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Frederick J. Mayer 3 Xeethra Fruit Frederick J TIGERSHARK magazine Issue Six – Spring 2015 – Horror & Dark Fiction Tigershark Magazine Contents Fiction Issue Six – Spring 2015 A Cruel Desire Horror & Dark Fiction DJ Tyrer 4 Drop Point DM Slate 6 Editorial The Promotion (Drabble) Denny E. Marshall 7 Normally, the Spring is a time for joy and Even The Innocent hope, but this year we're focusing upon the Lance Manion 9 dark and horrific – and there certainly are The Little Death some dark stories in this issue – you have Stewart Sternberg 10 been warned! Confession Ken Goldman 18 Best, DS Davidson Pea Soup RL Black 22 D is for Dead Lyn Parsons 23 The Boy Who Learned To Grokkle © Tigershark Publishing 2015 Andrew Darlington 26 All rights reserved. At The Gallows End Authors retain the rights to their individual work. Craig Steven 33 Poetry Editor and Layout: DS Davidson Quachil Uttaus Assistant Editor: David Leverton Frederick J. Mayer 3 Xeethra Fruit Frederick J. Mayer 4 The Frigate Frederick J. Mayer 4 Glimmer of Glimmer John W. Sexton 5 One Hundred Times X Ricky Garni 7 Likeness JD DeHart 7 two vampire haiku Denny E. Marshall 7 Poetry (cont.) Artwork Concerning Necromancy Christopher Woods Phillip A. Ellis 8 The Stairs Cover Red Bars 2 The Imaginarium of Jimmy Gatz The Creep 6 Cuitlamiztli Carter 17 Buzzards 21 Fool That thou Art Wide Awake 32 The Wishes 37 Cuitlamiztli Carter 17 Last Thoughts 40 Only The Stars of Memory Frederick J. Mayer Cuitlamiztli Carter 24 NecRomancing 8 Tokebi Lights Tsathoggua In A Good Mood 25 Mythos Flute Player 38 Frederick J. Mayer 24 Tsathoggua & Shathak Mate Frederick J. Mayer 25 QUACHIL UTTAUS * Don Juan Reflects By Frederick J. Mayer Phillip A. Ellis 31 "Duan de casa" Byron In Hell I think Michelle Mead 32 Therefore I am Corrupted Love I thought Wherefore I have been Dakota-Luise Wolf 32 No one told me Lady of the Darkest it's a sinful crime Now I'm out of sync John W. Sexton 36 homeless within housed Time... Upon the dreams rust Out of Sight, Out of Mind amid the corrupt blues Neil K. Henderson 36 and darker hues comes the House Master The Wishes Imp Wanderer Christopher Woods 37 The Treader of the Dust Zhar a collector of celestial dues... Frederick J. Mayer 37 Time Changeling in wind calling in tomes, in tomes, of changing Alchemy of the gods musty shadowing Ancient Ones Phillip A. Ellis 39 old remains Quachil Uttaus Smile of Cthulhu and I am the remains, the dust DJ Tyrer 39 * Quachil Uttaus is one of Clark Ashton Smith's lesser known created Ancient Ones of the Cthulhu Mythos and senryu appeared in such of his tales as "The Treader Of The DJ Tyrer 40 Dust" (another name for Quachil Uttaus). XEETHRA FRUIT * THE FRIGATE By Frederick J. Mayer By Frederick J. Mayer Shining globes from bowed trees Through crimson mist from another realm. fruit palpitates seethes Not soul nor sole that heads her helm. of sanguine ichor The midnight dew seeps down her hull. blood dark luxuriant Color no hue none be at all. devour puissant yield to craving for She carries crew, of night they be. weird warmth strange fever sings Across she sails the ebony sea. wildered sense brings Look not for eyes, be weary of. Self shall be no more. Inside deep cries of they of woe. * Inspired by/Based on Clark Ashton Smith's dark Arise a foam to stern it lay. fiction short story Xeethra. Arise a froth that start a day. Set sail to find that called home. Of peace of mind; she will return. A Cruel Desire * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * By DJ Tyrer Quickly, he seized the remote and turned the If their parents had truly loved them, they would movie off. In the silence, he was certain there not have allowed him to take them. That was the was someone in the building, coming up the mantra he repeated whenever a sliver of remorse stairs. Nobody should’ve been able to get in. The threatened to weaken his resolve. He wasn’t to building, an old office block, was supposed to be blame: he was certain of that. secure. He’d paid a fortune to ensure it was. He would see them wandering alone in the He stood and turned to face the door. The door street. So young. So vulnerable. So... beautiful. handle began to turn. Society might revile his kind, but they couldn’t “Who’s there?” he called. stop him. Not when they served their children up like this. As much as they might wail about The door slowly opened a little. An arm, thin as a depravities and demand something be done, it twig and as pale as bone, reached round it, didn’t stop them from ignoring their