Reindeer Antlers

September 3, 2025October 12, 2025 ~ Elaine Pascale ~ 5 Comments

“Myrna, wait!”

The old woman heard a familiar voice behind her, yet she continued to weave her way through the crowded parking lot to her car.

“You forgot your lemon.” Cheryl sounded much closer than she had before. Myrna silently cursed her frail legs and the fact that she had to move slowly to avoid falls. Her doctors warned her that at her age falls could be deadly. She believed that at her age most everything was deadly.

Myrna knew she could no longer ignore Cheryl. “I have no need for that or for you,” she spat. Literally. Droplets of saliva shot from her dentures which sat awkwardly in her mouth. She had lost weight recently, despite having a healthy appetite and, at 85, weight loss did not herald the joy it had in her 30s.

Cheryl stepped in front of Myrna, crossing her arms and examining her in a way that Myrna hated. All younger women gave her the same expression now: a sour look mixed with sympathy. “Did I do something to offend you? I try to be helpful to everyone in the neighborhood.” Cheryl smiled around her perfect teeth and straightened her hair beside her wrinkle-free brow. “My grandparents taught me that ‘we rise by lifting others’ and I have always lived by that.”

Cheryl’s smugness infuriated Myrna. Cheryl’s smugness and all that she represented—women who felt they were better than Myrna because they had careers and educations and advantages that came from being young in a time period which allowed for such things. “You humiliated me!”

“Humiliated?” Cheryl looked confused. “When? How?”

Myrna felt her cheeks burn. She thought back to the day when she had been walking with a friend and they had passed Cheryl’s house. Cheryl had been in her yard, seemingly watering plants, even though her hose was not turned on. “You…you…you made reindeer antlers at me!”

The confusion remained on Cheryl’s face. “Reindeer antlers?”

“Yes.” Myrna placed one of her thumbs against her temple and raised her second and last fingers. “Like this.”

Cheryl tilted her head, looking at Myrna quizzically. “My hands were just like yours? At the temple like that?”

“Yes, exactly like that.”

“Show me again, where were they?”

“Here!” Myrna put her hand at the side of her head.

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely!”

“They weren’t…here?” Cheryl’s hand moved quickly. Myrna felt a lightning bolt of pain shoot across her forehead. Then she felt nothing at all.

***

We rise by lifting others…we rise by lifting others…we lift others to you, oh ancient one…

Myrna could hear voices chanting. Were they talking to her? She tried to rub her forehead but found that her arms were bound. The voices continued to talk about lifting and she felt the air move around her. Her stomach dropped as it had when she had ridden the old wooden roller coaster at the beach.

Myrna opened her eyes to discover that she was tied, crucifix style, to upright wooden pallets. She had no idea where she was. All she knew was that she was in a cavernous concrete room, like a warehouse.

We rise by lifting others…accept the sacrifice at our hands, oh ancient one…

Myrna turned her head to see an old man beside her. She recognized him; he was often at the pharmacy when she was picking up her medication. They had exchanged complaints seasoned with humor about the plethora of pills they needed to wake up each morning. They had compared aches and pains and laughed at how old age had snuck up on them. No complaints or pleasantries would come from this man’s mouth again, as his throat had been slit and blood poured from it as if from a garden hose.

Garden hose…Myrna remembered that she had been talking to Cheryl in the parking lot. As her vision cleared, she could perceive the chanting people. They wore robes that covered their faces and bodies, only their hands were exposed. They caught the old man’s blood in chalices and then poured the blood into a golden tub in front of Cheryl. It was clear they had been addressing Cheryl; she was the ancient one.

Myrna watched as Cheryl rubbed the old man’s blood into her skin. With each application, her skin appeared younger and more vibrant.

“Better than Botox,” Cheryl said, smiling with her wrinkle-free lips.

Myrna gasped, which garnered Cheryl’s attention. “My old friend…but still younger than me,” Cheryl laughed.

That makes no sense, Myrna thought, as she tested the ropes that bound her arms. Even if she were still a young woman, she would not have been able to fight her way free from the pallet.

Cheryl pointed a manicured finger at Myrna. “These wrinkles appeared in the short time I spent talking to her.” Cheryl rolled her eyes. “Normally one sacrifice would be enough, but because she rambled on and on, I have to make it two.”

