1 Contents Fiction 4 From the Deep — Alisse Lee Goldenberg 8 CODENAME E.A.T. — Brian Rosenberger 8 Cactus — Stephen Crowley 15 No Through Road — Reena Dobson 21 The Red Plague — Matthew Wilson 24 Poison — Calvin Demmer 29 Nettle Milk — Donna Cuttress 35 The Purge — Cinsearae S. 39 The Hike — Brian Rosenberger 46 Dry Spell — Adam Golub 63 On the Vine — Mark Cassell 66 Harsh Winters — Mike Driver 74 Sanctuary — Duncan Ralston 79 Blades — Brian Rosenberger 79 Hikers Beware — Anthony Avina 84 A Walk — Nicholas Paschall 90 Leaves of Three — Mollie McFarland 93 Earth Day Every Day — Taylor White 96 Bleakwood Pond — Lori R. Lopez Poetry 56 The Silent Forest — Shawn D. Standfast 58 Worst Case — DJ Tyrer 58 After Man — DJ Tyrer 60 Rock Climbing — Brian Rosenberger Features 52 An Interview with Photographer Tammy Ruggles 104 An Interview with K. Trap Jones, Author of One Bad Fur Day 107 An Excerpt from One Bad Fur Day Photography by Tammy Ruggles 3 Birth 14 Against the Heavens 28 Lone Tree 65 Hollow 78 Along the Tracks 103 The Tipping Point 113 Credits 2 3 From the Deep | Alisse Lee Goldenberg There had been much talk about how the world would end. For years, there had been dire warnings of climate change, terrorism, and the need for gun control. But, for the most part, these warnings had been written off by those in charge as mass hysteria infecting the uneducated masses. Yet, truth be told, even amongst those claiming that the world’s end was imminent, no one expected it to end the way it did. Henry had lived his whole life in Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island. He loved the quiet island life. Yes, the winters were uniformly awful, and the summers felt unfairly short. However, the people were friendly, and he adored the community in which he was bringing up his young son, Peter. That day, the day the world went to shit, Henry was sitting on the dunes of the beach, watching Peter wade in the waves. He felt the hot sun warming his body and allowed himself to relax. He ignored the angry tourists pointing out to him the signs telling him that he was not allowed to climb, lounge, or walk across the dunes. As far as he was concerned, those notices applied to them. He was a local. He was free to do as he pleased. This was his island. He saw Peter’s golden curls glinting in the sun, heard his carefree laughter, and knew that all was well in the world. Henry heard Peter call to him, saying that he was going to play in the water. He smiled and waved at his son. The boy was a strong swimmer, and he was unafraid. Nothing bad could happen to him. Not on his island. Here, life was kind. Henry closed his eyes and lay back on the sand. He felt himself drift off a smile on his face, a song in his heart. Later that evening, he’d be taking his son to see a show at the Theatre Festival. Everything was just as it should be. The octopus rode the wave to the shore. As he hit the sandy beach, he felt some of the moisture drain from his body. He flattened himself lower to the ground, sensing and tasting the sand as he dragged himself along, searching for what he needed. He heard the cries and laughter of those things as they watched. Those things that were destroying the ocean he so loved, ruining his home, massacring his children. To his right, more of his brethren joined him on the beach. Up ahead, he saw one of the two-legged beasts lying in wait on the sand. He pressed forward, oozing his way up the dune. He lunged forward with his tentacles, his suckers latching on, tasting the chemical makeup of the lotions spread all over this thing’s pasty skin. The octopus wanted to pull away, disgusted by what he ingested, but he kept on, knowing that as it was in the water, so it was here. All that he consumed and absorbed only served to make his venom stronger. He continued wrapping his tentacles around his prey, knowing that the sweetness of his revenge would wash away the taste of the sunscreen. Henry sighed in his sleep. His dream had taken a decidedly erotic turn as he felt the caress of something soft on his leg. He twitched on the sand, some of it making its way up his shorts, causing an itch. He opened his eyes and gasped in shock. An octopus had wound itself around his leg, and another was inching its way towards his abdomen. He yelped in fear and reached 4 down to pull it off. His hands gripped tightly, and he almost wretched as he felt his fingers press hard into the creature’s soft head. He couldn’t get a good grip on it. There was nothing hard to hold onto. He tried pulling on the tentacles, feeling the suckers bruising the flesh of his leg. As he sat there, pulling and prying the thing off of him, the second octopus slunk its way up the back of his shirt, positioning itself over his spine. Henry felt it, and screamed for help. The tourists on the beach looked at him and laughed. Not a single one of them wanted to get involved. Henry glared angrily at them, and his eyes widened as he saw what was happening. Dozens of octopuses had emerged from the tide. Each one, making its way towards one of the gawking people. He heard the scream as the first trail of blood oozed its way down the sand towards the water. Panicking, he looked towards Peter. His boy was bobbing in the water, confusion painted across his cherubic features. The octopus on his leg clutched him even tighter. His beak emerged from the soft flesh of his middle. His tentacles trembled with joy and anticipation as the hard shell of the beak plunged into Henry’s flesh, breaking the skin. The octopus greedily swallowed the hot flow of blood as it injected Henry with venom. Henry screamed and flew back into the sand, crushing the second octopus as it bit into his spine. He felt the burn as venom coursed through his blood stream. His muscles spasmed and twitched before rendering him incapable of movement. Henry lay on the dune, unable to scream or speak. His breaths came shallow, his heart began to slow. He lay there and watched as people screamed, octopuses crawling over their bodies, the red sand of the island painted even redder by their blood. He saw the snake like trails of their tentacles leaving swirling stripes over the sand as they ruthlessly pursued their prey. Dozens became hundreds as the creatures swarmed over the beach turning what had been a beautiful day into one of horror. With his last ounce of strength, Henry fought to turn his head to look out over the ocean, searching for a last look of Peter. He saw the golden curls of his son’s head bobbing along the waves. His breath hitching in his throat, one last time, he stared out at the ocean. Tears leaked out the corners of his eyes, disappearing into the sand of the dune. He watched as the last glimpse of gold bobbed once, twice, three times, before disappearing forever beneath the crimson waves. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Alisse Lee Goldenberg is an award winning author of Horror, Young Adult Paranormal Romance, and Young Adult Fantasy fiction. She is currently working on two series: The Sitnalta Series (published by Pandamoon Publishing) and The Hadariah Chronicles (published by Prizm Books). Alisse lives in Toronto with her husband Brian, their triplets Joseph, Phillip, and Hailey, and their rambunctious Goldendoodle Sebastian. Twitter: @AliLGoldenberg Website: Alisse Lee Goldenberg 5 6 7 CODENAME E.A.T. | Brian Rosenberger (first published in Necon Ebooks) The strikeforce stands ready, awaiting the General’s command. Every day spent training for the mission. Stealth and surprise, their key to victory. Get in undetected. Get out alive. It’s understood there will be casualties. There are always casualties. Every member of the Evasive Action Team understands the risk and the reward. They willingly lay down their life for the cause. There is no greater sacrifice. Finally, the day arrives. The General barks the order — Attack, Attack, Attack. Time for war and the time is now. Six legs march in unison. Thousands of legs. No picnic is safe. ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and three poetry collections. Facebook: www.facebook.com/HeWhoSuffers Cactus | Stephen Crowley I swivelled my head to and fro at the street garden life, how it dominated the lawns as the rain fell on my cold face. How they sway, stretch, happy as the droplets fell, growing, living. My moments alive are somewhat limited now. I pondered. If these horrible events stopped now, I still do not believe I could face trees or any plant for that matter in the same way again. Now, they are something else, benign, as twisted as the bark gnarls that stretched out - they see me. They watch. Those knotty branches just want to reach out and grab me. Unthinkable just a few months ago. Twas a time when me, Harold Pinsley, would more likely start to hug a tree rather than want to chop it down.