Feast of Shadows
by Ashley Kim
Ashley Kim is a champion for women, blending years of digital marketing experience with her passion for helping female business owners embrace their online presence and thrive. She’s also a fiction writer, crafting stories that celebrate resilience, humor, magic, and the emotional experiences that make up life. When she’s not working or writing, Ashley enjoys time with her family, her fluffy Doxiepoo, and cozy backyard fires, no matter the weather.
It’s rude to bring a friend to dinner without telling the host. It’s even worse if they smell like a musty cellar and have maggots dropping out of their sleeves.
I glance around the candle-lit table at my other dinner guests, taking a moment to freak out internally. What the hell went wrong with my Samhain “Silent Dinner” ritual?
My eyes land on my mother. When living, her face held a perpetual scowl, but in death, her brow is smooth and her mouth is lifted in a gentle smile. She smells like lavender and her eyes are warm with peacefulness.
All the work I put into hosting this dinner is worth seeing her smile, but I can’t help but feel like I did something wrong. Usually, with a Silent Dinner, you light candles and set extra plates of food at your table in honor of loved ones who have passed on. It’s a symbolic ritual that lasts through dinner and then you’re done.
The problem is that mine is less symbolic and more real, as in … they are actually here. In the flesh. Or some version of “flesh.” I gulp and shift my gaze over to my dad. Yikes.
He’s missing an eyeball, leaving me with one cloudy eye to look at and one dark eye socket to avoid looking at. His face is in various stages of decay. I can see through the gaping, rotten holes in his cheeks to his blackened gums with missing teeth. He smells like an earthworm who just crawled out of the wet ground, and I almost shit my pants when he smiles at me.
And this isn’t even the worst part. The worst part is the guest sitting next to him. I reluctantly look over at our dinner guest, while my parents’ proud faces are still turned towards me. His skin is gray, like a mole. He’s tall with lanky arms and legs. His clothes are loose fitting, which is unfortunate, because of the maggot problem.
“So, Mom and Dad,” I shift the conversation to my parents and try not to stare at Dad's empty eye socket. “What’s it been like for you after death? How are you doing?” I really want to ask why they are actually here and why Mom looks like an angel and Dad looks like a horror movie extra. And who the hell is this other guy?
Mom puts her napkin in her lap with an elegance she's never possessed before. “Oh honey, it's been wonderful. Right, Roger?”
Dad freezes, his hand an inch away from his mouth, realizing the attention is now on him.
“Dad! Were you going to eat those?!” The squirming maggots in his hand slide off, their bodies plopping onto the table.
“Darling, things are different now.”
This is too much.
“And who's your guest?” Maggots fall out of the guest's mouth now as he grins wide at me. His steak tartare is covered in white squirming bodies.
“Who, honey? It's just your father and I.” Mom looks like she's about to put her hand over mine, but the Earth rumbles, wobbling our chairs, and she grabs onto the table instead. The candles blow out.
Except one.
The one candle left highlights the gaunt features on the stranger’s face. His eyes are bottomless pits of despair pulling me into a thick sea of freezing cold hopelessness. Pain settles across my shoulders as anguish fills my body.
Using every ounce of strength I possess, I pull my gaze from him to glance at my parents.
They’re gone.
What the hell?
“Who are you?” My voice shakes and my hands tremble. Maggots and worms now cover the entire dining room table, some dropping to the floor. Each breath I suck in tastes like I’m being buried alive.
My heart drops to my feet and my throat swells shut as he leans forward, his unruly midnight hair catching fire from the candle flame. I can’t breathe. I keep my eyes locked on his. His hair glows from the orange flame creeping across his scalp.
“My name is Trials and Tribulations.” His voice sounds like gravel under tires. “But to answer your question, I am you.”
Panic squeezes my lungs.
“You came to Earth wanting to overcome trials, learn how to be strong in the face of tribulations, and face your fears. I’m the obstacles, the tribulations, and the fears.” His hand snakes out to grip my wrist. “You want to be strong and survive anything. Well, I’m anything.”
His long fingernails are covered in dirt, and I can now see the maggots aren’t just falling out of his clothes, they are climbing out of lesions on his skin. “If you’re going to be strong enough to survive hell, then you need a hell, and that’s me. The more you seek light, the more darkness you create. I’m the darkness in your story. You created me and I am the you that you’ve hidden deep inside yourself.”
Ripping my hand back, I finally suck in air. “No.”
