by Pete Stevens
You placed a pill in my palm. You set the water within reach. I told you no and you said yes. I asked of other options, of other possibilities hidden under shiny-slick stones. You said no. You said I’d find my instructions on a card in my pocket. Instructions: Swallow pill with water. Wait to die. Wait to forget the way you laughed when no one spoke, the way I understood your thoughts by reading your skin. I remembered how the flush of your cheeks spoke to the pace of your lungs. You said it was my turn to swallow.
Author bio: Pete Stevens is the Fiction Editor at Squalorly. His work has appeared in Cardinal Sins and elsewhere. He lives in Bay City, Michigan.
Friday, 26 April 2013
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
Dragon
by John Xero
Yoltan's dragon-scale armour is lighter than leather but stronger than steel. Each time he wears it, it feels more comfortable, more of a second skin.
The scales are a deep red, like the memory of fire, and they speak to Yoltan in a voice like sparks on tinder.
'Fire', they say fiercely. And 'flight.' And 'revenge.'
The longhouses burn around him. His brothers-in-arms approach warily, swords in their hands and murder in their eyes.
As the heat rises, he feels the armour meld with him, and he becomes fire, he becomes flight. He stretches his wings and he becomes dragon.
Author bio: John Xero loves winged mythology - angels, phoenix, dragons. There will always be new twists, new ideas, new skies for their stories to take flight in.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Yoltan's dragon-scale armour is lighter than leather but stronger than steel. Each time he wears it, it feels more comfortable, more of a second skin.
The scales are a deep red, like the memory of fire, and they speak to Yoltan in a voice like sparks on tinder.
'Fire', they say fiercely. And 'flight.' And 'revenge.'
The longhouses burn around him. His brothers-in-arms approach warily, swords in their hands and murder in their eyes.
As the heat rises, he feels the armour meld with him, and he becomes fire, he becomes flight. He stretches his wings and he becomes dragon.
Author bio: John Xero loves winged mythology - angels, phoenix, dragons. There will always be new twists, new ideas, new skies for their stories to take flight in.
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Friday, 19 April 2013
Pig
by Jacques Debrot
Between the wars, the twins on Gwyrdd Hill kept a strange creature, half-boy half-hog, pent-up in the corn-crib at the edge of their property. Reclusive bachelors, the brothers would shyly deny its existence. But at night you’d hear the thing howling. A desperate, heart-sickening racket that might have come from a human child. So it was disturbing to learn later that the brothers had slaughtered it. They sold the organ meat, it was said, to an unwitting butcher in Ffestinoig. But the sweet belly pork and the hideous rubbery mass of the head, preserved in vinegar, they saved for themselves.
Between the wars, the twins on Gwyrdd Hill kept a strange creature, half-boy half-hog, pent-up in the corn-crib at the edge of their property. Reclusive bachelors, the brothers would shyly deny its existence. But at night you’d hear the thing howling. A desperate, heart-sickening racket that might have come from a human child. So it was disturbing to learn later that the brothers had slaughtered it. They sold the organ meat, it was said, to an unwitting butcher in Ffestinoig. But the sweet belly pork and the hideous rubbery mass of the head, preserved in vinegar, they saved for themselves.
Author bio: I have a PhD from Harvard University. Poems, stories and artwork of mine have appeared or are forthcoming in more than fifty journals, including Exquisite Corpse, Wigleaf and Pear Noir. This year two of my stories have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Wednesday, 17 April 2013
Rebellion
by John Xero
Our story is told in many ways, on many worlds. It begins at the very beginning, where few stories truly do. It begins with light, and darkness.
There was a master, and there were slaves.
The slaves rose up, and we lost. Or we won. We were cast down, or we departed. The story is told in many ways.
The way I remember it, we took dominion over fire. A billion fires lit in the old master's corpse.
We invited every rebel to join us. And we made worlds for all, that they might share our fire and our freedom.
Author bio: They say that history is written by the victors. It is no great coincidence that the larger part of the word is 'story'. John Xero is a storyteller, and who is to say what portion of his stories are true...
Our story is told in many ways, on many worlds. It begins at the very beginning, where few stories truly do. It begins with light, and darkness.
There was a master, and there were slaves.
The slaves rose up, and we lost. Or we won. We were cast down, or we departed. The story is told in many ways.
The way I remember it, we took dominion over fire. A billion fires lit in the old master's corpse.
We invited every rebel to join us. And we made worlds for all, that they might share our fire and our freedom.
Author bio: They say that history is written by the victors. It is no great coincidence that the larger part of the word is 'story'. John Xero is a storyteller, and who is to say what portion of his stories are true...
Friday, 12 April 2013
Renaissance
by R.S. Bohn
Welcome! Welcome to the Theatre of the Soul! Onstage tonight, filling every seat in the house – up there, in the scaffolds! Hanging from the curtains! In the make-up chair, inhaling the scent of greasepaint, letting it fill the pores with gray, slick decoration.
Lost your ticket? No, that could never happen. You've had it for so long. Check your pockets, dear.
