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  Wanda lay next to the dumpster in the alley, clothes torn to shreds, and cuts and bruises visible all over her body.

  Detective Kershaw stood before her, peering solemnly down at her corpse.

  “What do we know?” he asked, turning to his partner.

  “She was raped multiple times, and then strangled,” said Detective Xolton. “Time of death is late last night. Figure she was dumped here just before dawn. No identification.”

  “Her name’s Wanda.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  “She was a winner at the auction yesterday. Actually bid on me, too. We need to find bachelor number four.”

  UMAIR MIRXA lives in Karachi, Pakistan. His first published story, ‘Awareness’, appeared on Spillwords Press. He has also had stories accepted for anthologies from Zombie Pirate Publishing, Blood Song Books, Fantasia Divinity Magazine and Publishing, and Iron Faerie Publishing. He is a massive J.R.R. Tolkien fan, and loves everything to do with fantasy and mythology. He enjoys football, history, music, movies, TV shows, and comic books, and wishes with all his heart that dragons were real.

  Website: www.umairmirxa.com

  Facebook: UMirxa12

  The Hook Up

  by Amber M. Simpson

  I slip it in her drink when she goes to the bathroom. She comes back and downs it then leans against me, rubs my thigh. I check my watch.

  “Wanna take me home?” she slurs in my ear, breasts dangerously close to popping out of her dress.

  Why, yes. Yes, I do.

  Outside, I lead her to my van where she snorts and calls me a soccer mom before passing out in my arms. I lay her inside on the pre-laid tarp, next to my bag of surgical tools.

  A healthy kidney goes for over 120 grand these days.

  Cha-ching!

  AMBER M. SIMPSON is a chronic nighttime writer with a penchant for dark fiction and fantasy. When she’s not editing for Fantasia Divinity Magazine, she divides her creative time (when she’s not procrastinating) between writing a mystery/horror novel, working on a medieval fantasy series, and coming up with new ideas for short stories. Above all, she enjoys being a mom to her two greatest creations, Max and Liam, who keep her feet on the ground even while her head is in the clouds.

  Website: ambermsimpson.com

  Footprints in the Snow

  by Sinister Sweetheart

  “Annie, it’s time for breakfast! It snowed a lot last night!” Grace called down the hall. She received no response.

  Annoyed, Grace took the twelve steps to her daughter’s room. The door swung open to reveal an empty room. Annie’s favourite teddy bear lay shredded at the foot of her unkempt bed.

  Grace’s scream silenced the singing birds; they scattered upon the impact of the sound waves. Morning sunlight glinted off of the freshly broken glass of Annie’s window.

  The young mother ran to the windowsill, hoping to see where she’d gone. But there were no footprints in the snow.

  SINCE Sinister Sweetheart made her first post to a popular Internet forum, she’s taken the horror community by storm. Her ability to create, terrify, and drive home her stories is insurmountable. Sinister Sweetheart’s published works can be found in multiple anthologies for all to read, but be forewarned, if you do... you may want to call your therapist after, her stories are terrifying, disturbing and devilishly unsettling. She is not only a fright visually, but also has a creepy tentacle in horror podcasting as well. Sinister Sweetheart writes, voice acts and is the media director of the Scarecrow Tales podcast.

  Website: Sinistersweetheart.wixsite.com/sinistersweetheart

  Facebook: NMBrownStories

  Stalker

  by A.R. Dean

  Make a list. Check it thrice. Make her crazy. Don’t need a gun or bomb.

  Mailings that make her blush. Sugar that leads bugs to her house. Rotting presents in her car; that smell will never come out. Mothballs in the gas tank and flat tires before work. Toilet paper in her tree and her dead dog in the backyard.

  I’m teaching her a lesson for she has done me wrong. She can’t see me watching her. She doesn’t know my name, but what she did to me can’t be erased. If all goes well, she’ll kill herself tomorrow night.

  A.R. DEAN is a dark and twisted soul. Dean has spent their whole life spreading fear with the tales from their head. Best known for stories that terrify and show the evilest side of human nature. So, look for Dean haunting your local cemetery or under your bed, because they’re here to spread the fear. Turn off your lights and enjoy a scare. Keep a lookout for more stories from this master of terror.

  Facebook: ghoul.demon.orghost.a.r.dean

  Stockholm

  by Archit Joshi

  The two men jostled her from her room. Today it wasn’t for food.

  Fragmented conversation reached her as they pushed her into another room towards Victor, their leader.

  “...proof she’s unharmed...”

  Victor yanked her to a laptop screen, bringing forth two almost forgotten faces.

  The screen erupted with concerned questions, amidst shaky sobs.

  Their voices reminded Jolene of a helpless world, in which girls leered at your freckles and boys violated you in deserted dormitories. Her parents, notably absent in needful times.

  Disgusted, Jolene swept the laptop away, hugged Victor tight. Darling Victor, big and strong.

  She’d found another home.

