There are many ways to tell this story. All of them are true. via Pocket

Jassim is giving chase and he shouldn’t be. Beneath the flapping robes of Jassim’s running target, a deadly corset bristling with titanium circuitry flashes into view. via Pocket

There were fourteen clean steps from any path, manmade and peeling the shrubbery of the mountain, to the spots where the Virgin Marys would remain. via Pocket

I hope you’ll forgive the whimsy of this report. I’ve held my silence my entire life, and there are many things I deserve to say to you. I know it’s a breach of protocol, but in a sense, so was I. And there may not be another chance. via Pocket

Almost everyone I entertain over a frosted fifth of vodka—bottle balanced precariously on a foldout tray, half my attention on keeping it upright—wants to know how I became a competitive eater. Also, how I found myself living on the Dbovotav Coastal…

Six-year-old Violet Wellington was the only child to come out of the swamp. The boys were gone forever. She sat on the side of a muddied dirt road, digging her nails raw against the gravel; her jeans and pink t-shirt were damp but clean. via Pocket

It’s the same old story. Take a chance and pick up a hitchhiker. But only after midnight and only when you need some company. Of course, the hitchhiker will disappear. That’s the way the story goes, right? But this time you are the hitchhiker. And t…

I walk like my father. He has a long, swinging stride with a bounce in the balls of his feet. A cheerful walk but not one that brooks much argument. I am twelve years old and my mother thinks it’s time for me to learn to walk “like a girl. via Pocket

The timer clicked, a cicada in the dark. Lifting the tongs off their rest, he swirled the paper gently; watching, judging. Good to go by the rules, better to work by instinct. via Pocket

So I guess the story begins, fittingly, with someone handing me a Coma rig and saying, play me. Two a.m. and I’m at this party in somebody’s trailer out in the trashy part of town. via Pocket

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The last song and dance number that Izzie Valdes performs in the Elegance Retreat Resort and Spa's Weekly Michael Jackson Tribute Spectacular is "Thriller," copyright 1982 MJJ Records. Usually, this works out well. via Pocket

A composer in an unstable city-state accidentally discovers the perfect singer for his work—a clockwork man—and sows the seeds of revolution. via Pocket

I was sitting in the canteen minding my own business. I had a coffee and a crossword. I swear I wasn’t earwigging, it was just that what she said was arresting. There were two women who were clearly pregnant — I estimated they were about six months …

Author : Jae Miles, Staff Writer You had to fall into mine. Lord, but you are a sight for jaded eyes. Hair like liquid night, eyes a man could drown in, lips that form a bow Robin Hood would kill f…

Baltimore isn’t safe. Not even for the predatory meat that stalks its nights. Searching for victims who won’t be missed, meat doesn’t feel regret or pain—only thirst. But the meat remembers something more… doesn’t it? is there more to eternal life t…

Thank you for coming. Please sit down. First I need to tell you that we are going to kill you today. Yes, I am quite serious. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but there is no question about how this day is going to end for you, and the quicker you get…

Author : Jae Miles, Staff Writer Doctor Jessup is terribly polite. We’re stirring our coffees before he asks his first question. “What started it?” I smile: “Why do they all add up to six?” “Pardon…

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This month marks the 9th annual Women in Horror Month and to celebrate we’re publishing a story and an interview with Priya Sharma. “The Nature of Bees” appears in Sharma’s forthcoming collection from Undertow Press, All the Fabulous Beasts. Vivien …

I’m staring at the skew on the third floor of an incredibly beautiful eighteenth-century building when I burst into tears again. The floor isn’t a floor anymore–it’s slid sideways, I can see the place where the load-bearing beams have snapped inside…

“Cicisbeo” appears in M. John Harrison’s 2017 collection You Should Come With Me Now, published by Comma Press. We’re also featuring a review of the collection by Christopher Burke. Summer was half over before it had even begun. via Pocket

A fantasy about a woman bequeathed an odd gift by a former lover who broke up with her, then died—his handwriting. Why did he do this and what does it mean? Years before, their breakup had been ugly, drawn out, and at times brutal. via Pocket

“He’s up. Turn it on,” someone says. The doctor. As I open my eyes, the whiteness hits. It’s like I’m having an idea, but it’s too much for my brain to hold. I squeeze my eyes shut and gasp, trying to… via Pocket

It’s the lack of sleep that’s the worst. I can live with the brutal beatings, the agony of untreated broken bones, the drugs that fuck with your head, the insidious cold, the gnawing hunger, the burning thirst and the routine rape, but I would liter…

Slumped in the alley, the woman repeated the name like a prayer, mostly forgotten long ago. No, that wasn’t it. Passersby ignored her: just another failed rebel unable to move on. via Pocket