Announcing the contest winners for the first prize period of 2010:

1st Place: THE NEW VIKINGS by Kevin Fortune

Runner up: HOURGLASS by Crystal Lynn Hilbert

So many thanks to our contributors and readers – without you this site is nothing. This prize period saw the most submissions of any so far, and we look forward to even more.

Lead them to victory.

Part 1.

I first met Neal shortly after my wife had died. I was holed-up in the attic of a boarding house in the middle of a safe zone just outside of Denver, recovering from a long illness that had beaten me down through most of the winter. I was thin as a waif, looking emaciated despite the repeated attempts of my aunt, who lived in a room below me, to try to keep some meat on my bones. I’d withered to a hundred and forty miserable pounds when spring finally came, my long fever broke, and we knew the long days and nights of maddening siege would come again. My old friend Allen, who had wintered in the room next door to my aunt, had told me stories of this crazy saint who drove the open roads through swarms of the dead. (more…)

The old movies had it wrong. I couldn’t watch them, because they were so stupid. I can’t believe I came from those people, and I was almost glad that the last of the gas had gone south, the generators stopped, and movies were no longer a possibility.

In the movies, the apocalypse was like Never-Never Land. When the world goes to hell, you get to be a kid again. There aren’t any rules, there’s no one to tell you to stop that damned idiot thing that you’re doing, or ask you why you’re breaking that thing (or why you’re hurting that girl). You never have to grow up and do anything with yourself, because nothing that you do really matters anymore. You forget everything that came before, and you don’t really worry about what comes after. My ancestors had dreams of annihilation because they thought that it would be freedom. (more…)

Surrounded by a flock of hot, sweaty, chattering reporters, cameramen and secretaries moving as one for the newsroom’s air conditioned comfort, Jeff staggered out of the lift. Washing up against the reception desk, he smiled wryly at the two women working behind the length of polished mahogany, and wiped the sweat from his face.

‘Take it from me, ladies,’ he said, flicking a bead of sweat from a finger. ‘There’s no reason on Earth that would justify venturing out in that heat.’ He bantered with them for a little longer before entering for the newsroom. (more…)

‘No matter how strong I get, I can’t protect them. The realization cuts my heart like cold steel… If fate is a millstone, then we are the grist. There is nothing we can do. So I wish for strength. If I cannot protect them from the wheel, then give me a strong blade, and strength to shatter fate.’ -Ichigo Kurosaki, BLEACH vol. 23

***

“Joseph?”

Joseph paused, mid-stroke, and put the knife and whet-stone aside. He knew the sight of himself, with a knife in hand, made most people nervous. He turned in his seat at the work bench, his hand not far from the weapon, and said to Kowalski, “Yes, ‘sergeant’?” (more…)

After taking the train, to 34th street, Rick stopped at his favorite bodega for a black coffee and buttered roll. Something was going on uptown, he could hear the sirens, but two blocks and he would be in the quiet of his photography studio. Another cosmetic photo shoot to look forward to today, but it’s always better to deal with the products then those crazy models. (more…)

The scientist on TV was not nearly as scared as he should have been. He stood on the sterile, makeshift podium surrounded by cameras and armed guards, looking irritated, as if the end of the world was a minor inconvenience that happened each day between missed busses. He glared at crowd and the crowd glared back, some of them weeping, the newscasters standing like statues, microphones welded in their hands. (more…)

Sequel to WAITING

James Saxton stood up and allowed the two guards to each hold an arm as he was led out of his small cell. He was drugged, he was sure of it. There was no way he would let these men take him to his death without a fight otherwise. Not that there was much he could do about it anyway. His wrists and ankles were shackled together and a sturdy chain linked the two.

As he shuffled past the other cells he groggily looked at the faces of people he thought he knew staring back. The fear in their eyes was obvious, but he wasn’t afraid. Just another sign he was sure he’d been drugged. There must have been something in his final meal. It still tasted good though. He’d forgotten the last time he’d had such a beautifully cooked steak, such perfect fries and peas so fresh they could have been straight from the pods, and a chilled beer as well. He wasn’t sure they would go for that request, but they had allowed him one last frosty cold one. (more…)

Brian was aware that the brain he was dissecting was donated by a man who had suffered from an exotic necrotizing virus. That was nothing new. After all, nearly every brain he dissected came from somebody who had died of something.

He laughed at that thought. It was a running joke around the lab. It had started when a rookie assistant in the University Pathology Laboratory had absent-mindedly wondered where they got all of the dead brains that they studied. (more…)

The tightrope walker places one foot upon the high wire.

The audience draws in, eager to witness his feat.

He presses down with his right foot, testing the line.

Would like more rope tension…

Would like a drop in the breeze …

Would like a safety harness…

………but the audience is waiting. (more…)

A big thanks to Pete Bevan for sharing artwork conceived as part of his Minister series.