
Author bio: Come visit me here: asuqi.blogspot.com =)
”Come,” she whispers, dreamily, and I comply. Eagerly.
It´s been some time since she's been like this; relaxed, naked, inviting.
I've been reluctant to adjust her settings. I've checked and nothing seems to be wrong. So I've been waiting. There's some grand pain in that, it's like when I was little and touched my eyes after stroking the cat; the itching was almost unbearable.
Now, finally, she wants me.
I touch her perfection, she trembles.
I come too soon and search her beautiful eyes. But she's learned something new: she's crying.
And I think I've known nothing of pain before.
Author bio: Come visit me here: asuqi.blogspot.com =)
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Savage
by John Xero
We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.
Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.
The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.
I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.
We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.
Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.
The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.
I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.
Friday, 5 October 2012
Flashback
by Milo James Fowler
Captain Bartholomew Quasar did not believe in living in the
past, and he abhorred flashbacks with a passion.
But finding him dangling here from the edge of a cliff on a
desolate moon - Arterion 789 - one has to wonder how he came to find himself in
such a terrible predicament…
"Don't you dare!" He digs in with both hands,
fingers grappling for purchase among the crumbling rocks.
How about a little exposition, then?
Grumbling curses, he adjusts his hold, boots swinging above
a two hundred meter drop, and shouts, "That's what got me here in the
first place!"
Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime: http://www.milo-inmediasres.com/
Wednesday, 3 October 2012
Stowaway
by John Xero
Down in the dirty hold of an ancient, no name cargo ship Carmen was patching overalls.
Five days into the voyage an engineer had discovered her, and when the captain's solicitations got him nowhere they put her to work down here, with the rust and the rats.
At least they hadn't spaced her. She was alive, unlike most of her kind. She had witnessed the heaped bodies as she fled, enough fuel for a lifetime's nightmares.
She gazed through the porthole at cold vacuum and distant stars. Behind her, the needles danced on, stitching to the tune of her mind.
Author bio: John Xero is far too distractable. One day he will write a novel... one day...
Twitter | Blog
Down in the dirty hold of an ancient, no name cargo ship Carmen was patching overalls.
Five days into the voyage an engineer had discovered her, and when the captain's solicitations got him nowhere they put her to work down here, with the rust and the rats.
At least they hadn't spaced her. She was alive, unlike most of her kind. She had witnessed the heaped bodies as she fled, enough fuel for a lifetime's nightmares.
She gazed through the porthole at cold vacuum and distant stars. Behind her, the needles danced on, stitching to the tune of her mind.
Author bio: John Xero is far too distractable. One day he will write a novel... one day...
Twitter | Blog
Friday, 28 September 2012
Only
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
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
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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