Coochie Coo

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by Patrick Campbell

“What a cutie-pie,” said the lady from the flat below, squeezing their newborn’s adorable thigh rolls. “I could just eat him up.”

They became friendly with her. After eight months of being held hostage by their bundle of joy, they desperately needed an evening out and asked her to babysit. She was delighted.

No longer used to the freedom, they didn’t know what to do with themselves and, missing their little darling, decided to come home early.

“He’s almost ready,” she said, welcoming them in.

They were scanning the room, wondering where he could be, when the oven timer rang.

 

Patrick Campbell

Patrick Campbell doesn’t exactly enjoy writing but feels he has to do something with that weird stuff in his head.

Ask and You Shall Receive

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by Nerisha Kemraj

A loud rumble shakes Noah awake. Third day without food, he wouldn’t last another night.

He crawls on the floor, weak arms struggling to hold his sign, even though the rush of feet threatens to trample him.

A sudden boom erupts… He watches as the pedestrian collides with the speeding train.

Within seconds, a human leg lands before him. Sploosh!

Bulging eyes stare in horror.

Then slowly, a smile cracks on Noah’s face before his teeth sink into the severed limb. Blood trickles down his chin as he chomps on the flesh, oblivious to the aghast onlookers.

Food, at last…

 

Nerisha Kemraj

Internationally published author and award-winning poet, Nerisha Kemraj resides in Gauteng, SA with her husband and two daughters.

Website: linktr.ee/NerishaKemraj 

Final Comfort

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by Jeff Currier

Desperate for food, Basil and Chloe risked an already looted grocery. A scavenger band ambushed them. Consciousness fading, Chloe never expected to reawaken.

***

The leader’s matronly voice penetrated Chloe’s resurrecting awareness.

“Your husband claims you’re a doctor.”

Chloe nodded, though the Collapse had cut medical school short.

The woman proffered a steaming bowl. Broth, vegetables, rice—even shredded meat. Chloe ate ravenously. Tipping the bowl, she slurped the last drops.

“Is Basil alright?” Chloe asked.

“He could offer nothing, except fulfilling his vow to comfort you.”

The woman, clerical collar worn and stained, reclaimed the bowl. “He comforted us all.”

 

Jeff Currier

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

Fallout Shelter Day 198

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by Nina Miller

Tori awoke, missing a thumb. A skeletonised stump jutted out from her palm. Phantom pains pulsed. She sucked the nubbin, and its coppery tang activated her taste buds. She got out of bed.

Empty cans rattled around her feet like bones. No food remained. Vermin had fled. Tori’s roach jar was empty. She clutched her teddy. She missed Daddy, whose rotting meat rested in a dead freezer. She missed Mommy, whose gaunt frame was covered in a quilt, having bled herself dry.

Hunger growled at her. Tori nibbled the nails of sausage-like digits, then devoured each finger to the bone.

 

Nina Miller

Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, epee fencer, and creative. She loves exploring dark nights of the soul… and chai. Find her work within Cutbow Quarterly, Raw Lit, Jake, Bright Flash, SciFi Shorts, Five South, Roi Fainéant, Five Minutes, and more. Find her on X @NinaMD1 or on her website.

Website: ninamillerwrites.com

Extreme Cooking Elimination Challenge

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by Chris Clemens

I’ve been here before. Chloroformed. Abducted. Shivering in a mystery kitchen, somewhere without extradition laws. Chopping peppers with shaky hands. Serving up inventive dishes using shark steak, canned cat food, polystyrene bricks. Watched by millions on encrypted livestream, probably because the losing chef gets beheaded.

Finals. Blindfold off. It’s infamous Chef Miko, twirling her knives. Michelin stars disgraced. She’s roasted seal pups. Fried human livers.

Miko smirks, but I chose the secret ingredient this time. No limits.

Silver cloches rise. Miko’s eyes widen at the plattered heads and desiccated flesh. She sobs once, softly. Our secret ingredient:

My opponent’s family.

 

Chris Clemens

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

Who’s Got the Brains Now

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by C.L. Sidell

Damien sets the bell curve—gets A-pluses on exams, wins first place for science fair projects.

“Why couldn’t you have got your brother’s brains?”

That’s a good question. One that I ponder for days. I know siblings—even identical twins—inherit different traits from each parent.

Maybe…

I conduct my own experiment. When our parents leave on a weekend-long retreat, I drug Damien and saw open his skull. Fry his grey matter one wrinkle at a time.

Chewy.

That night, I dream of mathematical equations and converse fluently in French.

There’s no doubt.

I’m the brains of the family now.

 

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

Transmogrification

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by Scott O’Neill

“Stupid goose,” said the witch. “The opening is big enough. See, I myself could get in.” She stuck her head into the oven.

Gretel shoved the witch and slammed the door. The witch howled frightfully. Finally, all was still. Gretel started towards Hansel’s cage, then stopped. The smell of roasted witch had her salivating.

She found herself opening the oven. Carving off a sliver, just to taste.

Delicious!

More slices. More nibbling.

Gretel hardly noticed her hands turning greenish and warty. Her eyes glowed red.

She cackled at Hansel in his cage. “You’re not fat enough. But you will be.”

 

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.

Fresh

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by Tim Law

I have whispered those words before, in passionate moments when desire has overruled logic.

Tonight, you believe we have taken playtime from the bedroom to the kitchen. Your naivety makes me smile. Tied to the table instead of the bed, I run my teaser across your flesh, only this time it is not a feather. Tonight, I have chosen my carving knife. Your breath quickens, eyes go wide as I slice off your tip. The mask silences your screams.

As I devour you, piece by piece, I say those words you know so well.

“I love the way you taste…”

 

Tim Law

Tim Law hails from a little town in Southern Australia called Murray Bridge. A happily married father of three, family is very important to him. He works at the local library, surrounded by so many wonderful stories he’s constantly inspired to write. His general musings can be found at:

Website: somecallmetimmy.blogspot.com.au

Feast of the Dead

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by M. Belanger

Sever the head with a single, swift strike. To hesitate brings shame to the family. Open the cavity and remove all organs. Offer these to the gods. They like their meat bloody.

Dig a pit two handspans wider than the carcass in all directions. In the bottom, kindle a fire of sacred wood. Burn this down to embers.

Stuff with apples and onions, garlic, grapes, and figs. Wrap with chela fronds. The next dawn, the meat will be ready: smoky, tender, and sweet. The closest relative receives the first portion.

And this, my child, is how we honour our dead.

 

M. Belanger

Wyrdbane

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by Weird Wilkins

I always thought I’d die in battle…

Now I lie here, the drifting snow slowly smothering my twisted form. My skin, blackened and wracked with weeping welts, sloughs in great hunks from my charred bones.

I try to speak, to curse at the one who has wrought this upon me, but I can manage nothing more than garbled splutters. I lie here, quietly drowning in my own putrid blood.

The agony of my pox-ridden body is second only to my shame.

I am to be denied Valhalla.

To think, the old ones said there would be glory in hunting witches…

 

Weird Wilkins

Weird Wilkins is long-time writing enthusiast taking the terrifying plunge into the world of actually submitting work for publication. He’s rooted firmly in the “weird fiction” subgenre of horror with a particular passion for stories revolving around a mounting sense of dread and healthy lashings of body horror. He plans to forge a reputation as a purveyor of frightful short stories in both collaborative collections and his own anthologies.