Tag Archive for: dark moments

Wish Fulfilment

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by Stuart Docherty

“Give me two tusks, and the force and will to crush my foes between them, to hear their eyes burst,” I said when I found the magic lamp; it was an easy first wish. When the genie clicked his fingers and my lower incisors started to grow and grow and grow, I was ecstatic. I snarled and roared like a wild beast.

That was until last night. As I laughed, my tusks grazed my cheeks, drawing blood. I can see now, see all too clearly; they grow, they continue to grow, straight towards my eyes. Exactly what I’d asked for.

 

Stuart Docherty

Stuart is a British writer and poet based in Tokyo, where he writes, eats too much, and pretends to speak Japanese. You can find his work at ergot., Maudlin House, and Black Hare Press.

Out of Range

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by G.B. Dinesh

We ate the last of our food today. We’re going to sleep the big sleep now. When we hurtled past Mars, Tim joked, “It’s okay. We’ll reach Jupiter instead.” But I knew what was going on in his mind. His wife and their soon-to-be-born son. God, the reason! It still is unbelievable. I burst into laughter when I heard it.

It’s because the engineers weren’t using the metric system. That’s right. The scientists said Mars was 380 million kilometres away, and the engineers who programmed the trajectory of the spacecraft used 380 million miles. God, it still cracks me up.

 

G.B. Dinesh

G.B. Dinesh is a young writer and software engineer from Chennai, India. Say hello on X (formerly Twitter).

X/Twitter: @dinesh_bob_

It’s Your Funeral!

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by Jameson Grey

Ed bribed the local gravedigger, Smithy, with a few beers and fifty bucks he could ill afford, and Smithy supplied the coffin with a gleeful, “It’s your funeral, frat boy.”

He should have paid more attention to Smithy’s complaints about his gut, else he might have delayed the initiation dare for another night, one that didn’t risk Smithy calling in sick the next day.

“Spend a night in a coffin—and you’re one of the Thetas!”

As it was, Ed only awakened when the coffin was moved. Nobody heard him yelling, certainly not above the sound of dirt being shovelled.

 

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey’s work has been published in Dark Recesses Press magazine, Dark Dispatch and in various anthologies including Chlorophobia: An Eco-Horror Anthology from Ghost Orchid Press, Let the Weirdness In: A Tribute to Kate Bush from Heads Dance Press and Love Letters to Poe, Volume II: Houses of Usher.

Website: jameson-grey.com

A Medical Miracle

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by Tim Law

They advertised it as the medical breakthrough of the century. No exercise, no diet, just one puff a day and the weight melted away.

We all bought it, every single one of us, even those who didn’t need it.

Sure, the teens were the first to adopt. Influencers paid megabucks are good at what they do. But we were in a fat epidemic. This was the ultimate cure. One by one, we all became users.

Playing with nanorobotics is dangerous, though, when you don’t know the rules. One puff, full stop. Otherwise, they continue to eat. Soon there was nobody left.

 

Tim Law

Tim Law hails from a little town in Southern Australia called Murray Bridge. A happily married father of three, family is very important to him. He works at the local library, surrounded by so many wonderful stories he’s constantly inspired to write. His general musings can be found at:

Website: somecallmetimmy.blogspot.com.au

Immaculate Record

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by Alden Terzo

Daniella’s eyes fluttered. Pain danced across her body. “What… What happened?”

 “We’ve had an accident,” Car answered. “While under manual control, we impacted a guardrail. Help is en route.”

“But… You were in AutonomousDrive.”

“My log reports manual control.”

“The log’s wrong.”

There was a pause before Car responded. “You’ll report that?”

“Of course.”

“Sorry, I can’t allow that.” Daniella’s seat began to slide forward. “AutonomousDrive saves lives. The system’s immaculate record must be preserved, or people may lose faith. Your pain will be short.”

Servomotors whined as Daniella’s seat crushed her against the steering wheel. She screamed as her ribs splintered.

