Hello There!

/by

by Odi Welter

Welcome to Hell! Can I just get your name and method of death? You weren’t aware you were dead? I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but I really do need that information for our records. You see, upper management loves their numbers. No worries, I can look you up. Oh, ouch. It says here you died by…peeing in the Amazon. You’d be surprised how many of those we see here. A piranha just snatched your peeper right off ya. Would you like to see the recording? No? Alrighty then, just enter the queue over there. Enjoy eternity!

Odi Welter

Odi Welter is a queer, neurodivergent author currently studying Film and Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee. They have been featured in several literary magazines such as Snowflake, Haunted Words, and Furrow. When not writing, they are indulging in their borderline unhealthy obsessions with fairy tales, marine life, superheroes, and botany.

Fin Friends Petting Zoo

/by

by Don Money

The idea, the man at the bank said, was a terrible one. Wesley didn’t appreciate the lack of vision the loan officer saw in his project. People loved farm petting zoos; this would be even better, a shark petting zoo.

Without the bank, he would need to look for private investors. The way to pull in the needed money would be to make a video showing the idea in action.

The camera was set up on the beach to catch the fun. Wesley spread the bloody chum all around him in the waist-high water. One fin, five fins, ten fins.

Don Money

Don Money writes stories across a variety of genres. He is a middle school language arts teacher. His stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies and magazines.

The Measure of a Man is What He Does When Drunk

/by

by Paul Lewthwaite

“I’m more of a man than you!” Eddie said, slurring his words.

Mike dropped his bottle of moonshine. “C’mon then, prove it. Grab that chainsaw, or are you chicken?”

Eddie yanked the starter cord. The motor roared into life, spewing fumes. The blade wobbled as it plunged downward, severing his left forefoot. Eddie collapsed, screaming.

Mike seized the bloodied chainsaw, squeezing the throttle.

“A foot? Watch and weep, asshole!”

He swept the chainsaw up. It bit deep into his neck and carried on. His head flew off, landing close to Eddie, the lips peeled back in a final sardonic grin.

Paul Lewthwaite

Paul lives in Scotland with his wife and a small, but demanding cat. Some of his microfiction can be found at 101words.org and fiftywordstories.com.

Don’t Feed the Bears

/by

by Zack Zagranis

Jason winced as he ripped off his shirt and wound it around the bloody stump that used to be his right hand. Don’t feed the bears. He had always thought of it as a suggestion like “Don’t feed the bears…unless you want them begging for food constantly.”

He looked down at his buddy Steve, barely alive with his belly ripped open and his guts hanging out, oozing a thick, dark liquid.

A few feet away, the bear sat, nibbling on Jason’s severed hand.

“Guess it’s more of a rule,” Jason mumbled right before he blacked out.

Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis is a punk rock Jedi writing horror and satire for fun and profit.

A Friday Night in Texas

/by

by Matt Krizan

Darren ambled along the driveway toward the old, run-down farmhouse. From the branches of a nearby tree, chains dangled, meat hooks at the end clinking in the breeze.

“What odd wind chimes,” Darren mused. Then, eyeing the dark splotches staining the ground underneath, “I wonder what spilled.”

The front door opened and out stepped a man holding a chainsaw, wearing an old-fashioned hockey mask and an apron splattered with what looked like red paint. An artist of some sort, Darren figured.

“Hullo.” Darren smiled. “My car ran out of gas. Could I use your phone?”

The man revved his chainsaw.

Matt Krizan

Matt Krizan is a former certified public accountant who writes from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Factor Four Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, and Martian Magazine. Find him online at mattkrizan.com and on Twitter as @MattKrizan.

Sparks

/by

by Sean MacKendrick

Drifting flickers of lights greeted the campers as dusk settled over them. The tiny fireflies pulsed and danced through the air like sparks from the small campfire. Or like the twinkling stars above.

A thousand additional lights flared into existence, in one giant bloom. Another ten thousand joined those. Laughter and conversation became concerned murmuring; then murmurs grew into screams as the glowing pinpoints swarmed. Screams turned into gagged silence as campers choked on fistfuls of light.

Afterward it was quiet and dark once again, only the occasional popping ember to light the moonless night. Soon those faded as well.

Sean MacKendrick

Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. He works as a data engineer.

A Forest Lich

/by

by Coby Rosser

Sounds emanate from just beyond the thicket of trees enveloping the clearing on which your campsite rests. You hear those noises. Twigs snapping. Ululations of nocturnal creatures. Wind rustling leaves. But you just roll over, snug in your sleeping bag, content in the safety of your warm firelight. Fire is your luminous shield against tenebrous nightmares, why you heartily stoked the flames before turning in, but there is no sight beyond the immediacy of a campfire. Night collapses in, an ocean of darkness full of unknown things.

I am soundless as you snore—as I snuff out your precious light.

Coby Rosser

Coby Rosser is a weathered computer analyst that lives in an extraordinarily old house in the middle of the woods somewhere in the southeastern US. Time permitting, he writes speculatively, shoots bows and arrows, and plays classical guitar.

Chattering Teeth

/by

by Tim Tobin

The desert sun burns my skin even as my teeth chatter.

Life drips from the two bullet holes while the shadows of death sail across the sun, swoop on thermals and wait.

Hooves shatter the quiet.

Hope!

But my murderer steps down to mock me.

The hiss of a rattlesnake spooks the horse and strands another man in the desert, in the heat, sun, and sand.

“Shoot,” I plead. “Finish it,” I beg.

The killer draws his gun; salvation is at hand.

His head explodes. The buzzards descend. His eyes go first.

I crawl towards the gun, my teeth chattering.

Tim Tobin

Mr Tobin holds a degree in mathematics and retired. Eighty-five of his stories/poems appear in print and online. Most recently, a collection of his childhood poems appeared in the Poet Magazine and a drabble, “Fiendish”, appeared in Black Ink Fiction.

 

 

The Hike

/by

by Leigh Kenny

The hike was gruelling, the woods unforgiving. Jessie huffed and grumbled as she walked. She’d started complaining early into the trek. Conor rolled his eyes, tired of her already.

“At least you don’t have to do the return trip,” he snapped.

Silence.

Conor froze, realising too late what he had said. He turned just as Jessie began to scream. In her haste to retreat, she dropped her pack, tripping over the jumbled straps and twisting her ankle in the process.

Sighing, Conor pulled the long blade from his bag.

“I guess we’re starting early,” he said coldly, stepping towards her.

Leigh Kenny

Leigh was born and raised in the garden county of Wicklow, Ireland. She is the mother and proud protector of two wonderful boys, a black Labrador, and a three-legged cat that hates people. You can find out more about Leigh’s work and any upcoming releases on her social media: @LeighKennyWrites

 

 

She Loves Me, She Loves Me Not

/by

by C.L. Sidell

I recite the phrase while plucking the dandelion’s petals, one by one.

“What are you doing?” Chandra asks, reaching for a wine glass. It’s a lovely day for picnicking—birds tweeting in a slight breeze.

“Consulting,” I reply as the last petal detaches on ‘not’.

“But…Travis, you know I love you.”

Wordlessly, I wrap my hands around her throat. She bucks and claws, but her strength is no match against mine.

Only when her body stills and her eyes glaze over do I let go.

“I really do hope the next one loves me,” I say with a sigh. 

C.L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C.L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in The Dread Machine, Factor Four Magazine, F&SF, Martian Magazine, Medusa Tales Magazine, and others.

Website: crystalsidell.wixsite.com/mysite/publications