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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

There were three maybe four of them. When I saw them sneaking in, I grabbed my rifle from atop the mantle and hurried from my house to a position behind a boulder at the front of the mine. It wouldn’t take them long, maybe a minute or so for them to sort through my tailings or chip off a fragment of the turquoise that still clung to the walls. Then they would come out and slink off to their pueblo with prize in hand.

Well not today. I fixed the barrel of the rifle on the opening to the mine. Today, they would get more than they bargained for. This was my mine! My turquoise! I filed the claim! I got the rights to sell to Tiffany Co!  I’d be damned if some redskin was going to take away from my profits to sell his tribal fetishes to some TB case at the sanatorium in Santa Fe!

I heard Indians coming before I saw them. They were speaking their funny Keresan talk or maybe it was Spanish. I can’t understand either.

When they emerged, I fired hitting the first out of the mine squarely in the gut. He tumbled to the earth. The others fled in all directions.

I reloaded and took aim at another as he crossed open grassland, but the shot flew far right. Within seconds, he reached relatively safety of the pinyon and juniper scrubland. The rest were gone too, scattered by the sound of gunfire, like wild dogs.

I chambered another round and headed towards the entrance to the mine. The one I had caught lay there clutching his stomach and babbling something I didn’t understand. In his hand were several pieces of the Tiffany Blue, though they looked mostly red now on account of all the blood. Collectively, they were probably worth about a $1.10.

I stooped over the thief, pried the pieces from his hand, and pocketed the turquoise. He looked up at me. The eyes looked like that of a deer. They were brown and gave a sorrowful look. The type that comes when a critter knows its time has come.

I bashed his head in with the butt of my rifle. Bullets cost money. They eat into profits and his friends had cost me enough already.

 

*****

 

Now, I am a God fearing man. I knew the Indian, Christian or not, deserved a proper burial. If nothing else, I had to get rid of the corpse before it started stinking and attracting the critters, but digging a hole takes time. Time is money too.

So I compromised. I hauled the body to a shaft I was no longer using, one where the turquoise vein had run its course. With a quick prayer to our savior, I cast the Indian into the void below. Then I caused a small rock slide to cover any trace of the thief.

No sense in reporting it to the law, I figured. If the sheriff couldn’t keep them off my land and away from my mine what was the point. Besides that, the sheriff, he was Mexican. I had a hard enough time keeping his type off my land let alone the Indian. Between the land grants and the reservations, it was amazing that the white man had any land to call his own in this god forsaken country.

 

*****

 

That evening, as I was fixing my supper on the fire, I became aware of a noise. It was faint, almost like the sound of distant thunder, but with the fire crackling and the stew bubbling, I didn’t think anything of it. I continued about my business.

I ate some rabbit stew. Updated and reviewed the ledger. Wrote a letter to the Tiffany Company in New York about the mine’s current prospects and the beauty of the Tiffany Blue stone above all forms of turquoise. Wrote a letter to the Governor too, concerning the trouble the Indians been causing. I added a couple bills to the latter note, so that it attracted the attention it rightly deserved.

When I finally got around to laying down for some sleep, it occurred to me that the noise could still be heard. It was louder now and more distinct. It was the beating of a drum, slow and steady. More importantly, it was coming from the direction of my mine.

I hadn’t expected the Indians to return so soon. Nor had I expected them to be so bold. Who the hell beats drums while they try to make off with turquoise? Was this some sort of prayer vigil for their fallen comrade?

I wasn’t really afraid. The Indians knew better than to attack a white man. That would just bring the Army to the area for a good old fashioned showdown. They were the ones that should be afraid. I don’t have any qualms about killing to protect what is rightfully mine.

I grabbed my rifle from above the mantle and lantern sitting on the table. On account of the light from the lantern, I did not have the element of surprise. I moved quickly from the house towards the mine.

As I reached the entrance, it occurred to me that drums were coming from inside. So, I entered and began to weave my way through the tunnels to the origins sound. It quickly became apparent where the racket was coming from.

Before too long, I stood before the shaft where I had discarded the Indian hours before. The noise emanated from below. Here, it was a thunderous boom that almost shook the walls of the mine.

I raised the lantern above my head and peered into the darkness below. In the shadows, I could make out a figure moving amongst the rubble. Crawling up the walls of the shaft? How in the hell was he playing the drum? Maybe there were more of them.

I drew a bead on the figure and fired. However, I couldn’t rightly hear the blast over the pounding of the drum.

Now, I am a good shot. I hit what I am aiming at. Yet, the figure just kept crawling up the shaft. It moved as if un-phased. I chambered another round and fired again.

Yet still the figure crawled, ever upwards. Its move was slow, but deliberate. It progressed on four legs with ease, more like dog than a man. It looked more like a dog than man too. I could see it clearer as it came into the light of the lantern. It had black mangy hair covering its body.  I had mistaken it for Indian locks.

The echo of the drum beat was rattling my head, causing my brain to get a bit fuzzy. I backed away from the shaft.

The thing emerged. On two legs, it stood the height of a man with the face of a dog or perhaps a wolf. Its jaw parted exposing more than a dozen pearly white teeth. The eyes were blue, Tiffany Blue, and gave a menacing look. I knew my time had come.

 

END

 

Bio: Matthew J. Barbour is an archaeologist. He currently manages Jemez Historic Site in Jemez Springs, New Mexico. His fiction prose are inspired by the American Southwest and classic horror, such as the works of Edgar Allen Poe and H. P. Lovecraft.

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