Tag Archive for: underwater


by Matt Krizan


Karina lingers at the end of the dock, watching for Ryan to resurface. The water shimmers in the moonlight, while cicadas drown out the sound of gentle waves lapping against the pilings. She shuts her eyes as she remembers their early days together, skinny-dipping on summer nights just like this one.

Five minutes of waiting becomes ten, then a half-hour—still no sign of Ryan.

A warm breeze tugs loose the scarf concealing the mark of his hands around her throat. Karina sighs, tension seeps from her neck and shoulders.

She’d been afraid she hadn’t weighed his body down enough.


Matt Krizan

Matt Krizan lives in Royal Oak, Michigan, where he spends his days listening to the voices inside his head. Sometimes those voices tell him stories. Sometimes he writes those stories down. 

Website: mattkrizan.com

Fishing with Frankie

by Caoimhin Kennedy


I bait the hook and toss my line.

Pluksh! goes the sinker.

I look down at my feet into my bucket full of fish. They’re really biting tonight. In fact…


I crank the reel. Look at that—another one!

I drop the fish into the bucket and re-apply the hearty bait to my hook.

I think of how that bastard Frankie said I would never catch anything in these waters.

I toss my line.

“Useless pig,” I mutter to myself, still thinking of Frankie.

I realise quickly that statement’s a lie. He’s pretty darn useful as bait.


Caoimhin Kennedy

Originally from Ireland, Caoimhin Kennedy has always had a passion for telling stories. He currently lives in Ottawa, Canada, working in the engineering sector. His works can be found in a publication of Every Day Fiction and in three upcoming Black Hare Press anthologies titled: West, Cyborg, and Eerie Christmas Vol. 2.

The Waiting Game

by S.L. Kretschmer


I lie prostrate on the ocean floor, clutching the scuba tank to my chest. Silence, except for the exaggerated echo of my breaths. Shafts of hazy, muted sunlight edge tantalisingly close to my supine body. It can’t be more than eight metres to the surface.

Clownfish dart to my left, disappearing into the coral. A seahorse bucks and rears in the ocean current. I check the gauge. My air is running out; soon I won’t have a choice.

The great fish returns, languidly gliding above me. It’s shadow inches along my body, sending a shiver down my spine.

Not yet.


S.L. Kretschmer

S.L. Kretschmer is a born and bred South Australian, recently embracing both a tree change and becoming an empty-nester in the beautiful wine region of the Barossa Valley. She finds the local product helps. She has a BA in Creative Writing and a spoilt border terrier named Bee.

Twitter: @SLKay4

Catch and Release

by Robyn Fraser


Sunrise, and a misty river. Three trout, hooked and thrown back. He preferred to fish humanely.
Something glittered in the reeds. He reached for it, and metal teeth clamped over his fingers. A line tautened and pulled him into the water, screaming and thrashing.
It felt like an eternity under there. His lungs were bursting, eyes bulging from his head. It seemed—but impossible!—something huge was holding him, measuring him, ripping the trap off his hand, and two fingers along with it.
He was flung up onto the rocks, vomiting water and fighting for air.
And released.


Robyn Fraser

Robyn Fraser is: a South African living in Switzerland; a writer of horror fiction; a reviewer of dark books and films; a folklore enthusiast; the guardian of guinea pigs and feeder of rats; the cat’s mother.

Instagram @robynfraser66.

The Blue Cage

by Patrick Shanley


She could still hear the mournful calls of her kingdom, echoing through that grand, blue cathedral as the soft, pink hands of her captors ripped her from its halls. They cried for her, drifting away into blackness as the land-apes hauled her onto their floating shell and took her far away.
Every night she heard them, flooding back to her as she idled in this cramped tank, weary from a day of entertaining the harping land-apes, fat, cruel and doughy.
She would make them know she was a queen. Soon.
She would remind them why they called her kind killers.


Patrick Shanley

My name is Patrick Shanley. I am a journalist and fiction writer who has won six National Arts &Entertainment Journalism awards. I have written short stories and plays all my life. I have had work published by The Washington Post, The Hollywood Reporter, CNN and The New York Times.

