Tag Archive for: microfiction

Escape

/by
by Jacek Wilkos

 

I dreamed about this horrible city again. I was surrounded by monstrous structures of strange shapes and impossible angles, glowing with faint greenish light. The carvings covering them portrayed bizarre symbols and creatures. I ran through this maze of distorted reality, unable to determine directions. I felt great evil, chaos crawling from every corner.

Far off, I saw a rectangle of warm white light. I ran towards it.

I woke up. I made it; I was safe. The nightmare was over.

The darkness in the room twitched. Something else got out of the dream. It enveloped me.

There’s no escape.

Jacek Wilkos
Jacek Wilkos is an engineer from Poland. He lives with his wife and daughter in a beautiful city of Cracow. He is addicted to buying books, he loves coffee, dark ambient music and riding his bike. He writes mostly horror drabbles.

 

Needing to Forget

/by
by David Green

 

“Why?” Ruby muttered to Nick.

They knelt beside the sleeping Suraz, his raven hair encrusted with filth and grease. Scabs and sores covered the Nephilim’s obsidian skin.

Track marks lined his exposed arms; used needles lay scattered around him.

“We all have vices,” Nick replied with a sigh.

“No,” Ruby whispered, tears in her eyes. “It’s like he wants to die, but he can’t.”

Nick grabbed a blanket and covered the fallen angel.

“He’s seen perfection.” Suraz’s eyelids fluttered as he dreamt a drug-infused dream. “Lived there, then got cast out. Never to return. I’d do anything to forget too.”

 

David Green

David Green is a writer based in Co Galway, Ireland. Growing up between there and Manchester, UK meant David rarely saw sunlight in his childhood, which has no doubt had an effect on his dark writings. He has been published in places such as Black Hare Press, Nocturnal Sirens, and Eerie River Publishing.


Twitter: @David Green (twitter account does not exist–anny)

Fragile

/by
by Evan Baughfman

 

Glass slippers sparkled on Cinderella’s feet.

“They’re beautiful! Perfect! Thank you!”

“Hurry along, now,” urged Fairy Godmother.

“Shouldn’t be late for the ball!”

Cinderella stepped towards the pumpkin carriage. The right slipper’s fragile heel snapped under her weight. In fact, the entire shoe cracked.

Cinderella’s foot shifted backward, slicing against broken glass. The girl fell, writhing in pain.

Her severed Achilles tendon sprayed blood.

Panicked, Fairy Godmother struggled to mend the wound with stitching spells.

Cinderella didn’t dance with the Prince that night—or ever, for that matter.

She became an old maid, hobbling to the end of her days.

 

Evan Baughfman

Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays. More information is available on his website www.evanbaughfman.com.

Stormy Little Dream Stealer

/by
by Hari Navarro

 

I felt the impact as she landed in our bed. That sickly hollow plunge common to nightmares in which we fall but never land. It was sometime after the birth of our third child, I think. And she did arrive in our bed, and she did lay waste to our passion and she turned what we had to dust.

I saw her that next day as you awoke. I saw the flurry of blackened wings as they fluttered behind the blink of your morning eyes. I saw her nesting inside you and I knew then, quite certainly, we were lost.

Hari Navarro

Hari Navarro has for many years now been locked in his neighbour’s cellar. He survives due to an intravenous feed of puréed extreme horror and sticky-spiced unicorn wings. His anguished cries for help can be found via 365 Tomorrows, Breachzine, AntipodeanSF, Horror Without Borders, Black Hare Press, and HellBound books.

www.facebook.com/hari.navarro

Oil Slick

/by
by Evan Baughfman

 

Glistening, black goo coated the surface of the penguins’ pool.

Albino birds huddled, squawked on land. Though blind, the gentle giants could sense the presence of something unnatural.

I thrust a cattle prod into the “slick,” zapping the dark mass, startling its many eyes open.

Tentacles formed, flailed.

Ragged mouths cried, “Tekeli-li! Tekeli-li!”

Then, silence.

I radioed other keepers. “Shoggoth escaped its tank again. Stunned it. Bring barrels for transport. Don’t forget the lids.”

Had to discover how the creature was getting loose!

Its jailbreaks were giving the Deep Ones needless confidence and always threw Nctosa and Nctolhu into frenzies.

 

Evan Baughfman

Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays. More information is available on his website www.evanbaughfman.com.

Brew for Two

/by
by Clint Foster

 

The thing about potions is, it doesn’t matter who makes them or what their intention is.

