Icebound

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by Kristin Lennox

The village had been entombed centuries earlier by a flash avalanche. Bodies, perfectly preserved in the ice, were twisted, mouths open in horror…except one: a young woman, standing with hand raised, as if hailing a friend.

I visit the site nightly, as my colleagues sleep. My frozen siren…

At last, I place my hand against the ice, mirroring hers. Her eyes snap open. Scalding ice flows up my arm, encasing my body even as it cracks and thaws around her.

The dark-haired girl steps from her melted pedestal; her hand trails aside my new arctic prison as she passes.

Kristin Lennox

 

Free Choice

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by Bridget Holland

“I miss my daughter.” The woman’s hands knot together, white-knuckled, desperate.

Few find our valley. Fewer consider trading our centuries of peace for a brief lifetime outside. But all may choose freely.

“You must leave your notebooks behind. And never speak of Shambhala.”

She nods eager agreement.

***

The woman and her guides are black dots climbing to the Pass of Snows. I leaf through her notebooks, admiring how her nimble fingers have captured our homes and fertile fields. Paragraphs of foreign script separate the sketches.

I beckon Gun-yi.

“Run. Tell the guides, take her tongue as usual. Also, her hands.”

Bridget Holland

Bridget’s a reader, dreamer and writer living in Australia and in her imagination.

 

 

 

Expedition to Crete

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by Kelly Matsuura

The tremors worsen. The stone walls collapse under pressure, trapping us in a vast, labyrinthine crypt, deep under Minoan ruins.

Well, not all of us…

I draw my knife as wraithlike maidens encircle the group, hungry to receive the promised sacrifice.

“What did you do, Renée?” Tomás screams repeatedly.

I kneel and begin praying for the Goddess to accept me.

Tomás is still cussing as the men are all overpowered, their blood greedily consumed.

 Imminently, the High Priestess appears before me. My whole body trembles, surrendering.

She holds her goblet out. Cutting my hand, I humbly gift my own blood.

Kelly Matsuura

Kelly Matsuura is an avid short story writer, with a focus on fantasy, horror, and literary fiction.

She has stories and poetry published with Black Hare Press, The Sirens Call Ezine, Dragons Soul Press, Stringybark Stories, and many more.

Kelly lives in Nagoya, Japan with her geeky husband.

Website: blackwingsandwhitepaper.wordpress.com

 

 

Evolution

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by Petina Strohmer

The atmosphere is thick and foul, and the rivers run an oily black.

The planet’s squealing inhabitants are packed so tightly together, the barren ground beneath their feet is barely visible. They fight among themselves constantly, kicking and screaming, in desperate competition for space, air, everything. The weak, the sick and the old are trampled in this psychotic stampede. No-one cares. It’s every beast for itself.

In orbiting spaceships, the aliens are amazed.

“I always thought Earthlings were an evolved species!”

“Sadly, that seems no longer so. There’s no point in making contact now. All semblance of civilisation is lost.”

Petina Strohmer

Petina Strohmer is a traditionally published novelist who has also had twenty-six (mainly horror) short stories published in different anthologies. She lives in the magical Welsh mountains with a raggle-taggle assortment of rescued animals. For more information, go to her website:

Website: petinastrohmer.com

 

Forewarnings

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by Sam Snyder

The radios went out forty minutes ago. We’re too far underground—the water dripping from the ceiling is frigid—but none of us wanted to leave after seeing the first of the carvings, so here we are. The writing’s like nothing the linguist’s ever seen, apparently. Personally, I think they look like they’re from a half-assed sci-fi drama.

The artwork’s different, though. Familiar. Fires burning across crudely built cities, people ripping each other apart. Cages of creatures barely recognisable as living. The overwhelming terror of the carnage is what comes across clearest in the carvings.

It’s almost like they knew.

Sam Snyder

Sam Snyder is currently pursuing a degree in English Literature at some small liberal arts university or another. When they aren’t in class or at work, they can be found typing up creative nonsense in their local library or watching early 2000’s TV in bed with their cat.

