Jameson Grey Archives - Black Hare Press

Facing the Enemy

March 28, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

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

It’s Your Funeral!

January 25, 2024/by Shawna Rowan

by Jameson Grey

Ed bribed the local gravedigger, Smithy, with a few beers and fifty bucks he could ill afford, and Smithy supplied the coffin with a gleeful, “It’s your funeral, frat boy.”

He should have paid more attention to Smithy’s complaints about his gut, else he might have delayed the initiation dare for another night, one that didn’t risk Smithy calling in sick the next day.

“Spend a night in a coffin—and you’re one of the Thetas!”

As it was, Ed only awakened when the coffin was moved. Nobody heard him yelling, certainly not above the sound of dirt being shovelled.

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

Crossing the Line

December 24, 2022/by Shawna Rowan

by Jameson Grey

New Year’s Eve.

The day the last of my line dies. I’ve hired a boat for the occasion—a yacht, no less! Sailed out to the Line Islands. Currently sitting one second east of the International Date Line. Waiting.

I’ve requested the captain crosses the Date Line at midnight. Time it right, it can be beaten. The curse.

The crew’s happy enough. They’re getting paid either way.

The damn Barber family curse!

One dies at midnight. Every year.

It’s 11.59. The boat is firing up. I feel it. I am heading up on deck.

Crossing the line one last ti—

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. His work has been published in Dark Recesses Press, Dark Dispatch, and in anthologies from Ghost Orchid Press, Black Hare Press and Heads Dance Press.
Website: jameson-grey.com

PUNK

March 1, 2022/by Black Hare Press

Punk—steampunk, cyberpunk, biopunk, dieselpunk—stories where technology is the main focus.

He Liked to Watch

February 21, 2022/by S. Jade Path

by Jameson Grey

He liked to watch. That was Ted’s thing.

His wife would bring home one-night stands, and he’d sit behind the two-way mirror he’d installed, watching as she took lovers into their marital bed. She’d tie them to the bedposts, adding an extra frisson, and ride them until she was satisfied.

Only then would Ted appear, smiling.

He relished the fear and confusion his presence caused. He’d hand his wife his tie, or one of her silk stockings, and retreat to the corner of the room—where he’d stand, silent, as she slowly strangled her helpless conquests.

He liked to watch.

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. His work has been published in Dark Dispatch, The Birdseed and anthologies from Ghost Orchid Press, Black Hare Press, Black Ink Fiction and Hellbound Books.
Website: https://jameson-grey.com

The Flowering

December 7, 2021/by S. Jade Path

by Jameson Grey

I’ve always loved to be loved.

I look down upon myself, endlessly gazing at my reflection in the spring, reminded of my late twin sister’s beauty. Of my beauty.

I cannot leave now.

The air is no longer air. It has shifted—throttling my lungs as it flows through—like breathing has reversed somehow. Light-headed nausea tangles my mind, my guts.

My skin, it mottles. Bones soften, wilt. I strain toward the sun.

My feet take root. Become roots, drawing sustenance from below.

At this spring, I’ve been reborn while I watch. And although I remain Narcissus, I am flowering.

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. His fiction and poetry have been published by Ghost Orchid Press, Black Hare Press and Hellbound Books.

Website: jameson-grey.com

Little Truck Stop on the Prairie

April 14, 2021/by Black Hare Press

by Jameson Grey

Gunnars Diner [sic] reeked of rank meat—like the fridge was broken or the sous-chef hadn’t checked the expiry dates.

Sous-chef? Marilyn wondered. Did middle-of-nowhere greasy spoons even have them?

Her Freightliner was the only rig in the lot. Marilyn was beat, and hours from the next truck stop, but the smell convinced her groaning stomach it no longer wanted to eat.

“Coffee, please,” she said. “To go.”

The waitress smiled, yelling to the kitchen. “We got a lady trucker, Gunnar!”

Gunnar emerged, his apron stained blood-red.

His cleaver gleamed. Gunnar gleamed.

“Excellent, I ain’t cooked a lady in weeks.”

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. He also spent time in the Middle East as a child, which he understands makes him a third culture kid (TCK). His story The Waiting Room was recently published in The Toilet Zone: Number Two.
jameson-grey.com

Tag Archive for: 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!”

Ed bribed the local gravedigger, Smithy, with a few beers and fifty bucks he could ill afford, and Smithy supplied the coffin with a gleeful, “It’s your funeral, frat boy.”

He should have paid more attention to Smithy’s complaints about his gut, else he might have delayed the initiation dare for another night, one that didn’t risk Smithy calling in sick the next day.

“Spend a night in a coffin—and you’re one of the Thetas!”

As it was, Ed only awakened when the coffin was moved. Nobody heard him yelling, certainly not above the sound of dirt being shovelled.

New Year’s Eve.

The day the last of my line dies. I’ve hired a boat for the occasion—a yacht, no less! Sailed out to the Line Islands. Currently sitting one second east of the International Date Line. Waiting.

I’ve requested the captain crosses the Date Line at midnight. Time it right, it can be beaten. The curse.

The crew’s happy enough. They’re getting paid either way.

The damn Barber family curse!

One dies at midnight. Every year.

It’s 11.59. The boat is firing up. I feel it. I am heading up on deck.

Crossing the line one last ti—

by Jameson Grey

He liked to watch. That was Ted’s thing.

His wife would bring home one-night stands, and he’d sit behind the two-way mirror he’d installed, watching as she took lovers into their marital bed. She’d tie them to the bedposts, adding an extra frisson, and ride them until she was satisfied.

Only then would Ted appear, smiling.

He relished the fear and confusion his presence caused. He’d hand his wife his tie, or one of her silk stockings, and retreat to the corner of the room—where he’d stand, silent, as she slowly strangled her helpless conquests.

He liked to watch.

by Jameson Grey

I’ve always loved to be loved.

I look down upon myself, endlessly gazing at my reflection in the spring, reminded of my late twin sister’s beauty. Of my beauty.

I cannot leave now.

The air is no longer air. It has shifted—throttling my lungs as it flows through—like breathing has reversed somehow. Light-headed nausea tangles my mind, my guts.

My skin, it mottles. Bones soften, wilt. I strain toward the sun.

My feet take root. Become roots, drawing sustenance from below.

At this spring, I’ve been reborn while I watch. And although I remain Narcissus, I am flowering.

by Jameson Grey

Gunnars Diner [sic] reeked of rank meat—like the fridge was broken or the sous-chef hadn’t checked the expiry dates.

Sous-chef? Marilyn wondered. Did middle-of-nowhere greasy spoons even have them?

Her Freightliner was the only rig in the lot. Marilyn was beat, and hours from the next truck stop, but the smell convinced her groaning stomach it no longer wanted to eat.

“Coffee, please,” she said. “To go.”

The waitress smiled, yelling to the kitchen. “We got a lady trucker, Gunnar!”

Gunnar emerged, his apron stained blood-red.

His cleaver gleamed. Gunnar gleamed.

“Excellent, I ain’t cooked a lady in weeks.”