Wednesday, 30 January 2013


by John Xero

Simon staggered and tried not to puke as the boat pitched violently. The ocean washed across him in shades of brine and bile. Mother Nature was angry with his trespasses.

With each heave of the ship, each glimpse of the sea, he saw them. Their lithe bodies, perfectly toned human torsos and sleek tail flukes. Their savage joy at the raging ocean, their hunger for him.

Orca DNA had seemed the right choice, a new breed for new times. But he could see their sharp teeth as they called to him. There was too much of the killer in them.

Author bio: When the sea levels rise John Xero will be safe in his castle atop the hill, and he will continue to write for the whales.
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Friday, 25 January 2013


by Jayne Thickett

They laughed when she said she could make the flowers open and the grass grow.  If it wasn't for her, the moon would not shine, but they waved her away.

Daddy said they were fools. “You are my sunshine. You give life to the world.”

Or was it light? Not that it mattered; they still pulled her hair and put tacks on her chair.

Now they are calling her back.

And she will go, lighting up their lives one final time.

In the school hall, there will be napalm on the dance floor. They will see her shine at last.

Author bio: Jayne Thickett writes whenever and wherever she can, despite the ulterior motives of life.

Wednesday, 23 January 2013


by John Xero

Imagine a prison with no shade, for a killer afraid of the dark.

Karl flicked the lights off and on.

"Please," Jorgen begged, "don't. I made a deal."

Karl's hand hovered over the switch. "Does the widdle psychopath need a nightlight? Want some warm milk, too?"

"Please. She'll kill me."

"Bullshit. You made her up. Tell me the truth, or-"

Karl plunged them into pitch black. Fingers of cool air caressed his face. A voice like snowfall whispered, "Thank you," in his ear.

He slammed the lights back on.

Jorgen's head rolled across the floor, eyes staring, mouth still gasping.

Author bio: Imagine... anything. What are you most afraid of? John Xero's greatest fear is the day he can no longer write, and anything that may cause that.

Friday, 18 January 2013


by Margaret Glover

Stacie’s wrists burned from the ropes.

“Are you going to poison me?”

“Poison? Oh Stacie, poison is such a nasty word.  Let’s call it a potion instead, hmm?”

“I heard you were a witch.”

“And I heard you were fondling my husband.”

Stacie let out a whimper.

“Are you going to kill me?”

“Kill you?  Oh no, no, nothing like that dear. I'm just going to, shall we say, enhance your appearance a tad.  Now, how does a cute little six inch hook nose and a few dozen genital warts sound to you, hmm?

"Oh, stop your squirming, and drink.”

Author bio: I am currently a writer and Psychiatric RN in New Hampshire and have had a story published in Writers Haven.

Wednesday, 16 January 2013


by John Xero

Sam was wearing his best suit. He always was.

Brian tapped his pen. "OK, Sam, what's your pitch today?"

"A ghost story. An unquiet shade haunts a movie studio."

Brian frowned.

"It's called Fade to Black. A scriptwriter interferes with a mob-funded movie. His murder is made to look like a suicide but his ghost writes a film exposing the killers."

"It's a little Hamlet."

"Brian, please."

"I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam paled.

Brian rested his elbows on his desk, then his head in his hands. The same time, every day.

"I'm so sorry, Sam," He whispered to the empty room.

Author bio: John Xero wants you to know his work is never ghost written. He also feels you should know he likes bad puns. If you hadn't worked that out already.

Friday, 11 January 2013


by Robert Morschel

The little craft settled slowly into the dust as its engines whined to a reluctant halt.

“I told you to take a left,” Eva said scornfully, “but no, you always know better. Bloody men. All the same.”

“So where do YOU think we are?” Harry asked, sighing loudly.

“That over there is Earth. I think they call this the Moon,” she replied, turning the pages of their Rough Guide to the Milky Way. "Unbelievable names - you'd think they thought they were the only species in the universe."

"We thought that once."

His wife scowled at him. "Oh, just shut up."

Author bio: Robert Morschel is a writer of software in London, and sometimes a writer of words at  

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Wednesday, 9 January 2013


by John Xero

Above me I see distant stars, out of reach, like blue skies and freedom.

Life echoes. In every incarnation I have been a thief, and I have been caught.

Millennia ago, a young soul, I poached a single rabbit from the King's Forest to feed a starving family. Into the hole I went, clamped in chains, forgotten.

Most recently it was Leporidae gene seeds from the Imperial Menagerie. Rabbits to feed a whole colony. And for that I was sentenced to languish deep in this black hole, made to remember every one of my past lives.

I long for forgetfulness.

Author bio: John Xero would like to be remembered. In his dreams he is remembered for his imagination.
More John Xero is available, collected: This is the New Plan

Friday, 4 January 2013


by Carla Girtman

The one-man spaceship jerked to a stop. Goo poured in, coalesced into tentacles, and wound around him. Kenjek struggled. Escape was impossible.

Kenjek had run for days. Not from the Galactic Police, but his boss Squeedo. When Squeedo asked him to spend time with the family, Kenjek saw the opportunity to move up the chain of command. But he hadn’t signed up for this.

The bands tightened.

“Hi honey. I missed you,” said Squeedo’s daughter. “Ready for some fun?” A tentacle caressed his face while another slipped down his pants.

They say in space no one can hear you scream.

Author bio: Carla lives in Florida with her family and three cats. (The cats claim they wrote this story. They lie.) She is spearheading an anthology of tarot based fiction with a 2013 publication date and likes participating in National Novel Writing Month as well as writing speculative fiction.

Wednesday, 2 January 2013


by John Xero

Orst sat on his throne, unmoving. His was a kingdom of dust and silence, and for a thousand years it had remained so.

The day came when a lost tribe, weary and malnourished, entered his lands. They halted, lacking even the strength to raise camp.

Orst stood and gathered his magic.

The land shuddered with memories of past wrath. Dark clouds gathered over the fearful tribe. The ground shook again as green shoots burst forth. Fat drops of rain fell and the seedlings became trees, bore fruit.

Orst had been a poor king. He vowed to be a better god.

Author bio: John Xero believes everyone should be given a second chance. And everyone should make the best of it if they are.