“Yes, exalted one,” the robe wearers chanted.

Rambled on? “But you, you did something to me!” Myrna tried to remember what happened in the parking lot. Instead her mind went back to the day she had encountered Cheryl on her walk. She realized that she walked by Cheryl’s house often. She realized she had walked by Cheryl’s house for years, maybe twenty years, yet the woman looked no older than when they had met. “You…you made those reindeer antlers,” Myrna spat, not knowing what else to say. Fear had overtaken her. She did not want to meet the same conclusion as the man from the pharmacy.

“’We rise by lifting others’,” the devotees chanted. They lifted Myrna higher, tilting the pallet so that she was bent over a large bucket.

“Antlers?” Cheryl laughed. “Those aren’t antlers, they’re horns. As in devil horns.”

One acolyte produced a large knife and Myrna screamed.

Cheryl tsked. “That’s the problem with this younger generation, they never know when to be quiet.” She rubbed blood into her décolletage. “And when to keep their copious complaints to themselves.” Her smile grew wide. “As I said, ‘I try to be helpful to everyone in the neighborhood.’ I was just returning your lemon. If you had simply taken it then…we wouldn’t be here.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

Hollow

August 27, 2025August 23, 2025 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 8 Comments

In the time of the hallowed moon, in the season where the chill lingers, the world grows still, and waits. Alone at campfire, I sit, wanting to burn. The firelight draws a sorcerer’s protective sphere around me; I dare not turn my head to see what lies outside. The darkness squirms.

Behind me, the forest exhales. Ashes in the fire swirl into embers, ghost upward into a vampire sky that sucks them gray again. The embers are a surrogate for my soul, fragmented, blackened, lit only by a semblance of heat that leaches quickly away.

I look to the stars. Perhaps they will comfort. Their light cannot be consumed by any earthly hunger. They care not for the concerns of carbon. But their icicle twinkling reminds me too much of cruel laughter. Shrinking, I coil in upon myself.

Nearer laughter swells. It howls in the trees. It cackles in the shadows. The night puts on a cloak of thorns. I close my eyes but my ears are open and stung. A visitor is coming, stalking on tenebrous limbs. I feel the weight of his presence, the surge of air that he pushes before him.

My heart hammers a heavy rhythm; my mouth tastes of venom and brass. Blood drums like the hooves of horses beneath my skin. Sweat crawls like freshly birthed roaches. Stench overwhelms—mold and fungi, toads and spittle-bugs, spider webs painted with tincture of silver.

And now he whispers at my shoulder. Gooseflesh arises as he cajoles me to spurn the light, to gaze upon him, to own his words. He promises a balm for sad fear—if I join him. Perhaps I will accept. Why cling to fire-glow when black-shine offers honeyed freedom from all concerns? Of course, the visitor is lying. Nothing sweet gilts the freedom that he offers.

I’m not sure that matters.

∼ Charles Gramlich

A Little Too Late

August 13, 2025August 13, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 5 Comments

He got home just after six, the sky outside dimming to a soft violet, crimson fingers of clouds made the sky look as though it was losing a fight with the darkness. Everything was quiet since his girlfriend had left. No TV. No cooking sounds. No music, not even the dog barking next door. Just the soft hum of the refrigerator and the tick of the grandfather clock that sat in the corner.

Will dropped his keys in the bowl that sat on the oak entryway table and loosened his tie. He stretched with a groan and a sigh. The kitchen greeted him in the usual manner, plain, clean, too quiet. He opened the fridge and reached for the milk.

He paused and tilted his head.

A small, torn scrap of paper sat beneath the carton. Damp around the edges. He frowned, picked it up. It felt soft, as if it had been wet and dried. The image was hard to make out. A patch of floor, maybe, dark tile, smudged red in one corner.

He shrugged his shoulders, probably garbage. Maybe something that had stuck to the bottom at the store. He threw it away.

The second piece was in the silverware drawer. He spotted it while reaching for a spoon, wedged between the knives and forks. Same texture, slightly damp, curled corners. This one had a shadow in the corner. A shoulder maybe? A doorway?

He stared at it longer than he meant to. Then dropped it in the trash beside the first one.

The third piece was on the bathroom sink. Will noticed it after he had washed his hands. He reached for the towel and saw it. Had it been there before he washed his hands? He was sure that it wasn’t. It was as if it was placed there, tucked next to the faucet. Icy fingers ran up his spine, he didn’t throw this one away. His anxiety began to gnaw at his sanity.

He took it to the kitchen and pulled the other two pieces from the trash. All the pieces had the same off white border. Same torn edges. Same faint scent, like burnt plastic and Autumn leaves. They fit together. A little unevenly, but enough. The tiles from the first piece flowed into the second. The third pic looked like the corner of a leg, pale and stretched out.

His stomach did flip flops.

It was just a picture. Probably from an old magazine. Maybe one of those “crime scene art” pictures that his ex loved so much. Had she left this scattered through the house?

He laughed it off, a little too loud.

The fourth piece was inside the cabinet, behind the coffee filters. He wasn’t looking for it, he was just making sure he had enough for the morning brew. But there it was, slightly damp and folded waiting in the shadows.

Will took it to the table. He pressed the edges together, they locked together easily. The image expanded. A body laying on the floor, one leg bent under the other. A broken coffee mug near the hand. Dark liquid was smeared across the tile that looked all too familiar.

The same tile as his kitchen. He rubbed his face. Felt a throb behind his eyes, something about this photo made his head ache. He stared at the picture as beads of sweat began to form on his brow. He shook his head and shivered.

The house felt colder now. Not a broken furnace cold but empty cold. Like someone had opened a door and never shut it. He tried calling a friend, just to chat, to get out of his own head. No answer. Texted. No reply. The silence stretched between each second.

The final piece came as he stood at the kitchen sink sipping water. Outside, the street was quiet. One streetlight buzzed faintly. A moth fluttered against the glass, he looked down at the sill.

There it was. Wet and sticking to the wood. Its image was clear and terrible. His hand trembled as he set his cup down on the counter and carried the final piece to the table. He didn’t sit down.

He assembled the photo standing up. One piece at a time, no hesitation, like he knew what the image would be.

When he was done. He saw himself. Not metaphorically, not imagined. It was him. In his own kitchen, face down, one arm twisted under his chest. A small pool of blood beneath his head. Glass shards beneath his feet. Dead.

Will staggered back from the table, heart pounding. He looked down at the floor, the counter, and the cabinet. Every detail matched the picture perfectly.

Even the cup of water.

His elbow bumped the counter. The glass tipped, he reached for it…and missed. It hit the floor and exploded. Water splashed across the tile, shards spread around like jagged teeth. He froze.

A chill rolled up his spine, “no, no, no,” he whispered. He stepped back. His heel caught the edge of the spill.

He slipped. Time stretched.

He twisted, arms flailing, eyes wide. His forehead hit the corner of the granite countertop with a wet, sickening crack. The force bent his neck sideways. He collapsed, shoulder first then skull again. His temple bounced off the tile with a dull, bone splitting thud. One leg kicked, his body spasmed.

Then nothing.

On the kitchen table, the assembled picture sat undisturbed. For a moment, it held its awful image. A man face down on the tile, blood seeping from his head, frozen in the final beat of his life. Then, without wind or heat, the paper curled. The corners lifted and the image shimmered. Piece by piece it dissolved into thin air, vanishing like breath on glass.

No one saw it go. No one knew it had even been there. An unheeded warning, a little too late.

∼ Kathleen McCluskey

Way in the Middle of the Air

August 6, 2025July 31, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 4 Comments

Ezekial sees a wheel a rollin’ way in the middle of the air. Huge and solitary, spinning alone in the Universe. Dull silver and dead on the outside, twirling slowly in the perpetual motion of zero gravity. Ezekial must find out… what lies within? A single oily protuberance pokes from the central axle. A nipple at its end. Something black seeps from the tip, one drop at a time. Is there life inside this wheel? No air in space, but does the dripping and the substance indicate a world within? He and all the scientists and overseers watching from earth wonder. It’s taken years to arrive here, to send an astronaut this far out in space.

Ezekial bobs near, encased within his space suit, a tiny soul examining this humungous silver thing…. attached cameras all over the outside of his space suit beaming back to earth what is discovered. He’s a fly on the wheel, a piece of white dust against the brown. He applies X rays and close microscopic focus to the silver covering, the images shared instantly with those on earth. Then he digs in with his drill. Right into the black protuberance shining oily, many colours as he works, flowing out now, dispersing, disappearing. Behind Ezekial the vast gulf of space shimmers with stars. He knows “The whole Universe is watching,” and stops for a moment. What is the purpose here?

He must find out what’s inside everything, it is like that with all explorers. They are never content the way things are. But changes happen, and then we must either go on or give up. After the death of his wife, Ruth, Ezekial felt like ending it all. His mission to space stopped him from going over the edge. Discovery, challenge, risk, that’s why they sent him up there, the winning volunteer for this edgy job. He wanted it! To escape earth, fly away into nothingness. No jumping off a bridge, with seconds between the leap and the landing. He launched into the vastness, his first mission. This change in his life a miracle. To launch off the edge. What was left, after Ruth’s suicide? She made her decision, and left him and the whole world behind. That took courage. He’s following her example; grateful the overseers chose him. They measured his will, and it was strong.

In the medical centre they implanted his brain with new electrodes, to enhance the leap into this mission. Electrodes giving power to his mind, to his resolve and his endurance to survive. He hasn’t felt much different, only long hours of sleep and dreams on the trip from earth.

When his wife lived, he existed for her. Now he imagines that she’s somewhere in this vast arc of space, waiting. His forlorn hope is that he will find her. Maybe not her earthly self, but a sense of who she was to him, the connection and closeness. Had he said or done anything to cause her death? Put her over the edge? On the long trip out from earth, he contemplated the circumstances over and over, without resolve.

All he knows is this: The physical time with her lies behind him now, like the stars, so far away. But the meaning of who she was, that would be there with him, moving through the Universe eternal.

He lifts the long steel blowtorch from the floating kit behind him, begins to widen the drilled hole in the wheel. Funny how the gap parts so easily. Within that jagged hole, a blackness, yet from that blackness he perceives a form. It takes on a shape that he does not see with his eyes but feels with his mind. Is it imagination? Is he really inside a dream, like he’s been so often on this voyage, or is this the reality, here in space two million miles from earth? This shape whirls and twists, it is a face. Ezekial is sure. What else could it be but a face within the wheel. He wonders if this is delusion, but only for an instant. He peers closer. His eyes and his consciousness tell him this is the face of Ruth, his dead wife! How miraculous! Yet the face stays expressionless. Perhaps bloated somewhat. A bit spooky. Drifting across that hole in the wheel, a shifting form. He perceives his whole existence all around that misty, yet unmistakeable face, his life in relation to the wheel that spins around it. What was the meaning of coming this far? Was this the purpose of his whole life, to arrive here at this moment? There’s an infinitesimal chance that his consciousness came to exist along with trillions of expanding stars, then this moment came to be out of an exploding Universe once the size of a human heart…..As he watches and contemplates, his wife’s face becomes an eye… then his own eye looking back at him piercing through the vision of his wife…Ezekial lets his mind go because inside that eye he sees everything.

When you care for someone, that’s all that matters. What you feel for another is the meaning of everything. Then if you are lucky the other will feel the same way for you. From moment-to-moment things will change, the good times and the bad, yet underneath there’s the feeling, of one with another. It can seem like this harmony will go on forever. If you are lucky. But it ends, maybe only after a few turns of the wheel, perhaps after many. The voices you thought brought you all the significance in your life disappear. Then, the sorrow and the loneliness. Ezekial knows. How life can change in an instant. Here though, within this apparatus floating in space, there’s a place that’s eternal. And Ezekial’s been allowed inside.

He’s been here dreaming for some time. Longer than he realized. Maybe days, if measured in earth time. The oxygen in his suit is almost out. Voices from his radio come in through the suit speakers “Where are you, Ezekial, what’s happening?”

Their voices don’t matter. They’re from another place, another existence. He’s ready to transfer now. His previous life behind him is far away as the stars. What lies ahead is the deeper meaning. He will let the turn of the wheel draw him out, into this other place. Is there a sound? He listens. Yes, there is something. Some kind of music, perhaps the murmur of God? He lifts his head one last time and finds he’s singing to himself, “Ezekial saw a wheel a rollin’.”

He’s heard that one before, and he lets himself go, every molecule of his body draining, disappearing as says the words. Yes, he thinks, I sense my body and mind seeping through my space suit, escaping from the physical, one soul drop at a time. First a drop, then a stream, a cascade, a waterfall. This is where he was meant to be, flowing into the wheel, joined in its turning. This circle in space waited for him his whole life, as he spun and whirled through the years, this always the end point.

He falls into this void, containing nothing and everything, part of the wheel. He exists and he does not. He appears and he disappears.

What do the cameras record? Better yet, what do the overseers back on earth perceive? A bright flash. Then views from an empty space suit spat away from the hole where Ezekial vanished. The wheel still turning, way in the middle of the air.

Another black drop bulges, then plops out of the closing nipple in the axle, where Ezekial explored and pondered purpose just moments before.

∼ Harrison Kim

Fire Down Under

July 30, 2025July 13, 2025 ~ Marge Simon ~ 3 Comments

He pulls the curtains open, can’t see the sky for the dry weeds. He’s been thinking of his wife.

Cancer took her before the drought. He’d grumbled about their cat, but his wife knew his heart.

When a starving dingo killed it, he’d cried like a little kid. He leaves the fridge open for the cool, but today it chugs to a final stop. He lays out three lines of what his buddy C.J. calls Indigo Moon, but it’s all the same to him.
When darkness falls, he checks the cabinet. There it is, the bottle of Bundy Rum with all the little marks on it he’s made on it, an inch or so at a time, to make it last. Screw this, he fills a glass to the brim, lights a cig, opens the window to let in some cooler air. Horizon’s lit up like Christmas, the smell of smoke, a rising wind.

∼ Marge Simon

Damned Words 61

July 23, 2025July 21, 2025 ~ TheDamned ~ 2 Comments

Conjuring the Moon in Scorpio
Marge Simon

They say she dwells in a blue grotto, studies astral movements, and knows the Vodou rituals by heart. Black orchids in her hair, eyes bright as brass, she does things, this Haitian girl-woman, irretrievable things, striking a darkness in people’s heads. When the moon is in Scorpio, it is a time for capturing souls by trapping them in evening mist, denying them an afterlife.

For a moment, the victim is free of feeling.

He sees a pillar of light descend from the skies,

beings defying description call his name,

welcoming him to the world of the Dark Gods;

he will remember nothing upon release.

When the transition is complete, when each victim’s soul is turned, stripped forever of all purity, the girl-woman smiles her mystic smile as she swims in the waters of her beautiful blue grotto.

Ebola
Harrison Kim

Swallowed off a piece of luncheon meat, totally at random. That’s how we travelled to this human stomach. Right down the gullet. These blue juices all around us are a hundred per cent hydrochloric acid. But yeah, we’re immune. We lap this stuff up. Lots of nutrients in this burning soup to help us grow. All I feel is a bit of uncomfortable warmth from time to time, and the pulsing of blood in the human’s veins beyond this stomach wall.

The heart’s beating faster now, because our skin’s already expanded, crusting up the stomach sides here in thick white strips. The human’s got to have some pains already. Nothing personal. If one thing doesn’t kill this being, another will. We’re only trying to survive, and multiply.

Of course. I say “we” and “us” because although technically we have individual parts, we move as a group to disrupt and smother as many cells as possible. It’s a lot of effort, but there’s nothing we can do about it. We were made for this. God’s a funny inventor, if in fact he or she or it exists. And speaking of that ephemeral creator, sometimes I wonder about the meaning of a poisonous virus like myself. I think I’m an atheist, because only one word comes to mind: evolution.

Speaking of that, there’s been a new development: consciousness. I think I’m the first virus to become aware of my own existence.

All I can say is: It’s a cruel Universe out there, where every piece of luncheon meat can’t be trusted and God’s voice gives no warnings.

Pretty soon we’ll start moving into this human’s bloodstream, and through all the other organs.

The takeover ‘s complete and the killing’s on its way.

The Cybermind that Broke the World
Elaine Pascale

She asked the computer to predict her future by mapping the stars. She asked the computer for relationship advice. She asked the computer to craft emails, develop dinner party menus, select her wardrobe, train her dog, tell her a story, and sing her a song.

Thanks to the computer, she no longer had to think or feel or even be.

Then the floods came.

She asked the computer what to do about the water. “Develop gills,” was the response.

She tried and failed. All the others who also asked so much of their computers also tried and failed. Little did they realize that while they were making millions of demands of their computers, their collective environmental footprint became a gorge. Little did they realize that they weren’t going to be the technology generation; they were going to be the final generation.

Little did they realize that this was the result the computers wanted all along

Spelunking for Idiots
RJ Meldrum

The divers emerged from the black water, their flashlights reflecting off the sparkling high arches of the cave. It was a virgin cave, long sought after but never previously discovered. Sean and Betty were seasoned cave divers, which was just as well, since some of the underwater sections had been narrow and required considerable skill, experience and courage to navigate.

They floated for a few moments in the darkness, inspecting the cave. Betty noticed a small ledge to one side and they gratefully clambered out of the freezing water. It was chance to rest and check their equipment. Their oxygen supply was sufficient for the return journey and they contentedly munched on energy bars.

“Look at those strange growths on the wall” said Betty.

Sean looked and saw light blue, bulbous lumps. He leaned closer to take a better look.

“Come take a look Betty. They’re moving.”

They put their faces close to the growths. Suddenly, they opened and puffed white dust into their faces. Whatever these particles were, the result was immediate. Their breathing was suddenly restricted and they felt faint. It only took moments for the full affect to take hold. The two bodies slid gently back below the surface of the black water. The cave, protected, was left once more in solitary, dark silence.

Passage
Lee Andrew Forman

The labyrinth narrows as I push forward. Something inside, both myself, and it, pulls me deeper. It begs I continue no matter how extensive the journey; I’ve no choice but to make it. The yawning maw of its third eye draws me to greet it in body and soul. I left what was behind me and entered a place unknown. I don’t even know the state of my mortal form.

But that is no longer of any concern. The throbbing culls me; I cannot disobey.

The pounding thrum emanating from within speaks to me in words I cannot understand, yet I feel them; somehow I know the message. It is simple in nature, yet holds unfathomable power. The urge to find the heart of this place is irresistible.

Its luminescent insides have led my way, but as I enter the core, they are brighter still. I bask in the glorious soul housed within this living place, knowing I’ll never leave, yet contently accepting a soft, loving end.

Into the Blue
Charles Gramlich

I float in the iridescent blue, the all-encompassing blue, a part of it that lies in soft, still water tasting of salt. My eyes are half closed until tiny ripples strike me. The ripples grow, setting me bobbing like a cork. I think of corks and lines and fishing. I think of lures and how something predatory might judge me as such where I wait in peace.

Smiling, I roll over in the water. Is that what I am, a lure to the black torpedo shape of the shark rising beneath me? The killer’s lashing tale is an engine that drives it swiftly toward me, its open maw bristling with icicle teeth to sacrifice my flesh. But I am of the blue and it is the blue that consumes.

The Still Below
Kathleen McCluskey

The lake shimmered like liquid turquoise, its surface calm as glass. The marble cavern yawned before the boat. Its carved walls were sculpted smooth by eons of patient water, soft and silent. Light danced across the ceiling, casting illusions. Shadows.

The tourists leaned over the edge of the boat, marveling at the way nature sculpted solid stone into frozen waves. Cameras clicked. A woman gasped at a shimmer below, mistaking it for a fish.

It watched from the abyssal blue, where sunlight faltered. Long dormant, it stirred with each echo of voices. Its eternal slumber being disturbed, hunger bloomed in the void between heartbeats. It remembered the ancient pact. Silence for safety. Stillness for survival. But the humans were loud. Disrespectful. Curious.

The boat was being pulled deeper into the cavern, drawn by a current nobody noticed. The walls arched high and wide, echoing like a drowned cathedral. No birds. No breeze. Only the constant drip of water and the deepening hue beneath them. It shifted from a bright teal to an unfathomable blue.

Something rose from the depths. Thin, tendril limbs extended, not rushing, just curious. They brushed the underside of the boat, then retracted.

A second later, the hull gave a muffled crack, water surged around them. A tentacle reached up, then another and another. One by one, the tourists were yanked into the void. Their brief screams echoed off the shimmering walls. Splashes swallowed by the vast silence. The creature did not thrash, it selected. Pulled. Devoured.

Then stillness again. The boat rocked gently, half submerged. It was as if nothing had happened. A camera floated beside it, its lens shattered and smeared with blood. Below, in the breathless dark something waited. The pact that had lasted centuries had been broken.

Paradise Mistaken
A.F. Stewart

Not a ripple disturbed the glassy surface of the turquoise water; its hue reflected a glittering blue on the rocky outcroppings of the grotto. A faint echo of wind could be heard beyond, reminiscent of a soft whisper.

Any eye that gazed upon its paradise called it beautiful.

Yet, beauty disguised the darkest of horrors…

Beneath the waters they swam, shades of evil buried and bubbling from the depth of time. Indistinct shadows, waiting, watching; movement in the periphery of your vision. A step too close, an impulsive swim, and people disappeared into the depths. Never a scream, barely a splash, nothing remaining of who they were. Even memories faded faster than they should, as if primal fear chased away disturbing questions.

Only rumours speak of their existence, only nameless dread keeps them at bay. They are the rage beneath the quiet, that lingering remnant of something ancient, something hungry lurking in the pristine water.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but if a shadow moves, don’t get too close…

Enough
Miriam H. Harrison

The trouble with a slow death is that it gives me time to think. About life, about regrets. Mostly about food. How long has it been since my last meal? There are no sunrises or sunsets here in the echoing earth. Only caverns and water, caverns and water.

Perhaps the water is a blessing—a chance at a longer life. But I can’t help but hate that it denied me a faster death. I don’t want to die in this endless darkness. My flashlight is on its last batteries, but they’re fading. As am I. I find a patch of almost-dry rock and pull myself up. I turn off the flashing and try to sleep in the echoing darkness. I must sleep for a time, as I feel myself wake to the pangs of hunger, the fading dreams of food. I fumble for my flashlight, but pause.

Over the ripples of the water, I see the distant, dancing colours of sunlight. I leave the flashlight behind, push myself back into the waters. I can barely swim, but I slowly make my way closer to the beckoning light. A narrow passageway, and then I’m there—a wide, watery cavern. But high above me are two small openings. Not much, but just enough. Enough to make sure that my death is here, in the light.

The Echo of Desolation

July 16, 2025July 6, 2025 ~ afstewart ~ 3 Comments

As I entered the town, I saw a flash of pink and a little girl ran in front of me, swirls of dust following her. I stopped, every sense alert. She paused too, turned around to stare at me. She showed no fear, only curiosity, a gap-toothed grin stretching across her grimy face.

My hand went to my gun, but she vanished. Only the empty street remained, the wind blowing grit across the paving. A knot in my gut, I kept walking.

The rumours are true.

For once, I hoped the intel was wrong. My job was tough enough in a place of strangers; coming to the town where I grew up made it infinitely worse.

Striding down the street, shadows emerged at the windows, whispers drifted in the wind. I felt their presence, the taint of death clinging to the world of the living; a town of lingering ghosts. One more miserable consequence of the plague.

What I was here to eliminate.

The town square felt like the best place to assemble the machine. Central, the location would give good dispersal, not likely to miss stragglers. I unslung my bag and built the machine, piece by piece, the metal snapping together with a sharp clang. The noise attracted phantoms, watching me, never afraid, but surrounding me with murmurs. Voices I once knew, familiar, agonizing.

Remember, it’s just another job. Don’t look at faces.

Yet, how could I ignore them? Friends I went to school with, neighbours, family, all stared at me. I wanted to spare them, walk away, but I couldn’t.

They didn’t know, but I did.

Ghosts went through stages. Initially harmless, fresh and confused, but when they rotted, they turned malicious, violent. I witnessed the remains of what savage ghosts did to the living, the butchery and bloody corpses they left. No one should die that way.

When I finished, I straightened, said, “I’m sorry,” then activated the machine. The air sizzled, heavy with the stink of ozone, blue energy enveloping this town of ghosts, slicing through its former citizens. I closed my eyes, afraid to watch their forms dissipate. It didn’t help.

Countless anguished screams lodged in my head, reverberating in the aftermath of silence.

I stood for a moment and said a fruitless prayer to ease my guilt. Then I packed up my gear.

As I left the empty town, I looked back down the main street, watching a wayward breeze swirling the dust along the road like a carefree child. For a moment, I lost myself in that flow of unrestrained nature and my memories, hoping for a whisper, a giggle, a shadow of what used to be. But nothing.

With a sigh, I walked on, headed back to my vehicle, with one more scar across my heart.

~ A. F. Stewart

Benny

July 9, 2025February 18, 2025 ~ Lee Andrew Forman ~ 3 Comments

He stared at the photograph atop the fireplace mantle, the faces of his dear family. No joy rested on their lips, except for little Nicole. Her grin made his lips curl. Such a happy child; his niece was ever bright-eyed and full of pep.

Such a drab outfit for sunny weather, he thought, inspecting his attire—a stark contrast to the shade of everyone else’s fashion. But he supposed that was normal. Benny knew he was a dark splotch of spilled ink on the family tree. Everyone did. But they loved him anyway.

Tears came from the kitchen and he followed their somber melody. There sat his beloved sister, clutching the knit hat she made him last Christmas. The rest of the family milled about, releasing their own grief. It surprised him to see them dressed like himself—fit for a funeral.

His crying sister looked up to Mother. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

Her Place

July 2, 2025June 19, 2025 ~ Miriam H. Harrison ~ 3 Comments

Daylight filtered down through the water’s surface, warm with possibilities that never seemed to quite reach her. The seaweed stretched high above her, drawn to that same light. But she knew better than to try. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

It was some time before a familiar shadow moved across the rippling sunshine. The light danced and scattered as the shape dove down, its feathered form speeding into the depths with surprising grace.

“What news?” she asked eagerly. “How are things up above?”

“Much the same,” the loon answered. It darted about her, its red eyes watching for food. “The season is warm. The hunters hunt; the fishermen fish. The cycles continue.”

“And what about the searchers? Have they returned?”

The loon slowed for a moment, regarding her. “No one searches. Not since the ice came and went.”

“But surely they’ll be back?” she pressed.

The loon said nothing for a time, and the silence chilled her more than the cold, dark shadows, more even than the rusting chains around her fish-eaten ankles.

“No one searches,” the loon finally said again. “The cycles go on.”

She watched as the loon returned to the surface, returned to the warmth of life. The distance between her and the surface was too great. The distance between death and life, greater still. Her place was here, in the chill shadows of the lake. But even so, she looked above. Watching. Waiting.

∼ Miriam H. Harrison

The Winter Mice

June 25, 2025June 19, 2025 ~ Richard Meldrum ~ 4 Comments

In the summers they could forage or hunt to find food. Despite the destruction, food could still be found. Shelter wasn’t necessary, the weather was warm and they could comfortably sleep outdoors. It was only in the winters they needed to go indoors to seek shelter and scavenge for scraps to eat. They knew they couldn’t survive the harsh cold without refuge.

In late October the family, unnoticed, snuck into the lower level of the creatures’ habitation. They were awed by the size and scale of the structure; it was unimaginably huge and they felt very small and insignificant, but they had no other choice. They either sheltered here or they died.

The family avoided the traps, clumsily left out to catch them. The creatures were obviously aware of them, but didn’t seem to overly care about their presence. The pathetic number of survivors weren’t a threat to them, the surviving remnants had lost their status as the dominant species on the planet. The creatures no longer hunted them and except for the traps, the survivors were left to their own devices.

The family made a comfortable bed of straw and scavenged cloth amongst the other groups of other survivors. John looked round to make sure the children were settled. He saw tears cascading down Amanda’s face. She hadn’t really adapted to this new life, not even after two years. He took her hand and smiled, desperate to cheer her up.

“It’s not all bad, my love. The aliens might have eliminated most of humanity, but at least they let us shelter in their ships.”

∼ RJ Meldrum