andrew mcdonald Archives - Black Hare Press

Recon

August 11, 2021/by S. Jade Path

by Andrew McDonald

The sentry never heard me. I stab all the way through his neck, behind the jugular. Pushing the blade forward, I tear out his throat. He dies without even a whisper. Quietly, I drag him into the woods, away from patrols.

With my hatchet, I split his skull, careful not to harm the brain. My knife severs the brainstem. Raising the brain to my lips, I sink my teeth into it, biting off gory chunks, swallowing the grey matter.

Closing my eyes, I sift through his memories. Childhood, first love, basic training, their hidden headquarters.

I radio for an airstrike.

Andrew McDonald

Andrew McDonald lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada with his wife and daughter.

Full Service

April 22, 2021/by Black Hare Press

by Andrew McDonald

It was 3 a.m. when the 18-wheeler pulled into Phil’s twenty-four seven rest stop. Phil’s was a massive and all-encompassing set up—restaurant and store, gas pumps, car wash, efficiency units and showers—basically everything a trucker needs.

Pulling up to the car wash area, an attendant ran to the truck and hopped up onto the wide step. The driver asked for the premium full service and went to shower and change his bloody clothes.

The attendant removed the mangled corpse from the cab, to be disposed of later, before doing a deep clean. The driver tipped well, as usual.

Andrew McDonald

Andrew McDonald lives in St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada with his wife and daughter. His short story “First Visit” was included in Pulp Science Fiction from The Rock by Engen Books.

YEAR THREE

January 13, 2020/by Black Hare Press

Tag Archive for: andrew mcdonald

by Andrew McDonald

The sentry never heard me. I stab all the way through his neck, behind the jugular. Pushing the blade forward, I tear out his throat. He dies without even a whisper. Quietly, I drag him into the woods, away from patrols.

With my hatchet, I split his skull, careful not to harm the brain. My knife severs the brainstem. Raising the brain to my lips, I sink my teeth into it, biting off gory chunks, swallowing the grey matter.

Closing my eyes, I sift through his memories. Childhood, first love, basic training, their hidden headquarters.

I radio for an airstrike.

by Andrew McDonald

It was 3 a.m. when the 18-wheeler pulled into Phil’s twenty-four seven rest stop. Phil’s was a massive and all-encompassing set up—restaurant and store, gas pumps, car wash, efficiency units and showers—basically everything a trucker needs.

Pulling up to the car wash area, an attendant ran to the truck and hopped up onto the wide step. The driver asked for the premium full service and went to shower and change his bloody clothes.

The attendant removed the mangled corpse from the cab, to be disposed of later, before doing a deep clean. The driver tipped well, as usual.