Drabbledark Read online

  Drabbledark

  An Anthology of Dark Drabbles

  Edited by Eric S. Fomley

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  The Mirror in the Bathroom

  Tricks for Kids

  Tepid Toes

  Feasting for Gods

  The Basement

  The Choice

  Chill

  Walkers

  An Undeniable Truth

  Secret Rendezvous

  Bogeyman

  The Woods Behind the House

  Xi’s Beast

  Body Jewelry

  Confession

  Prisoner

  We Are the Glittereans

  Poor Nathan

  There’ll Always Be Tears

  Broken

  Dirge

  Lost Life

  Precious Things

  Silicon Twins

  The Blackbird King

  The Lady on the Bus

  She’d Expected to See Some Blood

  Gala Down

  Next Time Look in the Cabbage Patch

  The Waxing of a Blood Moon

  All You Love is Need

  Lesson Learned

  Tiny Door

  I Do

  An Ineffable Situation

  The Candy Factory

  Repast

  Feralization

  The Thing in the Walls

  Earth Angel

  Autumn Leaves

  The Light

  Tenebris Borealis

  Ranger Ned Comes to Save the Day

  The Basement

  Pushing Forward

  The Hatbox

  The Ebbing Tide Calls

  Dark Goddess

  Amongst Marble and the Dead

  Retribution

  Suicide Hotline

  Enchanted Leftovers

  Survival

  Inspiration Point

  Welcome to Earth

  The Pickup

  Dr. Albie

  The Trunk

  Ghosts of the Past

  Something

  Carol Rosalind Smith

  Love and Hate

  Midnight Imposter

  The Future Conquerers

  Six More Weeks of Winter

  Alien Autopsy (Case Notes, Ancient English Translation)

  On a Wing and a Prayer

  It Knocked

  The Thirst of War

  Death Rush

  Self-Destruction by Steel

  The Smell

  A Lonely Road

  For Sale in Myanmar

  The Jealous Wish

  Not Worried

  Skin and Bone

  A Small Misunderstanding

  Saturn’s Final Rotation

  The Road Warrior

  Blood will Out

  Sunlight

  Grave Error

  A Time and a Place

  Parasite

  Head Case

  Blood Transfusion

  Iron Will

  Human in Any Other Form

  It’s a Living

  Counting Corpses

  No Rapture

  Techitis

  Blood Rain

  Luci

  What Alice Wants

  The Annual Visit

  The Program

  I Slew the Blackwing

  Virgil’s Load

  Afterword

  Kickstarter Supporters

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to specifically thank Antoinettemarie Kalmus, Edmund Schluessel, Matt Miller, Tiff Reynolds, Tianna Grosch, JT Grosch, Joseph, David, Benjamin Widmer, Software Bloke, Valeria Ballerini for their support of this project. I couldn’t have done it without you. Also, a shout out belongs to Mr. Scott King for volunteering to format the anthology so that more money could go to the authors.

  The Mirror in the Bathroom

  George Nikolopoulos

  Originally Published in Grievous Angel

  Officer Jake Delonghi muttered angrily to himself, while shaving. “Another end-of-world prophecy; a mysterious invasion happening today and everyone’s going to die. It’s in the Potatonic Manuscripts or something. What’s worse, the idiots in the Department believe it. We’re working double shifts tonight. Is this pathetic or what?”

  Looking at the mirror, he saw himself smiling, though he most certainly wasn’t. Perplexed, he put the razor down. His reflection held it up.

  “They’re right about the invasion,” he heard his reflection say. “In fact, we’re invading you right now.” Then he reached out of the mirror and cut Jake’s throat.

  George Nikolopoulos is a speculative fiction writer from Greece and a member of Codex Writers’ Group. His stories have been published in Galaxy’s Edge, Daily Science Fiction, Factor Four, Grievous Angel, Unsung Stories, Best Vegan SFF, The Year’s Best Military & Adventure SF, and many more magazines and anthologies.

  Tricks for Kids

  Jason Plouffe

  Wos loved Yunta. But he was still using.

  Most heavily, perversely, during the child’s visits.

  Only the apothecary knew.

  “Don’t touch that!”

  “Stay out of the circle!”

  He didn’t mean to yell. It was the cravings.

  His knees ached from hours drawing on the floor.

  “Just a little prick of blood for Daddy’s trick.”

  Synapses sparked with anticipation.

  He uttered the evocation perfectly.

  Hurled bloodsand into the intricate circle.

  Soared rushing swells of power.

  A third presence entered the tiny room.

