Winter Kiss

by Donald Jacob Uitvlugt


Nothing is more beautiful than blood on new-fallen snow.

Lilith scents the air. Her prey’s blood calls to her. Even without the footprints, she could find him anywhere in the forest. Anywhere in the world.

He fires his weapon when he sees her. The exquisite pain is a mere inconvenience. She swoops in and breaks the gun. Then she takes the back of his neck.

His urine-soaked pants steam in the cold.

“All I want is one kiss…”

He lets her—they always do.

After the kiss, she drops his body and smiles. Face pale. Lips red.

Blood on snow.


Donald Jacob Uitvlugt

Donald Jacob Uitvlugt lives on neither coast of the United States, but mostly in a memory palace of his own design. In addition to his appearances in several of Black Hare Press’s Dark Drabbles anthologies, his short fiction has appeared in several print and online venues including Cirsova Magazine and Flame Tree Presses Murder Mayhem anthology. If you enjoyed “Winter Kiss,” the easiest way to let him know is via Twitter:


by Catherine Kenwell


It had been too long. The infernal thirst after the apocalypse had depleted her. There was nothing left.

First, she feasted on the recently deceased; she was fortunate to find bodies, still warm after the blast. But their blood was sick, tainted with poison. It made her feel ill, a malaise she hadn’t felt in hundreds of years.

Could she find the courage and strength?

Was she pure enough of spirit?

She caressed the white oak stake, tracing its length with her long fingers. No more daylight. No lethal sun. No easy way out.

She positioned its tip, and plunged.


Catherine Kenwell

Catherine Kenwell lives in Barrie, Ontario, with her husband and assorted creatures. She is an author, mediator and jewelry designer. After 30 years in corporate communications, Catherine began writing horror and inspirational non-fiction. Her work has been published in Chicken Soup for the Soul and several horror anthologies.


by Steven Lord


The yearning starts off in the morning as a low buzz, just beyond the limits of hearing. The shadow of an itch, not yet demanding your full attention.

By midday, it’s harder to focus. Your mind starts to wander down dark, familiar paths.

By sundown, it’s a full-throated roar. Everything you do, see, hear, warped by that single desire. Your mental protestations crumble in the face of the onslaught.

That night—every night—hot blood will mingle with hot tears of shame.

This is not what you wanted. But this is what you have. For now and eternity.


Steven Lord

Steven Lord is a fantasy and sci-fi author from the UK. His influences include Neal Stephenson, Stephen King and Iain M Banks. He lives in the south of England with his wife, dog and two cats and is resigned to his place at the bottom of the pecking order…

Last Call

by Stephanie Scissom


Jackson called at 9:57 a.m. Still sulking from last night’s argument, Freya almost didn’t answer.

“Babe!” he gasped. “Something bad’s happened. A plane hit my building. There’s a fire and I might not—I love you, Freya.”

The line went dead. She ran to the television and screamed as she watched the south tower fall.

Why hadn’t she turned him? He’d begged her. Now he was gone.

Her centuries weighed upon her. Devastation. Grief. She was done with this evil world.

If Jackson was burning, she’d burn, too.

Freya stepped into the September sun. Her skin began to smoke.


Stephanie Scissom

Stephanie hails from Tennessee, where she works nights in a tire factory and plots murder by day. She’s currently working on an apocalyptic trilogy. You can stalk her at



by Rich Rurshell


I could see it in his eyes. He knew what was about to happen. It was a look of both fear and resignation. He truly loved me, I now know that for sure. He had accepted me for who I am, despite what I am. Even that never seemed to worry him…until he cut himself whilst shaving this morning.

As I entered the bathroom, he turned to me, that haunted look on his face.


I saw the blood running down his throat and I lost control. A frenzy. I left him lifeless. Empty.

Those eyes will forever haunt me.


Rich Rurshell

Rich Rurshell is a short story writer from Suffolk, England. Rich writes Horror, Sci-Fi, and Fantasy, and his stories can be found in various short story anthologies and magazines.