“Yessss.” He stares down my hand in awe, the one he just held, and I look down, too. My hand is now a gray color, with deep gouges in my skin filled with maggots bubbling up from within. I feel their wriggling on my skin and their soft bodies sliding off my hand as they crawl out. “I've been wanting to meet my creator.” He gently strokes my hand like a lover. “Thank you for inviting me tonight.”
Transfixed by horror—horror I created?—I continue staring at my hand until he speaks again. “Tell me, what dark things have you spoken into existence lately?” he asks with the reverence of someone who’s just met his god.
I have so many of my own questions, I ignore his. “This ritual was for my parents. How did you show up? Where did they go? Why are you here?”
He smiles like I’m a middle school student in a doctorate course. “Were they ever here? What were you thinking when you started the ritual? Are you sure you didn’t ask for me?”
Did I ask for him? Did I ask for darkness? No. I asked for more light. Our eyes connect and I can tell he knows I just put it all together.
“Yes, my love. You asked for your parents, seeking the light you used to feel around them. But don’t forget that with light comes darkness. And it’s my turn.”
His turn?
Suddenly, I know what I must do. Slowly, I stand and take a step toward this stranger. I pull back his chair so I can face him, looking over his hair which still smolders from the candle flame. I take in the awfulness of his gaze and the maggots falling off his skin. I straddle the chair and lower myself until I’m in his lap. I slowly wrap my arms around his neck and pull my body close to his. He lets out a soft sigh, like he’s home. I sit there, listening to him breath against my neck, holding my darkness to me. I watch my skin turn gray. I hold on tighter until maggots cover my skin, too. I can feel them sliding down my back under my shirt. I continue to hold him like two lovers who have just made up after a fight. I hold him until the world turns black and the sound shuts off. Until my body is no longer and my mind is put to rest. And still, I continue to hold on.
***
I wake on the floor of my dining room, the morning sunlight shining through the widows. I stare at my ceiling fan spinning in lazy circles like my life didn’t just change. My skin is back to its normal state—full of freckles and sun spots. My dining room shows no signs of my guests from the night before. I lay on the floor feeling … nothing. Numb.
Am I disgusted with myself? Am I proud of myself? Does it matter? I have no judgments. There’s no need to judge when you’ve embraced everything that makes you want to close your eyes and hide. I’ve accepted the fate that comes with this new knowledge. I’ve embraced my darkness, knowing it’ll be a constant companion because I will keep pursuing the light.
2024 Spooky Flash Fiction
Welcome to our spooky corner! oooohhh
All kidding aside, below you can find the links to each of this year’s spooky flash fiction written by members. They were tasked with writing a piece of flash fiction of under 1,500 words that was either spooky or reminiscient of the season. And all of these were absolutely wonderful (especially the one by yours truly).
So, please, curl up with your drink of choice (the stronger the better to make it through some of these) and enjoy some stories that go bump in the night.
We Are Global, You Know by G.C. Byrne
Squirrel Cakes by Layton Smith
Under the Basement Stairs by Claire Jennings
Obsession: A Dark Love Story by Ashley Kim
In the Hollow Black by Katrina Schroeder
Spookiest Sentences 2024
She was too terrified to turn around after hearing him say her name; she lived alone and hadn't left the house all day. - Rebecca Anders
***
The ghosts outnumber the ones they leave behind, and I’m starting to fear their strength. - Hailey Samford
***
As he lay on his death bed, after a long happy life, surrounded by family, he smiled and closed his eyes for the last time, and then he awoke to the sound of a droning *beep beep beep*, startling the lone nurse that stood over him, changing the bandage around his head. - Nick Flesher
***
While Father Matthew thanked God for delivering the boy from the demon, he crossed himself and prayed in preparation to exorcise the six that remained. - Stephen Scott
***
The man in my mama’s tattered Sunday dress screeched, “You’re next, Katreena!” - Amy Le
***
You shouldn't go out at night youngin', because that...thing mimics the joyful laughter of children, and will snatch you up for dinner if it gets you alone. - G.C. Byrne
***
God, I hope she stays dead this time. - Layton Smith
***
The altitude hit triple digits as I desparately waited for the reserve chute to deploy. - Matthew Quoetone
We are global, you know
by G.C. Byrne
G.C. Byrne is an award-winning author and military veteran whose passion for storytelling began in childhood and evolved from hobby to career. He brings a unique blend of life experience and imagination to every story he writes. Byrne is based in Texas with his wife, Rachel, and two dogs, Hazel and Reggie, where he continues to craft stories that captivate readers throughout this dimension.
There was someone in the shadows when I entered my office. “Who’s there?” I said. “Speak up, now.”
