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.
Sunday, 10 March 2019
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.
Fairfield
by Ed Broom
"Sir, I’ve got something."
All eyes swung to the rookie.
"Spit it out, Fairfield," I said. His centre parting joined me at the incident board.
"Sir, both Henry Bergholt and Eddie Wickham had blue lettering on their foreheads. But the third victim, Jimmy Bentley, had 'B2' in red."
"It’s not some bloody Radio 4 whodunnit, Fairfield. Your point?"
"This, sir".
Fairfield waved the local 'A to Z'.
"C1, the gallery where we found Wickham. G3? The baths. Bentley."
"Excellent. But why switch to red?"
"Large scale, sir. Eight inches to the mile. More precise."
"And B2?"
"Here, sir. The station."
Author bio: Ed Broom works in IT but tells his children that he's a lighthouse keeper. He lives in Ipswich and likes to track down crinkle-crankle walls.
Twitter – @edbroom
Fairfield is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
"Sir, I’ve got something."
All eyes swung to the rookie.
"Spit it out, Fairfield," I said. His centre parting joined me at the incident board.
"Sir, both Henry Bergholt and Eddie Wickham had blue lettering on their foreheads. But the third victim, Jimmy Bentley, had 'B2' in red."
"It’s not some bloody Radio 4 whodunnit, Fairfield. Your point?"
"This, sir".
Fairfield waved the local 'A to Z'.
"C1, the gallery where we found Wickham. G3? The baths. Bentley."
"Excellent. But why switch to red?"
"Large scale, sir. Eight inches to the mile. More precise."
"And B2?"
"Here, sir. The station."
Author bio: Ed Broom works in IT but tells his children that he's a lighthouse keeper. He lives in Ipswich and likes to track down crinkle-crankle walls.
Twitter – @edbroom
Fairfield 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.
Lineage
by Anika Carpenter
I drove my toy cars around the block patterns on Nana’s carpet, but when she put a steaming cup of tea next to me I didn’t imagine vast heating systems. New York meant nothing to me then.
The family cleared Nana’s bungalow, I claimed the tea set. The cracks in the glaze perfectly mirrored the layout of the fields around the village she’d lived in all her life.
Holding a cup close to my ear, over the sound of yellow cabs and buskers drumming trash cans, I hear, “I will bring you home. Every day you’ll lay flowers for me”.
Author bio: Ammophilous writer, art tutor & sucrologist. Longlisted in Reflex Fiction's Autumn 2018 comp, Winner TSS Flash 400 Winter 2018, runner-up BIFFY50 Microfiction Contest (autumn), long-listed Bath Flash Fiction Award October 2018, Highly Commended Dempsey & Windle Memorial Poetry Competition 2018.
https://www.anikacarpenter.com/
@stillsquirrel
Lineage is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
I drove my toy cars around the block patterns on Nana’s carpet, but when she put a steaming cup of tea next to me I didn’t imagine vast heating systems. New York meant nothing to me then.
The family cleared Nana’s bungalow, I claimed the tea set. The cracks in the glaze perfectly mirrored the layout of the fields around the village she’d lived in all her life.
Holding a cup close to my ear, over the sound of yellow cabs and buskers drumming trash cans, I hear, “I will bring you home. Every day you’ll lay flowers for me”.
Author bio: Ammophilous writer, art tutor & sucrologist. Longlisted in Reflex Fiction's Autumn 2018 comp, Winner TSS Flash 400 Winter 2018, runner-up BIFFY50 Microfiction Contest (autumn), long-listed Bath Flash Fiction Award October 2018, Highly Commended Dempsey & Windle Memorial Poetry Competition 2018.
https://www.anikacarpenter.com/
@stillsquirrel
Lineage is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Perfume
by Voima Oy
"Between the lines of certain old maps, the scent of that flower lingers."
Her name was Carmen de Luna, a professor in the botany department. She recalled her trip up the Amazon, the heat and mosquitoes, a mansion in the jungle hidden by vines and white flowers. There was a jaguar sleeping on the sofa in the living room, a carpet covered with butterflies.
Later, I looked for the map in the college library, but I became lost in a labyrinth of numbers.
