Today's story reflects one of those experiences – or nightmares – we've all experienced. Waiting on the platform of a deserted railway station late at night for the last train home. Will it ever come – or will something worse arrive in its place? Our author is Jacey Bedford, is a British writer of science fiction and fantasy with short stories published on both sides of the Atlantic and a novel – Empire of Dust – just published by as part of a three book deal. Jacey is a member of the SFWA.


Last Train
by Jacey Bedford


It's a freezing cold station on Christmas Eve. The platform is deserted, the ticket hall closed. My breath puffs clouds into the air in the flickering light from the overhead. 

I glance at the clock. Ten-fifteen. The last train is due at any moment.

Tick. Ten sixteen.

I stamp my feet, but they're numb. All of me is numb.

Tick. Ten seventeen.

I shove my hands into my pockets. All I want is to get home to you.

Pop. The furthest overhead light dies at the north end of the platform.

Tick. Ten eighteen.

Can I smell cinnamon? My insides ache for a hot drink. I investigate the coffee machine on the platform. Out of order. Damn.

The cinnamon lingers. I imagine my fingers wrapped around a glass of mulled wine, spicy and warm. In my mind I see you sip yours and smile. Your hair is haloed briefly in candle light.

I miss you so much.

Tick. Ten nineteen.

Pop. Another overhead flickers and dies. 

Pop. Another. Cascade failure. The darkness creeps towards me light by light.

Pop. Pop. Pop. The overheads on the opposite platform succumb. How long before they all go?

Tick. Ten twenty.

I wish I was home already, my arms round your waist, breathing in the scent of your hair.

Tick. Ten twenty-one.

A boot sole scuffs on concrete. I turn. A stooped figure shuffles on to the platform from the car park gate and stands, leaning on a cane, wheezing.

"Train's late." My attempt at conversation falls flat.

Pop. The overhead at the south end of the platform fails.

Pop. The next one.

Pop.

Now I'm standing in the last pool of light.

Tick. Ten twenty-two.

"Do you think we've missed it?" I ask.

The stranger laughs. It sounds like a death rattle.

Far along the track I see a pinpoint of light.

Flushed with relief I grin. I'll be home soon.

Soon.

I can't wait.

The light grows bigger.

And bigger.

In a billow of steam the train pulls into the station. (Steam? What's that all about?) It makes no sound. A single door in front of me opens and a sickly yellow light spills out. I step forward at the same time as the old man.

He turns. I see his face. His skin is parchment over bone, his eyes empty sockets. A single maggot wriggles from the cavity that was his nose.

I gulp and step back. "After you, sir."

He hobbles aboard and beckons. 

I don't think so.

Another desiccated face stares out from the carriage window. It's you. A tear rolls down your cheek.

A whistle blows. I hear a faint, "All aboard."

Heart pounding, I hesitate for too long. The door slams in my face and the silent train pulls away. The overhead lights bloom again, yellow as chrysanthemums.

It's a freezing cold station on Christmas Eve. The platform is deserted, the ticket hall closed. My breath puffs clouds into the air in the flickering light from the overhead. 

Stations are all the same. I feel as though I've been here a thousand times before.

I glance at the clock. Ten-fifteen. The last train is due at any moment.

Two short pieces of fiction for you today. The first is Our Black Shuck by Oklahoma City-based Christopher Shultz. I've a soft-spot for this story as Bungay, the scene of the original Old Shuck's first appearance in 1577, is just five minutes down the road from the Grievous Angel's office. Christopher writes mostly horror with a dash of dark fantasy and his stories have appeared at MicroHorror and Smashed Cat Magazine, among other places. You can find out more at www.christophershultz.com 

Our second story Poor Decisions – and haven't we all made some of those although maybe not with visitors from Outer Space – is by New York City-based author and actress Alexandra Grunberg. Alexandra's work has previously been published in Daily Science Fiction and been accepted for publication in Flash Fiction Online. She is a recent graduate of New York University's Tisch School of the Arts.




