Tag Archive for: drabble

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

Norseman of the Dead

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by Andrew Kurtz 

The rancorous stench of death emanating from the Viking longboat reached up to the Halls of Valhalla and Fenrir’s nostrils.

The dead don’t always travel on land, but sea.

The re-animated corpses of the Viking warriors, putrid flesh blanketed with maggots and worms, crew the ship littered with the bones of their victims.

They aren’t interested in treasures of gold and jewellery that would make a man wealthy beyond his wildest dreams. Dominating women to satisfy sexual desires is a task left to the living.

A great banquet awaits them at the next unsuspecting village, a feast of human flesh.

 

Andrew Kurtz

Andrew Kurtz is an up-and-coming horror author who writes very graphic and violent short stories which have appeared in numerous horror anthologies.

Since childhood, he has loved horror films and literature. His favourite authors are Stephen King, Clive Barker, H.G. Wells, Richard Matheson, Edgar Rice Boroughs, and Ian Fleming.

The Last One

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by Stephen Herczeg 

Dark skies greet me as I wake.

Pain strikes my flesh. ‘Tis nothing compared to that of my friends, my comrades, my enemies. Dead, littering the battlefield, unmoving.

I am the last one. The conqueror.

Gold shimmers above the corpses. Their spirits stand as one.

The great gates of Valhalla open. Silently, they march into paradise. An eternity of drinking, feasting, and fighting.

The gates shut.

Alone again, I drop to my knees screaming to be invited inside.

Alive, Valhalla will never accept me.

Gripping my axe, I set out for combat. I must fall, and others will join me.

 

Stephen Herczeg

Stephen is an IT Geek based in Canberra, Australia. He has been writing for over twenty years and has completed a couple of dodgy novels, sixteen feature length screenplays, and numerous short stories and scripts.

His horror work has been featured in numerous anthologies. He has also had numerous Sherlock Holmes stories published.

Shield-Maiden

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by Kailey Alessi

“Don’t touch me!” I back up, my knife comically small compared to the sword brandished by the invader.

“You’re brave, girl.” The invader removes her helmet and blonde braids cascade down her shoulders. She glances at the cooling body of my father and grimaces. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a worthless drunk.”

She peers at me more closely and I itch to pull down my sleeve to cover the bruises.

“No one ever lays a finger on a shield-maiden,” she says, then walks away. I pause a moment. Then I sheath my knife and follow her to the ship.

 

Kailey Alessi

Kailey Alessi has lived in Michigan, Kentucky, Idaho, and Florida. An archaeologist by day, by night she writes disturbing fiction. She is the author of the Of Vampires and Men dark fantasy series, and her flash fiction can be found in numerous anthologies.

Völva

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by Martin Murray

Oein awaited the Witch on the grounds where his slaughtered army lay.

She promised him their return in exchange for his daughters.

The Witch appeared from the shadows, her face the color of the moon.

She took the girls’ hands, leading them towards the darkened woods; her purpose for his children, Oein did not know. Eir, his youngest, looked back- her cheeks flushed with worry.

An owl cried, and his risen brothers stood amongst the fog. Their eyes were milky-white, with rotten jaws hung slack. The Witch’s voice caught the wind: “I return the bodies. I cannot retrieve the souls.”

 

Martin Murray

Martin Murray is a writer based in New York City. He received his MFA in playwriting from Columbia University. His short fiction has appeared in Deathcap & Hemlock, Microfiction Monday Magazine, and Flash Fiction Magazine. He is a screenwriter currently working on an original project for Troma Entertainment.

Facing the Enemy

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by Jameson Grey

“This cur does not deserve the blood eagle,” Harald, the clan chief, declared.

Having once witnessed the ritual, I considered him not tearing out my ribs and ripping out my lungs to be almost merciful.

“I want a memento of my greatest victory,” Harald added.

Still, I hoped my end would be swift. Perhaps to satisfy the chief’s bloodthirst they might simply lop off my head?

As the executioner approached the block to which I was tied, I saw, instead of an axe, he carried his keenest knife.

My fate was confirmed when Harald spoke again.

“Bring me his face!”

 

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey’s work has been published in Dark Recesses Press magazine, Dark Dispatch and in various anthologies including Chlorophobia: An Eco-Horror Anthology from Ghost Orchid Press, Let the Weirdness In: A Tribute to Kate Bush from Heads Dance Press and Love Letters to Poe, Volume II: Houses of Usher.

Website: jameson-grey.com

Boat Ride

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by James Rumpel

Thor Rorakson hesitated before opening his eyes. He felt calm, as if he were floating. Perhaps he was on his way to Valhalla. The village’s resistance had been surprising, and he had taken a hard blow to the head.

An explosion of pain at the back of his skull verified that he was alive. He opened his eyes, revealing a star filled sky above. He tried to sit up, but discovered that he was held down by more than his injury. His body was wrapped in cloth.

A cascade of golden lights fell from the sky. His funeral was beginning.

 

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in brain into stories. 

Fatal Walk

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by David D. West

Broðir grunted as they made the incision in his naked stomach. His captors reached two fingers in, hooked a section of long intestine, and pulled. Broðir shuddered at the squelching sound, the painful heat spreading through his midsection. They staked the organ into the earth beside the oak.

“Walk,” they commanded, prodding him with their weapons.

Broðir did. His intestines unspooled with each step he took, marching ever closer to death. But he smiled as he walked, knowing this heroic end would never bring back their fallen king. His job finished, entrails trailing behind him, he welcomed a warrior’s death.

 

David D. West

David D. West lives and teaches in the Pacific Northwest, which offers the perfect gloomy atmosphere for his writing. When he is not teaching or writing, he is exploring the grey beaches and dark forests of southwest Washington with his wife, son, and their dog, Buster. 

Find him on Twitter/Instagram @DavidWestWrites.

Website: davidwestwrites.wixsite.com

Figurehead

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by Tannis Mills

Did she regret it?

Estrid gazed below. Her husband on the dock, arms crossed, cold, as always. Refusing to meet her eyes, even knowing it would be the last. The ropes tightened across Estrid’s chest and hips.

She looked left. Her lover similarly lashed to the ship’s prow, eyes blazing. “I will follow you across the nine realms into eternity!” he thundered.

No. No regrets.

As the longboats took to sea, Estrid raised her head. The icy waves pounded her body, stealing her breath—salt spray tore her skin, until her bones slipped from the lashing into Njord’s watery domain.

 

Tannis Mills

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

Sword In Hand

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by Jeff Currier

Fleeting spectral images taunted Sigurd’s memory. Opening a man’s throat. Striding through crimson spray. Quick slashes ending children’s caterwauling. A golden-haired beauty screaming Valkyrie threats. Laughing, swatting away her knife. Slinging her over his shoulder. And dying—her second blade embedded in his spine.

Sigurd’s hand still clasped his sword. A Viking’s death then—body and blade bathed in enemies’ blood.

“Lies,” a slithering voice hissed. Icy breath froze his blood-encrusted skin. “Not enemies. Your brother, your kin, while trying to steal his wife.”

Sigurd opened his eyes.

“The dishonourable are mine!” Lokisdottir crooned amidst the frigid glaciers of Hel.

 

Jeff Currier

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