Buddy Double

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by Megan Larson

Crack. Snap. Squelch.

Bones break. Intestines writhe into place as I take on the small dog’s shape.

“Buddy?” Lydia’s call echoes.

I’ve studied them for weeks. Buddy wouldn’t bark, wouldn’t linger. No, he’d run straight into her arms.

So, I run.

Lydia waits with the door open as I emerge from the woods. “Let’s go to bed.” She welcomes me home, leaving poor Buddy behind.

In bed I take Buddy’s place beside Lydia. Feel her warmth. Smell her sweetness. Hear her heartbeat. Thump…thump…thump.

“I love you, Buddy.”

Buddy loves you. You’ll join him too.

My jaws widen.

Crack. Snap. Squelch.

 

Megan Larson

Megan Larson lives in Indiana with her husband, adorable dog and treacherous parrot. Follow her on Twitter. 

Twitter: @MegtheAuthor

Lighthouse

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by Kat Leeshue

Upon the rocky shores stood a lighthouse.

A beacon. I crawl onto the shores first, leaving my scales for the pearly skin the men love so much. The waves try to draw me back, but to go back means starvation—and I will not die with an empty belly.

With new legs, I stand and look back at the ocean. Heads pierce the ocean’s veil, their eyes watching as I climb the rocky shore. At the top, the fishing village flicks their lights on. My sisters come to stand with me, naked and waiting for the word.

“Hunt,” I order.

 

Kat Leeshue

Located in the semi-cold tundra of Canada, Kat Leeshue lives off of iced coffees and Taylor Swift karaoke. When she isn’t writing and reading under the cover of darkness, she’s a Chaos Coordinator of tiny humans. At night, she bullet journals to keep herself (somewhat) organised.

Instagram: @katleeshue

In Plain Sight

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by Kristin Lennox

Charlie peeked through the kitchen door: his mother was at the stove, humming, stirring a tantalising garlic tomato sauce, by the aroma. Sneaking up behind her, Charlie zapped her with the taser.

Duct-taped to a chair, the creature thrashed, flashing rapidly through forms like a vintage home movie: Charlie’s mother, Grandma Ruth, Mr Bradford from next-door… Charlie could feel tendrils probing his memories, searching for that one image that would earn his trust. He zapped the creature again–it sagged, caught somewhere between Aunt Louise and Weird Al.

“Know how I knew?” Charlie offered. “My mom can’t cook for shit.”

 

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

Belt and Bear

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by Ann Wuehler

I shivered inside my human skin. My mother fell to the floor, my father bending over her, his belt in his fist. She took several blows, hiding her face, quiet, not even grunting as my father would strike harder if she whimpered.

My face grew a snout. My body bent, locked into place. Fur sprouted from my skin. My teeth grew long, my fingernails became claws. My mother told me to stop, but the bear in me attacked my father, killed him and partially devoured him.

She screamed, her grief a strange mystery to the daughter who had saved her.

 

Ann Wuehler

Ann Wuehler has written five novels: Aftermath: Boise, Idaho, Remarkable Women of Brokenheart Lane, the House on Clark Boulevard, Oregon Gothic, the Adventures of Grumpy Odin and Sexy Jesus. “The Blackburne Lighthouse” appears in Brigid Gate’s Crimson Bones anthology. “Invisible Greta” appears in the Whistle Pig, Volume 15.

Thrill of the Chase

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by Sara Omer

When the hunger clouds my mind, I disappear into the woods, putting distance between my wife and the wolf. I lose myself in my transformation, pushing my lupine muscles to exertion.

Exercise soothes my rage, but nothing satisfies my appetite except hunting. I pick up the scent of blackberries and musk. I chase my quarry deep into the forest, taking it down with a killing bite to its neck.

The deer’s gamey meat trembles in its death throes. With a convulsion, my prey transforms into the woman with doe eyes and dun-coloured hair I believed I left safe at home.

 

Sara Omer

Sara Omer is a reader and writer with a story in The Deeps. 

Website: sara-omer.blogspot.com

Like Father…

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by John Dougherty

I guess I never really knew him.

He left after two years, with apologies but no explanations. I didn’t tell him I was pregnant. If he wanted to leave, I didn’t want him to stay.

When he left, the neighbours’ pets stopped disappearing. I didn’t make the connection then.

Four years later. The moon is a fat cyst in the sky, illuminating the mess on the nursery floor. A cat. I think.

“I was so hungry, Mommy,” my son growls.

He has his father’s eyes. They glint yellow from the shadows.

His father’s eyes and, oh God, his father’s teeth.

 

John Dougherty

John Dougherty is a Pennsylvania-based writer, educator, and dad. You can learn more about his work at:

Website: www.johndocwrites.com.

Beware of the Werebear

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by Tracy Davidson

She guides hunters. She knows these woods well. Every tree, every trail, every spot the bears have passed. All the well-hidden dens. Sleeping mothers and their cubs. Easy prey.

She says she doesn’t care such hunts are illegal. If they tip well. In advance. The hunters happily do so. They don’t know she loaded all their guns with blanks.

The hunters hear the growling of a grizzly coming from the woman’s throat. They stare in disbelief as she throws her head back and shifts. Tooth and claw cut short their screams.

The nearest werecubs wake. Momma’s home. With fresh meat.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Too Dumb For…

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by Jeff Currier

“Why’d they send him down here—record’s clean,” Azazel groused, eyeing the mangled soul.

Galzuel tapped the tablet, “Notation says: ‘Too dumb for Heaven’.”

“But where to put him?”

“With pogo-stick-frogger-on-the-autobahn guy?”

“No, his stupidity killed twelve additional people.”

“How about drank-bleach-to-prevent-Covid gal.”

“She was bigoted—didn’t love her neighbours.”

“He’s definitely not a suicide?” Galzuel asked.

“Upstairs says ‘no’, but I’ll double check,” Azazel said. “Why jump off the Grand Canyon with a parachute constructed of duct tape and cling wrap?”

“It should’ve worked,” the soul murmured.

“Limbo then.” Galzuel decided, adding a new notation: ‘Too dumb for Hell.’

Jeff Currier

Jeff writes little stories.  Find more at Jeff Currier Writes on Facebook.

Facebook: @jeffcurrierwrites

Welcome Home

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by Kristin Lennox

Sid was neither fat nor claustrophobic, which made him the perfect burglar. His MO was to canvas a house, then slip into its walls at night, waiting for opportunity.

Wedged between chimney and air duct, Sid heard the promising sound of the door lock, followed by a retreating SUV.

Showtime.

Sid tried to sidle back the way he came…only to find his foot jammed firmly between some pipes.

Shit.

Six hours later, Sid resigned himself to the fact that he’d be discovered when the family returned.

He was. Unfortunately for Sid, it was after three amazing weeks in Yellowstone.

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

The Final Embrace

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by L.B. Zinger

January 21, midnight, -40 degrees. Twenty mph winds out of the northwest howled at the windows of the patrol car. The heater coughed and choked, barely keeping up. The cops spied two figures huddled against one of the high mast steel lights on the overpass.

“Look!” Dan pointed to the dark shapes accumulating layers of ice.

“Eejits! It’s blowing like hell.” Des shook his head. “Freeze to death in ten minutes.”

They pulled on balaclavas, zipped up and got out. They saw a classic tableau: frozen hands clawing at mouths, tongues firmly frozen to the steel lamppost, two dead eejits.

L.B. Zinger

L.B. Zinger is the pseudonym of a retired physician living in New Hampshire, USA.