I thought I heard the rumbling of a jaguar.
I thought I could smell her elusive perfume.
Author bio: Voima Oy lives on the western rim of Chicago, near the expressway and the Blue Line trains. Her writing can be found online at VERStype, Paragraph Planet, 101 Fiction, Unbroken Journal, Vignette Review, Molotov Cocktail--Flash Worlds, Burning House Press, and The Cabinet of Heed.
Follow her on Twitter, too— @voimaoy and #vss365.
"Between the lines of certain old maps, the scent of that flower lingers."
Her name was Carmen de Luna, a professor in the botany department. She recalled her trip up the Amazon, the heat and mosquitoes, a mansion in the jungle hidden by vines and white flowers. There was a jaguar sleeping on the sofa in the living room, a carpet covered with butterflies.
Later, I looked for the map in the college library, but I became lost in a labyrinth of numbers.
I thought I heard the rumbling of a jaguar.
I thought I could smell her elusive perfume.
Author bio: Voima Oy lives on the western rim of Chicago, near the expressway and the Blue Line trains. Her writing can be found online at VERStype, Paragraph Planet, 101 Fiction, Unbroken Journal, Vignette Review, Molotov Cocktail--Flash Worlds, Burning House Press, and The Cabinet of Heed.
Follow her on Twitter, too— @voimaoy and #vss365.
Perfume is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Tattooist
by Ted Underwood
Dip. Scratch. Draw. Repeat. He was nothing if not methodical. A celestial map tattooed upon two favoured concubines was The Emperor's wish.
Tsi, whose hair smelt of the tundra, whose eyes shone the fierce blue of winter skies, was The North.
Shun, whose lips tasted of oceans, whose generous curves were adorned with nothing but pearls, was The South.
His days were filled with soft flesh, deep moans and the metallic scent of drizzling blood. Sweat played upon his temples and the needle slipped between trembling fingers. He breathed deeply. And longed for night, where his dreams were his own.
Author bio: Ted Underwood is a teacher, poet and occasional (bad) actor. He lives in the shadow of the beautiful Malvern Hills with his wonderful, and much appreciated, family.
Dip. Scratch. Draw. Repeat. He was nothing if not methodical. A celestial map tattooed upon two favoured concubines was The Emperor's wish.
Tsi, whose hair smelt of the tundra, whose eyes shone the fierce blue of winter skies, was The North.
Shun, whose lips tasted of oceans, whose generous curves were adorned with nothing but pearls, was The South.
His days were filled with soft flesh, deep moans and the metallic scent of drizzling blood. Sweat played upon his temples and the needle slipped between trembling fingers. He breathed deeply. And longed for night, where his dreams were his own.
Author bio: Ted Underwood is a teacher, poet and occasional (bad) actor. He lives in the shadow of the beautiful Malvern Hills with his wonderful, and much appreciated, family.
Tattooist is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
March 2019. Issue 22. Postscript.
The end of the road, or perhaps, if today is Sunday 10th March 2019, this is only the beginning of your journey. If the 'You Are Here' on the map of your life is indeed pointing to that day then welcome, and join us! As the day passes like a rolling landscape outside our windows, stories will appear, villages to visit briefly, stops along the way that will transport you to different lives, minds, worlds. Come along with us for the ride.
If that's a journey you have already taken, however, a day beyond that date, and you have walked issue 22's paths and arrived at the end then perhaps take a rest, join us in the Pub Between Worlds. And when you are ready, set off deeper into the woods and wild lands of 101 Fiction. There are 21 issues before this one, all exploring a particular theme through a number of genres and voices. And even before issue 1, 101 Fiction regularly published stories. We've been here for 8 years and in that time we've published around five hundred stories! All available for you to wander on through and discover. And enjoy.
We hope you do enjoy them. We hope you've enjoyed this issue. Thank you for visiting, and for reading.
In fact, this is where we drop all our thank yous. Thank you to everyone who helps put us on the map, with tweets, retweets, and likes; with blog posts; by word of mouth. We wouldn't be where we are without you. The biggest thank you, always, goes to our contributors, to everyone who takes the time to put ink to paper (or fingers to keys, really), everyone who dives deep inside and discovers something interesting, exciting, outstanding and then shares it, with us and our readers. Thank you all.