  ARCHIT JOSHI is a published short-story author who loves writing character-driven stories. Besides writing, he studies Computer Science and occasionally lends his hand to Social Services. He has also flirted with Entrepreneurship and had been running a startup in the food sector, before deciding to give his passion for writing a professional platform. Currently, Archit is studying for a Masters degree in Computers along with his pursuit of Creative Writing.

  Facebook: authorarchitjoshi

  Instagram: @architrjoshi

  Boiled

  by Abi Linhardt

  It wasn’t supposed to be a cult. It was supposed to be a way of life, to heal and help those who had experienced horror in their lives. The community had been welcoming. But after witnessing what the founder was doing to those scared girls, she had known she had to leave.

  The police found her tripping down the dirt road in the mist, her eyes rolling and mouthing lolling open, eyes white. She was naked, her skin partially flayed. There was a hole about the size of a drill bit in her forehead. Burn marks splashed down her face.

  ABI LINHARDT has been a gamer all her life but is a teacher at heart. When she is not writing, you can find her slaying enemies online or teaching in a college classroom. She has published works of fiction, poetry, college essays, and even won two literary awards for her short stories in science fiction and horror. Abi lives and writes in the grey world of northern Ohio.

  Somebody Else’s Problem

  by Stuart Conover

  Caspian’s heart pounded as he ran through the darkness.

  The relic was in his hands.

  It would grant power to the right people.

  For the right price at least.

  As long as he could get away, he’d be rich enough to buy anything.

  An island kingdom to call his own.

  He just needed to run.

  The Vestad were on his heels.

  They wanted it back.

  It wouldn’t take long now.

  He was close to the water.

  They couldn’t survive in it.

  Caspian just needed to reach his boat.

  Once he reached the mainland, the Vestad would be his buyer’s problem.

  STUART CONOVER is a father, husband, rescue dog owner, published author, blogger, journalist, horror enthusiast, comic book geek, science fiction junkie, and IT professional. With all of that to cram in daily, we have no idea if or when he sleeps or how he gets writing done! (We suspect it has to do with having evil clones.) Stuart is a Chicago native and runs the author resource Horror Tree.


  What I Coulda

  by Alexander Pyles

  I walked out of the club with only one glance back.

  A man or was it a woman? They were dressed in long baggy clothes. Not totally out of place, but something was off. Maybe it was the hollowed out look they gave, or the slight limp as they walked.

  Either way, a nagging feeling pricked my thoughts. I should have gone back. My intuition was clear, but I ignored it in the haze of alcohol and cigarette buzz.

  My regret crashed down when I stepped back into the club. My foot splashed in a pool of blood, causing ripples.

  ALEXANDER PYLES resides in IL with his wife and children. He holds an MA in Philosophy and an MFA in Writing Popular Fiction. His short story chapbook titled, “Milo (01001101 01101001 01101100 01101111),” from Radix Media, is due out fall 2019. His other short fiction has appeared on 101fiction.org, River and South Review, and other venues.

  Website: www.pylesofbooks.com

  Twitter: @Pylesofbooks

  Fraud

  by Jefferson Retallack

  Do they know what I did? I try to reign in my eyes. I try to stop them from darting between the cashier to the security guard.

  Hurry up. Hurry up. James will be worried sick by now. I shouldn’t have left him at home. Why are there so many people buying groceries this time of night anyway?

  I can’t get her face out of my head. That poor old lady. She wasn’t hurt, but you wouldn’t believe it looking at her.

  “That comes to ninety-three dollars.”

  Perfect. I swipe her credit card.

  Declined.

  The guard gets called over.

  Shit.

  JEFFERSON RETALLACK is an Australian writer of speculative fiction. He is based in Adelaide. His work draws influence from linguistic science fiction, the new weird and Australia’s big things. Outside of the literary world, he skateboards on the weekends and spends afternoons on the beach with his partner, their son, and their Pomeranian, Tofu.

  Website: jwretallack.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @JWRetallack

  Burglary Versus Robbery

  by Jefferson Retallack

  “Rebecca can’t babysit.” She’s not coming home this time. “I won’t be long.” I wish that were true. Mostly I wish James didn’t look so frightened.

  Robbed. By my own brother. Are my kids invisible to him? Well, the one that’s left.

  Last time I let that junkie sweet talk me into putting him up.

  I put on my biggest coat. Should be able to pocket some cheese, chocolates, maybe a carton of UHT.

  Some old bird waits at the station. Dumb move this time of night.

  Her family will help her. Right?

  I don’t hurt her. She screams anyway.

  JEFFERSON RETALLACK is an Australian writer of speculative fiction. He is based in Adelaide. His work draws influence from linguistic science fiction, the new weird and Australia’s big things. Outside of the literary world, he skateboards on the weekends and spends afternoons on the beach with his partner, their son, and their Pomeranian, Tofu.

  Website: jwretallack.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @JWRetallack

  Ice

  by Jefferson Retallack

  Epidemic, my arse. This is the only shit that makes sense of the world.

