The Stink of Animosity

by Rob E. Boley

“So, what did she do?”

These are the first words the stranger says to you as he takes the bar stool on your right. The hotel lounge has at least two-dozen seats scattered between the bar and four tables, and only half of those seats are filled. Yet he sits next to you. His voice is almost a growl – all gravel and broken glass – too ragged for someone his age.

Judging from his unblemished skin, you guess the stranger is no more than nineteen or twenty. You search your memories, wondering if he’s one of your students at the college. But no, you would remember him. He’s got an unkempt, patchy beard and dirty, long hair. Everything about him says wannabe hippie or beatnik: his worn boots, his thrift store brown leather jacket, and his dirty grey t-shirt. His eyes are wild, like he’s been chewing on a handful of random pills.

“Who? What are you talking about?” you ask, trying to sound abrupt but not aggressive. You’re not looking for a fight. At least, not with him.

“You got the stink of animosity on you, is all. I can smell it; it’s so strong. It’s not hard to see that you’re pissed at someone.”

In “The Poor Girl Taken By Surprise”

by Gemma Files

‘Yet here we sit snug and warm and dry nonetheless, traders and settlers and immigrants bound for even more distant places alike, before this open, welcoming fire; here we may eat and drink our fill and go ‘round the circle in turn, each of we travellers swapping a story for our place beneath this roof ‘till morning. And I will be more than glad to add my own contribution to that roster, if only it should please you to bend your ear and listen.

Repler

by Jonathan Lowe

Then, as he was about to ascend, he noticed the closed pantry door. Not wanting to, but feeling compelled, he paused to twist the knob and nudge the door open with his foot.

The shelves inside were lined with skulls. Canine and feline. Beneath a row of glasses were several stacks of torn magazines. Glossy photos of nude women. He kneeled almost involuntarily, reaching for a small skull among others. Practically indistinguishable, except by shape.

The skull of a baby.

The Blood Garden

by Jesse Livingston

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

She was alone when she died. (Continue Reading…)

The Cord

by Chris Lewis Carter

It’s just after midnight when her screams wake me. Loud, panicked shrieks that slice through my sleep-fogged brain like shards of glass.

“Carl! Get down here right now! Oh my God, Carl!”

I roll out of bed and stumble over to the window. Across the cul-de-sac, I see my neighbour, Mrs. Richardson, bathed in the dull glow of a street light. She’s wearing a flower-print nightgown and has a head full of curling rollers.

“What is wrong with you? Get down!”

Nearly half-way up the light pole she’s standing beside is her husband, Carl, his arms and legs locked tightly around the wood. He’s naked, except for a bright red bathrobe, which is untied and flapping in the breeze like a terrycloth flag.

“Help! Carl! Please, someone, help!”