Monthly Archives: April 2013
We’ve got a total of twenty-five 100-word stories in this issue and all of them are worth a read. The authors drabbled about everything from a government of monsters to a video game gone wrong. All in one hundred words. From a parallel vision of technological heaven and hell, a most unusual time traveling device, the strangest murder weapon ever conceived, what really happened to the King…and two stories with doppelgängers…sort of.
There’s a drabble here for everyone to enjoy.
Issue 8: Tiny Tall Tales—Drabble Issue #2
The Monster Parliament met at midnight, but the matter under consideration lacked consensus.
As there was no full moon that night, the werewolves were absent without proxy.
The reactionary mummies objected, as always, to any change in the status quo.
Frankenstein’s monsters, as good libertarians, hated to impose any restrictions.
The egalitarian zombies, if they had any concerns, lacked an articulate leader.
Swamp creatures, thinking of the environment, requested a careful study on potential pollution.
The giant spiders, writing on fine silk, did their best to keep the minutes.
The vampires, with dawn approaching, finally made the motion to adjourn.
Reed Beebe writes fiction and poetry in Kansas City, MO. His stories have been published by The Were-Traveler, Flashes in the Dark, and Fever Dreams.
I drove three counties to try one. Greasy meat cooking from the sidewalk stand, pumped out like an aphrodisiac. I ordered a double.
“Too late. Sold out.”
I stood planted, not going anywhere.
The vendor smiled. “Follow me. I make you special.”
He led me to an alley, a side door, a blackout. I came to when my foot hit the grinder; mechanical teeth munching, making me minced meat. The vendor watched.
“I make you special,” he repeated.
Wish I’d told someone where I went. But, they’ll never find me now. Unless they drive three counties.
And order a double.
Jaimie Engle has managed a hip-hop band, sold vitamins over the phone, modeled for Reef Brazil, and danced at the halftime show of the Aloha Bowl. If she were stuck on a deserted island, she would still write in the sand, even though high tide would wash it away. She has published numerous short stories, both online and in print, with her first novel contracted for release in December of 2013. Visit her at www.jaimiengle.com.
Elvis awoke in a cold, dank sweat, hungover from bourbon and bad dreams. The nightmares had consisted of him being hunted through a swamp by the murderous spectre of Jesse, his stillborn twin. His pounding heartbeat seemed to echo through the mansion. He stumbled into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror, only to be confronted by his own ashen reflection and that of his grinning doppelganger. Jesse tightly wrapped the umbilical cord around Elvis’ throat and pulled it until Elvis breathed no more. The king is dead, long live the king, he muttered.
“Swamplands” was first published at Flashots in 2009.
Paul D. Brazill has had short fiction published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books Of Best British Crime 8 and 10, and has been translated into Italian and Polish. He is the creator of the werewolf PI Roman Dalton. His novellas The Gumshoe and Guns Of Brixton will be out soon. His blog is here.
At first the light was blinding, and we stumbled about with our eyes squeezed shut. What a sorry bunch we must have looked after all that time—disheveled, disoriented, most of us gibbering like fools. But I knew the importance of making a good first impression. Squaring my shoulders and shooting my dingy cuffs, I put on my broadest smile and stepped forward to greet the startled young woman.
“Please forgive our appearance,” I began. “We’ve been locked away forever, and all this will take some getting used to! But I’m forgetting myself. My name’s Plague. And you must be Pandora!”
Grove Koger works as an adjunct reference librarian at Albertsons Library, Boise State University. He is the author of a survey of travel literature, When the Going Was Good (Scarecrow Press, 2002), and has published short fiction in Death Head Grin, Phantasmacore, Bewildering Stories, Eternal Haunted Summer, Lacuna, and Scareship.
The footsteps were almost undetectable at first as I turned back to look down the deserted alley, but no one was there. I began walking a little faster and the footsteps followed suit. I turned again, but still, no one was there. I burst into a full out run with the footsteps clomping harder and faster right behind me. I turned again, but still, no one was there. I stopped dead in my tracks, and before I could turn my head, I felt a slight sensation upon the front of my neck, and blood began gushing out, soaking my shirt.
