Tag Archive for: dark moments

Numbskull

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by Pauline Yates

For the third time, bone shards and chunks of brain splatter when Pete’s bullet hits the tree and ricochets. In a flash of brilliance, his twitching body returns to his maker again.

“How long will I repeat dying?” Pete asks, confounded by his death-loop.

“Until you admit you erred when aligning the riflescope,” his maker says. “It’s out by five degrees.”

“I’m a fifth-generation deer hunter. I don’t make mistakes.”

His maker smirks. “If you say so.”

Grey mist swirls. Pete peers through the riflescope, lines up the buck and squeezes the trigger.

Bone shards and chunks of brain splatter.

 

Pauline Yates

Pauline Yates is the creative force behind Memories Don’t Lie and Dream Job and she enjoys drabbling in the dark. 

Website: paulineyates.com 

Selective Hearing

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by Kim F.G. Olav

“The vault’s new security system is online,” Declan says, pointing to the chequered tiles.

“But…how do we cross without triggering it?” Octavia asks.

“There’s a safe path over—the technician wrote it down.” He hands Octavia a sticky note, her brows furrow.

“Huh? This handwriting’s atrocious.”

“It’s easy. Watch.”

Declan hops onto a tile, then navigates: left, forward, forward, right, forward, forward. He’s almost at the opposite end. “Another left and—”

“No, right!” Octavia yells, decoding the scribble.

Declan veers left. “Nope. I told—”

Crackling. Screams. Thud.

A charred-pork stench.

Octavia sighs, crumpling the note. “He never listens to me.”

 

Kim F.G. Olav

Kim F.G. Olav is a South African/Norwegian amateur writer with a love for penning weird and speculative fiction with a splash of dark humour.

Dark Reflection

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by Grace Quon

I stare in the mirror. You’re gone again. I brush my hair by feel, but don’t dare to attempt makeup.

I search for you all day. Windows, puddles, the polished cutlery at Chez Henri: they look right through me.

At night, I say a prayer to someone, anyone, and turn on the bathroom light. And there you are in the glass, cool and elegant in a tight black dress I don’t own. Sticky red teeth, dirt under your nails. Something killed, something buried. You put a finger to your lips and wink.

Tears run down my cheeks, but not yours.

 

Grace Quon

Grace Quon grew up loving books and libraries. After a detour through a math degree and a career in high-tech, she’s once again exploring the world of story writing. You can find her online.

Website: gracequon.weebly.com

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

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by Tannis Mill

Miriam set crescent rolls on the table, then disappeared into the kitchen. Marcus buttered one and called after her.

“I saw him again today. In the lobby of my office building.”

A pot clanked.

“That’s four times this week.”

Miriam entered with two plates of spaghetti.

“It’s just bizarre, Mir! He’s a dead ringer for me, could be my twin. Maybe tomorrow I’ll—”

The front door slammed, and Marcus breezed in. “Sorry, hon, meeting from Hell.”

Marcus watched himself kiss his wife and sit down to dinner. In his head, a soft voice intoned, “Upgrade complete,” and Marcus went dark.

 

Tannis Mill

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

Duped Again

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by John Cramer

The grimoire delivered as was promised. The rite has given me the acceptance I crave. Suddenly women find me attractive. My boss offered me the big promotion. And indeed, I have not been bullied a single time since reciting that incantation. No more name calling, no snickering when anyone passes by. All of it gone in an instant. I can’t deny that I have finally achieved the level of approval that I’ve craved from people my entire life. What I did not anticipate was the price of this malignant spell. That’s because now the entire planet is wearing my face.

 

John Cramer

Born in the industrial wastes of Cleveland, Ohio, and raised in the swampy armpit that is Houston, Texas. John Cramer writes horror fiction, plays in an ancient underground rock band, and dreams of leaving the country (or at the very least, leave Texas).

Website: linktr.ee/john_cramer

Carry the One…Hundred

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by T.J. Gallasch

I’d checked my calculations, twice, and then again, wanting to be absolutely certain before I threw the switch. I’d been working on this machine for years, but finally it was time to give it a try.

“Alpha equals Delta over Gamma, carry the one…” I murmured, checking the whiteboard a final time.

The machine whirred, lights flashing, and then out from the archway came another me.

“Hello,” it said as it shook my hand.

Then came another, and another.

“This isn’t right,” I muttered, confused.

And that’s when the first clone, marker in hand, added two zeros onto my one.

 

T.J. Gallasch

 

Number 57

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by Tracy Davidson

The other me is here. Sitting at my table, chatting with my wife and kids.

I don’t know how he escaped from the lab, how he got home before I did. I gave him life, and he tries to steal mine?

He won’t be the first clone I’ve had to destroy. 56 before him malfunctioned too.

My family laughs at something he said. They never laugh like that with me. Traitors!

My fists tighten around the hammer in my hand. Can’t remember where I picked it up, why it’s bloody. Or why there’s a tag marked 57 around my wrist.

 

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, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

Next Gen

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by Kristin Lennox

Trey marvelled at the monitor. The man in the examination room looked exactly like him, down to his unruly cowlick.

“So he just goes about his life, oblivious, until I need him…?”

Dr Wilmer nodded. “Yes—he has a fully implanted memory, no idea he was cloned. If you need one of his organs, let us know. Sign here, please…”

***

Chip watched Trey sign the form on his screen. “So he has no idea I’m about to get his heart…?”

Dr Campbell shook his head. “None.”

Chip ran his fingers through his cowlick. “I feel bad…”

“Don’t. Sign here, please…”

 

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

It’s Just Business

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by Don Money

What harm could it cause? I thought. A secret two week getaway to Cancun with a clone covering my job at the office. The clone was easily enough to come by in the back alley laboratory. A month training “Steve” and everything was ready.

A week later, I sat at the bar watching the news. “The shock is reverberating across the business world as stock analyst Steve Moore was named CEO of multimillion dollar Golarx Industries.”

I rush back to my hotel suite. A stranger stands in the room with a gun. “Mr Steve says he has it from here.”

 

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.

Spores on the Wind

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by Chris Clemens

When the mushroom sickness takes over, you’re conscious for a while. Awake. Paralysed. There’s a frantic back-and-forth while it seizes control of your muscles, puppeting limbs like an unfamiliar vehicle. Convulsions on the kitchen floor. If you’re lucky, loved ones will find and kill you.

If not, you might watch yourself vomiting fungal mould into your toddler’s Cheerios, stirring in the mess before anyone wakes up. Bones snapping, you’ll contort impossibly through neighbours’ crawlspaces and vents, retching out cinereous spores. You’ll shudder at the cunning of this alien intelligence dominating your body. At least the mushrooms can’t stop your tears.

 

Chris Clemens

Chris Clemens teaches courses about popular/digital culture in Toronto, where he lives with his wonderful family. His flash fiction has appeared in Invisible City Lit, Apex Magazine, and elsewhere.