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| Articles: Short Stories |
Tremble by Martin Rose (Issue 13)
Before I was on the inside, it began with a tremble. My left hand acquired the disturbing ability to flutter like the wing of moth. When I clenched my hand or stretched my fingers, the action ceased; yet, the tremor worsened as the months passed.
The Haunt Box by Jason Rolfe (Issue 13)
They met outside the old Atwater in Detroit’s Rivertown district. Danielle looked nothing like the research assistant he’d pictured during their brief telephone conversation. She wore her hair pulled back, radiant and black and bound by an indigo hairclip. Her skin, smooth and brown, brought subtle warmth to Christopher’s skin and forced both a smile and an explanation from his lips.
deathpredictor.com by Kevin Flanders (Issue 13)
Glancing at large flakes that floated down from the blackening sky in slow-motion, she clicked on the link to deathpredictor.com. A brief delay kept her waiting for a few seconds before the page fully loaded, revealing a black and white cemetery background image and the following message: “Welcome to the most effective death prediction site on the web. Just answer the following ten questions to calculate when you will perish.”
Pumpkin Milkshake by Brian Rowe (Issue 13)
It was barely noon. Marty had been driving from San Diego for over five hours, and all he’d eaten since awakening was a moldy slice of toast. He was sixty-one years old and about sixty-two pounds overweight. His gut drooped a couple of inches over his belt, and his enlarged neck had recently welcomed a twin brother.
The Longing by David Boyer (Issue 13)
Moonlight dissipates into a cloud of clove smoke and my eyes adjust to the sight of an evaporating sea. Fingers tingle with the chill of another dying night as they grip the edge of a warm cigarette. Blood graces nicotine inside my poisoned heart and I wait for my skin to dry and crack under a thin layer of frost.
Folklore by James Nantau (Issue 13)
You take the old guy CJ. CJ would say something like, ‘Folk up these parts don’t take kindly to strangers,’ or something like that. He once said to me, ‘Now they ain’t no nigger folk in these parts, never was, never should be neither far as I’m concerned.’
Gnawing Suspicion by Jonah LaChapelle (Issue 13)
With a mounting sense of weariness, Grant looked over the tables for the round of pepsin studies he had just finished. The results were unsatisfactory, even contradictory. Frowning, he knew he would have to conduct the experiments again. He looked at the clock, anticipating yet another all night work session.
Midnight Ride by Carol Sullivan (Issue 13)
Anna Lester cursed her arthritic knees as she did every morning. She rubbed at them gingerly, wondering how many Advil she was going to have to take today. That piece of crap Medicare doctor with the bad breath didn't give her the really good pills anymore. But, Anna, at the spry young age of 72 was not going to let her rebellious joints or Dr. Garlic-Breath keep her from her life.
Heavy Lifting by George LaCas (Issue 13)
You can call me Fish Head, if you need to call me anything. Every man needs a name he can answer to. Back when I worked the shrimp boats off Gulf coast Texas the other guys on the boats called me that, and it stuck, but that’s not important now.
Roboland by Justin Wagenberg (Issue 13)
I found my way back to the house, the only one with the lights on, and laid on the couch. I turned on the television. The noise was soothing. My roommates would be here in the morning, so I just had to make it through the night. Just one, lousy night. I puked again. It was black.
The Man in Aviator Shades by Joshua Peake (Issue 13)
Weird things seem to happen when you least expect them. I guess that’s part of what makes them weird. If you were expecting them then they’d just be “things.” Not always of course. Some things are just pretty weird no matter how far off you see them coming. But there’s nothing quite the same as that genuine sense of surprise you get when your blindsided by something just damn odd.
Cold Call by Paul Kane (Issue 12)
He’d been expecting it, laying there in the darkness. Martin had gone to bed a few hours ago, but hadn’t been able to sleep. In fact he hadn’t slept that well for a good week; since all this began in fact. He’d been thinking about the events of the past few days, and how things had got to this stage.
Snow By Michael Robertson (Issue 12)
All Jordan Garbar wanted to do was watch the game. That was all. It didn't seem like too much to ask for in his opinion, not that anybody was asking for it.
Terror of the Night by Joseph Rubas (Issue 12)
We stood at the foot of the hill for a moment, I being frightened into starts and near exclamations by owls hooting from high tree branches; the crush of small animals in the underbrush; and the total lack of noise from professor Peircesen. It was as if the breath had been terrified out of the man, for he stood like a statue, looking toward the damned summit of the hill. I don’t know why this would be so, for apparently he was a more mature, levelheaded intellect than was I. But, then again, the works of Abdul Alhazred, Lee Yu-Kang, and the damnible like, could have instilled in him not a fear of what may have been lurking nearby, but a sure knowledge.
Going Back by Philip Roberts (Issue 12)
It stood as a relic of the past and of poverty. The large apartment complex stood five stories tall, built before the births of the three boys who stared at its darkened windows. “This is the last night,” Brian said.
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