“Dr. Bellington,” the man said. He stepped into the light cast by the single bulb and extended a hand. “I’m Roger Hanna, the reporter from The Times.”
I thought for a moment and remembered I was to give an interview on my latest discovery. “Ah, yes.” I took his hand and checked my watch. “It’s rather late. I thought you’d be here earlier than a quarter past ten.”
Roger smiled. “That wasn’t my intention, Doctor, believe me. There was, er… a delay.
“A delay?” I was curious, as the remote parts of Russia had never cursed me with a six hour travel delay.
“The bus had a flat.”
“Ah, yes. That is quite the delay.” I crossed the room and opened a bottle of brandy from the bar cart.
“Drink?”
He declined and began to somber around the room, curious about the decor.
I watched him as the ice cubes clinked into the low ball. He was tall. Broad shouldered with a jaw that could split stone—just my type. His fedora shadowed the top half of his face. Strange he still wore it inside at such an hour, but I dismissed the thought when his attention came back to me. He smiled again.
I cleared my throat. “How long will you be with us, Mr. Hanna?”
“Oh, not long.” He propped a cheek onto a desk across the room. “I need to be on a train to India by noon.”
“Unfortunate for us.” I took a sip that ended in a puckered smile. He returned it with a beaming one of his own. Those pearly whites warmed my belly more than the brandy.
“Doctor,” he said and took out a small notebook. “Can you tell me what you’re working on?” He clicked the button atop the pen. “All the way out here.”
“Only the discovery of the century, my good man.” I finished off my brandy and went for a refill. “Well, in the world of biology, that is. I, unfortunately, cannot compete with the discovery of radioactivity.”
“That’s a mighty big comparison, Doctor.”
“Please, call me Edgar.” There were those pearly whites, again.
“Sure. What is it that you do, Edgar?”
“I am a biologist. A parasitologist to be more precise.” I took a seat near the bar cart. It was the only seat in the room other than the desk chair. I felt that seat to be more professional than need be, at that hour. “More like the parasitologist. I’m global, you know.”
“I did not.” He rubbed his chin. The sound of his hand rubbing his five o’clock made my toes wiggle with excitement. “That’s fascinating.”
“What’s more fascinating than my reputation is what I’ve found out here.”
“Yes, and what is this significant discovery?”
“Leucochloridium paradoxum.”
He cocked his head. “I’ll need a spelling check on that before I leave, I’m afraid.”
“Yes, of course,” I said and leaned forward. “The green-banded brood sac, in layman’s.”
“Sounds nasty.”
I laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, Roger. You see, this particular parasite begins its life cycle buried in feces.”
Roger stopped writing. “In feces, you say?”
“Yes.” I rimmed the lowball with my thumb. “Bird feces, actually. Finch. The brood sac larvae incubate inside the bird's intestines. Once excreted, the larvae are eaten by snails. The larvae grow inside the snail, replacing one fifth of the snail’s body weight.”
“I’m sorry.” Roger held up a finger. “What do you mean by ‘replaced?’”
His curiosity was attractive. I was obliged to satisfy it. “Well, I mean just that. The parasite buries itself deep within the snail’s body and feeds on certain parts of the snail that are crucial for survival.”
“Such as?” He leaned forward.
“Eyestalks and brains, mostly.”
“Fascinating,” Roger said and leaned back to jot a note.
“I haven't gotten to the good part yet.” I smiled. “Once fully grown, the parasite takes control of the brainless snail and forces it to become prey for the birds. Then the cycle starts over.” I drew a circle in the air with my finger.
Roger stopped writing and looked at me, half his face still shadowed by his hat. “How does it force the snail?”
“Ah, the best part,” I said and finished my last brandy. “Well, the parasite not only feeds on the eyestalks, it replaces them.”
Roger tilted his head again.
“With brood sacs,” I answered before he asked. “Bright green, white, and orange banded sacs of larvae. The sacs pulsate up and down, mimicking the movement and appearance of a caterpillar. The finch’s preferred meal.”
“Good thing the snail no longer has a brain.”
I bit an ice cube. “Oh, the host is fully aware the entire time.”
“Even without a brain?”
“Absolutely. Isn’t nature fascinating?”
“More like terrifying.” He uncrossed his leg and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “Can this parasite infect humans?”
“Oh, yes. Very much so. Which is why we kill each one we study. They’re too dangerous to keep in containment out in the field. Otherwise, the whole lot of us would’ve been infected by now.” I chuckled. “We would be driven outdoors, like biological vehicles, to wait for the birds to pluck out our eyes and feed on the little buggers. Could you imagine the pickle we’d be in then?”
