Tag Archive for: drabble

Into the Wild

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by Andreas Flögel

Oh, Darling, now I understand your love for nature’s beauty and loneliness.

Sparkling dew drops on the grass, the song of birds, rustling trees.

I was a fool to miss out on that, all the many weekends, when you took your hiking boots and knapsack to enjoy the outdoors, while I stayed in the city to tour the pubs with the boys.

But this time I followed you. And I really appreciated your affinity for these deserted landscapes, when you and your lover finally fell asleep and I, without fear of being seen, entered your tent to cut your throats.

Andreas Flögel

Andreas Flögel would prefer to join his friend on weekends.

Website: dr-dings.de

The Camping Trip

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by Lark Richmond

Garbage bags, duct tape, and a saw in a black bag in his trunk. Millie was right. She’d sent me terrifying stories about camping dates gone wrong, but she couldn’t change my mind. Peter was kind. I had been so sure. But this bag proves otherwise.

Grabbing the hammer from his murder kit, I sneak back into the tent to do what needs to be done. I read the stories. I know it’s me or him.

Near dawn, his phone chimes. I grab it with sticky fingers and read the message.

“Forgot my tools in your trunk. You home today?”

Lark Richmond

Lark Richmond is a Canadian writer and designer. She’s had terrible nightmares since childhood, which she now turns into horror stories. When the sun is shining and the night is forgotten, she’s also been known to write romantic comedies.

Apex Predator

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by Scott O’Neill

Twelve hundred pounds of angry Kodiak bear sliced the tents, guide, and tour group into bloody lasagna. The two survivors hid behind the campsite’s redolent porta-potty.

Ronnie pulled a stubby .32 semi-automatic pistol from his pocket.

“Are you insane?’’ hissed Chad. “That’s just gonna piss him off.”

Chad knelt and laced up his fancy running shoes.

“Who’s crazy now, college boy?” sneered Ronnie. “You can’t outrun no bear.”

“Like the joke says, I just gotta outrun you.” Chad stood and smiled smugly.

“That’s a good point,” said Ronnie as he levelled his gun at Chad’s stomach. “A real good point.”

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 Twitter.

Twitter: @wererooster

Stinking Dirt

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by Ann Wuehler

My firstborn crawls out of the hole I dug with my strong hands beneath Snakestone Bridge. I pant beneath the arch of stone and rotting wood. Her tiny hands grip my out-flung arm. I wince but keep still as she slices my finger with her new sharp teeth, as she feeds from that slice, suckling. I turn my head—my naked, dirty child, stillborn, but now alive, alive.

Bury her beneath the old bridge, my granny told me. In the stinking dirt, yes.

My baby crouches on my chest, my own blood dripping on my skin. Her smile delights me.

Ann Wuehler

 

 

Cross Me Twice

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by Luc Diamant

The problem wasn’t that the bridge at the end of our street led to a different place each time you crossed it, but that once out of every hundred times or so, it wouldn’t take you back. Sometimes someone would show up in the next town over, but there were also those we never saw again.

Father used to make me cross it as a punishment, to remind me of what I stood to lose by disobeying him. I always knew he was hoping I wouldn’t come back. But I did not know that it would be so lovely here.

Luc Diamant

Luc Diamant is a writer, translator, and perpetual student from Amsterdam, where he lives with his partner and their imaginary pets. His writing has appeared or will appear in The Deeps, Canthius, and Tales to Terrify, among others. You can find him on Instagram and Twitter @lucdaniel94.

 

What Remains

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by Francesco Levato

This isn’t a gateway to hell. It’s not one of those bridges. There are no billy goats crossing, or hungry trolls lying in wait. If you approach on a moonlit night, no ghostly figure beckons you across or chases you down on horseback, its sword slicing at your head. I’ve come here a thousand times—and have yet to hear the disembodied cries of school children as their bus careens over the edge.

It is ordinary, I remind myself. The stillness here is not unnatural. There really is no shadow under the bridge—lurking near where they found Bobby’s shoe.

Francesco Levato

Francesco Levato is a poet, professor, and writer of speculative fiction. More about his work can be found here:

Website: francescolevato.com

 

The Mould

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by Liam Dragan

There is mould under every bridge. Seeping into foundations, winding through brick and around rebar. It isn’t on the blueprints and definitely violates regulations.

When someone crosses the bridge, heading home from work or on an early morning jog, the mould whispers. Like a spore, an impulse drifts into their head. They’re called intrusive thoughts—what does the intruding?

The whispers win. A nervous glance at the water below, and then they hop the railing and disappear into the river with a splash.  The body is never found. It vanishes… or perhaps it’s consumed?

There is mould under every bridge.

Liam Dragan

Liam spends his days either fighting or writing—and there’s a surprising amount of overlap between the two skillsets. Writing about fighting is, however, better than fighting about writing.

 

The Bridge to Burnet Island

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by James Rumpel

“The explosives are set.”

“Where’d you find dynamite?”

“Charlie Hatcher had some from when his company worked on Highway 12. He gave it to me as long as I promised to wait until he got here before blowing the bridge.”

“He’d better be coming soon. We have 500 healthy people on the island. If the infected get across, we won’t have a chance.”

“Just one more minute. We shook hands on the deal.”

“Look, there’s a bunch of zombies coming over the hill. We can’t wait any longer. Blow it!”

“Doesn’t that first zombie look a lot like Charlie Hatcher?

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. 

 

Meet Me at the Old Bridge

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by Kateri Tough

It was the third time Nora had left the house on her own. Three times, the usually obedient five-year-old had been found on the old bridge. I fought back tears. This’s how it started with Suzy last year until she disappeared completely, just her crumpled bow left behind on the old bridge.

About to go in to discuss her behaviour, I heard beyond her closed door, “But Mommy doesn’t want me to go to the bridge.” A pause. “Okay, I’ll come when they are sleeping.” Panicked, I opened her door. Nora was talking to the empty corner of the room..

Kateri Tough

Kateri Tough is a mother of three young children and a community nurse in a small town. She enjoys writing horror and fantasy as an escape and a creative outlet in a busy world..

 

Good Samaritan

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by Juliette Gillies

“Wait! Don’t!”

The man stands close, almost within arm’s reach. His voice sounds panicked.

“Please come down. It’s not safe up there.”

The wind is hitting me a little harder than him. It’s cold up on the suspension bridge. The metal railing feels frozen to my skin.

“Can you help me back over?”

He climbs the barrier carefully before reaching out taking my hand. Such a kind face. I let him go, watching him fall, his body hitting the water hard as concrete before sinking away. The third one this month. I wonder if anyone is even looking for them.

Juliette Gillies

Juliette Gillies is an Australian writer and artist. She is an award-winning short screenplay writer with a focus on the horror genre. Her poetry and short stories have appeared in Diet Milk magazine, Minimum Wines Press and Luna Station Quarterly.