Black Treacle Magazine (October 2013, Issue 5)

By A.P. Matlock

Black Treacle is a free magazine of Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative fiction. Published on a bi-monthly schedule, each issue includes 4-5 pieces of original short fiction.

We exist primarily to provide a forum for new writers to share their works and give preference to Canadian writers.

We publish both on the web and in popular ebook formats for easy reading on your chosen device.

October 2013, Issue 5

“Editor’s Notes” by A.P. Matlock
“Chance” by Conor Powers-Smith
“Lurks a Cruel Bee” by Sam Witt
“Echoes in the Bones” by Mike Rimar
“The Collectors” by Evelyn Deshane

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Treacle Publications
• Release date: Oct 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301816903

Book preview

BLACK TREACLE MAGAZINE

Issue #5

EDITED BY A.P. MATLOCK

Smashwords Edition

Copyrights and Acknowledgements

Editor’s Notes Copyright © 2013 by A.P. Matlock

Chance Copyright © 2013 by Conor Powers-Smith

Lurks a Cruel Bee Copyright © 2013 by Sam Witt

Echoes in the Bones Copyright © 2013 by Mike Rimar

The Collectors Copyright © 2013 by Evelyn Deshane

Publisher—Black Treacle Publications

http://blacktreacle.ca

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

ISBN: 9781301816903

ISSN: 2291-241X

Black Treacle Publications

269 Charlotte Street

PO BOX 265 SYDNEY

Sydney, NS B1P 1T0

CANADA

Black Treacle Magazine is a free bimonthly Magazine dedicated to original short fiction in the Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative fiction Genres. Released on the first or second Tuesday of each month

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Editor’s Notes

A.P. Matlock

Chance

Conor Powers-Smith

Lurks a Cruel Bee

Sam Witt

Echoes in the Bones

Mike Rimar

The Collectors

Evelyn Deshane

Editor’s Notes

A.P. Matlock

Short & sweet is my mantra when it comes to editorials. After all, you are here for the stories and not the editorial diatribes or missives. That being said, if you are reading this, you are probably interested.

Submission volumes have been alright the past few months, though nowhere near where I’d like them to be. I will do some numbers up for the December issue but right now there is a small enough volume that I can read an entire story before making the yay or nay decision.

You hear that, writers? Small volume of submissions and the editor reads everything. Sounds like a place I would submit to.

We’ve got a great line up of stories this month for your reading pleasure. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Five down, one to go!

***

A.P. Matlock is a Writer and the Editor of Black Treacle Magazine.

Chance

Conor Powers-Smith

Somewhere far away, someone was burning leaves. When the breeze blew, the smell reached the farm grounds, somehow crowding out the nearer aromas of frying donuts and baking pies and simmering apple cider. The noise—the babble and movement of a few dozen people, the laughter and shrieks and running footsteps of children, the crying of at least one baby at any given moment, it seemed—receded, too, when the smell was present, as if Paul's senses were straining exclusively toward the sharp fragrance of invisible smoke.

He was past the point of being amazed at the goodness of simple things like the smell of burning leaves, but still able to be grateful for them. He wasn't yet at the point of being nervous that that goodness would fade, that he would wake one morning to find it no longer enough.

He waited until the breeze had died away before beginning to gather up the napkins and paper plates from the rough wooden picnic table, and saying, Well, that was fun. Shall we call it a day?

He'd been looking across the table at Diane, but it was Beth, sitting beside him on the bench, who took her cue to shriek, Daddy!

What? Beth's face was tacky with caramel. Her legs kicked beneath the table with sugary energy.

"Daddy, we didn't do the maze!"

The what?

Her eyes bulged and her mouth widened in a pantomime of disbelief. "Daddy. Are you serious?"

He looked up at Diane. He was glad to see she was smiling, not so glad to see she was watching him rather than Beth. I'm the one who needs supervision, he thought. Fine.

Have you heard about this? he asked. This so-called maze?

There was a small, outraged gasp from beside him, at the level of his elbow, but he kept his eyes on Diane. After a moment of hesitation, she decided to play along. I seem to remember hearing something about it.

They'd heard about nothing but the straw maze for the entire forty-five-minute drive. As she often did, Beth had seized on one aspect of an outing, and built it up far out of proportion. She'd spent the drive alternately asking questions about it—based on Paul's own childhood visits to the farm—and elaborating on the bare facts with her own odd fancies. She'd been reasonably patient throughout the tour of the mill, and the haunted hayride, and the apple picking, and she'd consumed her caramel apple and hot cider with apparent gusto. But now her anticipation was bubbling over.

Let's put it to a vote, Paul said. Raise your hand if you want to go see this—what'd you say it's called?

A maze! Beth cried, both arms stretched ramrod straight toward the cloudless blue sky. "A amazing maze!" She shimmied to her feet and began hopping up and down on the bench, which suddenly seemed very narrow.

Beth, Diane said quickly. "Paul."

But he was already on his feet, bending to scoop Beth from the bench, then holding her