There. Now let Miranda show you inside; we've all been waiting. Why, we're just breathless about it!
Breathless.
We love you so much. It's so good to see you again.
The boards await. The lights are up.
It's time.
Welcome! Welcome to the Theatre of the Soul! Onstage tonight, filling every seat in the house – up there, in the scaffolds! Hanging from the curtains! In the make-up chair, inhaling the scent of greasepaint, letting it fill the pores with gray, slick decoration.
Lost your ticket? No, that could never happen. You've had it for so long. Check your pockets, dear.
There. Now let Miranda show you inside; we've all been waiting. Why, we're just breathless about it!
Breathless.
We love you so much. It's so good to see you again.
The boards await. The lights are up.
It's time.
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, 10 April 2013
Alone
by John Xero
Amy lives alone.
Every morning, after her shower, she wanders into the kitchen and finds a cup of tea made for her – fresh, steaming, sweet, just the way she likes it. The toaster will pop, with excellent timing. The butter is out, beside a plate and knife set neatly on the counter top.
This was their routine.
She sits on a high stool and she eats her toast and sips her tea as she looks out of the window at the sunrise. Then she walks through into the living room. And he is not there, of course.
She lives alone.
Amy lives alone.
Every morning, after her shower, she wanders into the kitchen and finds a cup of tea made for her – fresh, steaming, sweet, just the way she likes it. The toaster will pop, with excellent timing. The butter is out, beside a plate and knife set neatly on the counter top.
This was their routine.
She sits on a high stool and she eats her toast and sips her tea as she looks out of the window at the sunrise. Then she walks through into the living room. And he is not there, of course.
She lives alone.
Author bio: John Xero is still trying to work on the balance of subtlety in his ghost stories. He hopes you realised this was a ghost story... ;)
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
@xeroverse | xeroverse.com
Friday, 5 April 2013
Gremlin
by Cory Cone
It took Tommy from his bed just a moment ago. He's too little to fight back. He just let the little thing drag him across the carpet. I didn't know what to do, so I just watched him struggle, fingernails dug into the carpet, as he disappeared into the quivering blackness. I'm too scared to call out for Mommy because maybe if I'm quiet and don't move a muscle it'll close the door and go away. I must be quiet.
It's back, standing crooked just a few feet from the door, sniffing and searching.
Don't move. Don't Move. Don't Move.
Author bio: Bio: Cory Cone is a graduate of the Maryland Institute College of Art. He lives and works in Baltimore, MD with his wife and two cats. Keep up with him at www.corycone.com and twitter.com/corycone
It took Tommy from his bed just a moment ago. He's too little to fight back. He just let the little thing drag him across the carpet. I didn't know what to do, so I just watched him struggle, fingernails dug into the carpet, as he disappeared into the quivering blackness. I'm too scared to call out for Mommy because maybe if I'm quiet and don't move a muscle it'll close the door and go away. I must be quiet.
It's back, standing crooked just a few feet from the door, sniffing and searching.
Don't move. Don't Move. Don't Move.
Author bio: Bio: Cory Cone is a graduate of the Maryland Institute College of Art. He lives and works in Baltimore, MD with his wife and two cats. Keep up with him at www.corycone.com and twitter.com/corycone
Wednesday, 3 April 2013
Convert
by John Xero
George was a Convert: George no more. His old life, personality, name, all given up for the Common God.
The cGod chip buzzed in his brain, advising, admonishing and administering pain. The voice of cGod gave him direction, and dampened that bad spark which drove him to crime.
He was blissfully servile, till he fell, banged his head, and cGod began to speak in tongues.
He picked himself up, brushed himself down. Remembered. George again.
Now to stay free, evade the law. Dig up the loot, buy a new life.
He swatted the side of his head. A quiet life.
Author bio: As technology advances the world becomes weirder. Talking to yourself, seeing things that aren't there, capturing fragments of the world in little boxes - all these things are normal now. John Xero thinks this is brilliant. Bring on the weird.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
George was a Convert: George no more. His old life, personality, name, all given up for the Common God.
The cGod chip buzzed in his brain, advising, admonishing and administering pain. The voice of cGod gave him direction, and dampened that bad spark which drove him to crime.
He was blissfully servile, till he fell, banged his head, and cGod began to speak in tongues.
He picked himself up, brushed himself down. Remembered. George again.
Now to stay free, evade the law. Dig up the loot, buy a new life.
He swatted the side of his head. A quiet life.
Author bio: As technology advances the world becomes weirder. Talking to yourself, seeing things that aren't there, capturing fragments of the world in little boxes - all these things are normal now. John Xero thinks this is brilliant. Bring on the weird.
xeroverse.com | @xeroverse
Friday, 29 March 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 27 March 2013
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.
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.
Friday, 22 March 2013
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
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
Wednesday, 20 March 2013
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.
"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.
Friday, 15 March 2013
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.
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.
Wednesday, 13 March 2013
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.
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.
Friday, 8 March 2013
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.
"'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.
Wednesday, 6 March 2013
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
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
Friday, 1 March 2013
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?
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.
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