Völva

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by Martin Murray

Oein awaited the Witch on the grounds where his slaughtered army lay.

She promised him their return in exchange for his daughters.

The Witch appeared from the shadows, her face the color of the moon.

She took the girls’ hands, leading them towards the darkened woods; her purpose for his children, Oein did not know. Eir, his youngest, looked back- her cheeks flushed with worry.

An owl cried, and his risen brothers stood amongst the fog. Their eyes were milky-white, with rotten jaws hung slack. The Witch’s voice caught the wind: “I return the bodies. I cannot retrieve the souls.”

 

Martin Murray

Martin Murray is a writer based in New York City. He received his MFA in playwriting from Columbia University. His short fiction has appeared in Deathcap & Hemlock, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Flash Fiction Magazine. He is a screenwriter currently working on an original project for Troma Entertainment.

Facing the Enemy

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by Jameson Grey

“This cur does not deserve the blood eagle,” Harald, the clan chief, declared.

Having once witnessed the ritual, I considered him not tearing out my ribs and ripping out my lungs to be almost merciful.

“I want a memento of my greatest victory,” Harald added.

Still, I hoped my end would be swift. Perhaps to satisfy the chief’s bloodthirst they might simply lop off my head?

As the executioner approached the block to which I was tied, I saw, instead of an axe, he carried his keenest knife.

My fate was confirmed when Harald spoke again.

“Bring me his face!”

 

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey’s work has been published in Dark Recesses Press magazine, Dark Dispatch and in various anthologies including Chlorophobia: An Eco-Horror Anthology from Ghost Orchid Press, Let the Weirdness In: A Tribute to Kate Bush from Heads Dance Press and Love Letters to Poe, Volume II: Houses of Usher.

Website: jameson-grey.com

Boat Ride

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by James Rumpel

Thor Rorakson hesitated before opening his eyes. He felt calm, as if he were floating. Perhaps he was on his way to Valhalla. The village’s resistance had been surprising, and he had taken a hard blow to the head.

An explosion of pain at the back of his skull verified that he was alive. He opened his eyes, revealing a star filled sky above. He tried to sit up, but discovered that he was held down by more than his injury. His body was wrapped in cloth.

A cascade of golden lights fell from the sky. His funeral was beginning.

 

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in brain into stories. 

Fatal Walk

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by David D. West

Broðir grunted as they made the incision in his naked stomach. His captors reached two fingers in, hooked a section of long intestine, and pulled. Broðir shuddered at the squelching sound, the painful heat spreading through his midsection. They staked the organ into the earth beside the oak.

“Walk,” they commanded, prodding him with their weapons.

Broðir did. His intestines unspooled with each step he took, marching ever closer to death. But he smiled as he walked, knowing this heroic end would never bring back their fallen king. His job finished, entrails trailing behind him, he welcomed a warrior’s death.

 

David D. West

David D. West lives and teaches in the Pacific Northwest, which offers the perfect gloomy atmosphere for his writing. When he is not teaching or writing, he is exploring the grey beaches and dark forests of southwest Washington with his wife, son, and their dog, Buster. 

Find him on Twitter/Instagram @DavidWestWrites.

Website: davidwestwrites.wixsite.com

Figurehead

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by Tannis Mills

Did she regret it?

Estrid gazed below. Her husband on the dock, arms crossed, cold, as always. Refusing to meet her eyes, even knowing it would be the last. The ropes tightened across Estrid’s chest and hips.

She looked left. Her lover similarly lashed to the ship’s prow, eyes blazing. “I will follow you across the nine realms into eternity!” he thundered.

No. No regrets.

As the longboats took to sea, Estrid raised her head. The icy waves pounded her body, stealing her breath—salt spray tore her skin, until her bones slipped from the lashing into Njord’s watery domain.

 

Tannis Mills

Tannis writes strange fiction in a cottage by the sea. She is equally obsessed with drabbles and cats.

Sword In Hand

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by Jeff Currier

Fleeting spectral images taunted Sigurd’s memory. Opening a man’s throat. Striding through crimson spray. Quick slashes ending children’s caterwauling. A golden-haired beauty screaming Valkyrie threats. Laughing, swatting away her knife. Slinging her over his shoulder. And dying—her second blade embedded in his spine.

Sigurd’s hand still clasped his sword. A Viking’s death then—body and blade bathed in enemies’ blood.

“Lies,” a slithering voice hissed. Icy breath froze his blood-encrusted skin. “Not enemies. Your brother, your kin, while trying to steal his wife.”

Sigurd opened his eyes.

“The dishonourable are mine!” Lokisdottir crooned amidst the frigid glaciers of Hel.

 

Jeff Currier

Jeff writes little stories.  Find more @jffcurrier or Jeff Currier Writes on Facebook.

Potion

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by Ryan Van Ells

The stew looks delicious. My stomach rumbles. I look at the babysitter.

“Not yet,” she says. “It needs mandrake root.”

I hand her one. “Now?”

“Not yet. It needs sage.”

I hand her the bottle. “What about now?”

“Not yet. It needs lizard guts.”

I reach for the lizard, his stomach already slit open. I struggle to reach it with my feet tied, but I reach it and hand it to her. “Now?”

“Not yet.”

“What else do we need?”

“The eyes of a young boy.”

I look around the kitchen. I don’t see a young boy. “Where are those?”

 

Ryan Van Ells

Ryan Van Ells is a queer lawyer and author of dark fiction from Wisconsin. Their work has appeared in October Screams and other anthologies.

Just Dance

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by James Rumpel

“It’s a huge crowd,” stated AJ, nervously.

“Of course. You’re famous,” replied Cecil, handing AJ the tip jar.

AJ moved into position, greeted by raucous applause.

Cecil pulled out a small doll and began to manipulate it surreptitiously.

With each twist of the voodoo doll, AJ performed a matching break-dance move, amazing the crowd with his uncanny balance.

Cecil was preparing to spin the doll for AJ’s big finish when someone jostled him. The doll flew from his hand into the middle of Bourbon Street.

AJ landed with a thud. He looked up just as a car flattened the doll.

 

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in brain into stories.

Insatiable

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by Don Money

The book cover made of tree bark grabbed Elroy’s attention, but what intrigued him more was the title, Dark Magic of Appalachia. The horror the spells inside promised gave rise to a dark idea.

A gluttony incantation and the moonshine from Elroy’s still became something people couldn’t live without. The desire consumed every person who fell under the spell of the moonshine. The money poured in as the desire grew, the demand more than Elroy could satisfy.

Craving the needed drink, the crowd descended on the still. Elroy’s pleas for more time went unanswered as the horde tore him apart.

 

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.

Immortal Investment

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by Chris Clemens

“Last chance. Are we completely sure he’d want this?”

“His will is clear: immediate resurrection. Mr Kocher spent a fortune on this nekronomi-whatever book. Careful, the cover’s falling apart.”

“It’s just… LOOK at him.”

“I won’t. It’s gross. Now start chanting!”

Hissing forbidden syllables, the assistants shuffled around concentric pentagrams they’d etched on the runway tarmac. Dark energy sizzled through the private jet, converging beneath the dripping turbofan engine where the regrettable fatality had occurred.

Deep within the crimson pile of shredded slurry that had once been billionaire Reginald Kocher, a wet orifice resembling a mouth began to scream.

 

Chris Clemens

Chris Clemens lives in Toronto, surrounded by raccoons. His stories have appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.