Tag Archive for: microfiction

Domovoi

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by Jean Martin

 

My family left before the Russians came. They paid me respect before they went away. They knew I would keep the house safe. Then they took the dog and the cat and the silver plates and drove west.

Russian soldiers walked into the house like it was theirs. One fell and broke his neck. Another shot himself. The rest heard me laugh and ran away.

I am the domovoi, the house spirit. I have watched over this house since before the last czar.

I will be here after the Russians are gone.

I will be here when my family returns.

Jean Martin

A long-time fan of Sherlock Holmes, Jean Martin is a single lady, currently stuck at home in McKeesport, Pennsylvania, which is in the Monongahela Valley. She has been writing fiction for longer than she cares to admit and has talked to channellers, psychics, vampirologists, Anne McCaffrey, and some lesser-known authors.

 

 

He Was

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by Victoria Brun

 

He was carved into the wall, but he also was the walls—or so they said. He was the walls, the ceiling, the floors, the chilling draft you felt in the narrow back room on the eastern side.

He was the shrine and its protector.

He was worshiped—once, long ago.

As time trickled by, he became a myth, a tourist attraction, a gift shop. He was plastered on T-shirts and magnets.

Until one cold day, the ceiling collapsed without warning, and he became a bludgeon and a tomb.

He was many things, but most of all, he was angry.

Victoria Brun

Victoria Brun is a writer and project manager at a national laboratory. When not bugging hardworking scientists about budget reports and service agreements, she is writing stories you can find at Daily Science Fiction, Uncharted Magazine, and beyond.

 

 

The Cursed Cave

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by James Rumpel

 

“I have a good feeling,” said Dr Morris. “The landslide exposed most of the cliff wall. I’m certain the Shaman’s cave has been opened.”

“Do we want to find it?” asked his assistant, Richard.

“You don’t believe those stories…”

Morris stopped, smiled, and pointed to a crevice in the mountainside.

Inside, they found drawings, and Navajo words etched into the wall.

“Those are the Shaman’s victims,” explained Morris.

Richard didn’t reply. The doctor looked back to find himself alone.

He shrugged and turned back toward the writing and froze. Two names had been added to the list.

James Rumpel

James Rumpel is a retired math teacher who enjoys spending some of his free time trying to turn some of the odd ideas in his brain into stories. 

 

 

The Forest of Teeth and Bones

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by Leanbh Pearson

 

He’d heard the warnings, but this was only a forest. No man had ever been killed by leaves and twigs. But the villagers muttered of teeth and bones, an abomination made manifest into something uncanny and terrible.

The first twig sliced his arm, the second his face, spilling blood to the earth.

The Forest roared, a humanoid shape forming from trunk and branch. He ran, but the Forest was hungry. Skeletal arms caught him, holding him firm as red eyes peered from the shady depths. Teeth of splintered wood gnashed. His scream echoed before the Forest ripped viscera from bone.

Leanbh Pearson

Leanbh Pearson lives on Ngunnawal Country in Canberra, Australia. An LGBTQI dark fiction author, inspired by folklore, archaeology and the environment, her fiction features in numerous anthologies. She has judged the Australian Shadows Awards and Aurealis Awards, is a recipient of an AHWA mentorship and a convention panellist. When not writing, she enjoys exploring the Australian wilderness accompanied by her dogs (the canine assistants). Leanbh’s alter-ego is an academic in archaeology, evolution and prehistory.

Follow her at www.leanbhpearson.com | Twitter, Facebook & Instagram @leanbhpearson

 

 

By the Light of the Fire

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by C. L. Sidell

 

We summoned the thing without knowing what we’d done.

A simple campfire—roasting marshmallows for nostalgia’s sake.

“Grab the sticks,” you said.

I did.

They burned, smoked green.

The earth rumbled, shook without moving.

The thing rose behind you—a menacing, monolithic shadow amongst forest shadows. Its innumerable yellow eyes fixed on me, its rusted voice impregnated my thoughts with inarticulate words. Root-like appendages rose into the air as if in depraved prayer, and my own hands mimicked its movements.

Know I had no choice, its putrid need filling my throat as I thrust the hunting knife into your heart.

C. L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in horror stories. She holds a Master of Arts in both English and library & information science, moderates two creative writing groups, and reviews books for the Florida Library Youth Program. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in 34 Orchard, 805 Lit, Dark Moments, The Dread Machine, Frozen Wavelets, opia, Quarantine Quanta, Spark: A Creative Anthology, and others.

