by C L James
The eight boys vibrated with excitement as they were handed dull brown
overalls and facemasks. Birthday parties were one thing, but a birthday
party at "Splat Attack" was something to be revered. Once each child had
his facemask adjusted, the owner looked them over, tweaked a collar or
chin-strap here and there, and announced, "This is how you use the guns…"
Eight pairs of eyes glowed as he showed them how to cock and shoot. The gun
was passed around the circle of boys to try. One, two and three shot their
paint-pellets successfully into the ground. Number four blushed and sweated
as he messed it up and had to try again. Five, six, seven and eight were
very careful not to make the same mistake. Nothing is as fragile as a
twelve-year-old boy’s manhood.
Eight boys, guns raised above their heads ran into the swampy forest.
The owner sat just inside the dim hut, cleaning guns, counting pellets,
listening. The cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth dropped to the
ground as an ungodly howl drifted faintly through the trees. His head
turned reluctantly towards the path.
Boy number four, eyes wide with horror, crawled towards him.
by H J Sutton
I was drinking coffee on my verandah just like this when the stranger
stopped at the gate.
"Good morning," he said. "Is that Mystery Mountain?"
"It is," I replied.
"There's a legend that sometimes the mountain forms a hump which opens up
into a bottomless hole. People have disappeared there."
"I know the story," I said. "I believe it. The last one happened just thirty
years ago. I saw it from here."
"I can't believe it. It's not scientific." He was looking at the mountain
all the time. "I'm going to have a look."
"I wouldn't do that if I was you."
He laughed, said "Bye-bye," and turned to go.
I watched him near the top.
My wife was watching too. We saw a hump on the mountain which was not there
before. The man walked up to it, waved back at us from the top -- and
disappeared. The last we saw of him was his hands up in the air as he sank
A party searched, but couldn't find him or the hump. I saw it, I tell you,
just six months ago. So you listen to me -- don't go up there today, Sir.
By the Whimper of One Long Lost
by Richard Gavin
The ticking of his fingertips against the brittle window glass.
Jessica cannot bring herself to roll over in her bed; nor does she
need to. Familiarity has indelibly etched the scenario in her mind.
The man is at the window again. He's scaled the twisted limbs of
the ash tree with swift kitty-cat movements. Now he's leering at the
pane; fingers curled like lithe little vipers, teeth as bright as a
carnival midway. Though she cannot see them, Jessica is able to hear,
no, to feel the children that suckle the droopy flesh of his torso, or
cling timidly to the dreadlocks that dangle past his waist.
Through closed eyes Jessica somehow manages to see the stones that
click in the man's fist. How pretty they look in the naked glow of the
harvest moon, how sweet their song. And now, with eyes open ever so
slightly, Jessica sees how happy the children seem.
The floorboards feel cold as her bare soles kiss them in gingerly
steps toward the window. Quiet now, cautiously the window's lifted. A
shaft of night wind gushes in, carrying dead leaves and the smell of
wood smoke. The faint wisp of moaning spirits.
Embraced now, and moving very briskly.
At dawn, a dozen empty beds. So many freshly opened graves. A
sardonic shape that leaves only the ghost of laughter in the trees, and
a frost of breath upon the lost ones' bedroom windows.
Who Lives In A House Like This?
by Hertzan Chimera
Picture this scene of domestic bliss:
1) the blood pools on the plain, blue, living room carpet.
2) the adhesive, scarlet love heart attached to the wreckage of the child's
3) the absolute carnage in the bathroom ankle deep in piss, shit, broken
teeth on the porcelain toilet rim.
4) the kitchen adorned in innards and faces..
5) the pre pubescent girl lain out peaceful and bloodless, naked on the
stripped steel carving surface, one eye missing.
6) the lampshade in the hallway still swinging where a miscalculation of
over-arm swing from a baseball bat had.
7) in the hallway, an eyeball rolls about its optic nerve .
8) in the bedroom.
"I do not want a fucking abortion!" the wife screams at the husband. It is
nine o'clock on the evening of marital bliss. A polite knuckle rap at the
front door curtails the jousting.
"You get it, you bastard!" the wife storms into the kitchen.
"But we're not expecting anyone." he says, opening the door.
Dry-ice freeze-frame: a gentle faced man, holding a meat cleaver in his left
hand. A traveling salesman? Blood spills through the husband's fingers as
he clutches at his gaping throat.
A FEAST OF NIGHT!
A webpage of horror, scifi and fantasy flash fiction.
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