Drabbledark Read online

  “I understand, Master.” She whispered as the beast whimpered.

  River Rivers is a writer lost in the Cascadian mountain lands of Oregon. He spends his time with his two adopted Pitbulls, Gemma and Murphy. Somehow in between their chaos, he finds a time for work and fiction. His most recent work is currently featured on Literally Stories, Who Writes Short Shorts, and TallTaleTv in May.

  Body Jewelry

  Danielle DeLisle

  Spinal cords are ethereal. Beautiful. Their opalescent sheen reflects all the colors of the rainbow as you turn them in the light. This hidden beauty deep inside us longs to shine. Did you know round molds can be found at most hobby stores, and spinal cords are easy to preserve if you use the right epoxy? The thin organ looks amazing, even on the daintiest of wrists. A quick, machine polish completes each unique masterpiece. I get compliments from strangers all the time, and when anyone asks me where I got my bracelet, I show them. I made hundreds. Look.

  Danielle DeLisle writes horror, fantasy, and science fiction. She can be found online at www.danielledelisle.com.

  Confession

  Robert Dawson

  Father Blaire sat silently in the booth. A mother might steal to feed her children, a soldier kill to protect the innocent, but the seal of the confessional had no exceptions, even to save life.

  Every few weeks, a young man vanished; it was all over the newspapers. Days later, the bodies reappeared: bound, slashed, and mutilated. Everybody knew that, too.

  Each time, while the police searched and hope ebbed, the hoarse-voiced stranger attended Confession, describing horrors corroborated later by the mute testimony of the bodies. And only Father Blaire knew that.

  He gripped the Glock with sweating hands, waiting.

  Robert Dawson teaches mathematics. In between times, he writes, cycles, hikes, and fences. His stories have appeared in Nature Futures, AE, Speck Lit,and numerous other periodicals and anthologies. He is an alumnus of the Viable Paradise and Sage Hill writing workshops.

  Prisoner

  Alyson Faye

  Your skin is growing paler every day. No sun reaches you down here. Daily we gather to pray at your bedside, holding our shields in gloved hands. We dare not touch you.

  ‘Forgive us,’ we whisper.

  Your eyes tell us that will never happen.

  When we found you, you were dying. We fed you our finest kids.

  Now the chains barely restrain you.

  We fear you, but we need you.

  Outside the village clock strikes thirteen. Time has missed a beat.

  It is coming. The Devourer.

  We shall unleash you, our weapon, our savior.

  Let the dragons roam once more.

  Alyson lives in West Yorkshire, UK, where she writes her noir tales of horror in between teaching classes, editing, being a mum, and looking after 4 rescue animals. She loves old movies, reading, crafting, swimming and singing. Her blog is at www.alysonfayewordpress.wordpress.com.

  We Are the Glittereans

  Stephen D. Rogers

  We were drawn inside the building by the flashing lights. We entered through cracks and closing doors, and then we were trapped.

  Doomed by our desires.

  So many I saw killed. So very, very many. They flew to exhaustion while chasing the dancing sparkles, or they drowned in pools of glowing effervescence. So very, very many.

  The room pulsing so loudly we couldn’t even hear each other scream.

  My wing damaged in a midair collision left me panting on the sidelines as the slaughter continued until the lights finally died.

  The building went dark.

  Those of us remaining staggered free.

  Stephen D. Rogers is the author of more than 800 shorter works. His website, www.StephenDRogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.

  Poor Nathan

  Patrick Winters

  It was an accident. Her poor Nathan had just reached the top of the stairs. Then he was falling. She saw the whole thing from their bedroom door. He was coming up to bed, but his bad leg—he was so unsteady these days. She’d talked about getting one of those motorized chairs installed, but Nathan wouldn’t have it. He was so stubborn.

  When she’d got to the bottom of the stairs, it was already too late.

  Her poor, poor Nathan.

  Yes, that’s what Joan would tell authorities when they came.

  But right now, her husband was coming up the stairs.

  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.

  There’ll Always Be Tears

  Karen Heslop

  “Why don’t you just cry?” he asks.

  Ijela glares, fire blazing where he wishes to see tears.

  “How would tears fix this?”

  A light chuckle hiccups from his blistered lips.

  “You mean the air or what’s left of my pretty face?”

  She marvels at his sense of humor while his insides disintegrate. She reaches for his hand and her shoulders slump. Just like his legs, the putrefying skin of his palms has fused.

  “Why’d you take the mask off, Jax?”

  “Far from…the last nuclear blast,” he whispers.

  Blood streams from the corner of his lips.

  Tears slip unto her cheeks.

  Karen Heslop writes from Kingston, Jamaica. Her stories have been published or are upcoming in Grievous Angel, Speculative 66, The Future Fire and 4StarStories among others. She tweets @kheslopwrites.

