Sharp Objects

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by C.L. Sidell

“Mikey! What have I told you about running with sharp objects?”

“Sorry,” Mikey replied.

Jesse swiped the scissors from Mikey’s pudgy fist and turned. “And stop chasing your brother around the house.” Jesse rolled his eyes as he stepped towards the kitchen. “I don’t get paid enough for this gig,” he muttered. “These kids are gonna be the death—”

“WHOAAA-AHH!”

Jesse flailed as one of the toddler’s sippy cups rolled under his foot.

The scissors flew from his grasp.

Jesse toppled backward, wide-eyed gaze locked on the gleaming blades as they sliced the air and skewered him in the chest.

C.L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C.L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in speculative fiction. Her work has appeared in The Dread Machine, Factor Four Magazine, F&SF, Martian Magazine, Medusa Tales Magazine, and others.

Website: crystalsidell.wixsite.com/mysite/publications

Oxygen Sceptic

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by Chris McGrane

“Scientists and the lame-stream media don’t want you to know this, but humans can live without oxygen.”

“We’ve been brainwashed into thinking we need it, so Big Pharma can sell us overpriced air purifiers. So the international banking syndicates can deindustrialise the West by destroying the logging industry, the mining industry and any others that threaten our supposedly ‘vital’ oxygen supplies.”

“Today, I’ll prove that man can live without oxygen. When I press this button, the airtight chamber in which I stand will be drained of all oxygen. I now press this button and become an example to the world.”.

Chris McGrane

Chris McGrane is a Canberra author. His works have appeared in a number of publications, including the Canberra Speculative Fiction Guild’s anthologies, Next and A Hand of Knaves. In 2020, he sold a short story, “Erasure”, to Daily Science Fiction.

Lawnmower Surfin’, USA

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by Scott O’Neill

The TurfPredator 9000 riding lawnmower stalled out against the trailer park’s lone palm tree, most of a six-pack wedging its accelerator down. A grisly trail of mulched Florida man glistened redly behind the big mower.

Assorted trailer park denizens with deep tans and hyphenated names gawped and gossiped.

“Poor Billy-Bob.”

“What happened?”

“My kid just showed us a video on it. Lawnmower surfing is the new trend.”

“I don’t think Billy-Bob was doin’ it right.”

“He was okay till the wheel hit that gopher hole.”

“What’d he say to you before he started, Bobbie-Jo?”

“He just said ‘Hold my beer’.”

Scott O’Neill

Scott writes reports and memorandums by day and speculative fiction by night, with short works published by various presses. You can find him on Twitter.

Twitter: @wererooster

Hello There!

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by Odi Welter

Welcome to Hell! Can I just get your name and method of death? You weren’t aware you were dead? I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but I really do need that information for our records. You see, upper management loves their numbers. No worries, I can look you up. Oh, ouch. It says here you died by…peeing in the Amazon. You’d be surprised how many of those we see here. A piranha just snatched your peeper right off ya. Would you like to see the recording? No? Alrighty then, just enter the queue over there. Enjoy eternity!

Odi Welter

Odi Welter is a queer, neurodivergent author currently studying Film and Creative Writing at the University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee. They have been featured in several literary magazines such as Snowflake, Haunted Words, and Furrow. When not writing, they are indulging in their borderline unhealthy obsessions with fairy tales, marine life, superheroes, and botany.

Fin Friends Petting Zoo

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by Don Money

The idea, the man at the bank said, was a terrible one. Wesley didn’t appreciate the lack of vision the loan officer saw in his project. People loved farm petting zoos; this would be even better, a shark petting zoo.

Without the bank, he would need to look for private investors. The way to pull in the needed money would be to make a video showing the idea in action.

The camera was set up on the beach to catch the fun. Wesley spread the bloody chum all around him in the waist-high water. One fin, five fins, ten fins.

Don Money

Don Money writes stories across a variety of genres. He is a middle school language arts teacher. His stories have appeared in a variety of anthologies and magazines.

