Dark Bits

By Jacob Haddon

Dark Bits is a collection of 52 +1 horror flash fiction stories. Short, but not sweet, they move quick to grab you. Got a minute? Go ahead, try one.

Authors:

Angela Pritchett, Apple Ardent Scott, Bruce Boston, Bryce Hughes, Cameron Suey, Carson Buckingham, Chantal Noordeloos, Chantel Delulio, Cynthia Ray, Dane Hatchell, Darryl Dawson, David Bernstein, David Greske, Die Booth, Edd Vick, G.N. Braun, Guy Anthony De Marco, James Roy Daley, James S. Dorr, Jamie Lackey, Jeff Heimbuch, Jeremy C. Shipp, Jessica McHugh, Johannes Pinter, Kallirroe Agelopoulou, Kathryn Ptacek, Keith Armstrong, Kenneth W. Cain, Kevin David Anderson, Kevin Lucia, Mandy DeGeit, Mark C. Scioneaux, Mary Pletsch, Matthew Wilson, Max Booth III, Meriah L. Crawford, Michael H. Antonio, Michele Mixell, Randolph Andrews, Rebecca L. Brown, Richard Farren Barber, Robert Ford, Robert Smales, Robin Devereaux-Nelson, Sandy Shelonchik, Sheri White, Stephanie Jessop, Tina Rath, Tracy L. Carbone, Wesley Southard, William Gracey, William Meikle, William Whorton

• Language: English
• Publisher: Apokrupha LLC
• Release date: Sep 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301669363

Book preview

In Country

Robert Ford

I’m in this hand job hut in North Philly, on the skirts of Chinatown, far enough away to not have attention drawn to the bad Asian signage on the front door and the blatant typo: Oriential Massage. The place stinks of old cum, damp carpet and dollar bin hand lotion. I hear the high-pitched nasal whine of a girl singing over whatever the fuck that stringed instrument is. You know the one I’m talking about… sounds like a cat being neutered without anesthesia.

I walk over to the counter. Some old gray-haired, Mrs. Miyagi is half asleep at her post. She stares at me for a moment, doing a slow blink. She looks familiar but fuck, they all look the same, y’ know?

Back in the Nam, some guys went dinky dou cause they thought they were killing the same guy over and over and over again. After a while, it’s no wonder some of us started taking ears and fingers as souvenirs. Not even age made a difference. Not really. Young boys looked like softer versions of the older ones. We were just killing them at different ages. Young girls...well.

Tiny little thing was my first kill. Four or five years old. Her feed sack skirt bulged from the explosives strapped underneath. When a man is faced with a situation like that, only two things to be done—kill or die.

Well… I didn’t fucking die in the Nam. She was my first, but for damn sure, not my last. I caught her right over her left eyebrow. Opened the back of her head up like a can opener.

I sipped from the complimentary Sapporo beer as the young Lucy Liu came into the massage room. She was too thin, almost sickly. She smiled and nodded. Probably only understood ten words of English, all of them centered on how to haggle price. I nodded in return and she let her robe slide off to the dirty floor. Place like that, no need for discretion. You both know why you’re there. I glanced at her arms and don’t notice any track marks, so if she’s shooting up, it’s somewhere else on her body. I’ve had dirtier before, so I guess she’ll do. She squirted lotion onto her smooth palms and smeared it around as I checked out her low-slung tits.

Her hands were nothing short of amazing. Her fingertips brushed against my skin like moth wings one moment, then expertly dug into my muscles the next. She was good. Good enough to get a real fucking job giving massages without the happy endings, but she didn’t realize it. This is all she knows. It’s all she’ll ever fucking know.

It’s been a while since I’d shot a decent load, but despite that, I felt myself start to drift off, more relaxed than I thought I’d be from the massage. More than I should be. I looked up and suddenly she was twins. The whole room was double. I glanced over at the beer on the side table and back at her. She gave me a smile, but not a nice one. I knew that smile. It was the same expression the Cong wore when they got through our defenses. The one they wore right before they blew themselves up. It said they knew they had you right where they wanted you and there wasn’t a goddamn thing you could do about it.

Ol’ Mrs. Miyagi opened the door and sat down in a chair in the corner. She smiled the same smile as Lucy Liu and silently pointed at the Ranger tattoo on my right shoulder, her smile growing wider. She did know me. From in country.

I couldn’t even move. Whatever that slope bitch had put in my beer was doing its job. And when she pulled out the nipple clamps and the curling iron, I knew this wasn’t going to be fun anymore.

The Delivery

Kevin David Anderson

Charlotte held up the flyer displaying the 10% off coupon. Please call, I’m starving.

No, Philip snapped.

Please. Charlotte waved the flyer like a white flag.

I’m not that hungry, maybe later, Philip said, dismissively.

Just make the call, before I wither and die, Charlotte pleaded, doing her best Scarlett O'hara.

Philip pushed himself up. Okay. He snatched the flyer and staggered into the kitchen.

Charlotte heard him dialing, muffled speaking, then the receiver being put back in its cradle.

Philip returned and plopped back on the couch.

Well? Charlotte asked, eyebrows raised.

The guy said they’re slammed tonight, but should be here in thirty minutes or less.

Thank you, Charlotte muttered.

And for what its worth, Philip added, Dinner will be carrying a pizza.

Charlotte gave her undead man a fanged smile.

Mowed

Jessica McHugh

The town marveled at the prosperity of Asa’s lawn. Awed by the health and vibrancy of his grass, dozens of people begged for his secret.

Then, ten people begged. Then, five. Then, one.

Then, Asa had to settle for store-bought fertilizer.

Fatty

Mandy DeGeit

She stands naked at the stove feeling angry and hurt; she's always in the kitchen. Tears flow down her chubby cheeks and onto her chest. She cries because she’s always hungry. The reddening element warms her big belly and hanging breasts, but still she shakes, as if it were cold. She cries because she knows she'll never be skinny, pretty or beautiful.

Her distended stomach growls at her, as it never stops wanting. She holds a trembling hand over the frying pan, softly counting between her pitiful sobs, One steamboat... Two steamboats... Three steamboats... Four...

Satisfied with the temperature, she pulls her hand away just as the heat begins to lick at the tender flesh of her palm. She eyes the succulent meat on the counter that waits to be cooked to perfection and slowly consumed. Her mouth waters at the thought of eating; food will make her feel better, it always does.

She places the pink strips in the hot pan and they immediately start to sizzle. The smell of the meat breaking down into soft, consumable morsels causes her stomach to mutter a long, drawn out grumble. She moves the pieces around the pan, flipping them with a fork and smiles through her sadness. Food makes her happy, but smart food choices make her happier.

So smart, she whispers to herself as she flips the seared strips.

So, so smart. She wipes away her tears with the back of her hand and removes the pieces one by one, placing them lovingly onto a paper-towel covered plate. The flavorful grease is absorbed into the towel, transforming into expanding, translucent puddles.

She forks a piece into her mouth, biting it in half. The juice dribbles off her chin and onto the edge of the stove.

Mmmmm, that's good. She says as she pops the rest of the morsel into her mouth, followed by another two of the smaller pieces.

Calories out equal calories in, pound for pound. I win.

Her words are muffled as she works them out past her mouthful of meat. She swallows the well-masticated lump, which hopefully will appease her always-famished belly, at least for a moment. She understands that