Tag Archive for: drabble

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.

For Glory

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by Kai Delmas

Gunnar breathed in the sea spray as if it were mead while they sailed through the storm.

Midgard’s edge was surely close now. They had been sailing for weeks.

Scales rippled in the choppy waves.

“Jörmungandr!” Ivar roared from above, pointing.

Finally, Gunnar thought, readying axe and shield. His companions joined him at the rails.

The giant sea serpent raised its massive head, much bigger than they had imagined.

Gunnar jumped aside as Jormungand bit off Ragnar’s torso. All that remained were his legs, blood spraying wildly.

Screaming and chaos ensued.

Gunnar chopped at scales, to no avail.

Jörmungandr feasted.

 

Kai Delmas

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds and magic systems. His fiction can be found in Zooscape, Martian, Crepuscular, and several Shacklebound anthologies. His debut drabble collection, Darkness Rises, Hope Remains, was published by Shacklebound Books. You can support him at: patreon.com/kaidelmas and find him on Twitter @KaiDelmas or Bluesky @kaidelmas.bsky.social

Broken

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by Tim Law

You cut down my father, stole my sister away; leaving me a sword I couldn’t lift and a burning desire for revenge.

Now you have returned, older, just as I am. You’ve grown weak, while I’ve the strength of my whole tribe. My son and daughter bear witness as I promise you death. I discover fury is not the weapon I’d hoped it would be.

You leave me broken; man, blade, spirit. I weep as I watch my daughter take your hand. My sorrow deepens as I see my son pick up that sword’s pieces, vengeance in his young eyes.

 

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