I stood and returned to the bar cart. Roger’s shadow crept across the wall in my peripheral vision. “Change your mind about that drink?”
“No.” His hand squeezed my arm. He spun me around.
“If I’d have known this was on your mind, we could’ve saved the lecture until after,” I said.
My nose found itself in the opening of his shirt, and his musk danced into my nostrils.
His hand pulled my chin upward. Our lips locked. They were warm. He tickled my lips with the tip of his tongue.
I was eager to accept.
Roger's tongue entered my mouth fast and deep. I swallowed and pulled away.
“Oh, my,” I said, and let out a tiny cough.
“When you write your paper on the parasite,” Roger put a hand on each of my arms, “say it cannot be ingested by humans.”
I laughed at the absurdity of the request. “What?”
His hands squeezed my arms, with the strength of Hercules. “What do you mean?"
“You’re going to tell the world the parasite is not a danger to humans.”
I looked into his eyes. They were transparent, and stuffed with pulsating green, white and orange bands that pumped back-and-forth in a linear motion. The grotesque twin horrors seemed to turn my legs to stone, and I froze in place.
“We’ve traveled a great distance to this planet. You’re going to help us conquer it.”
I felt a tickle in my throat. Then a sting.
THE END
Squirrel Cakes
by Layton Smith
Layton Smith lives in the suburbs with his beautiful girlfriend and floofy dog. He enjoys chess, electronics repair, and shouting at birds.
Aren’t children wonderful? Their gullibility and fragility remind me just how tentative life can be. Their guileless smiles and unrestrained laughter transport me back to my own childhood, filled with endless summers spent exploring the woods around my home—a time when everything felt new, and adventures awaited in every glen. Truly, children are a blessing.
One day, two kids—maybe five and seven—approached my door. The poor souls! They claimed their father, a lumberjack, had abandoned them in the woods. Cold and hungry, they approached my house. It looked to their simple gazes to be made of candy and sweet bread.
They must have been very lost indeed to end up at my door. Have the elders forgotten that I am out here? Do they no longer tell my stories around the fire? No matter now, the children are here and there is work to be done.
“I can see you are hungry, but we can’t eat my house because then I would have nowhere to live! But I know a recipe for a special treat called squirrel cakes. Do you kids know what squirrels like to eat?”
“Acorns!” they exclaimed. I patted their heads, praising their cleverness.
“Now go find a big oak tree and bring me back some acorns so I can make you a special treat.”
With a full heart and a twinkle in my eye, I prepared for their return. Once we gathered all the ingredients, we ground the acorns and drizzled the meal with honey. We molded the meal into cakes and waited for them to dry near the fire. The younger one shaped her cakes like little squirrel tails, and I complimented her creativity.
As they savored their cakes, their laughter filled the room, a sweet melody in the evening’s quiet. They offered to share their cakes with me. Delighting in their innocent joy, I replied with a hearty chuckle, “No, squirrel cakes are only for children.”
I made a pallet in front of the fire and watched them drift peacefully off to sleep. But as the night wore on, their coughs grew harsher, mingling with retching sounds that echoed in the stillness. Blood trickled from the little one’s chin, pooling on the floor.
I stroked their backs and said, “There there, my little squirrels. It will all be over soon. Try and get some rest.”
By dawn, the children lay silent, their breathing stilled, their bodies pale and motionless. I sat in my chair, gazing at them, their once-vibrant faces now serene.
Sunlight filtered through the window, casting a warm glow over their still forms. A hunger rose within me, a yearning I could no longer ignore. They had brought such joy and magic into my home, and now they lay before me, still and beautiful.
I admired my windfall with a full heart. I will eat and return to some semblance of my former self. No longer waiting for prey to blunder into my web. Soon I will go out and hunt.
THE END
Under the Basement Stairs
by Claire Jennings
Claire Jennings writes urban fantasy, magic realism, and suspense/mystery to create worlds where despite bumps, bruises, and injuries the protagonist overcomes by employing any methods at their disposal. Her other life includes working as a mental health therapist and, with her husband, wrangling multiple rescued dogs and cats. (The four-legged family members always win).
Amber rubbed her hands together, as much in glee and anticipation as for warmth. The basement, though only partially finished for Harold’s office and workout equipment, continued to be chilly. Losing the argument about spending extra money to upgrade and enclose the stairs was now in her favor. She would grab his ankles with both hands when Harold came down the steps. She lay prone with her head under the second step from the bottom. Two sofa cushions waited if he fell. She wanted him terrified, not injured.
Harold loved setting traps—as she called them—to scare her. Everything from red liquid in the shower spray to a grotesque hand on the back of her driver’s seat. She couldn’t count the times he’d rigged something to fall on or rise in front of her. She’d even fainted the time he’d rigged arms to grab her as she took out the trash. This time, he’d be the one to come around to her laughter.
Amber huddled under the open wooden steps, curling her toes into her sheepskin bedroom slippers. Did she have time to grab an afghan to cover her legs? Her black pajamas for camouflage seemed a good idea until she’d lain on the concrete floor.
She jerked and hit her forehead on the edge of the step at creaking in the kitchen. Just the stupid floor settling under the new stove and refrigerator. She’d won that argument over Harold’s protests that he now wanted to move. The house creeped him out. Something had entered. He was nuts, after all the expense of remodeling. His obsessions with creepy video games and horror movies had contaminated his imagination.
Though it was bizarre, he only felt safe in the basement. The danger in basements was a primary trope in horror movies. The only time he went upstairs was to sleep in their bedroom. She should have never agreed to a bathroom down here. After he came home tonight, the basement would no longer be his haven. A giggle escaped.
She gulped back her amusement at the sound of objects dropping in the foyer. Jesus, would he ever use the two heavy-duty hooks on the wall for his backpack and bicycle helmet? She’d parked her car two streets behind theirs so he wouldn’t call out or look for her.
Why hadn’t she heard the heavy front door close or his footsteps? Harold’s heavy tread could wake the dead six feet underground. More creaks and squeaks. How he had gotten to the kitchen?
Finally, the door to the basement opened. But no light? Had he realized her plan and was going to scare her? No, no way. She was terrible at practical jokes. Tonight had taken her months to come up with.
The first step on the basement stairs, then the second, creaked. Only eight more. Amber shivered with the thrill of anticipation. Wait? Why wasn’t he moving down?
No, another step creaked. She could see his shadow from the hallway light. Strange, how thin his shadow was.
Amber readied her hands into a semblance of two open hawk claws. The darkness of one ankle on the step in front of her eyes, then the other. With a guttural cry, Amber gripped both of his ankles.
The flesh and bone within her grasp transformed into moist putty.
She screamed as the figure melted through the steps oozing over her. She thrashed to escape, but the narrow space and support beams trapped her.
“Harold!” Amber gasped for air. “Get this off me!” Harold horribly turned her terrifying surprise back on her. How had he known her plan? How? Amber gagged at the rotted sludge enveloping her. “Harold!”
“Amber! Where are you?” The front door slammed. Heavy running overhead.
Something hissed, then in a heavy moan whispered, “You should have listened to Harold. He knows horror.”
In The Hollow Black
by Katrina Schroeder
Katrina Schroeder is a dedicated book coach, editor, and (ghost)writer. She's not only the Founder of The Fiction Lab, she’s also an editor for Luna Station Quarterly, and has a Certification in Editing from ACES/Poynter. She's published a handful of short stories and ghostwritten several fantasy and novels.
Nell wakes with a gasp. The air is thin but the weight of it crushes her chest. I can’t breathe. Darkness squeezes her and she scrambles to escape. I can’t get up. I can’t breathe and I can’t get up. She shoves her feet and throws her hands out, only to slam into a barrier. Her head bangs against a wall. Lightning splashes across her vision and she yelps.
Panic tightens around her throat and she claws at the invisible wall. She can’t get a full breath and every gulp catches halfway.
Then it all comes back to her. Her life. Her desperation. Molly. She remembers where she is and why she put herself there.
Calm down, Nell. You’ll be fine. She feels the photo shift on her chest and fumbles for it, grasping tightly. Don’t forget why you’re here.
She forces herself to relax. She doesn’t completely, but at least her body settles down. She wonders if this is a bad idea. She hadn’t considered just how… suffocating this would be. But she doesn’t have a choice. Getting on this ship is the only way to save her daughter.
She allows her muscles to settle into her cramped space. Ernie should be by soon to get her out of here. That’s what she paid him for. To smuggle her onto the next ship going off-planet and then get her out when they’ve left orbit. He’d walked her through the whole plan last night as she crawled into the shipping container.
But she hadn’t been able to bring herself to scrunch down so he could close the lid. She stood there, paralyzed. Her legs wouldn’t fold beneath her.
“Hey, love, what’sa matter? You gonna chuck? You should do that before you get in there.”
“No, I just… what if I get caught? What if Molly’s meds aren’t there?” She searched Ernie’s face for reassurance. “You’ve done this before. Do your passengers ever get caught?”
Ernie slipped his hands into his pockets and shuffled closer to her. He moved his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other and cocked his head, peering at her through green eyes.
“Don’t fret, love. We’ve done this a right few times, and I’m still here. And we ain’t never been nicked by the coppers. Just think ‘bout what you’re legging it for. You know that desperation you feel? Keep it tight like that photo you got there, and it’ll see you through. Don’t forget it, yeah?”
Nell straightened and gave Ernie a firm nod. She squeezed a smile and lowered herself down into the box. His face peered over the top as he reached for the lid.
And then he closed her in, sealing the deal.
She heard the click of a lock on the other side and she wondered why that was necessary. But if he’d done this loads of times, then she didn’t feel the need to question his methods. She just wanted to get her daughter’s meds. Nothing was more important than that. She’d given Ernie every last cent she could steal to get a place on this ship. She had no plan once she landed, but she’d figure it out. She always did.
“Shave and a haircut” thumped against the lid. That weirdly calmed her worries. Even if he was a smuggler, Ernie was a charmer. Nell stifled a giggle and gave the two bit response.
In the dark, Nell runs her finger along the photo, tracing the image she knows by heart. Molly crouched, poking a finger at a slug. Mud caked on her face, just like her smirk. She’s the sort of kid who knows she's a handful and does what she can to keep Nell on her toes. A gaunt face flashes across the cheeky smirk.
Nell squeezes her eyes shut, focusing on the picture. Her forehead relaxes again, and she finally notices the hum of the ship against the box. No wonder she fell asleep. The rumble is comforting, even if the box is not.
Something shuffles outside. A crewmember, come to inspect the cargo? Ernie, here to let her out for a bit? She holds her breath. Something slams on the floor next to her container. She hears more thuds murmur through her walls, but eventually the activity dies down. A crewmember then. Where’s Ernie?
What feels like days—or has it only been hours?—pass and there’s still no sign of Ernie. No shave, no haircut. She’s lying in her own urine and vomit, past the point of caring about the smell. Will I die in here? Her throat constricts more and more with each passing moment, and she starts to feel like she’s drowning in darkness.
Shapes and colors appear in the hollow black. She imagines fingers brushing against her skin. She’s gasping for breath, wheezing and sweating. Molly whispers in her ear, begging for help.
Nell claws at her coffin, wood splintering under her fingernails. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t care if she’s caught. She doesn’t care if they send her back. At least she wouldn’t die alone. She could hold Molly while they both suffocated. She kicks at her walls and chokes out a scream. The black clamps onto her lungs, squeezing as though holding on for dear life. She sucks in more and more and moreandmore—
***
Mac slings his bag off his shoulder. Time to get to work. He pulls out his apron, wrapping the string around himself twice before cinching it at his waist. Not that he’s worried about ruining his fine clothes. But they’re his only set, and fine they are not.
He makes his way through the warehouse, inspecting the date chalked hastily on each container. Ships launching from the port a mile out rumble up through his thin soles and rattle his teeth. It seems like there’s always a ship leaving or entering. What he’d give for a chance to take Terry on one of those.
Mac dips down to check the date on the next one. His belt grinds against his hip bones. Nothing here. He leans back up and his spine crackles. “Back-breaking work this is.” He grunts softly and tenderly touches the raw skin at his hip.
He moves on to the next. Mac doesn’t make much, but it’s just enough to feed his boy, and that’s all that matters. No mark on this box. He shuffles on, eyes roaming the outside of the next.
There it is. Today’s date.
He pulls out his key ring and works his way through each key until he finds the right one. The lock clicks open and he pulls his bandana up over his nose before opening the container.
From his bag, he pulls out a saw and scalpel and gets to work, placing each piece one by one in a separate cryobag.
Mac doesn’t get paid until Ernie gets paid, and Terry’s waiting for him at home.
THE END
Obsession: A Dark Love Story
by Ashley Kim
Ashley Kim is a champion for women, blending years of digital marketing experience with her passion for helping female business owners embrace their online presence and thrive. She’s also a fiction writer, crafting stories that celebrate resilience, humor, magic, and the emotional experiences that make up life. When she’s not working or writing, Ashley enjoys time with her family, her fluffy Doxiepoo, and cozy backyard fires, no matter the weather.
It’s kind of ugly. This thing I’m holding. But I want to keep it so badly. I’d kill my own mother just to keep it. Glancing around for threats, I refuse to let it leave my desperate grasp. Euphoria and fear clash under my skin, like churning waves in a storm, turning my organs into a twisted mess.
No one warns you about the obsession that comes with these things. The darkness that starts in your stomach, grows to surround your heart, and settles with awareness behind your eyes.
Watching and waiting.
People come and go. They all smile, clueless and showing too many teeth. They stand around chatting about how this thing I’m holding is a blessing. How it’ll make me want to be a better person.
But no one talks about how it will change me for the worse. No one warned me that holding this thing would cause irreversible damage. That I’d undergo a sudden, drastic metamorphosis.
I sit here, as quietly as possible, hoping no one notices that I now have a terrifying beast living under my skin. My bones ache with knowing that I can easily slip out of my old skin at any moment and transform into every monster these people were raised to fear.
Looking down, I hope my eyes don’t give me away as I feel my face reconstructing from watchful observer to alert predator. I sit in this small room, full of its noises and people, stunned to realize I’d have no remorse destroying this room and everyone in it … destroying full cities if I had to.
I’d do anything it told me to.
It has a physical grip on me … but it feels right. Necessary. Looking down again in awe, I realize there’s only one thing to do now – name her. “Welcome to this world, baby girl.”
THE END
A Wizard’s Revenge
It all begins with an idea.
by G.C. Byrne
G.C. Byrne is an award-winning author and military veteran whose passion for storytelling began in childhood and evolved from hobby to career. He brings a unique blend of life experience and imagination to every story he writes. Byrne is based in Texas with his wife, Rachel, and two dogs, Hazel and Reggie, where he continues to craft stories that captivate readers throughout this dimension.
Vengeance is best served without mercy.
Solara remembered her fallen master’s last words as she watched her killer dismount his horse. The stable boy rushed to lead the horse, and Solara caught a glimpse of a shiny gold object under the killer’s cloak as he handed the reins to the boy. It was Eclipsa, Solara’s enchanted scepter.
A fire ignited inside Solara. He must have stolen it when he killed…
“Vexor,” she called out.
The man stopped in the muddy street. “Leave this place, girl,” he said. “You’ll only find death here.”
“Then I’ll give the bards something worthy of singing.” Solara extended a cupped hand, pointed at Vexor’s back. A ball of glowing green energy emerged inside her fingers and shot from her palm.
Vexor turned, pulled the scepter from his belt, and deflected the green ball. He countered with an orange ball of energy that Solara dodged, and a kick to the stomach that she did not.
Solara rolled to her left to evade Vexor’s next attack. She entangled her legs between his own and brought him to the ground. The two grappled in the muck until Solara mounted Vexor.
She saw an opening and snatched a dagger from her boot. This is it, she thought, I’m going to kill you now, you bastard. She raised it high and brought it down with all her strength. Vexor blasted Solara in the chest with his orange energy, before her blade made contact. She somersaulted twice and came to a hard stop, face down. She remembered being kicked by a horse, as a child, and related the impact to that memory. The air left her body.
On his feet, Vexor watched Solara squirm in pain. “I know you,” he said. “I know who you really are. And this —” Vexor held Eclipsa before Solara, and displayed it as if he were a child showing a prized toy to a friend for the first time. The gold shimmered and the red gem shone a bright blood red in the setting sun’s rays. “This is not meant for you. Your master should have warned you of its power.”
He stood over her and raised Eclipsa to the sky. “And who else can wield it.” The red gem that topped Eclipsa’s shaft shined bright, and it summoned a golden bolt of energy from the clouds above. Vexor pointed Eclipsa at Solara and the bolt struck with a boom.
The energy crackled through every fiber of her body and exited into the earth surrounding her fetal form. She cried out in agony.
Vexor hit her with another bolt.
Solara rolled onto her stomach and bent her knee to stand. Vexor kicked her from behind, knocking her over. She rolled onto her back.
Vexor raised Eclipsa once again with both hands. He didn’t summon a bolt. Just old-fashioned barbarism.
Solara opened her eyes to witness her fate. The sight of her family’s treasured enchanted scepter poised to end her ignited her instincts, and she kicked Vexor’s feet from underneath him before he could complete the motion.
Vexor’s back hit the muck. He unsheathed a small dagger with his off-hand and lunged at Solara, prone beside him.
She rolled out of the dagger’s path. The blade buried itself into the mud. She kicked Vexor in the face, giving her a moment to make it to her feet. Solara cupped two hands and conjured a green ball in each. She merged them and hurled them at Vexor.
The green ball slammed into Vexor’s chest, sending his body sliding. Vexor heard his opponent begin to yell as he made it to a knee.
