Tag Archive for: drabble

The Crimson Tome

/by

by Kai Delmas

I scoured the oldest libraries and their secret texts. I uncovered clues that were lost or thought destroyed.

Hidden away behind a sealed brick wall, the tome was clasped in a skeleton’s hands upon an altar.

Now it’s finally mine.

I leaf through the pages to find them… empty. Nothing. Nothing at all.

My grip tightens against my will. Pain courses through me. The pages fill with words and symbols. Red, crimson ink spreads through the book on every page.

The power of the tome has been set free, and my blood was the price to pay. Every last drop.

 

Kai Delmas

Kai Delmas loves creating worlds and magic systems. His fiction can be found in Zooscape, Martian, Crepuscular, and several Shacklebound anthologies. His debut drabble collection, Darkness Rises, Hope Remains, was published by Shacklebound Books. You can support him at: patreon.com/kaidelmas and find him on on Twitter and on Bluesky @kaidelmas.bsky.social

Twitter: @KaiDelmas

The Student

/by

by Christina Persaud

This damned dissertation.

Loose leaf papers threaten to take flight. Books stacked upon books, most if not all on the occult. My bleary eyes strain to read one in particular: The Sworn Book of Honorius. It’s old. Language too ancient to ask for help. So, I read aloud, sounding out syllables, hearing myself.

“Angeli domini vos excitent qui vos venire constringant…”

My feet stagger, making a mess of chalk symbols on my wooden floor, summoning angels, maybe demons. The room tilts dangerously, and I shake.

All in the name of research.

From the shadows, something moves, and black wings spread.

 

Christina Persaud

Christina Persaud is a Horror Writers Association member and Ladies of Horror Fiction Grant winner. Having parents who immigrated from Guyana, she grew up enjoying Caribbean stories, especially folklore. Today, she resides in Florida with her husband and a ferociously sweet yorkie named Kaiju. Find her at:

Website: www.ChristinaPersaud.com

Ophelia’s Damnation

/by

by Freya King

Ophelia stared at Grimgran’s sunken cheeks in the casket. The townspeople, who’d called Grimgran a witch and shunned her, attended like vultures.

Ophelia raged.

     “Ophio-cordyceps

     Ants in their pants

     Punish everyone here

     To their graves, make’em dance”

To her delight, this time it worked.

Fire ants marched up legs and toes began tapping. Mrs Moore did the Charleston. Mean old Mr Percival did the macarena and Mr Clopp, from the village shop, did the bop. Ophelia giggled.

Even as blood dripped and ants gnawed bone, the enchanted townsfolk boogied.

Ophelia flicked an ant away. More came.

She did say everyone.

 

Freya King

Freya King is a creative writer who is most at home exploring the dark and twisted nature of humans. She has won various awards for her short stories.

Hard Bound

/by

by Kristin Lennox

Amelia discovered the book in the thrift store behind a stack of Reader’s Digests. She was a sucker for old tomes, and this one checked all the boxes. The pages crackled like delicate insect wings, revealing handwritten passages in some long-dead language with oddly sensual illustrations.

Tucked into her wingback with a cup of chamomile, Amelia carefully turned the pages. Stopping on an intriguing image of a beefy lad with reddish skin and horns, she slowly sounded out the caption beneath.

And until the demon cleared his throat, she never noticed the fiery portal to hell churning in her credenza.

 

Kristen Lennox

Kristin is delighted to have had several drabbles published by Black Hare Press. She’s also a voice actor, and when she’s not talking to herself in her padded room (home studio), she tries to get the voices out of her head and onto the page.

America’s Got Witchcraft

/by

by Tracy Davidson

I said my spells would blow their minds. But hadn’t expected results to be so literal.

There are typos in my grimoire. That damn cat exaggerated his keyboard skills. Blood and brain matter cover the stage. The judges’ headless torsos slump over their desks.

The stunned audience stares as I back away from my cauldron, wishing my broomstick wasn’t in the dressing room.

The host comes out, smiling. “Excellent!” he cries. “Ratings have just gone through the roof!”

The audience starts clapping and cheering, even the blood-splattered ones in the front row.

Perhaps I won’t skin the cat after all.

 

Tracy Davidson

Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, and In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights.

