Immersive Gameplay

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by Jonathan Tolstedt

Teri wasn’t prepared for what she found in the apartment the biohazard company sent her to clean.

The corpse was still sitting on the edge of his couch, mummified, clutching the controller in rotting hands. There was a horrific grin frozen on his face; empty eye sockets locked on the still active display. She had to break his fingers to take the controller. She turned to set it down when she noticed the game responding to her movements.

“Huh,” she said. She pushed the hood of her hazmat suit back, sat down next to the corpse. “Maybe a quick game.”

Jonathan Tolstedt

Jonathan Tolstedt is a patent agent by day and evolving writer by night. He has previously published a short horror story (2018) and had three of his 100-word horror stories accepted for publication in recent Dark Moments calls for Black Hare Press (2024).

Educational Games

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by Randall Andrews

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Chester hooted softly and toggled the windows on his laptop. A moment later, the doctor stepped into the room, accompanied by a stranger.

“Hey, buddy,” the doctor said. “How’s Tetris?”

Chester hooted again and signed a response. Level 5.

“That’s great.” Then, turning to the stranger, the doctor said, “The neural-enhancers are working. He’s learning so fast—faster than any other chimp could.”

Casually, Chester returned his hand to the laptop, hiding the tab for his paused game of Mortal Kombat. He was learning a lot. Soon enough, they’d find out just how much!

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 Lampoon. Check out the books at:

Website: thelastguardianofm.wix.com/author

The Herald

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by Dei Walker

In her headlamp’s dim light, Mirrim traces the shapes on the ancient stone wall. They resemble claw marks more than runes, but she tries to speak them anyway. She shapes sounds and twists her tongue around impossible syllables with growing ease. Her fingers catch on jagged stone, slicing skin.

In the subterranean darkness, something moves. Her injured finger pulses. The marks glow as the sounds grow ever louder, an arrival accompanied by gusts of cold, stale wind.

We’ve been gone so long, something whispers longingly in her skull. They made us leave. We will reward you for bringing us home.

Dei Walker

Dei Walker a linguist, fibre crafter, and author living in China. A queer speculative fiction and romance writer, her stand-alone short stories have been published by Duck Prints Press. She has short stories published/forthcoming in their Many Hands and A Truth Universally Acknowledged anthologies as well as Inkd Publishing’s Impulse anthology.

 

 

 

Resilient Relics

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by P.S. Traum

Alicia pointed as the archaeologists entered the labyrinthine Amazonian temple.

“See? These ancient ruins predate Mayan, Olmec…”

Vik shrugged. “Why build in dark caverns and cliffs under dense jungle canopy?”

“Nocturnal? Look, these murals depict an extremely violent culture… My God. Cannibals?”

As she stared upward, Alicia stumbled on a pile of skeletons. Human. Bloody filth soiled her hands.

“It’s still inhabited! They’re not extinct!”

Deathly pale naked women sprang out of side tunnels. Their lanky, muscular bodies were covered in tribal scarring. Vik screamed as claws and fangs tore into him. Enormous eyes glared madly at the fresh prey…

P.S. Traum

P.S. Traum is an author with a range of styles who has had short stories published in several small press genre publications. Traum eschews publicity in the hopes the storylines and characters get all the attention without preconceived perceptions of external context.

PST writes speculative fiction. Traum prefers to remain invisible, allowing the storylines and characters to remain free of distractions or perceptions. Forthcoming: a story collection with three dozen fiction stories published since 2020.

 

 

 

Rapid Colonisation

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by D.R. Forge

Locals called the mushrooms that grew on the sacred resting place of their goddess “The Flesh of The Lady.” Maya was curious.

“Beautiful, but the natives won’t go,” William warned Maya, winking. “Let me take you.”

And he did. To an unmarked, overgrown grave, thinking she wouldn’t know the difference. The jungle was full of mushroomed graves. Massacres.

Places William’s ancestors had renamed in bloodshed.

He leaned in close, besotted. Ravenous. Maya caressed William’s cheek.

And he screamed.

Mushrooms blossomed over the man’s head. Golden, pulsating—

Flesh-eating.

Maya watched William become bones.

Then she slipped her skin on again.

Awakened.

D.R. Forge

D.R. Forge writes horror in the city that never sleeps. Forge spends their days hunting for cryptids, and nights hanging out with their Sphynx cats, Hannibal and Will Graham. They are anchored by a loving spouse who provides the daily stoking they need to weave their chilling tales.

Website: drforgeauthor.com

 

 

Finding Paradise

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by Jeff Currier

Squeezing through the crevice, Kianu emerged into a verdant valley. Golden fish filled languid ponds. Pagodas climbed heavenward. A lost Tibetan paradise! But no inhabitants?

A breeze swirled grey powder into drifts across the stonework. Kianu rubbed some between his fingers. Ash perhaps?

Inside the largest temple, an intricate sand mandala encircled a desiccated mummy. Kianu stepped forward, knelt, reaching for its glimmering pendant.

An emaciated claw grabbed his wrist. Kianu’s skin, muscle, bone dissolved into dust. Jianshi can’t be real!

***

The qi-stealing vampire scraped through Kianu’s fading memories, searching. Ah, the way out! And beyond? So many people. Paradise!

Jeff Currier

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

 

 

By My Own Hand

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by Chris Tattersall

My humble home had been violated by thieves. They took a worthless souvenir that I had crafted for my now deceased wife. It had only sentimental value.

After years, I finally tracked my quarry to a basement. A man sat alone, oddly taking extraordinary care with the stolen object. I watched, as with gloved hands he wrapped it in linen and placed it carefully in a draw.

I gripped his neck. His face changing in colour from pink, through crimson and purple to a pale mottled blue.

As his life faded, I re-opened the draw marked ‘500 to 1000 BC’.

Chris Tattersall

Chris is a Health Service Research Manager and lives with his wife, Hayley, and Border collie in Pembrokeshire, Wales, UK. He is a self-confessed flash fiction addict with some publication and competition success. A recent obsession of his being writing Novella-In-Flash. He also hosts his own flash fiction website.

Website: fusilliwriting.com

 

 

At the End

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by Kimberly Rei

“At the end of the world, there is Redemption.”

The priest stalked closer, whispering over and over. Acolytes circled us, trapping me in a shadowed alcove.

I didn’t believe the texts. Prophecy riding the tail of a comet? Ridiculous! I had to see for myself. I travelled deep into the desert, hoping to find proof of nothing; no wandering tribe, no ancient promise of doom.

I found what didn’t want to be found.

I stumbled and tripped over a rock, landing flat on my back.

The sky flared crimson and the priest came closer, quartz dagger dropping.

At the end…

Kimberly Rei

Kimberly Rei does her best work in the places that can’t exist…the in-between places where imagination defies reality. With a penchant for dark corners and hooks that leave readers looking over their shoulder, she is always on the lookout for new ideas and new ways to make words dance.

Website: payhip.com/reitales

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.