A drop of jellied brain, a twist of peeled tongue, some blood flakes. You stir them all together in a cauldron—whatever brand you choose, it’s not that important—and bring it to what we like to call a witch’s boil. You’ll know when it gets hot enough, trust me, and if you don’t figure it out in time, well, it won’t matter anyway. A quick stir, a tiny, tiny sip. Ahh. Brew for two.

Grab a mug, please. Me? Oh, I’m not thirsty.

 

Clint Foster

Clint Foster lives in southern Iowa with his wonderful wife, Nik, and their herd of four cats. He has published dozens of short stories, as well as a novel and an epic poem.

www.facebook.com/clintfosterauthor

What He Deserves

/by
by Heather Ewings

 

“I brought what you wanted.”

Brown with age, the playing cards cost a small fortune and a whole weekend scouring the city’s antique shops.

The witch shuffles the pack and lays three cards face up.

“You don’t want to hurt him. But you want vengeance. You realise those two things are incompatible?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone. But he won’t stop hurting others.”

She rummages through a collection of tiny bottles and hands me one.

“Get this on his person.”

“Will he suffer?”

Her gaze pierces mine, and I have to suppress a shudder.

“He’ll get what he deserves.”

Heather Ewings

Heather Ewings is an Australian author of speculative fiction. Her stories can be found in various publications, including Cancer: A Speculative Fiction Anthology by Deadset Press and Oceans Anthology by Black Hare Press. Her novella, What the Tide Brings, was published in April. Learn more about Heather’s work at www.heatherewings.com.au.

Water on Canvas

/by
by James S. Austin

 

Standing in the newly acquired estate, a painting captured my attention.  It held me in rapture.

Moving closer, my eyes drew to the galleon at its centre.  The sails taut, rigging displayed in sharp lines from the strain.

My smile faded to confusion.  The waves appeared rougher, spray rising off its hull.

The sea now churning in stillness.  Swollen clouds above.

Phantom phosphorescent specks began dotting the blue-green strokes.  A melodic hum arose in my head.

Trying to end this spiralling descent, cold salt water spilled from my mouth.  Coughing.  With my last moments, a great yellow eye stared back.

 

James S. Austin

Born and raised near St. Petersburg, Florida, my early years were spent in the US Army and receiving BAs in Anthropology and History. My work includes editing three anthologies, publishing gaming products, and a few published short stories, to include a coming release in Black Hare Press’s  Ancients. 

Insolence

/by
by Jesse Highsmith

 

Richard’s ears crackled loudly in the bubbling pot. They bobbed and swirled around the heart, fingers, and toes of the man who once shared my bed. I reserved my favourite parts of his for my necklace, though. It swung wildly between my breasts as I poured the steaming concoction over our son’s corpse and yelled the ancient incantation. If anyone could bring the boy back, I felt it would be his father. Before I could finish the ritual, the cops dragged me away. The neighbours will pay for their insolence. They called me a witch, but I’m just a mother.

Jesse Highsmith

Jesse Highsmith is an adventurous wordsmith, musician, podcast enthusiast, and internet jokester from Central Florida, US. His specialty is short-form flash fiction written within the confines of a large pesticide truck. However, he is currently writing his first novel, an otherworldly dive into death, acceptance, sacrifice, and redemption. He is also hard at work on his first foray into children’s books with former Infectious Magazine editor Sami Marshall, a project due to be completed very soon. They live in rural countryside with his son Logan, dog Snowy, and a shadow-chasing cat dubbed Sir Liam Frederick, Duke of Cuteness.

The Many Lives of Miss Creant

/by
by Chris Hewitt

 

Every young witch needs the protection of a good familiar, and Tara received hers on her fifth birthday. Miss Creant, Missy for short, was the blackest of black cats, and the duo bonded immediately. Unfortunately for Missy, her ward suffered with a terrible curse that would cost Missy four of her lives, eleven whiskers, and her right eye before Tara’s sixth birthday. Come Tara’s seventh birthday, Missy had sacrificed all her lovely black fur, an ear, and four more lives.

When the fateful day came, Missy welcomed death. Protecting the clumsiest witch in the world had been a tough gig.

 

Chris Hewitt

Chris resides in the beautiful garden of England, Kent, UK, and in the odd moments that he isn’t dog walking he pursues his passion for all things horror, fantasy, and science-fiction.

Blog: https://mused.blog/