Woeful Distortion

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by Evan Baughfman

In the funhouse mirror, Paul looked ridiculously out of proportion—legs stubby, torso stretched out like taffy. His arms were disjointed giraffe limbs, impossibly long and spindly.

“Disgusting,” Paul spat.

He modelled for local shops. Usually, mirrors were his friends.

His distorted reflection grinned huge teeth, even as Paul grimaced.

He lifted a middle finger. Realised it had actually become a horribly elongated digit.

His hands! They resembled pale, upturned spider crabs!

Paul stumbled away from the mirror on abridged femurs, tiny feet. His cavernous mouth sobbed atop a now-wobbly upper body.

Outside, Paul was recruited for the carnival’s sideshow.

Evan Baughfman

Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays.

The Mirror Doesn’t Lie

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by Susan Monroe McGrath

“Hold still.”

Before I can protest, my sister yanks a hair from my scalp.

“Got it!” She holds the gleaming grey strand like a trophy. “Once you find the first grey hair, it’s all downhill.”

I retreat to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. Another grey hair. Sigh.

I mimic my sister, reaching up to pull the offending hair. It feels like it’s attached to my brain.

A drop of blood runs from my hairline, but I can’t stop. I pull harder.

My skin rips before the hair releases, opening my scalp like a zipper.

My sister was right.

Susan Monroe McGrath

Susan Monroe McGrath is a theatre graduate from a school of the arts who still can’t decide what she wants to be when she grows up. By night, she writes novels and short stories in a variety of genres. By day, she teaches science to high school students.

Website: susanmonroemcgrath.home.blog

The Ruthless Red Pen

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by Randall Andrews

In the south of Australia, an editor sits at his desk wielding a magical red pen. The story before him morphs with his every deft touch, the words shifting and shuffling on the page.

After an hour, he flips to the last page of the manuscript, tweaking the author’s bio ever so slightly before moving on to the headshot. With confident strokes, he goes to work, removing an ugly skin blemish, straightening an awkwardly crooked nose, trimming away a little extra flesh from the cheeks.

***

In the northern United States, an author screams in agony as the edits take effect.

Randall Andrews

Randall Andrews is the author of two books, Finding Hour Way and The Last Guardian of Magic, which won the National Indie Excellence Award. His shorter works have appeared in places like Abyss & Apex, Space & Time, Mystery Tribune, and Sci-Fi Shorts. You can find his books at online retailers.

Narcissus: A Retelling

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by C.L. Sidell

“Steer clear of Marwynn’s Pond.”

Curious to see this forbidden place, I creep past Crocus Lane into Farthery Forest.

The pond appears after an hour of hiking, water glinting where sunrays touch it through the coniferous canopy.

Crouching at the bank, I peer into its silvery depths and see myself—eyes brighter, face unblemished.

“I’d no idea I was so beautiful…”

Awe-stricken, I reach toward the liquid mirror—and my ghastly grinning reflection breaks through, grips my wrist, pulls me under.

Down to a bed of scattered bones. Where I thrash and choke. And the watery surface above remains breathtakingly still.

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 Cosmic Background, Factor Four Magazine, F&SF, Martian Magazine, Stupefying Stories, and others.

Website: https://crystalsidell.wixsite.com/mysite/publications

Future Reflections

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by Dillon Hendrick

There’s a mirror in the woods, and this sounds crazy, but I think it can tell the future. I found it while wearing new hiking gear, but in my reflection, I had a gaping hole in the knee of my pants. Bewildered, I kept hiking. Moments later, I fell, ripping my pants.

Coincidence? Maybe. But get this. I went back to find my reflection wearing a red sweater. That night, after dirtying my shirt, my friend let me borrow that very sweater.

So, you can imagine my concern when today’s reflection showed a bloodied stump where my head should be.

Dillon Hendrick

Dillon Hendrick is a psychiatric behavioural nurse with an unsurmountable love for literature and horror. His interest in the macabre dates back to his childhood, reading R. L. Stine in his front yard. When he is not working, reading, or writing, Dillon spends his time with his two young children and his beautiful wife.

You = We Now

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by T.J. Gallasch

You try to ignore us; believe you succeed. Splashing water across the bathroom mirror merely blurs our smile. Each puddle you splash in, each shop window you rush by. You don’t notice us getting closer.

You doze on the bus ride in; we creep and sneak, almost there. Twenty floors up is where your office is waiting. You catch the lift and suddenly we are all around you. Reaching for the kitchen knife you didn’t know we’d placed in your pocket, you grin because now it’s OUR turn to write the story. We guarantee it will be a fun one.

T.J. Gallasch

The Image in the Glass

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by P.N. Harrison

Some long for the sounds, the telltale thud and the two thumps that follow close behind. The bliss that belies the shriek or the yelp or shout. Others strive for sensation, that moment of catharsis, in the impact. The reverberations that transfer from bones to wheels to chassis to bones.

But me? I live for the image in the glass, the fragile slivers of seconds when they can see their own faces fall from delight or indifference toward fear. The lifetime’s look, haloed in headlights, before a mere moment ascends to an exquisite eternity. An apotheosis witnessed in the windshield.

P.N. Harrison

P.N. Harrison is a writer and professor based in Western Kansas. He has fiction forthcoming in Starlite Pulp Review and Eldritch Science. When not publishing academic articles on medieval literature, H. P. Lovecraft, and books bound in human skin, he enjoys watching baseball and horror movies and going on historic ghost walks with his wife, Ashley.

Last Exit on the Right

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by Kristin Lennox

“MOVE, ASSHOLE!”

Horn blaring, Marvin swerved between lanes, flipping off the minivan that dared to drift into his path. Fucking Sunday drivers.

Only suckers use mirrors while driving, but the reflection in his rearview caught Marvin’s eye—what the…? The back window was spiderwebbed with cracks, the seat crumpled inward and soaked crimson with blood. He gasped at his face–charred black, lips burned away, left eye dangling from the socket.

The steering wheel jerked from his hands, yanking hard to the right.

Marvin screamed one last obscenity as his car slammed through the guardrail and cartwheeled into the bay.

Kristin Lennox

Urgent Product Recall

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by Scott O’Neill

Customers who’ve purchased BLÖDSYN obsidian mirrors—discontinue use—immediately! Cover the mirror (perhaps with a FLUFFIGVÄRMA towel, just 479 kroner) and return to your local store for a replacement or refund.

Addressing your reflection in these mirrors (sustainably sourced from Sweden’s Central Skåne Volcanic Province) may unexpectedly summon a Gjenganger (hostile revenant). This unintended product feature has resulted in a precautionary recall of BLÖDSYN mirrors.

If you’ve encountered a Gjenganger, please call our customer service line; press 1 for trauma counselling; 2 for dismemberment support; 3 for funeral services, or stay on the line to access complimentary SPÖKEKÄMPE combat exorcists.

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on the socials as @wererooster.

 

 

Carnal Distractions

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by Jeff Currier

Straddling Victor’s chiselled chest, Tiffany languidly tapped the remote. Usually, she toyed with prey longer. Built their amorous anticipation to bursting before sating herself. But Victor’s lustful aura felt bottomless.

The canopy retracted, uncovering myriad angled mirrors. How men loved watching their endless reflections taking her. Their self-absorption let her lock succubus lips and suck them dry.

But Victor had eyes only for her.

Confused, Tiffany glanced upwards. Her countless reflections stared back, bed otherwise empty. I feel him beneath me!

Fangs pierced her neck. A whisper caressed her mind.

“I commend your diet, darling. Your blood tastes absolutely exquisite.”

Jeff Currier

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