Siren

by John Xero


Heed the siren's call. It heralds salvation, the bliss of ignorance, the sweet succour of death.

Do not thrash as she takes you into her arms, sweet child, as she presses her lips to yours. Let her steal your breath as if it were her own.

Do not cry out as she cracks your bones for the marrow within. Instead forget what pain is, let her devour that too.

What has free will ever brought you? Let the siren take charge and plant her black flag in your soul. Soon you will be nothing more than tears in the ocean.

Author bio: John Xero knows how easy it is to give in to temptation, to let the distractions wash you away. He's trying to ignore them and write, write, write.
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Siren was runner up in the Scrolls flash fiction challenge. Listen here.

Hell

by Jess Cochrane


The light, mortal goodness of Earth fades as I am swept into the Underworld’s darkness.

Hades holds me with the tentativeness of someone cradling a wounded dove. Within his grasp, I feel tiny, fragile… and bright. Against his shadows, my own purity seems to shine.

One year later, I rise from shadowy death into my mother’s embrace. I am different in her arms. She clings desperately, crushingly tight. Hades' touch was always soft, shadowed and sinful.

In the Hell beneath us, I know He is waiting. The sharp tang of pomegranate lingers on my lips and I shiver with anticipation.

Author bio: Jess Cochrane is an Australian writer, currently "working on a novel" as all writers tend to do. Her short stories, random ramblings and tributes to villains can be found at her blog: http://lovethebadguy.wordpress.com

Prodigy

by John Xero


Screams, the emergency call said, screams of terror, cut short.

When the police arrived the only sounds were the sweet strains of a violin stirring the frigid, winter air. The front door was unlocked and they followed the strings to the music room, to a slaughterhouse.

The child prodigy sat on a stool by the piano, calmly playing his Stradivarius. His parents and two older sisters were spread about the room, quite dead, in spatters of red and tatters of flesh.

The child prodigy played on, a serene smile on his face, his mother's entrails still tangled in his laces.

Author bio: John Xero writes. But not as much as he should. He thinks he may have said that before.
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Feathers

by Xanthe Elliott


"Thinks she’s magic, she does," Tom confided to Henry with a smirk. "Diggin' through them nests like as if a wand might jump out, or some such."

"Could be, maybe… Tuesday last she called a butterfly and I seen her call a hummingbird–"

Ignoring Tom’s loud guffaw, Bridgit sifted patiently. "Called a flock of crows this morning, I did."  Plucking a particularly fine plume from the detritus, she held it triumphantly aloft and began spinning energetically in circles.

"Daft wench–"

With sangfroid and a serene smile Bridgit replied, "'s all in the feathers…"

An army of gryphons darkened the sky.




Author bio: Xanthe Elliott is the alter-ego of a mild-mannered Maryland accountant. After counting beans by day, she seeks the meaning of life in the written word. Xanthe crafts tales of romance and self-reflection; Feathers is her first drabble submission.

Were

by John Xero


A tumbling of claws and fur and teeth. A bulbous moon throbbing silver-grey light across the woodland. Ferns and shrubbery shaking, breaking. Bark torn from tree trunks.

Barks torn from throats.

She has him on his back, but he twists and throws her off with inhuman strength, leaping after her and pinning her to the ground. She snarls and bites. He howls.

The forest cowers.

And when they are done they lie in the disturbed undergrowth, panting. In the morning there will be regrets, fears, accusations, recriminations – human things. Beneath the moon they think wolf thoughts, and things are simpler.

Author bio: There's an animal inside us all, the trick is finding the balance. John Xero writes. In everything, the trick is finding the balance.

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Someday

by Steven Valor Keck


I was ten. My father, the People's Executioner, placed the rope in my hand. I pulled, hard as I could.

The kneeling man cried, "Stop! Don't do this..."

The crowd jeered. One wit yelled, "Don't worry! Gravity is a myth!"

The blade fell. The crowd roared. Many took bloody souvenirs. Some wept.

That night my father got drunk. He said the man was a 'talking head' before the Collapse. A liar, paid to convince people that science was merely opinion. A murderer, hated by all.

"Should I have hated him, father?"

He began to cry, "Someday, you'll hate us all."

Author bio: When he's not watching the news on television, and knitting furiously, Steven posts surrealist short fiction at subsequentemissary.tumblr.com.

Tattoo

by John Xero


This was my great undertaking: to catalogue all the demons of the Abyss, and so bind them.

But mere paper and ordinary ink could not match such a task, when even the tamest of names might burn a hole through wood. And so I made an ink of my own blood, with my skin to serve as paper.

In burnt crimson I wrote hell upon my soul.

And bind the beasts I did. But not to banishment.

They walk the Earth in me. And for my great sin I must watch while their evil rides my body, guides my hands.

Author bio: John Xero is a bookseller. He knows the real power of 'mere' paper and 'ordinary' ink. It can conjure entire worlds, make heroes of cowherds, it can change a man's life, time and time again.
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