Tag Archive for: dark moments

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.

 

 

 

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.