Category: Fiction

“The Taste of Other People’s Teeth”

Published in Shadows in the Stacks: A Spirited Giving Charity Anthology by Shortwave Publishing

Edited by James Sabata, Vincent V. Cava, and Jared Sage

Reader Advisory: Foul language, adult content, sexual situations, murder, death

***

Sherman wouldn’t have even looked in the room where they stored dead people’s abandoned belongings if his dentures hadn’t been lost after that month’s Taco Tuesday at Bronze Acres Senior Living Community, where he’d lived for the past nine months.

Forget trying to get another pair out of his insurance company—those bastards wouldn’t give him a free fart from a willing donor’s asshole.

Calling his son to ask for the money would only be a waste of his pre-paid cellular minutes. Robbie’s Facebook profile said he was an “independent men’s fashion consultant,” but Sherman knew that was just a fancy way of saying he’d been fired again, this time from a Men’s Warehouse.

And after being bled dry by this old folks’ “resort-style” community, who could blame him for sneaking out of his room in the middle of the night to check what staff not-so-secretly called “Dead Man’s Dump?” No one. That’s who. Because Wednesday and Thursday had come and gone and he was already sick of reverse-vomiting those disgusting liquid meals they served to the mumbling, piss-pants raisins slumped in their wheelchairs on the first floor.

…

To read more, order Shadows in the Stacks here.

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“Plea from the Ghost Haunting Your One-Bedroom Queens Apartment that You Clean this Place the F*** Up”

Published in Carnage House: a Splatter Friendly Web ‘Zine

***

Hey.

It’s me.

The ghost haunting your one-bedroom Queens apartment.

Yeah, so, I know I usually keep to the hall closet where you store the vacuum you don’t use enough; or to the inside of the walls, where I bang on rusty pipes and make sighing noises; or, that one time, to the medicine cabinet, so that you saw me in the mirror when you got out of the shower and wiped the steam away and screamed and then almost fainted. But I’ve materialized in front of you today for something much more important than parlor tricks, Patricia.

That’s right. Your utter lack of anything close to housekeeping. And I mean like utter lack.

This is a goddamn intervention.

…

To keep reading, visit Carnage House!

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“Becoming”

Published in Descent into Madness: Enter Madness by DriveThru Press

***

They showed up at the beginning of spring, as snow gave way to mud. Angry red patches on her skin that itched and oozed and spread.

Josie was taken to the doctor, given creams and ointments that didn’t work.

“Well how can it heal if you don’t leave it alone?” her mother would admonish, pointing at Josie whatever she held—a steel spoon, a bar of soap, her reading glasses. And whenever she saw Josie’s bloody skin, the patches open and wet, she’d say “God help you; you aren’t helping yourself.”

Her mother and the doctor called them plaques, but Josie knew them for what they were: scales.

What worried Josie most was that she didn’t know what she was turning into: a dragon? That would be okay—she’d fly to her second-grade classroom and blow fire at her teacher, who wrote on Josie’s last report card that she was too often in her own little world. She’d gotten in trouble for it but it made her secretly happy, too: if she had her own world that meant this one, with all of its disappointments, wasn’t hers to stay in.

***

To read more, pick up a copy of Descent into Madness: Enter Madness.

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“The Cliffs at Battery Pointe” (AUDIO)

A cryptid tale read on CREEPY Podcast

***

Now what happened happened a long time ago and I’m only telling you now because your mom told me she knows you played near the cliffs last weekend. I told her to keep you away. I said it’s because the terrain isn’t stable, that the plant life there has shallow roots and you’re liable to tumble right off with nothing to grip onto if you slip near the edge.

The same things I told her when she was a girl, when I wouldn’t let her play near them. I said I’d tan her hide if I found out she was playing there and good thing she believed me because I’da had the switch ready.

And you better not think I wouldn’t raise a hand to you because you’re my only grandson. I’d do it because you’re my only grandson.

And all that stuff about the shifting ground and shallow-root plants is true but it’s not the only reason you’ve got to keep away from there.

