by David Nell
Glen had lots of hope.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jason Lairamore is a writer of science fiction, fantasy, and horror who lives in Oklahoma with his beautiful wife and their three monstrously marvelous children. He is a published finalist of the 2012 SQ Mag annual contest and the winner of the 2013 Planetary Stories flash fiction contest. His work is both featured and forthcoming in Third Flatiron publications, The Blue Shift magazine, Postscripts to Darkness, Carnage: After the End Vol. 2, Kerlak Publishing, Emby Press, Great Escapes, Mad Scientist Journal, and Pantheon magazine, to name but a few. You can find out more about Jason at http://www.facebook.com/#!/jason.lairamore.
Soul
Cat Jacobs
Robo-Q41 wiggled out of a pile of rubble, carrying the only item it had been able to find. Everything else’d turned to dust, but not this item.
It radioed in headquarters,“I found something.”
“What?” said the commander.
“A teddy bear. It’s a sign of hope.”
“No use.”
“What do you mean?”
“If there’s no actual signs of life, it’s useless. Besides, all the other scanners are returning null results. The mission’s over. I’m coming down to pick you up. Mars is waiting.”
“We can’t quit now,” Robo-Q41 fussed. “I refuse to give up.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m going to keep looking.”
The commander raised his voice. “Robo-Q41, are you malfunctioning?”
Robo-Q41 rejected further communication, switching off its signal. It then whirred into the mushroom cloud hovering above what used to be New York and continued its search.
Deny Everything
H.A. Farr
“So you say you’re reptilian?” Hank said to his new friend, Randy.
“One hundred percent Archon breed.”
“Poppycock.”
“Not at all.”
“Okay. Even though I don’t believe in that stuff, I want you to prove it. But hear, I’m not so gullible as to fall into such a trap of looking for proof in the first place. Right?” Hank seemed embarrassed.
“Right,” said Randy.
Then, as requested, Randy changed shape. His skin gleamed with a green layer of scales and his irises became slits. Afterwards, he waited for Hank’s reaction.
“Fake,” Randy said.
Kids
Amanda Simon
“Mommy, what’s happening?” Leone asked.
Rebecca hushed her daughter. With the rest of the crowd on the street, they turned their attention to televisions in a shop display window. Eventually Leone got her answer.
She peeped around the corner briefly to look at the moon, to see for herself. It was true – the moon was drawing in nearer, like it was being pulled towards Earth.
She went back to her mother and tugged on her coat again. “Does this mean there won’t be school tomorrow?”
Rebecca stared blankly at her daughter.
“Because if that’s so, yippee!”
Artificial Intransigence
Mike Scott Thomson
The Interstellar Hopper 3000™ groaned when Bernie climbed in.
“Triton,” said Bernie.
“I ain’t going there,” said Stella, its motherboard rattling. “Triton smells funny.”
Bernie sighed. Only this morning the toaster rejected her wholemeal (“Too many seeds,” it whined. “What are you? A bird?”). Yet again, the Internet of Things had gone haywire.
“Fine.” Bernie held down Control-Alt-Delete.
“Argh! Okay. But you owe me.”
They lifted off. Bernie kicked back, tuned the radio.
“Jazz?” snapped the radio. “Screw that.”
“Give me strength,” said Bernie.
“You’ll be lucky,” said the rocket.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mike Scott Thomson has been a writer since his teenage years. Now in his thirties, and after dabbling in music journalism, blogging and travel writing, he turned to fiction in 2011. So far his stories have been published by The Fiction Desk, Litro, Prole, Momaya Press and various places online. A short story of his (‘Me, Robot’) was adapted for performance by the theatre group Berko Speakeasy. He was also awarded runner up prize in the 2012 Ink Tears Short Story Competition. Based in Mitcham, UK, he works in broadcasting.
Why Crows Steal Shiny Things
David J. West
When the Gods first crafted the world they gave life to every spirit. Some were men, others beasts and some dragons. Each worked in accord with its nature.
