By Evelyn Wang
Evelyn is an editorial intern for the as-yet unpublished issue 6 of Coilhouse magazine.
Read by Paul Jenkins & Eve Upton.
“Creatures of dusk, creatures of dank and dark and dregs of mealy meaty toxins, we sit here in the dust and the damp, in the many shadowy shadows that lurk like pockets. Creeping, slithering, longer and lengthier the shadows grow, into our kingdom of shit and mildew. Nighttime, yes, and we stumble, tumble, unmoving, into the moonlight. Moon, moon. Renders us ghostly little babies, and that we are, nothing but stupid putrid babies, only living, always dying unmentionable deaths, drowning constantly in our own little babies.
We grow, we grow, crop up, pop down, we, we, creatures of grandmamma-secrets and impish delights. A carpet of heads, unfurling to tasty death and hasty birth. Food between our toes and drink from the cracked pipes, bloody rusty nourishment and filthy sustenance, our constant diet, our home.”
Two versions are available below – the original and then the alternate audio take for those who may be listening under less than optimum circumstances. Content is exactly the same.
By John Jasper Owens
Nossa Morte seems to no longer be online, but another of John’s stories can be found in DAY TERRORS at Amazon.com
Read by George Hrab
“It came in the mail, a little package like Netflix uses, but white cardboard. Grass stain on the back along with a deep scratch, the address handwritten and smudged, like it had been handed off in the rain. No return address, postmarked Maine.
A DVD. No note, no explanation. A hand-written label read “Girls Gone Insane 16” in blocky felt-tip writing.”
By Sandra M. Odell
Read by Tina Connolly
“Mandy Adams noticed her face peeling off while coloring her hair Monday evening. She leaned over the sink for a closer look at the small flap of skin on the upper right corner of her forehead. She slipped off one of the plastic gloves and gingerly touched it with the tip of a finger; it was thicker than she expected, almost rubbery. Surprisingly, touching it didn’t hurt; in fact, there was no sensation at all.
Mandy carefully took hold of the errant skin between her thumb and index finger and gave a slight tug. It pulled away enough to reveal a hard off-white surface below the edge of her hairline, smooth and cool to the touch like plastic. No blood, no viscera; the revealed underside was the fresh pink of new skin. “What the hell. . .?”
Three Flash Fictions of Still-Lives, Voyeurism and Exhibitions
(a regular “Night Gallery”, if you will…)
By Kirsty Logan
who is also co-editor of Fractured West.
Narrated by Rick Stringer of VARIANT FREQUENCIES.
“There was only one inner door, so the hunter opened it. He held his candle at arm’s length, but still could see nothing more than the foot of an ocean-sized bed. The hunter crawled across its length, disregarding the brief waft of mold from the blankets. He placed the candlestick on the squat table beside the bed and pulled the covers up over his body.”
WHAT MAKES YOU TICK?
By David Steffen
who founded and co-edits DIABOLICAL PLOTS. The text version of this story can be found at Brain Harvest.
Narrated by W. Ralph Walters of FREQUENCY OF FEAR.
“…they bring their straps and their knives and explore the frontiers of my body. They will find nothing.”
By Caroline Yoachim
This story appeared originally in Issue #42 of Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine.
Narrated by Mur Lafferty who can also be found at The Murverse.
“‘Didn’t take long to find where it was coming from, and it was a bad thing. I wasn’t the only dead girl in the pageant. The new girl, the new dead girl, she was competition.”