Tag Archive for: drabble

Wisps on the Moors

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by Corinne Pollard

I raised my knickers, my bladder no longer full, while the lilac heathers bobbed in gratitude.

Ready to continue our hike, I spun round, but his tallness and backpack had vanished. I yelled his name, but the roaring wind snatched them.

Dark clouds were massing as my feet grew heavier.

Follow us. Blue lights floated like hopeful lanterns in the darkness. He went this way.

The orbs flew, and my feet followed, leading me in the opposite direction. Their lights calmed my troubled heart. Their gentle, fairy-like faces soothed my loneliness. I didn’t see their glistening fangs until too late.

Corinne Pollard

Corinne is a UK disabled horror writer who loves to dabble with drabbles. Follow her online: @CorinnePWriter

 

Day Three

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by Kristin Lennox

The sun slunk over the horizon, blood-orange and violet flame, flooding the sandstone formations with morning majesty. Wind whispered across the still-grey canyon floor, rustling through dead grasses, around cactus silhouettes.

Jake never tired of the desert sunrise—O’Keeffe, come to life.

It’s gonna get so hot, though.

“Yeah, but it’s a dry heat,” said the cow skull, in a slow, Texas twang. It stared at Jake with its bleached eye sockets, half-buried in the sand. Jake laughed hoarsely, through cracked lips. “Good one,” he croaked.

Chucking his empty canteen, he left the weathered sentinel to trudge east this time.

Kristin Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

The One Thing You’re Not Supposed to Do

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by Russell Nichols

Don’t look down, you repeat to yourself, abseiling deeper into the mouth of Olympus Mons.

The static rope feels thin as spaghetti.

Which is exactly what you’ll look like if you take one wrong step.

The tour guide—included in the caving package—hollers: “See anything?”

Don’t look down. “You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“That rumbling …” You freeze.

There is it again, coming from under you.

Don’t look down. The rope shivers. “Like the volcano’s about to erupt.”

“We’re not picking up any fumarolic activity.”

Then something yanks at your ankle.

Something cold.

Don’t.

Look.

Down.

(You looked down.)

Russell Nichols

Russell Nichols is a speculative fiction writer and endangered journalist. Raised in Richmond, California, he got rid of all his stuff in 2011 to live out of a backpack with his wife, vagabonding around the world ever since. Look for him at:

Website: russellnichols.com

Biter, Bit

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by Liam Hogan

The mosquitoes ignored Claudette. They feasted on the rest of us, whining in ears as we slumbered uneasily beneath nets. We begged for her insect repellent, her face and arms porcelain white, and were dismayed to discover she didn’t use any.

One night she cut her finger on broken glass. What reluctantly seeped out was like rust rather than blood.

“I’m anaemic.” She shrugged.

In the morning, Jodie didn’t wake up, puncture wounds at her neck, polka-dot body pale and cold.

That evening, Claudette sat pink and glowing before the fire, a constellation of mosquitoes circling her, awaiting their share.

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning, London based, short story writer.

Website: happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk

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