Wednesday, 31 October 2012


by John Xero

They say the pier is haunted.

Years ago, me and Lily used to fool around under there. We had this secret spot at the top end, where it was always damp, always dark. Right below the seafood guy. People would be above us, eating their cockles and muscles and shrimps, and Lily would be trembling beneath me and I’d be kissing her hard to keep her from crying out.

But in the damp and the dark, our lust woke something, something old and lascivious. I made it out, but Lily...

They say the pier's haunted; it’s Lily’s moans they hear.

Author bio: John Xero believes the internet will make ghosts of us all... fragments of half-forgotten lives echoing down the years like electronic spectres.
Twitter | Blog

Happy Halloween!

Friday, 26 October 2012


by C.B. Blanchard

There. You see her? Hunched inside a filthy coat? Hear her cough, a deep-down, unhealthy hacking. See that sheen on her like on meat going off.

See her bump into that man, and touch that woman and cough on that child. See that queasy, greasy shine transfer to them. Watch them spread it further and further. In two days, the first of them will die. The rest will follow.

The woman sheds her coat, sheds the body. She keeps the rotten gleam. It suits her.

Disease will spread and cull the weak. This one’s the big one.

Her true masterpiece.

Author bio: C.B. blanchard is your future apocalyptic dictator. She blogs about the apocalypse over at and can be found talking a load of rubbish on twitter (@gingerkytten)

Wednesday, 24 October 2012


by John Xero

Sand gusted gently. The crowd quieted in taut anticipation.

A moment of tranquillity held the arena.

And in that moment, Bran didn't feel the shield straps tight about his arm, the battered helm forced onto his head, or his sword's grip beneath his palm. Everything focussed on one exhalation, one breath, one tiny huuuh of life.

Magatoria, king's champion, a sword in each of his four hands, his spirit anointed by the blood of uncounted humans, leapt at Bran.

Calm became chaos. Blades danced in veils and ribbons of blood. Life became death.

Bran closed his eyes.

Sweet silence returned.

Author bio: John Xero likes ambiguity. Ambiguity fuels imagination.
Twitter | Blog

Friday, 19 October 2012


by Stephen Hewitt

Alamo Jones tipped the gritty, grey dust over the gunnels and let her sink like a cloud. Got it on his fingers. Even swallowed a bit. That was the end of Mercy and the beginning of a new 49ers season – every pert lookin’ groupie knew it.  But now his kit is rotting in his locker, and he’s rocking backwards and forwards, watching grey mud totter towards him in fits and starts, reeking of sour seawater. It’s the final pass in the fourth quarter, coming in from a long, long way backfield, and Alamo ain’t gonna get a finger to it.

Author bio: Still suffering flashbacks from hacking 158 words down to 101, Stephen skritches his weird fiction over on CafĂ© Shorts.

Wednesday, 17 October 2012


by John Xero

I was born in a place that is nowhere. No coordinates, no address, no website. Ground Zero.

I was created by no one.

I am not even real.

What you do not know, can hurt you. What does not exist, could kill you.

I am plague, phage, ageless, undying, death.

I am fear-borne, and I have gone viral. Is there any more efficient transmission vector than social media? Mind to mind to mind.

Warn your friends, vaccinate them. Just a little of me, a little nothing, inside you all. That's a lot of nothing. Enough nothing to swallow the world.

Author bio: John Xero continues to chart the ways in which the world ends. And he will always be right, until the end is witnessed and all the possible apocalypses collapse into one.
blog | twitter

Friday, 12 October 2012


by Asuqi

”Come,” she whispers, dreamily, and I comply. Eagerly.

It´s been some time since she's been like this; relaxed, naked, inviting.

I've been reluctant to adjust her settings. I've checked and nothing seems to be wrong. So I've been waiting. There's some grand pain in that, it's like when I was little and touched my eyes after stroking the cat; the itching was almost unbearable.

Now, finally, she wants me.

I touch her perfection, she trembles.

I come too soon and search her beautiful eyes. But she's learned something new: she's crying.

And I think I've known nothing of pain before.

Author bio: Come visit me here: =)

Wednesday, 10 October 2012


by John Xero

We never asked the goblins for their protection, always called it oppression.

Bunch of us kids would sneak past their patrols every dark moon, down to the whispering heather. Right dumb, but I was trying to impress a girl. Little Annie MacCready, a true fiery Scot with hair like a flicker o' ginger flame.

The gobs came after us one night, only it wasnae us they were hunting, was the wolf in our midst.

I remember them circling us, hemming us in. I remember their savage cries, their wicked spears. And I remember Annie shifting, twisting, and tearing them apart.

Author bio: John Xero doesn't smoke, doesn't drive, doesn't drink (often). He can't afford to, he buys books and comics by the ton. He also needs more bookshelves.
Blog | Twitter

Friday, 5 October 2012


by Milo James Fowler

Captain Bartholomew Quasar did not believe in living in the past, and he abhorred flashbacks with a passion.

But finding him dangling here from the edge of a cliff on a desolate moon - Arterion 789 - one has to wonder how he came to find himself in such a terrible predicament…

"Don't you dare!" He digs in with both hands, fingers grappling for purchase among the crumbling rocks.

How about a little exposition, then?

Grumbling curses, he adjusts his hold, boots swinging above a two hundred meter drop, and shouts, "That's what got me here in the first place!"

Author bio: Milo James Fowler is a teacher by day, writer by night. Stop by anytime:

Wednesday, 3 October 2012


by John Xero

Down in the dirty hold of an ancient, no name cargo ship Carmen was patching overalls.

Five days into the voyage an engineer had discovered her, and when the captain's solicitations got him nowhere they put her to work down here, with the rust and the rats.

At least they hadn't spaced her. She was alive, unlike most of her kind. She had witnessed the heaped bodies as she fled, enough fuel for a lifetime's nightmares.

She gazed through the porthole at cold vacuum and distant stars. Behind her, the needles danced on, stitching to the tune of her mind.

Author bio: John Xero is far too distractable. One day he will write a novel... one day...
Twitter | Blog