And if you want to be a part of this little big thing we urge you to have a go, all are welcome. Just keep an eye out here, 101fiction.com, or our twitter, @101fiction, for details of our next theme and submissions period.
Keep writing.
Keep reading.
Have fun.
-John Xero.
If that's a journey you have already taken, however, a day beyond that date, and you have walked issue 22's paths and arrived at the end then perhaps take a rest, join us in the Pub Between Worlds. And when you are ready, set off deeper into the woods and wild lands of 101 Fiction. There are 21 issues before this one, all exploring a particular theme through a number of genres and voices. And even before issue 1, 101 Fiction regularly published stories. We've been here for 8 years and in that time we've published around five hundred stories! All available for you to wander on through and discover. And enjoy.
We hope you do enjoy them. We hope you've enjoyed this issue. Thank you for visiting, and for reading.
In fact, this is where we drop all our thank yous. Thank you to everyone who helps put us on the map, with tweets, retweets, and likes; with blog posts; by word of mouth. We wouldn't be where we are without you. The biggest thank you, always, goes to our contributors, to everyone who takes the time to put ink to paper (or fingers to keys, really), everyone who dives deep inside and discovers something interesting, exciting, outstanding and then shares it, with us and our readers. Thank you all.
And if you want to be a part of this little big thing we urge you to have a go, all are welcome. Just keep an eye out here, 101fiction.com, or our twitter, @101fiction, for details of our next theme and submissions period.
Keep writing.
Keep reading.
Have fun.
-John Xero.
Sunday, 6 January 2019
March Issue Open for Submissions.
We are now closed for submissions.
From now until Sunday 10th February we are open for submissions!
And with a new year comes a new cycle of themes, and this year is something a little different. For our first step on the path we're looking for 100 word stories revolving around, or featuring: maps.
Maps describe our landscape, any landscape; they show a route through danger, uncertainty, or into adventure; sometimes they show us what we don't know and... Here be monsters.
Where will your story take us...? It could be a star map or a treasure map or a map to lost Atlantis. It could be a child's crayon scribblings, actually the topography of her inner imaginings, a father's only hope of finding her where she is lost. Perhaps the map is described in an ancient song, passed from generation to generation. Maybe it is inscribed on a dragon's scale - a ferocious still-living ice dragon. Perhaps it shows the only safe passage through treacherous reefs to reach the Isle of Eternity, and the legendary Aeon Tree. Or maybe the Horotrix have lost their one true map of all time and space, that looks uncannily like a model of a human brain with flickering neurons, the pathways between stars dancing across the cosmos like dreams and secret thoughts. Or maybe we're following the Witch Guard, as they attempt to map the tidal landscape of the Ley Lands.
The story must include a map in some way, though the map can take any form or could even be one that hasn't yet been made. Other than that, it is your journey to take us on. We mostly publish horror, science fiction, and fantasy. We publish a little surreal and crime fiction. But anything that stops us in our tracks and makes us want to re-tread our steps and re-read your story is what we're after.
In brief... The story must be exactly 100 words, with a one word title, and the title cannot be 'map' or any variation thereof. Our full submissions guidelines are here.
Show us the way...
Imagine.
Create.
Have fun!
And with a new year comes a new cycle of themes, and this year is something a little different. For our first step on the path we're looking for 100 word stories revolving around, or featuring: maps.
Maps describe our landscape, any landscape; they show a route through danger, uncertainty, or into adventure; sometimes they show us what we don't know and... Here be monsters.
Where will your story take us...? It could be a star map or a treasure map or a map to lost Atlantis. It could be a child's crayon scribblings, actually the topography of her inner imaginings, a father's only hope of finding her where she is lost. Perhaps the map is described in an ancient song, passed from generation to generation. Maybe it is inscribed on a dragon's scale - a ferocious still-living ice dragon. Perhaps it shows the only safe passage through treacherous reefs to reach the Isle of Eternity, and the legendary Aeon Tree. Or maybe the Horotrix have lost their one true map of all time and space, that looks uncannily like a model of a human brain with flickering neurons, the pathways between stars dancing across the cosmos like dreams and secret thoughts. Or maybe we're following the Witch Guard, as they attempt to map the tidal landscape of the Ley Lands.
