Tag Archive for: drabble

The Cold Spot

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by Tracy Davidson

It lies halfway across the bridge. Makes people shiver, even on hot nights.

Legend speaks of a long-armed troll, that grabs folk by their heels, drags them to their deaths below.

I’m no troll. Ghostly arms, full of broken bones, cannot grab, cannot drag.

I jumped, centuries ago. Never left.

Sometimes, others come to jump. I whisper to those whose resolve falters. I sit beside smashed bodies, hoping one will join me. They never do.

I crave company. So, now I whisper to all who linger. My legend grows. Still, I’m lonely.

Won’t you join me? Just one more step…

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

 

Cannibal Bridge

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by Jodi Jensen

“You gonna do it?”

Jeremy looked at the derelict bridge, considering. “I don’t know, man. It’s creepy. Why’s it called Cannibal Bridge, anyway?”

“I dunno, maybe cannibals live under it.” Oscar shrugged.

Standing before the dilapidated wood, Jeremy’s nose crinkled at the rotten stench and he hesitated. “What do I get if I cross?”

“You wanna be famous, right?”

Nodding, Jeremy stepped onto the bridge.

Oscar pushed record on his phone.

A deep cavern with jagged teeth opened. The maw bit down, chewed, and swallowed. “Bring me more…”

Oscar turned to go. Better the Judas goat than the sheep.

Jodi Jensen

Jodi Jensen, author of time travel romances, a biopunk novella, and over eighty speculative fiction short stories, grew up moving from California, to Massachusetts, and a few other places in between, before finally settling in Utah at the ripe old age of nine. The nomadic life fed her sense of adventure as a child and the wanderlust continues to this day. As a natural born storyteller she has a passion for old cemeteries, historical buildings, and things that go bump in the night.

 

Näcken of the River

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by Liv Strom

My music—purer than any human’s—flows out from the bridge’s shade, seeking prey too young for caution and regret.

There.

A treat bounces his ball under my overhang.

It’s here, the music calls.

“Viktor!” a mother shouts.

Hunger churns. Pace it right, and I’ll have both tonight.

Don’t fear…

I retreat, strumming my strings.

Almost…

Water swirls around his calves. Waist. Neck.

Current and notes tear and ensnare.

“Viktor!”

The sun flashes on my sickly skin and sharp teeth, on a blond boy, mother and forgotten toy.

My claws pierce tender flesh, and, on the final note, we disappear.

Liv Strom

Liv Strom is a Swedish-Swiss writer of speculative and crime stories, often featuring mythology and twisted fairy tales. You can find her writing in Hexagon SF Magazine, Martian Magazine, and Mystery Magazine, among others. 

Website:  livstromwrites.com

 

In Memoriam

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by Sascha Reinhard

A secret smile flicks across my lips every time I walk over you. The river murmurs beneath in a joyful melody, accompanying the scuff of my boots on unsmoothed cobblestone. Time will dull the edges and the pain, but not my memory of the price I bid you pay. I let my fingers caress the rough grain of the parapet, lingering on two chiselled letters lost among the hearts and names left by others’ far more transient passion.

Between us rests the cutwater atop a foundation of poured cement. That’s where I buried you, to be remembered by me alone.

Sascha Reinhard

Sascha Reinhard has a love for the written word in a rather literal sense given his study of palaeography. Ancient tomes, scraps of parchment, a faded letter from the time of the Avignon Papacy. These are far more exciting to him than the stereotypical German pastimes of beer and football.

 

Woman in White

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by R.A. Goli

Cold wind whips my hair into my face and I shiver. It’s almost midnight. The only sound besides the wind is the ticking of my cooling engine.

Everyone knows the story; the woman in white, who haunts the bridge. Teenagers dare each other to cross; friends turn off their car’s headlights to see what will happen.

I see a flash of white in my periphery and a sharp prickle runs down my spine. Despite my fear, I want to see her. But for a different reason to most.

She is my sister. And I want to know why she jumped.