But formidable grace and lust pushed dragons beyond the measure of their creation.
Realizing dragons had been given too much strength, the Gods recanted their sins and battled the monsters for years. After much loss the Gods won in blood and fury. Cruelly, the Gods allowed dragons only their wings to keep, but their nature has not changed.
These tiny black thieves still sup on flesh and lust for their stolen horde.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: David has been a writer since grade school and enjoys visiting all the places he writes about. Real or no. You can visit him at http://david-j-west.blogspot.com/.
Touchstone
Ashley Reynolds
The sun neared the mountain’s peak. Rays of light pierced the valley. She clenched the metal sphere in her fist and kept climbing. Frozen faces of her ancestors stared out from granite eyes. At the tops of their shoulders, she saw the silver pedestal only a few feet away.
Gray splotches appeared where the sun licked her skin; they engulfed her arms and legs, forcing her to crawl on her belly like a snake. As she crawled closer to the pedestal, the sun rose above the mountain. Her stone eyes watched as the sphere rolled and clinked against the pedestal.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Ashley Reynolds received her MFA in creative writing and writing for performing arts from the University of California, Riverside, Palm Desert. She was an editor for The Coachella Review for several years.
The Compulsion Of Pestilence
Eric R. Schiller
She returned to Delphi with revenge in her eyes, voice thick with Egypt. I remained buried in the night expecting she would not find me out, but among her foreign baubles was a newly forged will, an iron rod glinting sharply with the exotic runes of new magic. Her words had never moved me before, yet here I am. She draws me down to her pitted stone altar and I cannot refuse her open-throated offering. I shall deliver a gift, to her mentor, of rotted limbs and living death. From safe shadows I descend into the slow, bright material, compelled.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Writer, filmmaker and musician Eric R. Schiller lives in Toronto where he speculates, meditates, creates, and tinkers with the border between the real and unreal. He does all this while drinking black coffee. Follow him on Twitter @EricRSchiller and visit his blog at EricRSchiller.com.
Attached
Adam Davidson
The bright orb passes again, warming us. I can feel friends near as they experience their lives, basking in the gentle emerald expanse. Fertility examination today; will we have a young one this season? Will we be chosen? A building hum approaches. Some friends evince their excitement as they pass inspection.
Trying to feel for my mate, there is a tug at my core, then a yank, then a thousand wintry needles tearing through me as I reach out, alone, cold, dry. Shrieking my anguish, I try to feel my roots but they are gone.
My leaves have been eaten as well.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: When Adam Davidson is not lost in some future world, he is lost in a math problem, or thinking of what to create next: food, poems, programs. He lives and works in Los Angeles as a web programmer with a daddy-centric cat.
They Came In The Night
Conor Harpham
They came in the night. Moving as one sweeping tide they swept away all before them. For all of our technological advances we lost the one thing that had put us at the top of the food chain. We must have known eventually that it would catch up with us
. The more we made to make our lives easier the easier it made it for them to creep up on us. We tried to fight them off for as long as we could, but in the end it was us who destroyed ourselves. We just became too complacent. Too weak.
Not Quite Black
Yosh Haggerty
There was something about the hole. You came across it in the underbelly of a big boulder by the river, where you went to sneak a cigarette after yet another fight with your wife. The hole was beautiful. It was the size of a fist and sparkled a light purple, and when you put your fingers inside, it was warm. You inserted your hand a little deeper, and the pleasant sensation penetrated your body. You heard it whisper, “Come home.” It occurred to you that your whole body might fit; you imagined how easy it would be to let go.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Yosh Haggerty is a Japanese translator who resides in the San Francisco Bay Area.
The Sword Of Power
Simon Kewin
Asteron held the Sword of Power over the Archdemon, his face reflected in the blackness of those eyes.
“Now die, hellspawn.”
It took Asteron a moment to recognize that deep growl.
