Duel
Meredith Kinrys
SMACK.
His glove across my face,
His love I may have chased.
The insult is strong, would be wrong to move on so it’s not long
Before we stand back to back, prepare to attack, got to react fast.
To the death, who can say but I pray
if I stay alive I will seize the day.
Dear Mary-Ann,
Light of my life, my enemy’s wife,
I hope you will
Love me still.
Heart be still, on this highest hill.
Beat. Beat. Beat.
We meet, barely stay on my feet
And is it a sin if I win? My head spins, countdown begins—
I grin.
1
2
3
4
5
Heart quickening its pace.
6
7
8
9
10
Two men, face to face
We aim: him high, me ahead.
Both shoot—
he’s dead.
The quicker shot
but me the better shot
Now I’ve got a shot.
Husband gone, not proud of what I’ve done, I come to stand
before Mary-Ann
Confess I killed your man but I plan
To make you my wife, start a new life, no more strife. What do you say?
She looks my way,
Smiles.
Tears in her eyes, feels like a while.
Before she finally says—
“Scum.”
Silhouetted by the sun, raises a gun…
Guess my time has come.
BANG.
Meredith Kinrys is a multidisciplinary artist/writer exploring society, empowerment, and the occasional fairy tale.
Plastic Throat
HJ Dutton
No matter how long they searched, they couldn’t find her. Parents crowded around the slide, the one which, after a few seconds, should have disgorged the girl. Except it hadn’t. For hours parents and police combed the park, a dozen of them clambering through the slide, expecting her to somehow reappear. Her mother screamed. Screamed at the cops. Screamed at everyone. But there was nothing they could do.
Some passersby joined in the search, but one by one they left. Left those who lingered with an empty playground and a breaking mother. A job for the police, not them. Come sundown, the few parents left had gone home. They couldn’t bear to listen to the mother any longer. She cursed them, needing someone, anyone, to blame.
The father still visits the playground. Among staring children he goes, again and again, down the slide. Between plunges, he perches at its mouth and shouts into its plastic throat for whatever took his baby to give her back or goddammit have the decency to take him too. Nothing answers.
HJ Dutton is a PA-based writer featured in Horrific Scribes and the Creepy podcast.
Never Talk to Strangers
Gareth D Jones
“What’s wrong?” asked the tall, strange man.
The little girl looked up from where she sat snivelling beneath an ancient oak. She regarded the man in the way of young children, without fear or prejudice, just accepting him for what he was: a very tall man with a bizarrely twisted face.
“My air-plane,” she pointed.
The man looked up to see a flimsy plastic aircraft tangled in the high branches of the tree. He stretched up to reach it, his body growing taller and taller and becoming unfeasibly thin. His face distorted into an even more grotesque visage. He picked the aeroplane carefully from among the branches and his body recoiled back to its regular size.
“Get away from her!” a panicked voice screamed. He looked round to see the child’s mother running across the park towards them. Sadly he placed the little plane on the ground a couple of feet in front of the girl, stepped back a pace and raised his hands placatingly. He knew it was no use; his kind would never be accepted. As the woman drew closer he bent over, grasped his ankles and launched himself down the gentle slope of the mown field. His body formed into a rigid circle and he rolled swiftly away.
Smiling, the little girl picked up her toy and held it carefully to one side as her mother grabbed her off the ground and held her in a tight embrace.
Gareth is unofficially the second most widely translated SF short story author in the world.
He Surpassed Shakespeare
Brett Abrahamsen
Literary critics have often debated the exact point in history in which the late, great American author Brett Abrahamsen overtook William Shakespeare as the greatest writer in the English language, but most have agreed on a conclusion: it was in 2024, when Abrahamsen wrote a short story entitled “He Surpassed Shakespeare”.
Prior to writing the story, Abrahamsen wasn’t considered an important literary figure. Far from it. He was considered a bizarre and abominable outcast. But “He Surpassed Shakespeare” was such a stunning and magnificent piece that – despite its brevity – a plurality of literary critics agreed that nothing greater could ever be written.
The author has sold dozens of works to numerous publications. He resides in Saratoga Springs, NY.
The Bitter Taste
Eilish Forwells
The demon in my gut is trying to escape.
Its slimy form is creeping up my throat, rocking my uvula and slipping between my teeth. It drags a sour taste along on my tongue, stinging the fat flesh of my cheeks.
I want to release the fiend, but instead I find it with calloused fingers. It bites into my flesh. Pushing through the burn, I shove it back into the cavern of my gut, into its prison where it spits with wrath.
Swallowing my bitter pill, I erase: “You’re a fucking idiot Karen.”
—Eilish Forwells
Submit. Submit. Submit.
J.S. Douglas
If women were built to submit, it wouldn’t feel like being asked to cram my fully grown female body into a tiny teacup. American men wouldn’t be flaying women alive one slice at a time until the maternal mortality rate is worse than that of Turkey. They wouldn’t have to get their pet psychiatrists and investment bros and pastors to go on podcasts to tell women only they can solve men’s problems with what’s in between their legs. They wouldn’t have to give women cutesy titles that say, “Wouldn’t it be easier if you spent all day cooking and popping out children without a thought in your head?” They wouldn’t be stripping us with publicly available AI tools. Forcing us to lie down. Spread wide. Submit. Submit. Submit. It wouldn’t feel like furious hands pressing against soft skin, leaving a trail of bruises.
J.S. Douglas is a speculative fiction author living in the Pacific Northwest.
Three Squares
Chaz Osburn
“This time he’s gone too far!”
“What and who are you talking about, dear?”
“Robert F. Kennedy Jr. You know, the guy in charge of Health and Human Services.”
“Oh no, we’re not going to get into another political debate, are we? I mean, I love you and all that but all you’ve done since January 20th is complain, complain, complain about what’s going on in Washington.”
“I’m not complaining, honey. I’m observing. There is a difference. And as my spouse, you should be supporting me.”
“So, what has you so hot and bothered?”
“It’s this crazy thing he’s trying to get Congress to do.”
“Let’s see, he wants fluoride out of public water systems, he says vaccines cause autism, he’s cut funding for research on mRNA shots, he’s placed limits on who can get the COVID vaccine, he’s fired the director of the CDC, he has new guidelines for children’s vaccines and he’s gotten into a flap about circumcision. Is there another that I missed?”
“Yeah.”
“Tell me.”
“Now he wants Congress to introduce legislation banning round plates!”
“Round plates?”
“Dinner plates.”
“Why?”
“He says Americans should have three square meals a day.”
Chaz Osburn of Traverse City, MI has had two novels and numerous short stories published.
Haunted
E. Florian Gludovacz
“Booh!” yelled the ghost, jumping out at me.
“Booh, yourself,” I replied.
“You are an intruder in my home. I may be dead, but that doesn’t mean I’ll willingly leave this house.”
“Suit yourself,” I shrugged. “I bought this place fair and square and I’m not going anywhere.”
“That’s a bad decision. I swore to haunt this house and haunt it I will. And I’ll haunt you as long as you stay.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m haunted by my bad decisions, my regrets, my insecurities, and my fear of the future. I doubt you can do anything worse to me.”
Florian writes long and short stories, likes cheese, and is a friend to dogs and pandas everywhere. @ndbag.bsky.social