Friday, 29 March 2013


by Ray Paterson

Hickory was born first.
Tiny. Furless.
Eyes bulging beneath closed lids.
Subdued by her ordeal.

Dickory followed twenty seconds later. Larger by several grammes.
Twitching whiskers and thrashing tail.
Her eyes a stigmata of blood.

Doc left the birth rat a lifeless husk.
Already alert. She watched. Her heaving slimy hackles raised.
Pink-red eyes aglow. Knowing.

The laboratory technician surveyed the carnage.
Cloned ears lay ripped from backs, and Doc had somehow levered her huge body between the bars of her prison cage. Her appendage was a bloody stump.
He stared in disbelief. Even at her death, was she grinning?

Author bio: Ray is still writing for "The love of it " and is actively seeking assistance to increase his web presence. Surprises are on the way.

Wednesday, 27 March 2013


by John Xero

She drifts on a sea of sorrow. Her stomach clenches with each swell, her lips taste of saltwater.

With reticence, she wipes her face on the sleeve of her shirt. An act that breaks her on the reefs of reality, when all she wants is to drown.

She chokes back a moan. All she wants is to sink down, down, but her grief is like carrion in the water. The sharks sense it from miles away and they slink closer. They slip through the water to offer false comfort, smiles full of teeth as they take chunks from her soul.

Author bio: John Xero is an occasional blogger. Which is like an occasional table but less consistent. | @xeroverse

He was recently a guest on the Bros and Cons podcast, where they invented a creation myth involving bees and transformers, and then talked a bit about his writing.

Friday, 22 March 2013


by T. Gene Davis

In a watch awaiting predawn’s glow, a foxfire appeared floating before the captain and his helm. The dead sea witch’s beautiful form took shape.

“You have slain me,” she pronounced, “but one last curse I bequeath. At dawn, you and your vessel’s crew shall perish.”

After her solemn curse, the apparition dissipated.

“Step lively lads! Your lives depend upon it!”

In hasty assembly, the captain bestowed command of the man-of-war upon his first mate who made his benefactor captain of Her Majesty’s Life Raft.

Dawn’s crowning sun displayed a water devil taking the crewless captain’s raft, sparing his former vessel.

Author bio: T. Gene Davis is a Software Engineer with an English B.A. His stories, poems, and articles have appeared in magazines as varied as Java World (Software Engineering), and Lost Worlds (Fantasy). Visit him at or on twitter @TGeneDavis

Wednesday, 20 March 2013


by John Xero

"What's the worst that could happen?"

Jinx danced on the crumbling cliff edge, only a misstep away from the cruel rocks and roaring ocean below.

She loved the sea almost as much as she loved taunting the gods, testing fate, and teasing whatever devils might be lying in wait.

As night stole the sky she skipped back to town by way of Murderers' Wood.

"It'll never happen to me," She laughed.

And on the shore she met her beau, young Jonah, and climbed aboard his boat.

"We'll be fine," she whispered in his ear as they sailed out to sea.

Author bio: John Xero knows you make your own destiny. Still, he's careful not to tempt fate, because, you know, just in case...
Blog | Twitter

Friday, 15 March 2013


by Christopher Hatch

The detective crouched near the body, examining the crime scene. Glass littering the ground crunched noisily underneath the detective’s boots. The detective turned over the body, looking for any signs of death. Finding nothing, he let out a defeated sigh. He stepped back and turned to the deputy on the scene.

“Why are we even investigating this shit? The chief has me neck deep in open homicide cases and then this? What am I supposed to do – it’s not even human, someone just wanted the power supply.” The detective stomped away, leaving the husk of the robot’s body behind him.

Author bio: My name is Christopher Hatch, a student at the University of Maine Orono, studying English Education.  I was born and raised on a small farm in Maine.

Wednesday, 13 March 2013


by John Xero

Jerome flinched as he scratched his head and more hair fell away. His skin was dry, flaking, covered with livid sores. The blood beneath his fingernails disturbed him.

He squinted as he adjusted the chronal fibrillator, cursing his failing eyes.

Time fluttered around him.

His garage walls vanished, replaced by a broken wasteland stretching into the distance. The harsh air clawed at his lungs and rasped his eyes.

Then he was back in his garage, back in twenty thirteen.

How did it all end? When did it begin? He'd only jumped three years forward that time, and still too late.

Author bio: Time gets us all, in the end. The future is like quicksilver – a distorted mirror, hard to grasp, fatal.
I'm on twitter! And I blog (occasionally).

Friday, 8 March 2013


by Sandra Davies

"'Tumour' and 'tumescent,' is there a connection there?"

I looked over the top of my Financial Times to her head on my belly.

"Are we talking medical or etymology?" regrettably aware of my immediate manifestation of the power of the spoken word.

She snorted with amusement and, retaliating, I murmured, "You can take the girl out of the farm but..."

A mistake; the nip of her sharp teeth completed the rout.

She slid off the bed. Muffled, as she pulled her dress over her head, she answered, "Etymology," then, suddenly lucid, "but you really should get that lump seen to."

Author bio: Sandra Davies usually writes romances, but at other times blames the company she keeps. Currently she blogs most regularly at, with illustrations.

Wednesday, 6 March 2013


by John Xero

Son, please, listen to me, for your sake. My father tried to warn me about the curse, but I didn't listen. I understand. When a madman tells unbelievable truths, how do you pick those rare gems out from among the ravings?

It begins as whispers, son. Whispers and whimpering, like angels sobbing. Never ending.

It's a tumour, filling the sane places inside with a crawling, gnawing sickness.

Believe me. My father warned me. And that day on the farm, when I killed him, it came to me. It will come to you, too.

For your sake, son, don't do this.

Author bio: John Xero writes. He's trying to write more. That's going OK.
He's trying to tweet less. That's going OK. @xeroverse
He's also trying to blog more. That's going less well.

Friday, 1 March 2013


by Rowan Whiteside

First, choose your victim. Remember, revenge is a dish best served cold.

Collect the ingredients; this may take some time, some are specialised.

Gather the coven.

Wait for a full moon.

Deep breath - are you sure you want to do this? Yes? Do they really deserve it?

Oh, I understand. He used you. Bastard. Next time you’ll find someone better. I promise.

I’ve got a lovely spell which causes impotency if you’d rather?

No? This one is irreversible, you see.

I know, it hurts. It always does.

But you definitely want him dead?

Of course.

Very well, shall we begin?

Author bio: Rowan has three zombie apocalypse contingency plans, a taste for red wine and an obsession with words of all kinds. You can find her on twitter, @dilystolfree, where she mainly tweets inanely about food and books.