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A Hunting We Will Go! by Janice Jackson, December 2003
The two men had been up on Jones Mountain since sunup and had seen neither hide nor hair of any game. This made the two men uneasy since they both always had taken an elk with a trophy sized rack every year. This year was different though, even the forest seemed empty, the only sound came at night when the loons would scream across the lake. Their hunting partners, John Seals and Bob James had not been heard from since the day before yesterday, that was another worry for Charles and George. John and Bob were just as seasoned in mountain lore as they were and for them not to contact them had never happened before.
The Pedophile by Susan Bross, March 2004
Splashing and shrill childish laughter magnetically pulled David to his peephole in the gray plank fence that separated the two yards. He pressed his body close up to the wood and looked through. Right now he could see Lydia bobbing on a large, inflated Barney float. The purple dinosaur occupied most of the small, circular, three-foot pool.
The child was alone.
R.I.P by Daniel Olarnick, October 2004
The phone rang jolting me out of a deep sleep. I picked up the receiver, knowing instinctively it would be Michael McCarthy, the one-eyed ex-policeman now assigned to the District Attorney's Office as the desk night officer.
"Hey, 'Fingers' you got to go relieve Gillery. His wife is having her labor pains."
"Shit," I mumbled, "I hate backing up that guy. There's always something."
Soul Price by Roderick Gladwish, March 2005
In the shadows of a winter's night Victoria leaned against an alley wall. Her last cigarette was twenty minutes ago, she wanted another but the flame of her lighter might draw attention. Finally the scullery maid, the last of the servants, left the London townhouse.
The Great Beast's Watch by Robert T. Tuohey, July 2005
Mr. Green raised his gaze slightly, looking discreetly over the gold rims of his pince-nez. The tall, thin man in black that had just entered his shop had a nervous, indecisive air to his movements. Mr. Green wondered, "Was this the chap?" Well, as long experience had taught him, one can never tell. Silently, Mr. Green folded the evening edition of the London Times spread before him on the glass case. Noiselessly, he pushed the day's disasters aside, continuing all the while to observe, unseen.
A Trilogy of Horror by Clemence Mauger
Blood Feud by Clemence Mauger, July 2005
Prince Aariel rose from his luxurious bed, and went to look out the window. It was dark, but then again it was always dark in the vampire city of Adumbro.
Zombie by Clemence Mauger, July 2005
It all started the night I died. I know, I know, I'm being super cliché, but it's true. I was your average girl, freshman in college, my entire life ahead of me. But then, a few too many drinks, a wrong turn home, and I ended up the victim of a group of fucking frat boys who couldn't get laid on their own. A gang rape and a good beating later, I was left for dead in an alley. I lay there for what seemed like an eternity before someone finally called the cops. Then came the hospital. Hours of surgery to stop internal bleeding, repair ruptured organs, all in attempt to save my life were all in vain.
Dream World by Clemence Mauger, July 2005
Falling. I was falling in a darkness that had no end and no beginning. I couldn't move, I couldn't speak, or even scream. There was no sound to be heard, I couldn't even hear my own breathing, or my heartbeat. I didn't know what was happening. After an eternity of falling, down or up, I didn't know, I landed. The shock brought a scream from my throat, as my body bruised from the impact. Well... At least I wasn't dead.
Blood Trust By Roderick Gladwish, November 2005
The praying never stopped at St Barbara's convent and Mary couldn't stand it any more. She had joined the convent in February and now during an oppressive August night the rhythmic verses were boring into her mind releasing all she had been suppressing.
The Horrible Mile by Laura Sanger Kelly, November 2005
Seven minutes! There was no way he was ever going to lose so much time in a race again. Seven long minutes while he sat and poured water over his hot scalp and watched the other runners run pass him by. He had a sudden headache and let the wave of nausea pass over him.
He had a horrible finish in that race.
The Taste of Bitterness by Norman A. Rubin, January 2006
The queue at the cafeteria's rail counter moved slowly. Patrons, shoving aluminum trays along the attached shining shelf, carefully chose dishes to their taste and purse. A pause ensued when hesitant hands carefully lifted plates of chosen food; then with a thought of two placed the choice on their individual trays.
Death Spot by Dan Mills, January 2006
To some, death is only the next step in the evolution of life. To others it's a disease that lays dormant in you body until, inevitably, it awakens and robs you of life. This is a story of a man who believed in the latter. A greedy, sixty year old man of high status and immeasurable wealth. His name is Miles Duncan, C.E.O. of a well-established computer software firm. He'd amassed several billion dollars throughout his miserly existence and had no close relatives to leave it to. Miles couldn't stomach the thought of donating his fortune to any of the parasitic charities that constantly harassed him for a handout. It was his and his alone.
The Beckoning by Tala Bar, May 2006
They had been climbing the Alpine pass for hours, traveling through the recently cleared snow piled up a meter high on both sides of the narrow road. Everywhere the Alps had loomed in their magnificence, only a few late skiers dotting the partially white slopes; gradually, the valleys and lakes drew further away below them, the houses grew smaller and the toy cows in the meadows tinier. At last, they had all vanished when the travelers finally reached the summit, and the car stopped.