The Witch’s Trees

/by

by Kathryn Reilly

To silence her coming screams, the priest shoved an apple into the witch’s mouth. As the kindling caught, she chewed, seeking the seeds. Consumed, she whispered a curse to kill God’s lying faithful.

In spring, seven apple seedlings rose seeking vengeance.

Lured by delicious golden, red, and pink apples, everyone believed this grove God’s gift, forgetting its geography.

But the eaten seeds sought soil, twisting toes into roots and screaming mouths into rough knots. Arms’ viscera split into branches and bloody veins pulsed until pink-tinged flowers blossomed.

The beautiful orchard thrives, adding tortuous trees whenever the faithful eat its apples.

 

Kathryn Reilly

Kathryn’s speculative tales resurrect goddesses and ghosts; her rescue mutts hear the stories first.

Twitter: @Katecanwrite

Free Feet Are Happy Feet

/by

by Susan Monroe McGrath

Chelsea hated shoes. They meant pinched toes, rubbed heels, sweaty suffocated feet.

She preferred one of her twenty pairs of flip-flops. No toe pinch, no heel rub, no sweat.

Chelsea’s toes enjoyed the breeze as she rode her bike to the beach. They enjoyed slipping into the sand and then the water.

The bridge was where the trouble began. A foot slipped, a scramble to return to the rhythm of the gears, the comfy flip-flop catching the wildly spinning pedal.

In a tangle of flops and feet, the bike tipped Chelsea onto the rocks past the bridge’s edge.

 

Susan Monroe McGrath

Susan Monroe McGrath is a theatre graduate from a school of the arts who still can’t decide what she wants to be when she grows up. By night, she writes novels and short stories in a variety of genres. By day, she teaches science to high school students. 

Website: susanmonroemcgrath.home.blog

Like and Follow

/by

by Aurelio Rico Lopez III

Mark stepped around the pool of blood slowly spreading across the grimy floor. Chunks of brain tissue, bone, and patches of scalp and hair littered the ground.

Tom—what was left of him—remained seated, arms and torso securely bound by lengths of rope. The wall behind him had instantly become a macabre art piece.

Mark gaped at Tom’s headless corpse. His hand curled into a fist. The camera continued broadcasting to millions of viewers. Mark hurled the pistol against the wall and kicked the apple on the floor, sending it flying.

“Dammit, Tom! I told you not to flinch!”

 

Aurelio Rico Lopez III

Aurelio Rico Lopez III is from the Philippines. His fiction and poetry have been published by SST Publications, Wild Hunt Press, Stitched Smile Publications, Hybrid Sequence Media, and Great Old Ones Publishing.

Gesundheit

/by

by Scott O’Neill

Rabbi Michnik proudly watched his golem dismember four more Schutzstaffel guards.

Imprisoned in Hitler’s occult research facility, he’d invested months in secret sculpting and kabbalistic rituals to refine the humaniform clay.

His golem was graceful and obedient. He’d even taught it courtesy. It had politely held Michnik’s cell door after shattering the lock with its uncanny strength.

After much mayhem, the rabbi and the golem stalked two final guards.

One guard sneezed.

In a voice like a sack of rocks tumbling down stairs, the golem intoned, “Gesundheit.”

Michnik blanched.

The guards’ Schmeisser submachine guns mercilessly shredded both flesh and clay.

 

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 the socials as @wererooster.

Grisly Transformation

/by

by Evan Baughfman

Shawn sat in the driver’s seat of an extra-terrestrial vehicle, though he wasn’t steering his new friend. The Corvette—shape-shifting robot, Xcellsior—carried its teenage companion over rain-slick roads, dashboard stereo blasting rock ’n roll.

“Awesome!” Shawn whooped.

Then, lightning struck Xcellsior, frying alien circuitry, squealing robot brakes.

Xcellsior began to morph into bipedal form—Shawn stuck inside.

The boy screamed. Windows wouldn’t open. Doors wouldn’t unlock.

Shawn saw a button: “EJECT.” Had to risk launch into stormy sky.

But pressing the button only spat out a cassette tape.

Xcellsior soon stood tall; Shawn, gooey, compact, held close to the alien’s heart.

 

Evan Baughfman

Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays.