Posts Tagged ‘Horror’
by Ivor W. Hartmann
John James Rote was a forgettable, quiet man. Later, when people had occasion to talk about him, at the very least they could all agree on that. He was the kind of man that was never, affectionately or otherwise, nicknamed. As a schoolchild, he was the one they always put in the outfield, or on the far boundary. There he would idle away the game by staring at passing clouds, or watching the progress of a nearby ants’ nest. His grades were never bad but never great either.. |
 From Issue 12 (August 2011) |
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by Michael John Grist
The Sky Painter lived on the mountain and painted the sky. He painted it blue for blue skies, and white and grey for clouds. At night he painted it black, with white for all the stars. When the sun rose he dashed its arcing yellow lines across the heavens, and as it sank he brushed it orange and gold over the horizon. |
 From Issue 11 (July
2011) |
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Posted in Fiction | 
Tags: Dark Fantasy, Fiction, Horror, Issue 11, Michael John Grist | 
2 Comments »
by Michael Bailey
She had saved his eyes for last. A glimpse of their emptiness before inverting the skin, filling his insides, and stitching together the open gap between his legs. As if confused about why Sally insisted on poking a needle through his hollow head, the incomplete stuffed bear twisted in her hands. Aren’t you finished with me yet? Sunlight from the morning sky beamed through the blinds in parallel rays; dancing life reflected on its button eyes. |
From Issue 11 (July
2011) |
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By Ace Cornelius
He looked away at the cliff. The radiation from the cliffs was starting to warm the back of my neck, so I turned to them, and looked for the way I came down, an instinctive look to find the path down, to escape if necessary. There was no danger here, but I felt a significant threat, maybe some creature might lurch out of the sea. I took a step back. “These cliffs are almost high enough to be impressive,” Raiken spoke without smiling, and this was ominous. “I do like that point. I feel that something could gather speed on the flat table top.” This statement seemed to cancel out his earlier concern, and he smiled again, that broad smile. Then he grew serious again. “The goats could gallop there.” He turned again and smiled. It was the smile that had endeared him to his fellow boys and teachers all those years ago. The shock of black hair was gone. Mostly grey, not much of it left. But the smile was still there and it still seemed to work. “Look now,” he said his smile widening to wonderment. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Ace Cornelius, Fiction, Hendrik Gericke, Horror, SW Issue 10 | 2 Comments »
by William Meikle and Graeme Hurry
Lucy had decided to tell me how Dad died. The train was full, so full that although we were travelling first class, we were sharing the compartment with a horde of others - students, squaddies and oilmen, all of them drunk, half drunk or intending to get that way. “Nobody knows how it happened,” she said. She leaned over the table towards me. “There was a board meeting - dad was submitting proposals for a wholesale modernisation of the farm.” I was surprised to see tears in my sister’s eyes. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Fiction, Graeme Hurry, Horror, Joe Doe, SW Issue 10, William Meikle | Comments Closed
By A. Roberts
He heard the shells coming, could almost feel them rumbling through the sky, like air-borne express trains, and he knew that when they landed, ton upon ton of earth, men and weaponry would again be flung as much as fifty paces into the air. “Shells incoming,” someone screamed, as though three years of war had left the few old soldiers in any doubt as to just what was incoming. Men began diving into prepared holes in the ground, while others sought refuge in the remains of buildings standing like rotten, broken teeth on the remains of the only paved road the town had once enjoyed. On the outskirts of the town, someone began hitting the horn of a heavy-duty vehicle, its blast ending only with the explosions of the first shells. |
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By Sean & Craig Davis
Billy tried to lick the stinging ache from his fingers. His mind struggled to remember why they hurt. His thoughts wandered with the woody breeze running through his hair and damp earth cooling his feet. He understood one thing: he was free. He was searching for something, but just what kept sinking back into the murky depths of his mind. He sniffed the air and then gouged his fingers into the ridged bark of a tree in frustration. Something rumbled ahead. He pushed through leafy branches to a clearing where a red, metal box rolled to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Two figures got out and he hid behind a tree to listen. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Craig Davis, Fiction, Horror, Phadder's Sins, Sean Davis, SW Issue 10, Vincent Sammy | Comments Closed
By Abigail Godsell
Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour. His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Abi Godsell, Fiction, Horror, SW Issue 10, Vincent Sammy | Comments Closed
by Paula R Stiles
Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour. His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Fiction, Horror, Paula R Stiles, Pierre Smit, SF, SW Issue 10 | Comments Closed
By Brett Venter
She lay dreaming, drifting on an ever-shifting ocean of information. Everything that ever was and ever would be was hers to examine and elevate or deride as she saw fit. Nothing could escape her grasp, even in slumber. Microseconds were as eternity in the formless world wherein she ruled without permission. Existing as she did in a mental realm, she watched, always watched. She learned. &arial was the Virgin Mary, Jezebel, the whore riding to Armageddon on the back of the nine-headed beast. She was limited only by the minds of those who worshipped, believed. She was the Alpha and Omega of the wire, the goddess whose favour was all. |
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Posted in Fiction | Tags: Brett Venter, Fiction, Horror, Pierre Smit, SF, SW Issue 10 | Comments Closed