The Chermasu by Brian McKinley & Mark Jenkins, May 2006
In the early afternoon of the day she felt would change her life forever, Alia Cheveyo ground blue corn. She ground in the traditional way, using the same three stones that her Mother and her Mother's mother used before her. The scuff of the hearty, dry corn upon the rough surface of the stone lulled her and her hand moved in practiced, automatic rhythm as thoughts flowed through her. For her, grinding in the old way connected her to the land that gave the gift of this sacred blue corn. It connected her to her ancestors as well, who tended the fields of the Wolf clan before her.
The Horror is Yellow by Norman A. Rubin, July 2006
They had been climbing the Alpine pass for hours, traveling through the recently cleared snow piled up a meter high on both sides of the narrow road. Everywhere the Alps had loomed in their magnificence, only a few late skiers dotting the partially white slopes; gradually, the valleys and lakes drew further away below them, the houses grew smaller and the toy cows in the meadows tinier. At last, they had all vanished when the travelers finally reached the summit, and the car stopped.
Pit-a-Pat by Roderick Gladwish, July 2006
"Shrew; this marvel of aluminium that will defend us against the winged legions of our nation's foes, Shrew, I ask you."
Victoria stood at the threshold of Professor Peregrine's study in Clare College, Cambridge.
Opposite the door were windows of leaded diamond panes illuminating the room with crisp clean October light. From them could be seen the Fellows Park and the River Cam. Young men with big futures hurried across the College's famous bridge to lectures.
Bloody Mary Twisted by Robert T. Tuohey, July 2006
Truly, it was the competition that brought about the obsession, the mutilation, the murder. Still, I was a fine tool in the hands of Fate, and here I would like to chronicle my part in that artistic process.
Certainly, there was nothing in Butch Mincer's spotted past to recommend him to the position of "morgue assistant": I took him into the hospital's employ solely on the basis of my strong intuition that he was a budding psychopath. As I glanced down at his all but blank application form, and then up at his dark, roaming eyes, and his muscular, agitated frame, I thought him naught but barbarity contained ~ or in need of direction.
The Family in the Grass by Gregory Adams, July 2006
They ran, but they didn't make it.
Folk never do. I've never seen one come out of there, and that goes for Indians, too, not just regular folk. I stood on the porch, and looked out into the tall grass. From here, I could see the tops of it, swaying as it does, when things are happening down inside of it. I can tell, by now, the difference from how people move, and the other.
The Vault by Rick Magers, July 2006
Lord Chesterfield Van Stuyvesant had several admirable qualities, especially for a man raised by a nanny, butlers, chauffeurs, valet, and the like. One: He was handy with both mind and hand. Two: He was honest--capitol H. Three: He was vindictive--to a malicious degree.
It all began in Nob Hub at Churchill Manor, which sat majestically on five hundred acres in the center of Stuyvesant, England.
Blue Candle Flame by Joel Levy, October 2006
“I read somewhere that crazy people always claim they are sane. Conversely, sane people who have a weird encounter always think they have gone insane. Is that true in your experience doctor.”
Dr. Tracy made no reply to the question. Instead, he pointed to the tape recorder upon his desk. “I am making a tape of our conversation strictly for my records. It can't be used in court and is completely confidential. You can begin now mister…”
The Black Cat by Norman A. Rubin, December 2006
It was a warm summer's day in England as Jeffrey Redlaw stepped lively on his morning's constitutional. As his walked in his stride he reminisced silently on the pleasant weather, that all was well in the Realm of Queen Victoria and... Before Jeffry Redlaw was able to continue in his thoughts he spotted a small furry animal sunning itself on his very path.
“Ohh my lord a cat.. Shoo, shoo, scat!
The Barking Dog by Norman A. Rubin, February 2007
The folks about the town had termed the late Old Man Jenkins as a screwy old loon. They thought that he was a downright 'crazy', when he was seen shuffling about with a scowl on his bloated grizzled face, and with worded curses spewing through cracked lips. "A miz'rable nutter, yes, sirree, tetched in the head," said those who had passed his once living form and dared to give a nod of how-do. Words of relief were spoken by many of the uncaring souls upon Old Man Jenkins' departure into the nether world.
The Cut-Up Method by Robert T. Tuohey, June 2007
“So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this and this gives life to thee.” Sonnet 18
That Maureen was a moron had never been a question for me. From the very moment, now some years past, when I had first taken her on – what with her off-centered, optimistic glint of eye, the vast quantities of drugs that she freely dumped into her blood-thin veins, her predilection for an attire of Pippi Longstocking green, and so on – my discerning inner eye had divined that the poor creature was as cracked as the Liberty Bell.
The Funeral of Sir Henry Redlaw by Norman A. Rubin, June 2007
When the sound of the church bells struck the peal of mourning all good folk stood still on the estate of the Redlaw family. Household servants posed in solemn attention and workers on the land doffed their hats in respect during the resonance of the pealing bells.
Sir Henry Redlaw was dead. The good man in the solemnity of the hour was in the final act as the Son of Adam before he had left the stage. But one last gesture before the curtain was drawn was quite unexpected...
Big Bertha by Ed Coet, June 2007
They didn't have air conditioning in Central Texas in 1867. August was so hot that a smoky mist seeped from the ground as if the dry cracked soil were perspiring, gasping, and even begging for a cool rain. It was on this burnt ground that the small, one-room rust-painted wooden schoolhouse sat by itself amidst a forest of live oaks, mesquite, and cedar trees. A forest of parched trees that were collectively struggling and clinging to life in the midst of one of the hottest and most unbearable summers in historical memory.
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