She waits, in ambush…
Her DNA matches an amber-enveloped relative, one who drew blood from the Tyrannosaurus Rex.
She is of the Clan Culicidae, razor proboscis, a highlander’s blade.
Sweating, hiding undercover, I fall asleep, exposing an ankle. She launches, a creature from a Bram Stoker novel.
Bloodlust… Ectoparasite prevails.
Paul Hock is an author, illustrator, and storyteller. See more of his writing at paulhock.com.
Clouds bulge grey and spit fat drops into my river, slate-grey in reflection. I relish their wanton lack of care, their wild abandon, their unthinking fall and splash.
Then come the bereft, sad, homeless seeking shelter under my bridge.
I welcome them, my teeth razors, my mouth waiting underwater.
Aisling Green wrote this story.
Her palate was broader than her father’s. On her thirteenth birthday she ate the entire cake. But she’d still not spoken. Too much sky up here?
I led her to the nearest cave and she clattered inside with a thunderous, visceral bellow. I feared it was the sound of hope.
Tamsin and Mark Farley decided to write sequels to each other’s most recent 50-word stories. This is a sequel to Fostering the Minotaur’s Daughter
Awoken to the screams of my neighbors about the monster at the door, their fears for their survival echoing.
I heard his knocking, wanting to join us, his voice not a roar but one pleading.
Opening my door, I found my old friend, Change, and all his wonderful new opportunities.
John Keeley is a New York City native who believes it’s wrong to fear change. It should be embraced for all its hopes.
In the darkness of night, Stan heard a noise in his bedroom closet. He had seen a mouse run across the room a few days before and hoped it was just the mouse he heard. He got out of bed and slowly opened the closet door.
The mouse was dead.
Steve Carr has had short stories published in many publications. His paranormal/horror novel is in serialization on channillo.com. He writes full time.
Wrapped inside a chrysalis of excrement beneath the dry earth she slept away black centuries in a semi-gelatinous state. Gradually an exquisite shape formed inside the foul pupa, regaining consciousness only as vital organs shifted sluggishly, painfully into place.
Soon it would be time to emerge, and she was ravenous.
Sarah has been in love with short stories all her life, but most of her writing energy is focused on her blog.
Joey and Mauler held the handkerchiefs to their faces as the smell of burning flesh seeped into their souls. They chanted the malediction they’d learned from the warlock with muffled voices, hoping they’d remembered it correctly.
That evening, the beast came and corrected them. It breathed in their scent, hungrily.
James Kowalczyk was born and raised in Brooklyn. He now lives in Northern California with his wife, two daughters, and four cats. His work has been published in numerous publications both online and in print. He teaches English at the high school and college level.
The moon had been eaten again.
People glanced through the bullet-proof glass of their homes in the stratosphere, realised the time of the month. None of them worried.
The creature would regurgitate it again soon, bit by bit, its surface shining with saliva.
Perhaps one day it would admit defeat.
William Shaw is a student, blogger, and amateur journalist. He is slightly obsessed with the moon. You can find him on Tumblr, where he writes haiku poetry about Doctor Who.
A loud noise wakes Gary up.
He is knocked unconscious.
He wakes again in a dark room with thick white prison bars on one side. The warm air reeks foully with a rotten stench.
He feels the floor moving, notices its moistness, and realizes the white prison bars are teeth.
Denny E, Marshall has had art, poetry, and fiction published, including cover art for Disturbed Digest
June 2015. See more at dennymarshall.com
Steps creaked. The house was foreboding.
I wouldn’t have come, but my brother said She would meet me here.
As I rubbed the dirt aside to peer in the window, a bloodcurdling screech sounded behind me. Adrenaline shot through me. I jumped and whirled, fist connecting.
My brother lay unmoving.
Trina Krieger is an artist struggling to write her memoir. When the process gets overwhelming, she writes urban fantasy instead.