The Measure of a Man is What He Does When Drunk

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by Paul Lewthwaite

“I’m more of a man than you!” Eddie said, slurring his words.

Mike dropped his bottle of moonshine. “C’mon then, prove it. Grab that chainsaw, or are you chicken?”

Eddie yanked the starter cord. The motor roared into life, spewing fumes. The blade wobbled as it plunged downward, severing his left forefoot. Eddie collapsed, screaming.

Mike seized the bloodied chainsaw, squeezing the throttle.

“A foot? Watch and weep, asshole!”

He swept the chainsaw up. It bit deep into his neck and carried on. His head flew off, landing close to Eddie, the lips peeled back in a final sardonic grin.

Paul Lewthwaite

Paul lives in Scotland with his wife and a small, but demanding cat. Some of his microfiction can be found at 101words.org and fiftywordstories.com.

Don’t Feed the Bears

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by Zack Zagranis

Jason winced as he ripped off his shirt and wound it around the bloody stump that used to be his right hand. Don’t feed the bears. He had always thought of it as a suggestion like “Don’t feed the bears…unless you want them begging for food constantly.”

He looked down at his buddy Steve, barely alive with his belly ripped open and his guts hanging out, oozing a thick, dark liquid.

A few feet away, the bear sat, nibbling on Jason’s severed hand.

“Guess it’s more of a rule,” Jason mumbled right before he blacked out.

Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis is a punk rock Jedi writing horror and satire for fun and profit.

A Friday Night in Texas

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by Matt Krizan

Darren ambled along the driveway toward the old, run-down farmhouse. From the branches of a nearby tree, chains dangled, meat hooks at the end clinking in the breeze.

“What odd wind chimes,” Darren mused. Then, eyeing the dark splotches staining the ground underneath, “I wonder what spilled.”

The front door opened and out stepped a man holding a chainsaw, wearing an old-fashioned hockey mask and an apron splattered with what looked like red paint. An artist of some sort, Darren figured.

“Hullo.” Darren smiled. “My car ran out of gas. Could I use your phone?”

The man revved his chainsaw.

Matt Krizan

Matt Krizan is a former certified public accountant who writes from his home in Royal Oak, Michigan. His short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in various publications, including Factor Four Magazine, Daily Science Fiction, and Martian Magazine. Find him online at mattkrizan.com and on Twitter as @MattKrizan.

Sparks

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by Sean MacKendrick

Drifting flickers of lights greeted the campers as dusk settled over them. The tiny fireflies pulsed and danced through the air like sparks from the small campfire. Or like the twinkling stars above.

A thousand additional lights flared into existence, in one giant bloom. Another ten thousand joined those. Laughter and conversation became concerned murmuring; then murmurs grew into screams as the glowing pinpoints swarmed. Screams turned into gagged silence as campers choked on fistfuls of light.

Afterward it was quiet and dark once again, only the occasional popping ember to light the moonless night. Soon those faded as well.

Sean MacKendrick

Sean MacKendrick splits his time between Colorado and Texas. He works as a data engineer.

A Forest Lich

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by Coby Rosser

Sounds emanate from just beyond the thicket of trees enveloping the clearing on which your campsite rests. You hear those noises. Twigs snapping. Ululations of nocturnal creatures. Wind rustling leaves. But you just roll over, snug in your sleeping bag, content in the safety of your warm firelight. Fire is your luminous shield against tenebrous nightmares, why you heartily stoked the flames before turning in, but there is no sight beyond the immediacy of a campfire. Night collapses in, an ocean of darkness full of unknown things.

I am soundless as you snore—as I snuff out your precious light.

Coby Rosser

Coby Rosser is a weathered computer analyst that lives in an extraordinarily old house in the middle of the woods somewhere in the southeastern US. Time permitting, he writes speculatively, shoots bows and arrows, and plays classical guitar.