Solara flexed her body and sent a wave of green energy throughout her muscles, healing the damage caused by Eclipsa’s magic. “I will have what is rightfully mine,” Solara said, sending another green ball at Vexor, which he deflected with Eclipsa.
Vexor countered with more orange energy that Solara dodged and deflected as she closed the distance. They each exchanged blows of magic and flesh until Vexor sent Solara through a small wooden house.
She stood, shaking off her daze, and ran around the house to catch Vexor off guard, peeking into her entrance hole. She blasted him with green energy.
He tumbled until a cart full of wheat stomped him.
Solara staggered to Vexor’s limp body. She kicked something covered in mud. It was her dagger. She picked it up and walked to her master’s killer. She stood over him, looking at the unconscious scum who ruined her life and realized she didn’t give a flying fuck if he was awake or not when she killed him.
Solara gripped the dagger, brought it over her shoulder, and jerked downward.
Vexor raised Eclipsa and blasted Solara away from him. “Lessons not learned,” he said.
Solara turned onto her back to see Vexor already on his feet. He raised Eclipsa to the sky, and a golden pain enveloped her body.
He hit her again. And again. Then once more.
Solara lay in a pit of dried, crusty earth. Golden smoke rose from her convulsing body. She extended her left arm in an attempt to conjure magic.
“A futile action,” Vexor said, as a tiny green sphere emerged in Solara’s palm. He summoned another golden bolt.
Solara thrashed side to side as the magic scorched its way into her body. Her agonizing cry jolted the nearby livestock as tendons seared off her bones.
The bolt dissipated. Vexor took in the blistered, swollen woman at his feet. Shaking his head, he knelt by her shoulder and poked her bright red, inflamed arm with a finger. Her skin burst open when he applied pressure. She yelped as white and clear fluids seeped out from the wound. “You seem to be in great pain,” he said and clicked his tongue. “I told you to leave this place, but you didn’t listen to reason. Just like your master when my father told her of Eclipsa’s true power.”
Solara noticed a small dagger tucked into Vexor’s boot. Immense pain engulfed her body as she pulled her fingers from the charred earth. Blood leaked out from her gritted teeth as she used every last bit of strength to bend her elbow. Can… still…
“She killed him.” Vexor’s lips trembled with hate. “I watched from the pigsty, hidden from view, as she pried it from his dead hand.”
Solara’s pinky made contact with the dagger’s pommel. If only… fight.
“Now, you’ll see the face of vengeance…” Vexor slapped Solara’s hand away from his dagger. “Witch!”
A golden bolt immediately struck Solara. Then another. And another. And another.
Vexor continued to call down Eclipsa’s magic until Solara’s screaming morphed into gurgles, and her violent squirms were reduced to faint twitches. He took in what was once a formidable opponent, but only saw a helpless girl struggling to find her last breath. He called down the magic without mercy one more time.
The world froze, as if time itself fled from its post. A voice, in pain, bellowed from the heavens. “Nooo!”
“Why’d you pause it?” Johnny said. “I’m about to win.”
Johnny’s younger brother, Tommy, sat beside him. Tommy’s face was red, and he gripped the controller so hard his hands trembled.
“Because you always do this,” Tommy yelled. He threw the controller down. It bounced off the carpet and landed near their father’s recliner. “You always win. I don’t like it.”
“Well, get better. That’s what I did.”
“You cheat! You’re a cheater!” Tommy jumped off the couch and stomped into the kitchen, his bare feet slapping the floor.
Johnny sat on the couch, dumbfounded by his brother’s reaction. What a baby, he thought. I never reacted like that with my friends when I lost.
Johnny thought more about that concept and realized his brother was much younger than he was when he began playing Magic Combat. Johnny, being the oldest, also never had an older sibling who beat him into a fit, like the one he’d just seen.
Then Johnny had a thought.
He walked into the kitchen. Tommy was facing a wall with his arms crossed. Tommy saw Johnny and turned the opposite direction, using his whole body.
Johnny smiled. “You’re really mad at me, aren’t you?”
“You cheat,” Tommy said, still facing the wall.
Johnny opened the refrigerator and took two cookies from a container. He closed the fridge and moved the cookie into Tommy’s vision, over his shoulder.
“No,” Tommy said.
“Come on.”
“No.” Tommy stomped his foot.
“What if I show you some of my moves?”
Tommy turned around, smiling from ear to ear. “You’ll show me how to beat you?”
“Sure.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah,” Johnny said, offering the cookie again. “I promise.”
Tommy grabbed the cookie and took a large bite. The boys grinned at each other and raced to the couch for a rematch.
THE END