Tag Archive for: drabble

The God of the Gastropods

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by Lisa Edwards

 

Ellie glanced away from the huge spiral covered wall. It made her feel sick and giddy.

Crunch!

She froze for a moment, then gently lifted her foot. Oops! Sorry, little snail.

A wet pop sounded beside her. But… she’d have noticed that stuck to the side of the wall, right? Snails can’t be that big.

A thousand sharp little teeth glinted on the long tongue.

It scraped the skin off her arms and face, and she sank to the ground, a wailing, writhing ball of agony and blood. And there she remained for hours since snails only eat decomposing matter.

Lisa Edwards

Lisa writes horror, fantasy, and sometimes comedy (occasionally on purpose). She’s written several indie horror films, including Siren Song, Zombie Wars, Mannequin, and the upcoming Zombikini.  She lives in Northamptonshire, England and has a border collie who’s scared of the wind.

Website: lisaedwards.me.uk

 

 

Friend of the Forest

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by Tracy Davidson

 

They dare come here with chainsaws and guns? Chop down my children, frighten fauna, shoot for some sick sport, killing innocent creatures that would have done them no harm. I, however, can do plenty of harm.

I send whispers through the trees. Warnings of what’s to come. Some flee. Some watch.

My breath rips weapons from human hands. I make my own sport. Their laughter turns to screams and panicked attempts to run. How easily the teeth of saws cut through flesh. How bloody the outcome of bullets.

The forest floor opens, swallows up what’s left. Peace returns. For now.

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.

 

 

Carrion

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by Liam Hogan

 

The goddess turned, restless in her slumber as warm blood soaked the cold, dark soil. The affairs of men, best left to the crows.

Something sharp, insistent. A sacrifice, the battle hanging in the balance. A child. Children grew into adults no less unworthy than their parents. But a sacrifice in her name?

It would be rude not to.

Wings black and terrible she rose, drawing blood from both armies, from living and dead, quenching ancient hunger.

Sated, the goddess slept again beneath her silent battlefield. For how long, none could say. But she knew there would be other wars.

Liam Hogan

Liam Hogan is an award-winning short story writer. He’s been published by Analog, Daily Science Fiction, and Flame Tree Press, among others. He helps host Liars’ League London, volunteers at the creative writing charity Ministry of Stories, and lives and avoids work in London. More details at http://happyendingnotguaranteed.blogspot.co.uk

 

 

Broken Things

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by Sophie Wagner

 

“Trash, trash, trash,” Garret grumbled as he sifted through the remains of the abandoned campsite.

Marcus grunted in response, pausing once to grimace as he pulled a bloody rag free from his pile.

“Everything’s broken, man. Let’s go, this place is a dump,” he groaned. He waited for Garret’s response, but only a low laugh rustled through the trees.

“Broken?” the wind croaked. “And what are you, little scavenger?”

Marcus screamed as he was thrown to the ground, invisible hands bludgeoning him until his bones splintered and his eyes went empty; just another broken thing.

Then, the wind went quiet.

Sophie Wagner

Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at The Macabre Ladies, Black Ink Fiction, Eerie River Press, Iron Faerie Publishing, Black Hare Press and more. She hopes you have a horror-filled day!

 

 

Domovoi

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by Jean Martin

 

My family left before the Russians came. They paid me respect before they went away. They knew I would keep the house safe. Then they took the dog and the cat and the silver plates and drove west.

Russian soldiers walked into the house like it was theirs. One fell and broke his neck. Another shot himself. The rest heard me laugh and ran away.

I am the domovoi, the house spirit. I have watched over this house since before the last czar.

I will be here after the Russians are gone.

I will be here when my family returns.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

 

 

He Was

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by Victoria Brun

 

He was carved into the wall, but he also was the walls—or so they said. He was the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the chilling draft you felt in the narrow back room on the eastern side.

He was the shrine and its protector.

He was worshiped—once, long ago.