  Broken

  Brandon Barrows

  Kira leaned against the bathroom sink, carefully avoiding the mirror’s gaze, knowing what she’d see. The unwashed hair, puffy eyes and cracked lips she could handle, could control, if inclined.

  It was the smile she feared. It didn’t belong to her, never appeared on her face, but always beamed from her mirror.

  Steeling herself, she glanced at the reflection: her own ravaged face grinned maliciously back, just as it had for months.

  Her frustrated fist shot towards the mirror, shattering it.

  Wincing, she chanced another look and her heart sank. Even without the mirror, that evil smile remained.

  Kira screamed.

  Brandon Barrows is the award-nominated author of the occult-noir novel THIS ROUGH OLD WORLD as well as over fifty published stories, selected of which have been collected into the books THE ALTAR IN THE HILLS and THE CASTLE-TOWN TRAGEDY. Find more at www.brandonbarrowscomics.com and on Twitter @BrandonBarrows.

  Dirge

  Melanie Noell Bernard

  Wind whispered through the trees, forcing barren branches to dance to a macabre tune. A tune, heard only by the dead.

  But she was neither dead nor dying. She lived, breathed, felt. Her kind was not allowed, yet she strode forward as if in a trance, following the dangerous melody.

  Disturbed by her presence, the wind swelled. It twisted the notes to tear at her hair and claw at her dress. She spun round, trying to catch every lilt and chord, but so caught up was she, that all else was forgotten. For this was a place of the dead.

  Melanie Noell Bernard hails from the Midwest. Surrounded by endless fog and bitter winter nights, she quickly fell in love with the dark. Combine that with a knack for the gritty, the disturbing, and the creepy, you have the beginnings of a horror writer.

  Lost Life

  Ethan Hedman

  The store’s glass doors slide open. Air bursts from overhead fans. Accumulated dust swirls towards the outside world.

  “Welcome,” calls a disembodied voice. “Please let us know if you need anything.”

  Officer 10642 ignores the greeting. It walks to the center of the store and initi
ates Scanning Protocol 1. High-pitched pings emit from its swiveling head to analyze a full echolocation profile of its surroundings.

  No biological activity detected.

  The Officer reports its findings. Aerial Surveillance Unit 8311 transmits the next location.

  The search has gone on for months. The Officer’s probability program suggests there is nothing to be found.

  Ethan Hedman conjures ideas, writes words, and shares stories. His full bibliography can be found on EthanHedman.com.

  Precious Things

  Michelle Ann King

  I found it in the woods. It didn’t belong to anyone, so I took it home. It was pretty.

  My wife didn’t like it. She said a lot of stupid stuff about it. But people get sick sometimes, shit goes wrong. That’s just how life is.

  And I got better, anyway. I’m fine now.

  She said I had to get rid of it, but I couldn’t bear to just throw it away. So I buried it under the house.

  I might not be able to look at it any more, but I know that it’s there. And it’s still pretty.

  Michelle Ann King was born in East London and now lives in Essex. Her stories have appeared in over seventy different venues, including Interzone, Strange Horizons, and Black Static. See www.transientcactus.co.uk for links to her published works.

  Silicon Twins

  Russell Hemmell

  “I’m better.”

  “No, you’re just prettier.”

  The mainframe’s AI and I discuss every day - fighting, pleading, negotiating, and finally agreeing on letting each other be, for we don’t have a choice.

  Kara is captive into a silicon universe, with an all-powerful, artificial brain and no body. When she wants to feel, she has to use mine.

  Me? I’m free to walk away and roam the streets, but without her it’s not life, it’s survival.

  Kara gives me access to worlds without borders, aliens shores and galaxies of light, where blinking is time-travel and a dream is a never-ending goodbye.

  Russell Hemmell is a statistician and social scientist from the U.K, passionate about astrophysics and speculative fiction. Recent/forthcoming publications in Aurealis, New Myths, Not One of Us, and others. Find her online at her blog earthianhivemind.net and on Twitter @SPBianchini.

  The Blackbird King

  Wendy Nikel

  Originally Published in SpeckLit

  Only a mad king would demand a pie of blackbirds. He ordered twenty-four birds be slaughtered, diced, and cooked for the crime of robbing the royal fruit trees. Yet when the baker presented the fragrant dish, the crust held only six. Six whirring, clanking clockwork crows with wispy feathers of gold, secretly constructed by the kingdom’s finest tinkerers deep in the rebels’ quarters.

  His knife sliced the pie, meeting metal rather than meat.

  The crows burst forth, brandishing their needle-sharp claws as weapons, their tiny beaks as spears.

  The king fell, clutching his heart, in a heap of bloodstained feathers.