  Who says this shit’s so bad anyway, my parole officer? The pigs? I ain’t about to start listening to them.

  Nothing else will make me feel good tonight. Nothing.

  Rebecca. My beautiful baby niece. Kevin would kill me if he knew.

  Fuck him. She’s not even getting it from me no more.

  It’s kicking in. I feel better. But I can still see that fucking dog’s head.

  My psych’s not gonna believe it. I wonder what he’ll recommend when I tell him?

  Not this.

  Fuck him.

  JEFFERSON RETALLACK is an Australian writer of speculative fiction. He is based in Adelaide. His work draws influence from linguistic science fiction, the new weird and Australia’s big things. Outside of the literary world, he skateboards on the weekends and spends afternoons on the beach with his partner, their son, and their Pomeranian, Tofu.

  Website: jwretallack.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @JWRetallack

  My Hands are Like Lightning

  by Jefferson Retallack

  “She’s had too much.”

  “No, she hasn’t. There’s no such thing.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  I’m fine. The walls can eat shit.

  Woof.

  Fucking dog. My hands are like lightning as they crumble the drywall.

  “Rebecca. Stop.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  They can all eat shit.

  “Don’t you come at me.”

  “Someone call the police. Or an ambulance.”

  “Hey now. You won’t be welcome if you bring pigs into my house. She’ll be right.”

  Yeah. I’ll be right. At least one of them is making sense. Someone just needs to shut that fucking dog up.

  Woof.

  Shut that fucking dog up.

  “Rebecca?”

  “Nooooooo.”

  JEFFERSON RETALLACK is an Australian writer of speculative fiction. He is based in Adelaide. His work draws influence from linguistic science fiction, the new weird and Australia’s big things. Outside of the literary world, he skateboards on the weekends and spends afternoons on the beach with his partner, their son, and their Pomeranian, Tofu.

  Website: jwretallack.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @JWRetallack

  I Don’t Care If It’s Against the Law to Refuse to Escalate a Call, I’ve Already Passed Call Quality This Month

  by Jefferson Retallack

  It’s four thirty on a Friday. Does this joker think I don’t know that?

  “Swearing won’t help me to help you, sir.”

  I don’t care how much his daughter needs medicine. He should’ve worn a dinger if he couldn’t afford kids.

  Says here he’s only got two anyway. The last lady I spoke with had five, and I helped her out just fine. Manners will get you everywhere with me.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t see a way to make this work for you. You’ll have to call back Monday.”

  “Put me onto ya fuckin’ manager.”

  “She’s gone home.”

  JEFFERSON RETALLACK is an Australian writer of speculative fiction. He is based in Adelaide. His work draws influence from linguistic science fiction, the new weird and Australia’s big things. Outside of the literary world, he skateboards on the weekends and spends afternoons on the beach with his partner, their son, and their Pomeranian, Tofu.

  Website: jwretallack.wordpress.com

  Twitter: @JWRetallack

  Here, There, and Everywhere

  by Michael D. Davis

  This was something decades in the making. A game that was great fun to play and extensively planned. I would snatch one up here or there, stash it for a while, then drop it off in pieces. Some of them I’ve had in my freezers for years, just waiting to be dropped off.

  Little Timmy Doolan I took off the street in seventy-two, had him in my freezer till just last week. I plucked out his pieces and went driving. I left the boy’s arm in Idaho, torso in Mississippi, and I kept the head for my great home state.

  MICHAEL D. DAVIS was born and raised in a small town in Iowa. A high school graduate and avid reader he has aspired to be a writer for years. Having written over thirty short stories, ranging in genre from comedy to horror from flash fiction to novella. He continues in his accursed pursuit of a career in the written word and in his hunt Michael’s love for stories in all genres and mediums will not falter.

  Busted

  by Jonathan Inbody

  The man unbuckled his belt and stepped into the woman’s cramped apartment. She was waiting for him on the bed, with skimpy lingerie on her body and a gun under her pillow. The man leaned down to untie hi
s boots, quickly checking to make sure the pistol in his ankle holster was loaded. Between them sat the leather briefcase, filled with the drugs they had stolen less than an hour ago. It had been a classic double cross, and it was about to be another one.

  Unfortunately, neither of them had any idea that the other was an undercover cop.

  JONATHAN INBODY is a filmmaker, author, and podcaster from Buffalo, New York. He enjoys B-movies, pen and paper RPGs, and New Wave Science Fiction novels. His short story “Dying Feels Like Slowly Sinking” is due to be published in the anthology Deteriorate from Whimsically Dark Publishing. Jon can be heard every other week on his improvisational movie pitch podcast X Meets Y.

  Website: xmeetsy.libsyn.com

  Verdict

  by G. Allen Wilbanks

  August Barron sat at the defendant’s table; his attorney seated to his right. He watched without emotion as the jury returned to their box after deliberation.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Barron. I’m sure you’re about to be a free man. But, even if the unexpected happens, I will file an immediate appeal of the decision.”