children. If reaching towards him, tiny fingers flexing. The they cared, he wouldn’t be able to do what he door opened more. Shadowy figures stood in the did. doorway and more behind them on the stairs. Dark pit eyes gazed towards him without a hint of Not every hunt was successful. He liked that compassion. Vague features hinted at faces he metaphor. He liked to think of himself as a hunter. knew: faces burnt into his memory by repeated Sometimes as a Casanova. But, no matter what viewings. Faces he recalled twisted by pain, his skill and charm, sometimes he would return terror and despair. Faces that, now, bore home empty handed. implacable masks of hatred. Still, he had his movies. A record of every child Slowly, methodically, the crowd advanced upon he’d brought home. He loved nothing more when him. En masse, they had a strength they had he was alone than to replay those exquisite lacked alone in life. Just as they had been unable memories, relishing every whimper, sob and to fight him off, now he found himself scream as if they were a symphony. He slipped a overpowered. disc into the player and settled down to watch. Dragged to the floor, he whimpered in fear as He watched the movie as if in a trance, recalling they loomed over him. Then, his whimpers every sensation, reliving every moment. But, turned to screams as they took their revenge. something intruded upon the entertainment: soft footsteps upon the stairs. Ends Glimmer of Glimmer By John W. Sexton after Gile na Gile by Aodhagán Ó Rathaille (c.1670 – 1729) Glimmer of glimmer I saw on the path neglected; green glass of green glass the blue of her eyes inflected. Her language the notes of birdsong, of voices inhuman; her skin of fire, of snow; now white, now crimson. Twisted and twisted the braids of her hair a sunset; the earth and the hills all one with their ferns pure russet. The brooch at her neck a star that had died in great brightness; a fragment of light, since she was creation’s first instance. Histories poured from her mind, though she was essentially rootless; of a king descended from kings, coming back though throneless. For the army enclosed him in exile; bog-cotton sealed in a pillow. And her birdsong continued, alarums of blackbirds singing from sorrow. Bindings of bindings I found myself bound in enchantments; entranced so my body was pinioned so tightly, and hence I entreated of Mary, Unfasten, O Virgin, this glittering thrall. But through lightning to Luachra we entered strangely a magical hall. In that instant of instants, my heart’s hammer beating not once, I travelled the marshes, through black mirrored pools of the bog; till I entered the dwelling of dwellings, whose path I could not discern, to a place fashioned by druids with powers that men cannot earn. I was greeted at once by goblins and wantons, their demeanour not fair; while beauties whispered in shouts and clashed, clashed their gold hair. In fetters of iron, in fetters of will, I was bound to the spot, held still; while the glimmer of glimmer was kissed on the mouth by a pox-riddled fool. I uttered a rann, I uttered a charm; I addressed her in verses so firm: that shame upon shame would befall those betrothed to this worm; that the king who was bound far from here by mortals and fate, faithfully awaited her hand beyond the deep ocean’s gate. Her eyes unclouded, for my words had reached to the bone; from her swoon she emerged in tears, comprehended my form. At that she sent me a guide as escort from that hall of shimmer, and I was returned to the path where first I had met the glimmer of glimmer. Anguish, misery, rot and decline; dishevelment, death and despair! That bright, innocent beauty, warm-lipped and pure, is held by those lecherous wraiths and that black-hearted contender. Oh, for the lion to cross the steps of the ocean, and tear them asunder. Author’s Note: Aodhagán Ó Rathaille is considered the first exponent of the Aisling or Vision poem in the Irish language. In the original, Gile na Gile is considered one of the marvels of Irish language literature, and is one of Ó Rathaille’s greatest poems. Bending down onto one knee I place the package Drop Point on the floor. Grabbing the suitcase zipper I pull it By D.M Slate swiftly in my direction. Whipping it open I freeze, horrified, as the terrible premonition passes through my brain. A warm breeze rustles by, stirring the stagnant air. I raise a hand to my forehead, shielding my My dismembered body has been stuffed inside of eyes from the blazing rays of sun.
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