R.A. Goli

R.A. Goli is an Australian writer of horror, fantasy, and speculative short stories. In addition to writing, her interests include reading, gaming, the occasional cemetery walk, and annoying her chihuahua, two cats, and husband.
Her short story collection Unfettered is available now.
Check out her numerous short story publications or grab a free short story at ragloiauthor.wordpress.com.

Facebook: @RAGoliAuthor

 

Dana

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by F. Malanoche

I flicked off the bathroom light after a late night piss and blindly stumbled across the hallway to my bedroom. All I wanted was to get back to my comfy spot in bed. The air conditioner whirred to life, covering the hum of the fridge. Then something clicked. An orange spark came from the kitchen table. I walked down the hallway.

A cigarette glowed in the darkness as the acrid smell of tobacco smoke permeated the room. There was a long exhale followed by a breathy voice in the shadows, “I’m Dana. I’m here about extending your car’s warranty.”

F. Malanoche

F. Malanoche writes, under the cover of night, hoping to bring authentic and odd Latino stories into the world. He teaches English in the Midwest, has a wonderful wife, and sweet vinyl collection. You can follow him on his Facebook page.

Facebook: @FMalanoche

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Blood Moon

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by Paul Lonardo

I’d seen my new neighbour lying out on her back deck at 3 a.m. the night before. She wore only a red bikini, her pale skin shimmering under the light of the Hunter’s Moon. When she appeared the next night, I went over to say hello. She asked me to put lotion on her back. Now I sit next to her, unable to move.  She presses the skin near the holes in my neck, dabs the blood that leaks out onto the tips of her fingers, applies it to her body. It soaks into her flesh, giving her eternal life.

Paul Lonardo

Paul Lonardo is a freelance writer and author with numerous titles of both fiction and nonfiction books. He’s placed dark fiction and nonfiction articles in various genre magazines and ezines. Paul is a contributing writer for Tales from the Moonlit Path. He is an active HWA member.

 

A Donation

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by Keev Kennedy

I expected my drunk brother to be the 3 a.m. knocker, but what I got was a little girl and a box.

“My sisters and I are seeking donations for our food drive,” she said. “Can you spare a part?”

“Come back in the morning,” I answered exhaustedly.

The girl frowned, then knelt and opened the box. “But the lady next door donated.”

I froze when I saw the severed fingers inside.

From the darkness emerged four little girls with demonic yellow eyes. As they marched towards me, knives in hand, the little girl said, “Please, sir. Any part will do.”

Keev Kennedy

Originally from Ireland, Keev Kennedy has always had a passion for telling stories. He currently lives in Canada. His works can be found in an edition of Every Day Fiction and multiple Black Hare Press anthologies.

 

The Walker

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by Francesco Levato

The growling was ragged and wet, like a frenzy of teeth tearing a child’s beloved toy apart. It set my senses on edge, broke the neighbourhood’s pre-dawn stillness—and it was getting closer.

The pack rounded the corner, thundering into the haze of the streetlight. As it closed on me, I could make out individual forms; dog-like, but far too big for the leashes they strained against—and their eyes, too much like embers. Behind them dragged a corpse, still clutching the leashes.

I felt lightheaded, insubstantial. Who walks dogs at devil’s hour? Why was the corpse wearing my clothes?

Francesco Levato

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

Website: francescolevato.com

 

Schoolyard

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by Brandon Korth

Living beside an elementary school is good fun during the day. Listening to the kids play ball, swing on the swings, and run around laughing can cheer me up in the foulest of moods, but that stops during the night. When the echoes of the kids continue to sound after the moon rises, the metal creaking as the swings sway back and forth, and the balls bounce off of the walls. Sleeping with my back to the first floor window as they bounce closer until they touch the glass and I turn to see nothing there. That’s what gets me.

Brandon Korth

Brandon Korth is a full-time, single dad living in Ontario. He used to write articles for Obilisk.co while earning two diplomas in policing at his local college.