Most recently, his story “A Date in the Forest” was published in Full Metal Horror 2 from Zombie Pirate Publishing, “Cody Redman” was included in Storming Area 51 from Black Hare Press, and his drabble “Naïve” was included in Beyond.

When Rich is not writing stories, he likes to write and perform music.



Camponotus Vampiricus

by Robert Bagnall


Doug sharpens Swan Vestas.  Making both ends useful, he says.  “Wait until dark.  Then you’ll see.”

We watch purple dusk turn to night through the broken sash window.

A rattle at first, then a scratch.  Doug’s flashlight scans the floor.


Doug’s lit match waves a tide of them back.  I swing my miniature spear, stick it to the critter through the thorax.  It writhes.  Becky Parsons, vampire killer!

Suddenly something’s not right.  “Doug?”

By my ankles, the flashlight is carried away, turned on us.  Doug’s slumped, bitten, jerking.  I’m down to my last match.  The vampire ants have won.


Robert Bagnall

Robert Bagnall lives on the English Riviera, within sight of Dartmoor.  His speculative fiction has appeared in a variety of magazines, websites and anthologies since the early 1990s.

 His first novel ‘2084’ was published in 2017 by Double Dragon Publications.  He can be contacted via his blog at


Countess D

by Robin Braid


“The Countess must die,” the cry went up as the crowd surged forward, “Destroy the demon.”

The flames held aloft illuminated the tree lined roadside. Creatures of the night blinked once in the glow then scurried for sanctuary. I walked among the throng of townsfolk, head hooded and bowed. They did not, could not, know my true heart.

The castle would burn that night. But come sunrise I would be gone and you would be within me, always.

I touched my neck, fingertips traced the marks there. This was your final hour, my love, but it was my new dawn.


Robin Braid

Robin Braid writes stories of the mysterious and macabre. A resident of Fife, Scotland, he graduated from Dundee University with a degree in English Literature. When not working in his regular job he can often be found rambling over hills and glens in search of inspiration for further weird tales.



Carnival Nights

by Trisha Ridinger McKee


Patsy was plain and blended in well at the carnivals. No one noticed if she had been at the previous town. No one thought to mention her when the authorities asked questions. She slipped in and slipped out with that plain face and those hungry eyes. The same eyes that looked away right before sweeping in for a bite. She did not enjoy the terror she evoked from the man lured behind the cotton candy stand or the young teenage boy that took her to the field for the fireworks. There was only hunger nipping where her soul had been.


Trisha Ridinger McKee

Trisha Ridinger McKee resides in a small town in Pennsylvania where carnival nights rule. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Tablet Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, Night to Dawn Magazine, CommuterLit, Deep Fried Horror, and more.


The First Bite

by Jodi Jensen


Lush, full, delicious lips were all he could think about. All he could focus on when she was near.

And man, she was near.

So close he could smell her coconut shampoo. See the vein throbbing in her neck as she gazed at him, breathless.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and swept her against his body. “I’m going to eat you up.”

“Promise?” she whispered, a seductive smile curving her ruby red lips.

“I promise.” He dipped his head closer. “And I always keep my promises.”

He bit her lip, savoring her gasp, her blood, then her screams.


Jodi Jensen

Jodi Jensen is the author of time travel romances and speculative fiction short stories. With a passion for old cemeteries, historical buildings and sweeping sagas of days gone by, it was only natural she’d write about all the places that sparked her imagination.

Twitter: @WritesJodi


The Day I Died

by Clint Foster


There was no warning before I died.

A sharp flash of pain, a weakness as the blood left my body, then I was tired, and I slept. I can’t say how long I rested, nor could I have guessed where I was. I remember the taste of metal and the fire in my throat and gut as I was fed. When I woke, I wondered if this was heaven, or perhaps hell. Maybe it was both, or neither, or something in between. Yet I woke, and I woke hungry, and where most newborns mewl for milk, I craved only blood.


Clint Foster

Clint Foster lives with his herd of four cats, his beloved Basset, Zero, and his wonderful wife, Nik. He loves to tell stories as much as he loves to read them, and hopes you like his work! Follow on Facebook: