Blog Archives
Edition 1: Bone Park (Windscreams) by Bruce Memblatt
When disgraced doctor Avril Chase wakes in a park, he thinks his guilt is finally driving him mad. But the reality is far worse–the world is ending in a most gruesome way. Surreal and horrific, Bone Park will make you flinch at the slightest of breezes. SY
Avril couldn’t say how he wound up in the park or how it all began. He hadn’t slept in a week, perhaps it was more. But more baffling he couldn’t account for the rips in his shirt or the holes in his shoes. Did he drink that much last night at Reno’s? There was a dry spot under his feet. He assumed he must have slept there because the rest of the grass was wet and the park was empty, and he had that groggy malaise that told him he’d slept recently. Beyond the gate he could see people walking along Sixteenth Street, umbrellas bobbing in the wind. Avril Chase was too spacey, and too confused to think it all out. He took a few steps towards the edge of a dirt clearing under a rusty set of swings, and his eyes fell over more he could not explain.
Whispers of the past, the last wind, the breeze that swept it all away flew past him unnoticed.
A sliver of a bone jutted out of the dirt. There was no question in his mind that it was a human bone. Being a doctor, even if he had lost his license, Avril knew about bones. A rainy day, an empty park, inexplicable rips in his clothes and shoes, and a bone sticking curiously out of the ground. He wondered if he’d somehow woken up in a George Romero film. Would the next surprise be the undead creature (that was formerly attached to the bone) rising to take a bite of his arm? He should be scared, maybe he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. A strange curiosity grabbed him, along with a queasy, cautious feeling in his stomach. Maybe sleep deprivation acted as a buffer to fear the way scotch acted as a buffer to everything.
Edition 2: Creeper by Daniel I. Russell
Edna and Alan take on the challenge of a new home in their twilight years, buying a charming cottage in the country. But their dream turns nightmare when they can’t escape the insidious tree that covers the facade. A study in making the everyday truly creepy, Daniel I Russell makes sure we won’t be hurrying back to the garden any time soon… SY
Edna snapped from the dream, her bony fingers gripping the bed sheets. She sat upright, fragile chest pumping beneath her nightshirt.
Beside her, the bed lay empty; the sheets folded and straight.
She blinked and peered around the room. The gentle light of dawn slipped under the curtains, scattering the shadow of a chair across the wall at an odd angle. In the corner stood cardboard boxes stacked three high in a pyramid. On each, Alan’s precise handwriting had labelled the contents in thick black pen.
Heavens…
Edition 2: Duet by Nu Yang
Nu Yang’s Duet was very well received by the judges of the Story Quest Short Story Contest, hence its shortlisting. They were particularly impressed with the dark, psychological overtones of the story, and the hard edged narrative style. GH
My brother came home with a shotgun in one hand and a bag of salt and vinegar chips in the other.
Jason didn’t say anything as he leaned against the wall outside our motel room. That was our home. Room 11. It had been for almost a week now.
I glanced at the gun and waited for him to speak.
“Didn’t I tell you to stay in the room until I got back?” He kept his attention on the parking lot. Only a handful of cars looked back at him including the black SUV we had picked up from a grocery store parking lot two states back last month.
“I hate being cooped up all day.” I scratched my sticky nose. “It’s so damn hot.”
“Watch your mouth.” Jason turned his hardened gaze to my face. “Girls shouldn’t talk like that.”
Edition 3: Skinbucket by Stephen McQuiggan
In a small neighbourhood, a teenage girl is missing, thought to be the latest victim of a serial killer. Bitter divorcee Tony just wants to be left alone to enjoy his time as a bachelor, looking for that one everlasting love. SY
The water moved in ghost light flame across her skin. The contrast of her heavy black hair against the crystalline suds made him think of fairytales, of Snow White. She lay, her eyes closed, luxuriating in thoughts he could only imagine. Maybe she was the one, maybe this time it would last longer than a quick soak and a frenzied union of flesh. He felt uncomfortable at the thought of her leaving, or perhaps that was because he had given her the lion’s share of the bath and the taps were digging into his back. Perhaps it was love after all.
He would let the water out soon, and they would sit there and let it slowly slide down them. It was something he longed to share with her, something to make her smile again. It was her smile he loved the most, and his desire to put it there. When she smiled her face was a palette of wonder.
When the water ran out you could almost believe you would be sucked down the plughole, it was an upsetting feeling, no doubt about it, but if you could just hold on a little longer then you would feel so light you’d swear you could fly. And then, feeling invincible, he would towel her down, dry her hair, comb it…
Edition 3: The White Glove by Nick Seifert
What do you do when the truth of an object becomes an obsession? This story shows the lengths some will go to in order to get to the heart of a mystery or to possess what they desire. SY
As my employer, Mr. Percy Esq., began to dictate litigation, I found my eyes constantly drifting away from my newly purchased quill towards Mr. Percy’s left hand. Whenever the opportunity arose, I had trained myself to study the hand so as to not draw suspicion from Mr. Percy. For you see, his appendage is always shrouded in a pristine white glove. The fabric looks extraordinarily smooth to the touch as though it came from an exotic land where materials, even white cloth, never get dirty. While with most gloves one can see the seams along the inside finger line, this particular mitt shows nothing to indicate a tailor crafted the item. Around the wrist a small oval mother of pearl belt buckle delicately secures the glove to the arm. As immaculate and interesting as this glove itself is, there is more to Mr. Percy’s story; for you see the hand never moves and is forever locked in a twisted position of discomfort. Mr. Percy’s fingers—long feminine extremities for such an obese and selfish old man—are frozen in some sort of crooked claw forever trying to hold a lost item in a frustrated embrace. What ill fate befell this hand my employer will not say or disclose to even the closest of acquaintances. I wholeheartedly believe Mr. Percy wears the glove to conceal the hideousness of what lies beneath. During times like these, when the opportunity to catch a glimpse arises, I find myself dreaming about the hand’s mystery or unholy scarring underneath the glove. This unhealthy obsession of conjuring is constantly making me yearn for resolve in regards to what the white glove so elegantly hides.
Edition 3: Woman With Red Hair by Lawrence Buentello
Cassidy falls in love. If only he could remember the intimate moments he spends with her. Is he going insane or is there a more sinister reason for his black outs? SY
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and rain washed over the window before him. He knew it was Tuesday because his wristwatch told him so, but he had no sense of it. The rainstorm was actually quite beautiful, appearing before him like a sudden dream, but it wasn’t a dream. The faint pattering of the drops had wakened his senses to his presence in the room, the stale scent of closed spaces, the tingling in his hands as they gripped the arms of the chair. He didn’t remember–
Close your eyes and I’ll kiss them, she’d said—and now he sat in a chair before the large window in his apartment wondering how he’d spent the hours between that moment and this moment of perception. The rain obscured the reality of the city beyond the glass—his thoughts were no less convoluted. He realized he was hungry, as if he’d missed a meal. When he looked down at himself he saw that the soft silk shirt she’d caressed so sensually had transformed into a cotton polo. His pants and shoes were different, too, but he couldn’t recall changing his clothes.
Cassidy rose from the chair, found his cell phone and called her number. Then he closed the phone. What would he ask her?
Edition 3: Ring Finger by John Claude Smith
In the wilderness, you do what it takes to survive. Cammie knows that better than anyone. But what that means you will have to read on to find out. SY
Cammie sucked hard on the rolled cigarette, the smoke threatening to warm her frigid innards, but failing.
The sky was bright and white and vast—infinite—though charcoal curled the distant edges.
Winter came and owned their souls. Took root in the marrow. Froze their dreams like arctic lakes that never thawed.
Ragged threads scratched spider-like at her fingertips, the home-made fingerless gloves meant to deter calluses on the palms, but the grip of flesh, of strong fingers, was deemed necessary to swing the axe.
Edition 4: The Mermithergate Grin by S. Marston
There is very old magic in Africa that only the isangoma know. Lloyd, in his quest for science, discovers viruses can create astounding influence when used in a particular way. Lloyd’s work begins in pure curiosity, but even the best of intentions can be perverted. SY
Part 1
Before the NASDAQ and the dollar; before the Dutch took their first wind; before credit, paper, gold; this currency was traded and it was old even then.
In Africa, a ten dollar bill as the last page in your passport will get you across a border, but it will not sway the darkness. The original darkness. That one that was on the face of the abyss, at the beginning of all of this; for that entity, there is only one thing with which to trade. Now a goat’s blood will suffice as the price to remove a wart, or cure cramps. But for the big ticket items, for life or wealth, love or freedom, it won’t be a goat bleeding at your feet. The price takes the form of an organ. A small piece of someone. And that object, the soft tissue in itself is not the issue, but rather the act, the means, the bleeding. As was the lesson taught to Shakespeare’s merchant.
Edition 4: Killing the Creation by Christopher Nadeau
Distraught over the death of his daughter, Franklin searches for a way to bring her back. When he cannot find what he seeks, or the answers, he places blame on the culprit—the creator. SY
Franklin’s final attempt at bringing his daughter back to life occurred on a steamy August night in Montana in a cave with a group of Satanists. He had reservations about people who claimed to follow the Devil, but God, if he existed, obviously took a big dump on Franklin when he took Grace away.
He watched with detached interest as Torquemada, the leader of these weirdos, plunged his short sword into a living goat’s flesh repeatedly while his followers chanted in what sounded like Latin; probably demon’s name or something ridiculous like that.
Torquemada lifted the dagger, now caked with the goat’s blood and chunks of its organs, and walked over to the pentagram he and his followers spent two days drawing on the cave floor.
Franklin’s mind screamed this was wrong, that it was time to let Grace go.
Edition 4: Toy by Gary McMahon
We are pleased to have this short from Gary McMahon, a successful dark horror writer from the UK. This story deals with what it means to do what others do because it is fashionable, but how you may not realise what it meant to you to begin with. Enjoy! SY
When my wife came back from the hospital with Toy, it took us both a short time to adjust to the changes in our routine.
I remember the day well. I was sitting in the conservatory, reading the daily news on my laptop, when I heard her come through the front door. I could sense the change immediately; there was something different about the air as she moved through it.
“I’m back,” she said, making a bit of a racket in the dining room behind me.
SQ Mag 