The story must include a map in some way, though the map can take any form or could even be one that hasn't yet been made. Other than that, it is your journey to take us on. We mostly publish horror, science fiction, and fantasy. We publish a little surreal and crime fiction. But anything that stops us in our tracks and makes us want to re-tread our steps and re-read your story is what we're after.
In brief... The story must be exactly 100 words, with a one word title, and the title cannot be 'map' or any variation thereof. Our full submissions guidelines are here.
Show us the way...
Imagine.
Create.
Have fun!
Saturday, 8 December 2018
December 2018. Issue 21.
Curl up someplace warm, try to keep the cold from your bones; check the locks, check behind the sofa (just to be sure). That chill’s not just winter at the door, it’s the sixteen tiny ghost stories right here, waiting to haunt you. Welcome them in... Welcome to issue 21.
Ghost stories strike a chord, there’s something about ghastly visions and voices from beyond that thrill us as much as they chill us. We love that shiver, in the safety of our own cosy homes. Ghost stories can run a whole rainbow of emotions though. We’ve got revenge and retribution, naturally, the dead who won’t, who can’t, let go. Then there are those aching for what they’ve lost: heartache, reflections and memory, echoes of lives and loves gone before. There’s fear and freedom, guilt and obsession.
There’s murder, of course there’s murder; nothing like an unnatural death to spawn an unquiet spirit. There’s a deep yearning, from both sides; from the dead for the simple things of life, or for life itself; from the living for what has been taken from them. There are soldiers and sailors. There’s a duke, a highwayman, tech support and... a pigeon.
What our authors have all achieved, whether their story be spooky or scary or heart-wrenching, is something that will haunt you, something that will linger even after the words are no longer before you. The stories, in their own ways, echo, they create their own ghosts, wandering through the walls of your mind.
Read.
Absorb.
Enjoy.
Ghost stories strike a chord, there’s something about ghastly visions and voices from beyond that thrill us as much as they chill us. We love that shiver, in the safety of our own cosy homes. Ghost stories can run a whole rainbow of emotions though. We’ve got revenge and retribution, naturally, the dead who won’t, who can’t, let go. Then there are those aching for what they’ve lost: heartache, reflections and memory, echoes of lives and loves gone before. There’s fear and freedom, guilt and obsession.
There’s murder, of course there’s murder; nothing like an unnatural death to spawn an unquiet spirit. There’s a deep yearning, from both sides; from the dead for the simple things of life, or for life itself; from the living for what has been taken from them. There are soldiers and sailors. There’s a duke, a highwayman, tech support and... a pigeon.
What our authors have all achieved, whether their story be spooky or scary or heart-wrenching, is something that will haunt you, something that will linger even after the words are no longer before you. The stories, in their own ways, echo, they create their own ghosts, wandering through the walls of your mind.
Read.
Absorb.
Enjoy.
____
Keep on scrolling for the stories, or bring up the whole issue here.
Alternatively, if you want issue 21 to forever haunt your digital devices, to read later when you have no signal (horror of horrors), when you're hiding behind the sofa or under the covers, there's a .pdf available for free right here (right click and save).
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.
Stepmother
by Serena Jayne
You inhabit every inch of the memory-infused home you begged our husband to buy.
I see you in our daughter. In ice-blue eyes. A stubborn tilt of chin. The way she smiles through tears after failing to conceive and deciding to adopt. Her inability to call me mom.
I hoped now she’d understand how, although she came from your womb, I love her as my own.
New toddler in tow, she cradles your ashes. “Elaine, meet your grandma.”
I’m gutted.
The name on her lips, your name, marks the child yours alone.
You died, but I’m the one who’s gone.
Author bio: Serena Jayne received her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, and is a member of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She’s 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. While her first love is all things paranormal, the mundane world provides plenty of story ideas.
