Open Call – Dark Moments – Drabbles – Evil Editors
DARK MOMENTS – MONTHLY THEME
Tag Archive for: drabble
The Image in the Glass
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
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
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
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.
A Disappearing
by Salena Casha
At twenty, she shaved her head to see what he might have looked like; her mother had wondered about the same aloud when she thought Marissa couldn’t hear. Her transformation gave him substance, no longer just a ball of hair and fingernails she’d swallowed whole in the womb. Penitential, living for him this way. Mostly, she liked the way her mother’s fingers feathered over her scalp, whispering Martin into her stubble like an incantation.
Each day, he chose new favourite teas and avoided mirrors, burying her deep. After all, he told himself; he wasn’t the one who’d eaten someone alive.
Salena Casha
Salena Casha’s work has appeared in over 100 publications in the last decade. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Subscribe to her substack at:
Website: salenacasha.substack.com
eiD ot emiT
by Liam Hogan
Timing was everything, the difference between life and a messy death. I huddled by the abandoned car, peering into the shattered wing mirror. The shadow advancing down the darkened alley made me want to flee, but that would have been a fatal mistake. I clutched the shotgun, useless until the phantasm coalesced, taking solid form, ready to strike. Which it wouldn’t do if I stared at it directly.
Almost time…almost—
An inescapable iron grip on my shoulder, cruel fangs at my neck… The the last thing I saw was the mocking warning:
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
Liam Hogan
Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer, who dabbles in drabbles.
Just a Routine Supply Run
by Brittni Brinn
Phillipa screamed as the ship spun out of control, the moon filling the cracked viewwindow. Detritus pinged around like rogue meteors. An unsecured crate hurtled towards me—
Phillipa wasn’t screaming anymore. I hung from the back-seat harness like a climber over an abyss. At the bottom was a pile of crates and broken glass. My favourite coffee mug rested on top.
I laughed. Laughing even though I couldn’t get air, laughing to forget the blood, to put off the inevitable drop into broken glass. Laughing at the absurdity of a pristine coffee mug in the midst of so much destruction.
Brittni Brinn
Inside the Laughing House
by Sebastian Swift
The abandoned house on Lincoln Lane had always terrified the town. People swore they could hear it laugh. Sam, however, wasn’t scared. When his friends dared him to enter it, he accepted. Sam navigated the labyrinth of rooms and he became aware of a presence in the dark and decay.
He didn’t feel the urge to scream or run; instead, he felt the need to laugh. A mild chuckle soon grew to uncontrollable roaring laughter. His throat throbbed; his nose bled. Sam drew his pocketknife and decided he would stay here forever. The house added another laugh to its chorus.
Sebastian Swift
Sebastian Swift is a lifelong devotee of the gothic and horrific. He believes that the world of dark and macabre literature is an effective way of coming to terms with the true horrors that lurk beneath the surface of our everyday lives.
Fair Game
by Bridget Holland
Serafina hates working the Laughing Clowns. They talk inside her head.
A dolled-up blonde, jiggling beside her triumphant boyfriend, points to an oversize teddy bear.
“Clear Clown 3, Serafina,” Papi wheezes, hooking it down.
Her guts clench. How did that idiot get a ball into Clown 3’s tiny, mean mouth?
A cackle echoes in her skull. Come on, carnie girl! Crunchie lunchie…
She inhales, then scoops her forefinger lightning-quick between Clown 3’s lips. Teeth rip her skin. The ball pops out.
Her finger follows. Bone shows between bloodied shreds of flesh.
Clown 3 sniggers.
You got lucky, Serafina. This time…
Bridget Holland
Bridget’s a reader, dreamer and writer living in Australia and in her imagination.