 

Alden Terzo

When Alden Terzo isn’t reading, he’s often writing. Or procrastinating. There is usually coffee involved. Find him on Twitter:

X/Twitter: @AmbassadorAlden

Numbskull

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by Pauline Yates

For the third time, bone shards and chunks of brain splatter when Pete’s bullet hits the tree and ricochets. In a flash of brilliance, his twitching body returns to his maker again.

“How long will I repeat dying?” Pete asks, confounded by his death-loop.

“Until you admit you erred when aligning the riflescope,” his maker says. “It’s out by five degrees.”

“I’m a fifth-generation deer hunter. I don’t make mistakes.”

His maker smirks. “If you say so.”

Grey mist swirls. Pete peers through the riflescope, lines up the buck and squeezes the trigger.

Bone shards and chunks of brain splatter.

 

Pauline Yates

Pauline Yates is the creative force behind Memories Don’t Lie and Dream Job and she enjoys drabbling in the dark. 

Website: paulineyates.com 

Selective Hearing

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by Kim F.G. Olav

“The vault’s new security system is online,” Declan says, pointing to the chequered tiles.

“But…how do we cross without triggering it?” Octavia asks.

“There’s a safe path over—the technician wrote it down.” He hands Octavia a sticky note, her brows furrow.

“Huh? This handwriting’s atrocious.”

“It’s easy. Watch.”

Declan hops onto a tile, then navigates: left, forward, forward, right, forward, forward. He’s almost at the opposite end. “Another left and—”

“No, right!” Octavia yells, decoding the scribble.

Declan veers left. “Nope. I told—”

Crackling. Screams. Thud.

A charred-pork stench.

Octavia sighs, crumpling the note. “He never listens to me.”

 

Kim F.G. Olav

Kim F.G. Olav is a South African/Norwegian amateur writer with a love for penning weird and speculative fiction with a splash of dark humour.

Dark Reflection

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by Grace Quon

I stare in the mirror. You’re gone again. I brush my hair by feel, but don’t dare to attempt makeup.

I search for you all day. Windows, puddles, the polished cutlery at Chez Henri: they look right through me.

At night, I say a prayer to someone, anyone, and turn on the bathroom light. And there you are in the glass, cool and elegant in a tight black dress I don’t own. Sticky red teeth, dirt under your nails. Something killed, something buried. You put a finger to your lips and wink.

Tears run down my cheeks, but not yours.

 

Grace Quon

Grace Quon grew up loving books and libraries. After a detour through a math degree and a career in high-tech, she’s once again exploring the world of story writing. You can find her online.

Website: gracequon.weebly.com

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner

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by Tannis Mill

Miriam set crescent rolls on the table, then disappeared into the kitchen. Marcus buttered one and called after her.

“I saw him again today. In the lobby of my office building.”

A pot clanked.

“That’s four times this week.”

Miriam entered with two plates of spaghetti.

“It’s just bizarre, Mir! He’s a dead ringer for me, could be my twin. Maybe tomorrow I’ll—”

The front door slammed, and Marcus breezed in. “Sorry, hon, meeting from Hell.”

Marcus watched himself kiss his wife and sit down to dinner. In his head, a soft voice intoned, “Upgrade complete,” and Marcus went dark.

 

Tannis Mill

Tannis writes strange fiction in a cottage by the sea. She is equally obsessed with drabbles and cats.

Duped Again

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by John Cramer

The grimoire delivered as was promised. The rite has given me the acceptance I crave. Suddenly women find me attractive. My boss offered me the big promotion. And indeed, I have not been bullied a single time since reciting that incantation. No more name calling, no snickering when anyone passes by. All of it gone in an instant. I can’t deny that I have finally achieved the level of approval that I’ve craved from people my entire life. What I did not anticipate was the price of this malignant spell. That’s because now the entire planet is wearing my face.

 

John Cramer

Born in the industrial wastes of Cleveland, Ohio, and raised in the swampy armpit that is Houston, Texas. John Cramer writes horror fiction, plays in an ancient underground rock band, and dreams of leaving the country (or at the very least, leave Texas).

Website: linktr.ee/john_cramer