“Why do you laugh?”
“Because a thousand years ago I said that to the previous Archdemon. Before I slayed him and the curse passed to me.”
“Lies. You’d say anything to save yourself. Die.”
The great eyes closed as Asteron struck.
The light flaring up the sword burned Asteron. Burned, but also filled him with raging power.
Asteron began to laugh. A deep, growling laugh.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Simon writes fantasy, SF, mainstream and some stories that can’t make their minds up. He lives in England with Alison and their daughters Eleanor and Rose. His fantasy novel Engn was recently published by December House and his fantasy novel Hedge Witch will be published by Morrigan Books in 2014. Find him at simonkewin.co.uk.
Friends
Stephen Sottong
“If you’re lying, nerd, I’ll kill you,” the tall girl yelled to the boy on the slope above.
“Look.” He pointed to glyphs incised in rocks then disappeared inside a cave.
She paused at the entrance.
His flashlight scanned rock carvings. “There’s more inside.”
She followed.
He ducked behind a rock, covering his ears. He hated this part. Her screams ended abruptly. She was skinny. It would feed his friend for a few weeks. But at least the big bully was gone. Smiling, he stroked his new friend.
The dragon rested its head by the boy, blood on its jaws.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Stephen’s story “Planetary Scouts” was one of the winners of the Writers of the Future contest in 2012. “Dinner Date” will appeared on September 23, 2013 on everydayfiction.com. A Chapter entitled “Writing Nuts & Bolts” will appear in Writing After Retirement: Tips by Successful Retired Writers. His fiction has been published in Toyon, literary magazine of Humboldt State University; Poets & Writers, the literary magazine of College of the Redwoods; Rogue River Echoes, the literary magazine of the South Coast (Oregon) Writer’s Conference; and Noyo River Review.
The Smoking Tree
Von Rupert
Simon balanced in his favorite tree, sneaking his daily smoke. He inhaled. Ambrosia.
Whirl, whirl. He’d climbed higher today; the tornadoes rumbled louder here. The Dome was built to lock them out. He frowned into the spiraling chaos overhead. A thin tunnel of air swirled across his cheek.
Simon coughed. Mucus and smoke spewed from his mouth.
A hole in The Dome. Above his tree.
Simon dropped his smoke, squirreled down the tree, fled through the jungle. Searching for a safe place. He slowed. Stopped, vomited his lunch. Curled in a ball, sobbed.
The Dome was the last safe place.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Von Rupert is a writer and podcast producer. She mentors other writers at Writer’s Village University and produces DJ Grandpa’s Crib, the podcast devoted to Kickstarter projects. You can read her flash fiction stories at Every Day Fiction and her blog at yvonnerupert.blogspot.com.
Bay The Wendigo
Danielle Davis
As always, he was being consumed. The hunger: scratching against his ribs like a caged animal. By now he was used to it. At Chelmo, they were all skeletons covered with drumskin and dirty, with a stench like dead things.
Last night, a boy with corpse-eyes called the wendigo “Luca” and pleaded with him in Romani. Nais tuke, Luca. It was a prayer that had crawled into his stomach. Later two men fought over leg bones and the wendigo let them. He guessed they were consumed, too. Not such different monsters after all. It didn’t matter.
Here they were all wendigos.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Contrary to popular belief, Danielle Davis was not raised by wombats in Pau Pau, New Guinea, though she did own 2 gerbils as a child. She received her MFA from the University of Memphis and has had work published in Fantastic Frontiers Magazine, Literary Juice, Beohr Quarterly, and Whortleberry Press’s Strange Christmas anthology. She writes under the pseudonym “Danielle Davis,” which happens to be an anagram of her real name, Danielle Davis. Most of her time is spent worrying about the inevitable zombie apocalypse, fidgeting, and being awkward in social situations.
Valhalla
Allison Runham
Sand clogs her mouth, sucking her down as she tries to rise but fails. She turns her head. Contorted bodies lie near the wrecked ship, sand red beneath them.