As time trickled by, he became a myth, a tourist attraction, a gift shop. He was plastered on T-shirts and magnets.

Until one cold day, the ceiling collapsed without warning, and he became a bludgeon and a tomb.

He was many things, but most of all, he was angry.

Victoria Brun

Victoria Brun is a writer and project manager at a national laboratory. When not bugging hardworking scientists about budget reports and service agreements, she is writing stories you can find at Daily Science Fiction, Uncharted Magazine, and beyond.

 

 

The Cursed Cave

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by James Rumpel

 

“I have a good feeling,” said Dr Morris. “The landslide exposed most of the cliff wall. I’m certain the Shaman’s cave has been opened.”

“Do we want to find it?” asked his assistant, Richard.

“You don’t believe those stories…”

Morris stopped, smiled, and pointed to a crevice in the mountainside.

Inside, they found drawings, and Navajo words etched into the wall.

“Those are the Shaman’s victims,” explained Morris.

Richard didn’t reply. The doctor looked back to find himself alone.

He shrugged and turned back toward the writing and froze. Two names had been added to the list.

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 his brain into stories. 

 

 

By the Light of the Fire

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by C. L. Sidell

 

We summoned the thing without knowing what we’d done.

A simple campfire—roasting marshmallows for nostalgia’s sake.

“Grab the sticks,” you said.

I did.

They burned, smoked green.

The earth rumbled, shook without moving.

The thing rose behind you—a menacing, monolithic shadow amongst forest shadows. Its innumerable yellow eyes fixed on me, its rusted voice impregnated my thoughts with inarticulate words. Root-like appendages rose into the air as if in depraved prayer, and my own hands mimicked its movements.

Know I had no choice, its putrid need filling my throat as I thrust the hunting knife into your heart.

C. L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in horror stories. She holds a Master of Arts in both English and library & information science, moderates two creative writing groups, and reviews books for the Florida Library Youth Program. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in 34 Orchard, 805 Lit, Dark Moments, The Dread Machine, Frozen Wavelets, opia, Quarantine Quanta, Spark: A Creative Anthology, and others.

Twitter & Facebook: @sidellwrites

 

 

Drip

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by Shaun Bibo

 

Drip… Drip

The dripping would drive another person mad.

Drip… Drip

Not me. I’ve been here for three days. Hanging.

Drip… Drip

It came from the painting. The ocean. The waves. A lighthouse. Peace.

Drip… Drip

It emerged from the water. Slowly. Over days. Weeks. It consumed the lighthouse.

Drip… Drip

More tentacles than body. It broke free.

Drip… Drip

I can’t see it. Not really. It moves… sporadically. Through time. Through space.

Drip… Drip

It doesn’t belong here. It’s always hungry. Soon, the bucket below me will be full. I will be empty.

Drip… Drip

Then it will eat.

Shaun Bibo

Business Analyst by day, writer by night, weekend, lunch breaks, or whenever time allows. Father of two, so less time than ever, but in the best possible way. Surviving the cold Minnesota winters to embrace the magnificent summers.

 

 

Tunnel Vision

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by R. Wayne Gray

 

Strobing lights blinked red to green on the Arctic SuperDeep Tunnel: incoming. The gathered scientists cheered in relief. The train had set a record two days earlier—15 miles deep—when communications with it had suddenly ceased.

“Just a glitch!” cried one, as champagne popped. Cold air crept from the tunnel at the train’s approach, a rotted breeze that chilled the celebration. Blue flashes flickered, electrical surges that blew out fluorescents and other equipment. The train breached the tunnel, a jagged birth painted with gristle, greased with sparks. And behind it, a pulsing mass of tentacles and bone and screams.

R. Wayne Gray

R. Wayne Gray is a Vermont-based writer who has published in a wide range of genres and formats. His short fiction has recently appeared in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Trembling With Fear, and the anthologies 666 Dark Drabbles and Bloody Good Horror.

Website: www.rwaynegray.com