Audiowriter is an entrepreneur of many endeavors and a seasoned musician, located in southern Indiana.
He has an obsessive compulsion to spend every available moment creating written text and audio recordings of melodic musical notes. He currently has several completed novels on the shelf awaiting publication, varying from graphic horror to commercial fiction. Also in his literary arsenal is an abundance of short stories, drabbles and lyrics. Many of his original songs and music are directly inspired by the intriguing tales flowing from his wildly descriptive imagination.
Should you dare to enter the realm of Audiowriter, go to – www.customaudioproductions.com/Audiowriter
“Die. Die. Die.” Nick yelled, trying to kill the master of the mansion.
He dodged. He ran. He used all the weapons at his disposal, but nothing seemed to work. Nick only needed to kill the final boss and he would win the newest game out: Monster Mash.
Nick cursed as the sword the creature held hit a critical on his avatar. He knew he was going to die, but what could he do? The monster swung.
The monster’s pixel sword went through the screen, and killed Nick instantly. The last thing he saw was the words GAME OVER.
Troy Neenan graduated from University of Ballarat in information Technology, and is currently taking an interest in writing. He has been polishing his skills for the last two years. Everyone who has ever read his work knows, his has great potential. This is currently his first published work.
“In the Second Age of Man, the Great Enemy rose again and seduced the sons of Man by the ease of his inventions, all the while ensnaring them. They heeded not the ancient warnings of their sacred books; the tale of the ruin of Adam and Eve. They wallowed in universal access to his works, reading not Terms and Conditions. Only after the horror of the Tech Wars was he deposed. Even now it is written ‘Forswear the Devil’s Fruit. By holy command of the purveyor of all knowledge, Google Almighty™, touch not the Apple, lest ye be damned.’ Amen.”
Nick Johns lives in Wellingborough UK where, since retiring from a life of crime, he rescues orphaned words and tries to find them literate homes. Among others, his small charges are fostered with Blink Ink, Nanoism, Ether Books and Burrst.com. He blogs athttp://talesfromatightrope.blogspot.co.uk
On any other day, Detective-inspector White would have left a case of ‘death by bees’ to the coroner’s court but today his casework was slow, the office,stuffy and he fancied a drive out to the country.
“It’s the farm over there.” The deceased’s husband dried his hands with a tea towel. “Their bees killed my wife.”
White examined the woman, made unrecognisable by hundreds of stings. “What does he smell of, sergeant?”
Peters took a cautious sniff. “Bananas?”
“Exactly. Arrest the husband for murder. Bees are antagonised by bananas and calmed by the almond oil he had on his hands.”
Rachel Green is a forty-something writer from Derbyshire, England who lives with her two partners and three dogs. When not writing, Rachel walks her three dogs, potters in the garden and drinks copious amounts of tea. She has several novels available at booksellers. ‘An Ungodly Child’ is still her favourite. Follow her on Facebook (leatherdykeuk) and Twitter (@leatherdykeuk)
I stand on gray museum marble, watching the pendulum’s parachronistic swing.
A strange desire fills me. I dismiss it as madness.
Sensing movement, I turn. A familiar gaze, like looking at an old mirror, cracked and gray, meets mine. “I’ll see you in twenty years,” he says.
He jumps, gracefully arcing, mounting the oscillating arm like a fireman’s pole. Our mental connection surprises me, then he winks and I understand.
My vardøger fades out of existence.
I replay the scene in my mind over and over, so that when the time comes, I’ll be able to execute it perfectly again.
Maria Kelly lives in Florida where she writes weird shit and publishes The Were-Traveler. Her works have been published in Luna Station Quarterly, Aoife’s Kiss, and with eMergent Publishing. She is currently working on her first short story collection called Kill the Crow, which will be coming out soon. Her website is http://mariakellyauthor.com. Her Twitter profile is @mkelly317. She is on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/MariaKellyAuthor.