 

An Excavation

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by Cailín Frankland

They took our relics first: pots and tools, playthings and jewellery. This we tolerated, chuckling at their blustering talk of papers, conferences, museum displays. We bore their ambition, indulged their curiosity—even in death, we are a generous people.

Then they stole our bones. They extracted ribs with dental picks, boxed up our vertebrae—we felt brushes graze our clavicles, trowels scratch our shoulder blades. When they took our limbs, we warned them—we shook the earth beneath them, snuffed their precious flashlights. They came for our skulls anyway.

In life, the diggers pitied us. Now we are the same.

Cailín Frankland

Cailín Frankland (she/they) is a British-American writer and public health professional based in Baltimore, Maryland. An avid reader and horror aficionado, their work explores themes related to feminism, queerness, disability, chronic illness, neurodivergence, and intergenerational trauma. They live with their spouse, two old lady cats, and a 70-pound pit bull affectionately known as Baby.

 

The Doctor Will Be With You Shortly

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by Weird Wilkins

The gas has done its job. You lie there barely awake, the pain in your teeth has numbed, from agony to a dull ache.

You lie there on the chair, dreading what comes next, your drooling mouth held agape by metal and perspex.

It’s then that you spot it, hardly a spec to your blurred eyes, something dark on the ceiling, something that likes to eat flies.

You try to jerk away, to close your mouth and run, but the gas has done its job so well, you can barely twitch your thumb.

And on a thread… Here it comes…

Weird Wilkins

Hailing from the deepest, darkest pits of England, Weird Wilkins is a fresh-faced writer and lifelong horror fanatic. He writes firmly in the “weird fiction” sub-genre and has a particular passion for folklore, the supernatural and healthy lashings of body horror.

Facebook: @weirdwilkins

The Surgeon

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by Tracy Davidson

For someone who spends so much time wielding scalpels, a sudden attack of haemophobia is somewhat inconvenient.

My therapist shares my fear. She talks me through her coping mechanisms. She’s good. I feel the panic and anxiety leaving my body. Hands stop trembling at the merest thought of scarlet oozing over my gloves. She’s really good. I’m me again.

Alas, for her, she proves too good a listener. She now knows I’m a serial killer—not surgeon. My fear has gone. But hers returns.

I show mercy by blindfolding her. Oops! Seems she’s afraid of the dark, too. Oh well.

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, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, Black Hare Press, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

The Same As You

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by Tim Law

I watched on, helpless, as you faded away. All of those crosswords, logic puzzles, the way you challenged and stretched your mind. Nothing seemed to help, nothing stopped or even stalled your decline. You were the smartest and most caring person I know. In the end, you became nothing more than a blubbering mess.

I thought your love for mathematics would save you, hoped intelligence would win the day.

Now I push myself to write, to draw, to stretch my mind in new directions. Every idea, each new thought, I try outrunning the fear your fate will, too, be mine.

Tim Law

 

Hydro-Phobia

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by Anastasia Jill

Hydro—

Foam, like venom bile. Jaws, square and concrete, hit the floor. Throat open, wide open

and dry as a desert. Shaking, shaking, shaking—Please! I’m so scared.

My mouth is so large, but my throat is so small.

Water, water? WATER! NO! Get away from me—

—phobia

Brain? It is so heavy; it is sick; it is not mine. It’s in the bats

and racoons and foxes and coyotes that ravaged me.

Blood, it is rabid, scratching its way out of my failing skin.

I’m scared and dying. Please, tear my red lane open. Please.

I just need a drop

to drink—

Anastasia Jill

Anastasia Jill (they/them) is a queer writer living in Central Florida. They have been nominated for Best American Short Stories, The Pushcart Prize, and several other honours. Their work has been featured or is upcoming with Poets.org, Sundog Lit, Flash Fiction Online, Contemporary Verse 2, Broken Pencil, and more.