  “Spin for us, Abyss Dweller.”

  It laughed.

  Too late, Wos noticed the smudge of chalk on Yunta’s tiny toes.

  Jason Plouffe is a hitchhiking, comic collecting costume enthusiast who grew up beside the Indian River in Douro, Ontario, Canada. He is a founding member of Knifehammer, a spandex thrash glam outfit from Peterborough, Ontario. Nomadic by nature, Jason currently maintains a base of operations in Downtown Toronto.

  Tepid Toes

  C. H. Williams

  They had both been so patient. Two years of holding hands on darkened streets, after the kids had gone up to bed. Stolen kisses in the shadows, their desire distressed by their deviance. Their passion came tainted with paranoia.

  He left his wife and quit his job.

  With a cupcake in one hand and the balloon’s ribbon in the other, he cracked a wide smile and kicked open the door.

  “Happy Bir—”

  She smiled back at him as she swung gently from the rafters. Her bare feet were still lukewarm.

  The balloon joined her body as he let it go.

  Full-time mummy and author. C. H. Williams writes women’s fiction but also dabbles in short stories and flash pieces for other genres.

  Feasting for Gods

  Scott King

  The reflection was not Sally’s, yet it moved as she did. The webbing, pus kissed tendrils, and oozing lesions made her want to look away, but she dare not.

  The flames of the bathroom’s antique lamp flickered. The creature blinked.

  This was her chance!

  Ripples ran across the mirror, as she plunged her hand into it. Nails digging, she gorged out the creature’s top left eye. Like a grape, the eyeball popped in Sally’s mouth. Its essences flowed in a gooey sludge, tasting sweet and bitter, like decaying tears. Immortality would be hers. When it was, the gods would die.

  Scott King received his undergraduate degree in film from Towson University, and his M.F.A. from American University. Until moving to follow his wife’s career, King worked as college professor teaching photography, digital arts, and writing related classes. He now works as a full time author. Learn mor
e at: www.ScottKing.info.

  The Basement

  Patrick Winters

  It’s in the basement.

  It won’t leave me be. I can hear it at all hours, moaning in the day and wailing at night. It’s driving me crazy, scratching its fingers against the old trap-door in the kitchen floor, wanting to get out and take my life. I hate it. It scares me and I hate it.

  It’s scratching again, begging me to let it out.

  I work up my courage and stomp on the door, shouting “Shut up! Just shut up!”

  My son goes quiet again, at least for a while.

  But it’ll keep on trying to get out …

  Patrick Winters is a graduate of Illinois College in Jacksonville, IL, where he earned a degree in English Literature/Creative Writing. He’s been published in the likes of Sanitarium Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, and Trysts of Fate. A full list of his previous publications may be found at his author’s site: http://wintersauthor.azurewebsites.net/Pages/Previous%20Publications.

  The Choice

  Bart Van Goethem

  They say in space no one can hear you scream. They are wrong. I screamed and the Am’ent came and they took me to their home. A world that begins where pain ends. They rebuilt me, slowly, gruelingly, literally, until I was one of them. So just remember, when you’re floating around in the black nothingness, with the oxygen levels nearing the red mark inevitably and you are about to clutch with both hands your last straw that is a cry for help, you have a choice: choke in silence or be reborn in agony. I wish I had known.

  Bart Van Goethem. Micro and flash fiction writer. Drummer. Addict (Real Racing 3). His goal is to play his way through life. So far, so good. Follow him @bartvangoethem.

  Chill

  Alex Shvartsman

  This old book had some seriously heavy stuff, man. Potion recipes, curses and spells; you know, the works. It even explained how to summon a demon and make it grant you a single wish. Totally radical, you dig? I followed the instructions and there it was, an ugly little critter screaming its head off inside the pentagram.

  “Dude, like, chill,” I told it. The beastie quit screaming, laughed and then disappeared. I tried summoning it again, but no luck.

  It’s been getting a little colder every day since then. Yesterday it snowed in LA, in June! I’m beginning to worry.

  Alex Shvartsman is a writer, translator, and anthologist from Brooklyn, NY. Over 100 of his short stories have appeared in Nature, Analog, Strange Horizons, and many other magazines and anthologies. His website is www.alexshvartsman.com.

  Walkers

  Shaun Avery

  Suckers.

  Out walking.

  I hacked into their precious step-counting watches, can see when they’re using them. Got their addresses, too, going to rob them all. Starting with the nearest.

  Soon I’m standing at the door, jimmying knife in hand.

  But the door’s already open.