Twitter & Facebook: @sidellwrites

 

 

Drip

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by Shaun Bibo

 

Drip… Drip

The dripping would drive another person mad.

Drip… Drip

Not me. I’ve been here for three days. Hanging.

Drip… Drip

It came from the painting. The ocean. The waves. A lighthouse. Peace.

Drip… Drip

It emerged from the water. Slowly. Over days. Weeks. It consumed the lighthouse.

Drip… Drip

More tentacles than body. It broke free.

Drip… Drip

I can’t see it. Not really. It moves… sporadically. Through time. Through space.

Drip… Drip

It doesn’t belong here. It’s always hungry. Soon, the bucket below me will be full. I will be empty.

Drip… Drip

Then it will eat.

Shaun Bibo

Business Analyst by day, writer by night, weekend, lunch breaks, or whenever time allows. Father of two, so less time than ever, but in the best possible way. Surviving the cold Minnesota winters to embrace the magnificent summers.

 

 

Tunnel Vision

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by R. Wayne Gray

 

Strobing lights blinked red to green on the Arctic SuperDeep Tunnel: incoming. The gathered scientists cheered in relief. The train had set a record two days earlier—15 miles deep—when communications with it had suddenly ceased.

“Just a glitch!” cried one, as champagne popped. Cold air crept from the tunnel at the train’s approach, a rotted breeze that chilled the celebration. Blue flashes flickered, electrical surges that blew out fluorescents and other equipment. The train breached the tunnel, a jagged birth painted with gristle, greased with sparks. And behind it, a pulsing mass of tentacles and bone and screams.

R. Wayne Gray

R. Wayne Gray is a Vermont-based writer who has published in a wide range of genres and formats. His short fiction has recently appeared in Cosmic Horror Monthly, Trembling With Fear, and the anthologies 666 Dark Drabbles and Bloody Good Horror.

Website: www.rwaynegray.com

 

 

Alterations

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by Maxwell Marais

 

I think the most shocking thing about the change was that it wasn’t painful. Strange, certainly. A shift in perspective. Not painful. No, what I felt was something more like wonder—like an ant crawling across a circuit board, briefly comprehending all of computer history. For a few seconds, I knew everything. Maybe that’s why it was no longer painful to shuck away skin and bone, to feel the gradual peeling away of what I had been.

I think someone screamed, while I still had ears. But that meant little.

Like the ant on the circuit board, they would learn.

Maxwell Marais

Maxwell Marais is an author and illustrator living in Montreal, Canada. When they aren’t frantically scrawling down the weird fiction and horror that crawls out of their brain, they can be found attempting to summon (with limited success) horrible abominations from beyond our world.

 

 

Nightmare

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by Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

 

“A recurring nightmare,” said Billa, trembling.

“It’s perfectly reasonable to experience fear and panic,” consoled the therapist.

“Even awake, something feels latched onto my back. Draining me. I’ve got pale, sickly. I’m losing my mind. Help me!” he blurted, flustered.

“Now, now. Remember what we said about getting worked up,” replied the therapist, nearing.

“Check my back! Please!”

Billa removed his shirt and turned.

“Ah, yes. Not to worry. It’s growing quite well.”

“What?” he stammered, before feeling the pinch of the sedating syringe.

Consciousness slipping, he heard dark whispers and glimpsed bulbous, black tentacles reaching out from behind him.

Vijayaraj Mahendraraj

My name is Vijayaraj Mahendraraj, originally from Malaysia but currently work as a physician in Canada. I was accepted for publication in the Year Four and Grimdark anthologies later this year with Black Hare Press.

 

 

Dinnertime

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by Victor Nandi

 

The stray stared at the caretaker’s meal, its tail wagging.

The old man stroked the animal’s neck. Tossing it a crumb from his modest sandwich, he strolled into the cemetery and plonked himself on the grass. The dog followed him.

Slowly, shrivelled corpses started digging their way up and crawling to the surface.

The caretaker lay on his back, resting his feet over a tombstone. The dead didn’t want respect.

The woofing soon changed to screeches of agony that drowned under crackling of bones, shredding of flesh and leisurely chomping of organs.

The caretaker grinned and focussed on his sandwich.

Victor Nandi

Victor Nandi is an Assistant Director – Content with an Ed-tech company. In addition to various international magazines and journals, his works of horror, fantasy and sci-fi have featured in anthologies from several publication houses around the world. He lives in Bangalore, India.