  Wendy Nikel’s fiction has appeared in Fantastic Stories of the Imagination, Daily Science Fiction, Nature: Futures, and elsewhere.

  The Lady on the Bus

  Brenda Anderson

  The lady on the bus bent over her empty stroller and whispered something into its depths. When she alighted from the bus, on an impulse, so did I.

  The road led to the cemetery, and a grave. Here she stopped and undid the strap.

  “That was nice, Mary, wasn’t it?” She turned and patted the headstone. “We’re back again, Michelle. Your turn, now.”

  As she collapsed the stroller, she noticed me.

  “Conjoined twins, you see. They’re so needy.” She gave a radiant smile. “I take them for a walk separately. It’s so much better this way, don’t you think? Fairer?”

  Brenda Anderson’s fiction has appeared in various places including Daily Science Fiction and Flash Fiction Online. She lives in Adelaide, South Australia, and tweets irregularly @CinnamonShops.

  She’d Expected to See Some Blood

  Steve Campbell

  Originally Published in Sick Lit Magazine

  She pries out one of its eyeballs with the tip of a screwdriver and rolls it around between her fingers. She’d expected to see some blood. Shrugging, she starts ripping off its slutty clothes until the banging door breaks her concentration.

  “Jenniieee!” The door rattles in the frame. “Jenny. Open the door.”

  She scrapes up the clothes and bundles it under the bed, keeping the scissors held tightly behind her back as she opens the door.

  “Where’s my Sindy?!” Her sister shoves her way into the bedroom. “I’m telling Mom!”

  “Telling Mom what?” Jenny asks, closing the door behind them.

  Steve Campbell has short fiction published in places such as Sick Lit Magazine, formercactus, Twisted Sister Lit Mag, Occulum and MoonPark Review, and on his website standondog.com. He somehow finds time to manage EllipsisZine.com. You can follow him on twitter here: @standondog.

  Gala Down

  Sara Codair

  Silence is bliss after hours of false politicking.

  A man can only tolerate so much entitled bigotry.

  The presidential candidate slumps in his cake, like the venom of his words poisoned it. His wife’s head lolls; blood streams from her nose, staining her silky gown.

  Minutes ago, she fluttered with champagne in hand, praising the new manager for his opulent venue choice.

  Now, only the old manager, a tall man in a gasmask, wanders through the corpses. He worked hard, carrying countless politicians to The Whitehouse regardless of their policies.

  This was different.

  He couldn’t hand power to these monsters.

  Sara Codair lives in a world of words where writing is like breathing. They live with a cat, Goose, who “edits” their work by deleting entire pages. Their short stories appear in Unnerving Magazine, Alternative Truths, and Helios Quarterly. Find Sara online at https://saracodair.com/ or @shatteredsmooth.

  Next Time Look in the Cabbage Patch

  John H. Dromey

  Originally Published in Daily Frights 2012: 366 Days of Dark Flash Fiction

  * * *

  “What’s the matter with her?” a wide-eyed youngster asked as a woman with a bulging midsection was rushed into the emergency room.

  “She swallowed a watermelon seed,” a nurse said.

  The inquisitive boy’s father took umbrage. “How dare you lie to my child? You should simply have told him she’s pregnant.”

  “I wasn’t lying,” the nurse said. “The seed she swallowed was genetically altered.”

  The ER doctor staggered into the waiting room, gasping for air and trying desperately to remove the pulsating green umbilical cord that was coiled tightly around his neck and slowly squeezing the life out of him.

  John H. Dromey enjoys reading—mysteries especially—and writing in a variety of genres. He’s had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Crimson Streets, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of anthologies, including Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree Publishing, 2015).

  The Waxing of a Blood Moon

  Hamilton Khol

  Marquardt tasted the alpha’s scent on the wind. The elders had been right. Each night for a month they bayed of the coming blood moon. And now red marred the sky.

  The goddess who called them to change, the night pearl, was painted in fire making all equal while she burned. Bone snapped, sinew stretched, and skin tore as his wolf’s mane grew.

  The broken and misshaped maw of the werewolf could not grin. But inside the beast, Marquardt’s smile promised blood and retribution. His howl raged up to the goddess, vengeful and fierce.

  The alpha’s scent turned to fear.

  Hamilton Kohl spends his days chained to an office cubicle and writing whenever the corporate alpha’s aren’t looking. At night he’s allowed a brief reprieve to sp
end time with his wife and children where they live just outside of Toronto, Canada.

  All You Love is Need

  Karl Lykken

  “My mother told me a boy would only love the girl he needs,” Lorelei said, setting down the mallet. “That’s why I tutored you, until you got the hang of math and didn’t need me anymore. So I tried to be your girl Friday, but there were prettier girls you let wait on you. You had their love; you didn’t need mine. But where are those girls now?”