My social media links are as follows:
https://www.facebook.com/SerenaJayneWriter/
Twitter: @SJ_Writer
Instagram: @jayneserenawriter
Website: serenajayne.com
You inhabit every inch of the memory-infused home you begged our husband to buy.
I see you in our daughter. In ice-blue eyes. A stubborn tilt of chin. The way she smiles through tears after failing to conceive and deciding to adopt. Her inability to call me mom.
I hoped now she’d understand how, although she came from your womb, I love her as my own.
New toddler in tow, she cradles your ashes. “Elaine, meet your grandma.”
I’m gutted.
The name on her lips, your name, marks the child yours alone.
You died, but I’m the one who’s gone.
Author bio: Serena Jayne received her MFA in Writing Popular Fiction from Seton Hill University, and is a member of Romance Writers of America and Sisters in Crime. She’s 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. While her first love is all things paranormal, the mundane world provides plenty of story ideas.
My social media links are as follows:
https://www.facebook.com/SerenaJayneWriter/
Twitter: @SJ_Writer
Instagram: @jayneserenawriter
Website: serenajayne.com
Stepmother is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
Spurned
by Sandra Davies
I leave my husband’s bed. Know the boards which creak, not to make hinges squeak. Leave the room.
Cold feet on damp stones, wet sand.
To the beach where Paul awaits me. Wraps me round inside his heavy greatcoat, rough grey wool across my throat, smell of earth and smoke.
I shiver. Mud to blood to thunder, shouts of men.
Paul murmurs a warning, “He is coming, he is coming.”
Paul is no longer there.
My husband wraps me in a blanket. Tells me, “Paul is dead. I held him as he died. And promised him I’d care for you.”
Author bio: Sandra Davies eased herself from printmaking to writing when the wardrobe got full. Current passion is directed towards a series of novels best be described as love triangles with murder. Drabbles are practised weekly at The Prediction, links to which can be found via sandralinesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk
I leave my husband’s bed. Know the boards which creak, not to make hinges squeak. Leave the room.
Cold feet on damp stones, wet sand.
To the beach where Paul awaits me. Wraps me round inside his heavy greatcoat, rough grey wool across my throat, smell of earth and smoke.
I shiver. Mud to blood to thunder, shouts of men.
Paul murmurs a warning, “He is coming, he is coming.”
Paul is no longer there.
My husband wraps me in a blanket. Tells me, “Paul is dead. I held him as he died. And promised him I’d care for you.”
Author bio: Sandra Davies eased herself from printmaking to writing when the wardrobe got full. Current passion is directed towards a series of novels best be described as love triangles with murder. Drabbles are practised weekly at The Prediction, links to which can be found via sandralinesofcommunication.blogspot.co.uk
Spurned is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
Shadowgasp
by Joachim Heijndermans
I wish I could be home, play the cello once more. Not in this trench, with Fritz poised to fire from the other side of No Man's Land. I would play. Oh, how I would play to my heart’s content.
Men hurry past, uniforms slick with mud. Young Tommies, readying for the push, faces full of guts and fear. I reach out to stop them before they plunge into the maw of the war. No avail. Oblivious, they walk right through me. I sigh without breath. My shadowgasp.
How I wish I could be home, play the cello once more.
Author bio: My name is Joachim Heijndermans. I am a writer and artist from the Netherlands. My work can be found at www.joachimheijndermans.com, as well as on Instagram at joaheijndermans_art and @jheijndermans on twitter.
I wish I could be home, play the cello once more. Not in this trench, with Fritz poised to fire from the other side of No Man's Land. I would play. Oh, how I would play to my heart’s content.
Men hurry past, uniforms slick with mud. Young Tommies, readying for the push, faces full of guts and fear. I reach out to stop them before they plunge into the maw of the war. No avail. Oblivious, they walk right through me. I sigh without breath. My shadowgasp.
How I wish I could be home, play the cello once more.
Author bio: My name is Joachim Heijndermans. I am a writer and artist from the Netherlands. My work can be found at www.joachimheijndermans.com, as well as on Instagram at joaheijndermans_art and @jheijndermans on twitter.
Shadowgasp is part of 101 Fiction issue 21.
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