Are you listening to me? Put that damn phone down.

I didn’t tell your mom this part. Keep it a secret. She already wants to put me in a home—never mind that I still do just fine, even with your grandpa gone. But she wants to and if she heard this story she’d have me packed up and sent off before the weekend.

So I didn’t tell her because she was a good girl who listened but I’m telling you because you’re a brash, stupid boy.

…

For the rest of the tale, go to CREEPY Podcast; it’s the bonus story alongside “Downpour,” released June 11, 2023.

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WE’RE HERE: THE BEST QUEER SPECULATIVE FICTION 2022 Ft. “Falling to Pieces”

Published by Neon Hemlock Press

***

It was a tiny tear at first—barely noticeable.

Just her left ring finger detaching a bit. No big deal. Leah added a strip of silver duct tape and hid that with a flesh-colored bandage, then she got back to work, answering the phone and greeting customers and hustling hustling hustling at Giovanni’s Ristorante in the city’s second-trendiest neighborhood.

By the next weekend the finger had come clean off, and the other four fingers on that hand were separating too, but Leah fixed it with more duct tape and fancy, elbow-length gloves that she sort of liked. They made her feel elegant, even though she was just handing out menus and wine lists and rolls of polished silverware.

Plus, with her hands covered and especially her left one, random dudes sitting at the bar stopped making bad jokes about how she wasn’t wearing a ring—a precursor, Leah knew, to hitting on her which would never go their way, because all she wanted was for Christine, the bartender with the cropped red hair and capable hands, to notice her.

She willed Christine to look at her in quiet moments, thinking hard at her, feeling harder. But Christine didn’t, or at least not when Leah was looking at her, and the fall months passed and Leah taped her fingers on and brushed lint from her black gloves after rolling silverware, and she looked and she sighed but Christine, whose hands moved like a street magician’s trick in the bar’s recessed lighting, didn’t look back.

#

In January things got worse.

…

To read more, pick up your copy of WE’RE HERE by clicking on this link.

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“We Need To Discuss Agenda Item 6b”

Published in The Crow’s Quill, by Quill & Crow Publishing House, “Tragicomedies” issue

***

Recorded and transcribed by Pam Sanchez, English dept. secretary, August 23, 2023, English Department Faculty Lounge and Meeting Room

Faculty Members Present:

Dr. Wilson (dept. chair, Brit Lit, Shakespearean Lit)

Dr. Lipinski (Arthurian Lit, Chaucer)

Professor Morgan (union rep, American Lit)

Dr. Ahmad (World Lit, Contemporary Drama, Screenwriting)

Professor Romero (Film & Lit, capt. of faculty ultimate frisbee team)

Professor Greene (English Ed, Adolescent Lit)

Professor Kirst (Genre Lit, Digital Writing)

Dr. Steiner (Victorian Lit, Major Authors)

Dr. Saunders (Writing for the Professions, African American Lit)

Four new faculty members (names unknown)

10:02: Meeting opens

Dr. Wilson: Alright, everyone! I hope your summers were enjoyable and you’re revved up for another great semester here at Hepwell! I know we’re all excited about the months of scholarship to come, but let’s settle in so we can get through the agenda before our noon break, when FSA will be providing us with a cheese and fruit platter. Yum! Now, does everyone have a copy? Item one—

Dr. Lipinski: Dr. Wilson, are we really not going to address the folks groaning in the back of the room first? I mean, come on, no one here has failed to—

Dr. Wilson: Of course we will! See line 6b. Let’s go in order though, hmm? Now then, item one please. Old business.

Professor Morgan: I agree with Lipinski; I really think we need—

Dr. Wilson: As I said, in time. Item one. The summer phone-a-thon brought in twelve new English majors and two English Ed majors, so brava, volunteers! You did a wonderful job talking up our programs here at Hepwell! I overheard several of you mentioning our new vending machines, as well as our—

Professor Morgan: Look, Dr. Wilson, I respect procedure, but I think we need to discuss agenda item 6b now.

Dr. Ahmad: Yes! And can we address the smell? At least open a window!

Dr. Wilson: No need to be rude to our newest team members, Dr. Ahmad! Also please remember this room is temperature controlled and we do not have access to the thermostat nor do we have administrative permission to open windows. If necessary, we can discuss asking for those stipulations to change at our next department meeting. For now, breathe shallowly.

[Individuals in back of room groan]

…

To continue reading, open this link and go to page 26!

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SOUL SCREAM Antholozine Ft. “The Quilting Circle of Bygone Gardens”

Published in SOUL SCREAM Antholozine by Seamus & Nunzio Productions

***

Marge scowled across the dining room at her nemesis, Stella Bianchi. Stella sat with four other residents at the corner table, telling some stupid story or other about her dough-faced grandchildren, waving her fat hands to show off the rings her dead husband bought her that probably weren’t real anyway.

Stella made Marge want to puke, strutting around like a has-been prom queen and making eyes at the male nurses. Like they’d ever be interested in hanky-panky with a carcass. No—the next time Stella got nailed, it would be into her coffin.

To keep reading, get a copy of SOUL SCREAM Antholozine!

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THE START Ft. “In Crowd”

Published in Rebellion Lit’s THE START anthology

***

It seemed odd to Marge—a costume party? At their age? But George said no, not costumes—more like ceremonial garb, to ring in the new year. And hadn’t she worn a choir robe each Sunday back at the Presbyterian Church in Boise? Hadn’t George worn his academic regalia at every U of I graduation, and would again, here at Seattle U? He was right, of course. And with the decade about to change over—1960!—what better time to try something different?

“Come on, honey,” he said. “I want us to fit in.”

She wanted that, too—to be invited to potlucks and the coupon club and the garden society. So Marge put on the dark, shapeless frock and half-length veil George had brought home, and he dressed to match—though he wore a robe with a zip front, not a gown, and a mask instead of a veil. To complete her look, Marge painted her lips a deep shade of red and strapped on stiletto heels. If the party theme was “sexy mourner,” she told herself, she’d be dead on.

To read more, get a copy of THE START!

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“Grafting”

A bloody comedy-horror-romance published in miniskirt magazine’s PRIDE issue

***

Janet opened up her flower shop that Saturday like usual.

She had to stick to her schedule—to feel normal, to remind herself that life wasn’t over just because Frank, her husband of 10 years, had told her the night before that he’d kissed Charlene, their across-the-street neighbor with the long legs and long neck and sparkling hazel eyes that were green or brown or golden, depending on the light.

Charlene.

Charlene who watered her roses on Sunday mornings, who always waved or called hello when she noticed Janet watching her from her front porch or the driveway or the bay window that got all that slanting afternoon sunshine.

#

Janet pictured Charlene’s shiny dark hair as she put on her green apron, printed with “Bloomerang: Come on back” in white letters. She pictured Charlene’s crooked lower tooth—two over, left side—as she unlocked the door and flipped the sign to OPEN. Charlene’s perfectly symmetrical ears as she checked the temperature on the walk-in cooler. As she looked over next week’s wholesale order, used the bathroom, made a pot of coffee, images of Charlene’s face and hands and easy smile played through her mind on a loop.

Then Frank’s voice joined the reel like a soundtrack.

Sorry, honey. I kissed Charlene.

Kissed Charlene.

Charlene.

To keep reading, visit miniskirt magazine here.

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“The Reservoir”

Published by Hungry Shadow Press, Deadly Drabble Tuesday

***

Welcome to Deadly Drabble Tuesday from Hungry Shadow Press! In this feature, we look for 100 word stories that pack a lethal punch.

In today’s haunting yarn by Rebecca Cuthbert, kids will be kids, but some mistakes you can’t take back. Enjoy! —Brandon

Everyone used to know enough about the reservoir not to go near it, but that was back when the town had a newspaper and folks had memory enough to keep the drownings in mind—a father and son fishing, a couple on a date, that one policeman. 

…

To read the rest, visit Hungry Shadow Press!

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