Website: patrickshanley.substack.com/


by Constantine E. Kiousis


Tina swam towards the bluish glow—around her nothing but dark, cold water. Her mind in a fog, she tried to remember how she’d found herself here, but could only grasp at bits and pieces.
She recalled boating a bit off the coast for a nightly scuba-dive. She remembered gearing up and dropping back-first into the black ocean.
Then nothing.
But she didn’t really care.
All that mattered was the light, drawing her like a moth to a flame.
She barely had time to notice the huge opaque eyes hidden behind it, above a gaping maw of elongated, pointy teeth.


Constantine E. Kiousis

Constantine E. Kiousis spends most of his time wandering through the worlds he has created, exploring every nook and cranny and constantly discovering new places and stories that need to be told.
He’s currently plotting new ways to unleash the terrifying tales hiding in his mind upon the world, one word at a time.

Facebook: @KiousisStoryteller

Clearest Water

by Jake Jerome


The travel brochure said these are the clearest waters in the world, and God, it’s true. I can see everything. The coral reefs. The fish whose species I’ll never know. The hermit crab taking residence inside of my hollowed out foot.

I didn’t lose much blood when Mr Hermit came along and picked away the flesh piecemeal. These rocks I slipped on have a vice grip on my ankle. Snapped the fibula and closed the arteries.

Every movement under the metatarsal cage looks like a fluttering heart.

He’s got the best shell in town.

And I have the worst view.


Jake Jerome

Jake Jerome lives in Philadelphia, PA with his wife and two cats, Herman and Princess Penelope, who are his editors. Although, he’s beginning to suspect their incessant meowing isn’t actually constructive criticism. 

Website: jakejeromewriter.com

Little Brother

by Fiona M. Jones


The bad dreams started when he was a baby. He got eaten by wild animals, struck by lightning, he fell from terrible heights or drowned in deep water… and every time I am paralysed, unable to save him.
I would wake, sweating, silently screaming, and slowly breathe again.
The day he fell off the harbour wall, I froze—as usual—in a silent scream and waited to wake up again.
“Why didn’t you HELP him?” they asked afterwards. But my nightmares have stopped. Now in my dreams he is there under the water, laughing, waiting for me to join him.


Fiona M. Jones

Fiona M Jones writes short/flash/micro fiction and nonfiction. One of her stories gained a star rating in Tangent Online’s “Recommended Reading” list for 2020. Fiona’s published work is linked to @FiiJ20 on Facebook and Twitter.

Twitter: @FiiJ20


by Jo Mularczyk


“Look Mama, a mermaid!” The child’s shriek of wonder froze on her lips as the creature turned from its perch upon the rock.
The golden tendrils the child had admired were revealed to be a web of sand-infested kelp writhing with tortured sea urchins. The creature’s skin was a pallid green, rent by a wretched scar that stretched across one cheek. Blood-red eyes emitted a foul stream that ran down the foetid cheeks and dripped into the water below.
The creature twisted its mouth into a depraved rictus that would haunt the child eternally, before diving elegantly beneath the waves.


Jo Mularczyk

Jo enjoys writing in various genres. Her stories and poems appear in publications within Australia, the US and the UK. During 2020 Jo won the Mayoral Creative Writing Prize and a Press 53 competition. Jo shares the joy of writing through workshops, student mentoring, journals, and the Littlescribe literacy platform.

Website: jomularczyk.com

The Näcken’s Music

by Leanbh Pearson


The musician sat beside the hearth, clothing threadbare and hair unkempt.
“Don’t ask me to play. I cannot resist.”
Men laughed, eyeing the wretch. “You something special then?”
He lifted the battered fiddle. “A Näcken was drowning children in a brook. If I answered his three questions, he’d gift this instrument and his uncanny music to me. And I bested him but cursed myself.”
“Play for us then,” someone scoffed.
Smiling wearily, he obliged. The music was as sweet as a midsummer brook, gentle like raindrops on a lake, but it dragged us under to our graves all the same.


Leanbh Pearson

Leanbh Pearson lives on Ngunnawal Country in Canberra, Australia. An LGBTQI dark fiction author, inspired by folklore, mythology, archaeology and the environment, her fiction features in numerous anthologies. When not writing, she enjoys exploring the Australian wilderness accompanied by her dogs (the canine assistants).

Website: leanbhpearson.com