Two glowing moons hang above her, one half the size of the other. So they are here; this is the planet her people call Valhalla, believing it Paradise.
But she had known this was not Paradise, had opposed the voyage and declared that only souls, not spaceships, could reach Paradise. As she feels poisonous gases steal the last oxygen from her lungs, she hopes this final journey will take her there.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Allison Runham is a freelance writer and literature graduate from Cambridgeshire, with a Diploma in Creative Writing. Her work has been shortlisted in competitions and published in print and on the web. A lover of quirky facts and all things historical, when she’s not working you can find her reading, walking in the countryside, watching QI with her family or reading a good book.
Recipe For Man
Brenda Bishop Blakey
“Hold up, changes are fresh in from the big guy.”
“Whoa. I was just about to hit send.”
“Change the mix to 25% brawn, 25% brain, and 50% heart.”
“Whoa. Brain’s been 50% since the Cro-Magnon, you sure?”
“Yeah, this new apocalypse is giving him a chance for design improvement.”
“Okay, but this’ll friggin’ change everything.”
“Exactly. After they messed up the planet, change is welcome. Oh, and dump all skin pigments except for blue #33.”
“Wow, last time we made this many abrupt changes the rumor of the missing link started.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Brenda has published in Every Day Poets, Trapeze, Red Ocher Press and has twice won the 53 Word Story Contest from Press 53. Her work appears in various anthologies such as Southern Fried Weirdness: Reconstruction and Oh Sandy: An Anthology of Humor. Periodically she writes at Fictionaut.
Last Stop For Gas
Stevehen Warren
Bartering harkens back to a simpler time. When I came across this location, it sung trading post. Venturing into the Dustland? You won’t need a collection of old coins, but you’ll need clean water for the journey. People who emerge from the Dustland are so ecstatic to get out that they’re willing to buy whatever I have to sell. It’s a win-win situation. I’m not a monster. I just get lonely. The offer stands, your daughter for water and a map that will knock two weeks off the trip for the rest of your family. Do we have a deal?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Stevehen (Ste-vin) Warren lives in a little ocean town in Massachusetts where he is currently brutally murdering a fifteen year writer’s block with a brick.
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br /> Closer
Dee Harrison
Closer. They’re getting closer and closer and there’s not a dammed thing we can do about it. They’ve lined us up and they’re picking us off one by one. They’re so unlike us that we have no words for them, so huge their bodies block out the sunlight. Their weapons slice through us and we’re helpless to stop them. Karib’s gone now. Cut off from the source of his life-force, thrust into darkness. I wait. Where can I go? Oh, Sun, why have you abandoned us? What is our suffering for..?
“Dad, that’s enough lettuce now, the bag’s full.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Dee is the author of the ‘Firelord’s Legacy’ series, of which the first two parts, ‘The Firelord’s Crown’ and ‘Firelord’s Heir’, are on Amazon. She teaches by day and writes by night.
To The Flame
Trak E. Sumisu
Earth’s final moments were not heralded by cataclysm or apocalypse. No one predicted it. There was no warning, except for the indecipherable aberration in insect behaviour across the globe.
Scientists had no time to conduct studies.
The skies began to fill with billions upon billions of winged invertebrates, the noise deafening. The threat resulted in aircraft around the world to be grounded. Man, predictably, was unconcerned, bemoaning the disruption instead, oblivious to his impending destruction.
The insects flew upwards, away from the surface. Their journey towards the sun would be their last.
At midday August 22 2067 the sun died.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Trak is the author of the transgressive fictional CPR trilogy, although he writes in other genres including crime, science-fiction, alternative reality and fantasy. This year he was short-listed for the WFL Crime Novel Award and was a bronze prize winner in a major UK poetry competition. His next novel, Taphophilia, has been described as ‘a grotesquely twisted modern gothic tale.’