  Suckers, I think, striding inside.

  But I get a big shock.

  See a sweat-covered woman there, walking around the living room.

  She sees my knife, obviously misunderstands my intentions, screams.

  Her husband runs down the stairs, holding a gun.

  Which fires.

  Sucker.

  It never occurred to me they could be getting their steps inside the house.

  Shaun Avery’s work appears in many anthologies and magazines. He is a fan of walking but not the gym, having found it, the one time he went, to be nothing like in the video for Take That’s It Only Takes a Minute. Perhaps he just found the wrong gym.

  An Undeniable Truth

  Nora Weston

  Knock, knock…

  “Who’s there?” asked Seth.

  “Me,” answered the visitor. “Or you. Depends which side of the door you’re on.”

  “What?” Seth looked through the peep hole. No one. “Freaking kids…”

  Twelve minutes died.

  Knock, knock…

  “Oh, come on!” Annoyed, Seth did not want to stop working on his latest gem, a miniature, yellow 1970 Dodge Challenger.

  Pounding on the door became excessive.

  Seth tossed the glue, rushed to open the door. “Huh? What the…”

  “Greetings, MDX21V4,” said his duplicate. “You’ve expired. Pardon my disappearance. Phone call .”

  “No way,” said Seth in shock.

  “Well, nothing lasts forever,” said MDX21V5.

  Nora Weston is a Michigan based writer/artist. Her publishing credits include novels, anthologies, plus fiction and poetry in various magazines, including; Hoboeye, The Harrow, Eye to the Telescope, Calliope on the Web, Bete Noire, and NewMyths.com. Recent work has been published by Star*Line, Ramingo’s Porch, and Bull & Cross.

  Secret Rendezvous

  Michael Balletti

  I can’t believe I’m doing this! The idea popped into my head the first time you started talking to me at the train station. I must’ve looked like prey to your wolfish eyes. All it took was a few coy smiles to get you going about your unhappy marriage. And your eyes nearly bulged when I finally invited you out for a drink. Yes, that’s when I slipped you the toxin. It paralyzes but doesn’t kill. That’s my job. I won’t lie—you’ll feel everything. Don’t worry, this will stay between you and me. Your wife won’t know a thing.

  Michael Balletti lives in New Jersey. His work has appeared in Theme of Absence, 200 CCs, The Last Line and Sanitarium Magazine, among others.

  Bogeyman

  Patrick Winters

  I’ve been forgotten.

  Once, I was great and terrible. The eye to all of little Sarah’s storming fears. I would scratch my finger against the floorboards, or chuckle in my dark way, and she would cower under the covers. And if ever I reared up to reveal my horrible self, she would scream.

  But Sarah no longer screams. She has grown accustomed to staying quiet, and I’ve since withered, left to the dusty dark beneath her mattress.

  Because she no longer fears what’s under her bed; she fears the bedroom door. She fears when it will open.

  She fears him.

  Patrick Winters is a graduate of Illinois College in Jacksonville, IL, where he earned a degree in English Literature/Creative Writing. He’s been published in the likes of Sanitarium Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, and Trysts of Fate. A full list of his previous publications may be found at his author’s site: http://wintersauthor.azurewebsites.net/Pages/Previous%20Publications.

  The Woods Behind the House

  Tamlyn Dreaver

  My mother died when I was seven. I watched it happen.

  The most horrific death of the century, the tabloids said. Blood coated the walls and dripped from the ceiling. Blood covered me. An officer joked – out of my hearing – that they’d be finding pieces of my mother for years to come.

  A monster, they said, and others said impossible.

  It was a monster. It came from the woods behind the house.

  They said there was nothing I could have done. They were wrong. There was something, and I did it.

  I laid the bait. I invited the monster in.

  Tamlyn Dreaver grew up in rural Western Australia, spent eight years in Melbourne, and is now back in Perth. She’s never had a secret basement or a dragon nesting in the backyard so she writes stories about them instead.

  She can be found at www.tamlyndreaver.com and tweeting at @tamlyn_dreaver.

  Xi’s Beast

  River Rivers

  A Sphinxling lay at her feet. It’s two heads on a single body reached out curiously. Both a kitten and a dog, it’s four eyes had just opened.

  Weakness clung to Xi like a nasty skin infection.

  She let down her cloak as the mouthless assassin spoke into darkness, “You have killed men, women, and children. Yet, blood has never touched your lips.” The Teacher removed a dagger from its sheath for her to take. “I respect the decision. Your culture demands it. Though, we Reapers must slay b
east and man alike.”