OUR BLACK SHUCK
by Christopher Shultz

 

Because he was a sable beast and vast like the night that cloaked him, folks came to the decision our Black Shuck was an evil demon dog. They knew the tales of Old Shuck – as in, Old Country – terrorizing churches in Bungay and Blythburgh, killing men and even children. Leaving scorch marks on the doors and blowing out walls with the power of Hell behind him.

No, wouldn't do to have an element like that living amidst the final resting place of our dearly departed.

So we ran him out with the requisite pitchforks and torches. Chased him into the forest and set fire to the trees. No escape for him, least not back the way he came.

But my fellow townspeople failed to realize this: the legends never told why Old Shuck fled his graveyard so--as though he himself were hunted. Why else would a stout animal run such amok? And they never considered why hellhounds lived in cemeteries in the first place.

"Because they loved the stench of rot, surely!"

No. Because they feared death as much as we do, but they were brave enough to guard against it...

Now we run toward the charred tree trunks, hoping there's a clean passage through, our dearly departed, arisen from the grave and hot on our trail, hungry for our very souls. We pray our Black Shuck's waiting in the woods, ready with raised hackles, bared teeth, blazing red eyes, and grudges set aside.

No hard feelings, eh Shuck?



Poor Decisions
by Alexandra Grunberg

 

Dude, I’m so sorry.

I knew that when you first landed in my backyard, you were all like, “Ahh! I’m gonna eat you!” And that pretty much sucked for the two and half hours you chased me around my house, hiding behind the shower curtain, and in the closet, and keeping me trapped in the basement. Good times.

But after I pulled up YouTube and we had a few good laughs about some really crazy cats doing some really crazy shit, I thought you were past that phase. Like, human killing was in your past. We were rocking on the Wii and shooting hoops out back. And you were just my awesome guest, who happened to be from outer space.

But I guess it was probably a bad idea to bring you to a bar to celebrate your three-week anniversary on Earth. I just thought it would be fun to go in and be like, “Ahh! Oh my god! There’s an alien invasion!” And then you’d come in and be like, “Ahh! I’m so hungry for human flesh!” And everyone would be like, “Oh my god, we’re gonna die!” And I’d be all like, “Naw guys, he’s cool.” And we’d all laugh and have a beer.

And it was going great. We had the plan down until you actually started eating everyone.

I guess I feel partly responsible. I put you into this situation. But you’re the one that ate people. I think you need to recognize that this is partly your fault. I mean, you were like a psychopath. You even killed the hot bartender. Who does that?

But that’s beside the point. I’m sorry, you’re sorry, we need to move on with our lives.

And I mean that literally, I can hear the cops coming. 

Welcome to our Scifaiku Special and our collection of Science Fiction, Urban Fantasy and ever-so slightly Nerdishly Techie themed haiku. Because we have multiple authors, we're running the poetry first and the bios following afterwards. Enjoy!


The Scifaikiu

muggled day
forgotten
spells

zombies
every morning
before Starbucks

zero bars
alone again
technically

...N.E. Taylor 


Saturn’s rings…
leftovers from a game
of alien hoop-la

the shuttle to Mars
is late due to aliens
on the line again

...Tracy Davidson
 

terrible twos
alien child screaming
from both heads

...Guy Belleranti


hell-bent 
on talking to you -
Ouija board

Comicon –
every Darth Vader
says he’s my father

...Susan Burch


purple sunset
the terraformer
adjusts the beach

...Joshua Gage




The Poets

N.E. Taylor is a long-time member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association. She has done readings and panels at Loscon and Condor in California. One of her proudest moments, recently, was having a zombie poem nominated for a Pushcart Prize (not a winner, sigh.) Her work has appeared in a variety of publications, including Postcard Poems and Prose, Strange Horizons, Star*Line, Tales of the Talisman, Illumen, Astropoetica, and Dwarf Stars. Her short form work has been recognized by Dwarf Stars, and in 2013, she won the Haiku North America Conference Prize. Ms. Taylor lives in Los Angeles.


Tracy Davidson lives in the UK, and enjoys writing poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies. 


Guy Belleranti writes poetry, fiction and more. His poetry has appeared in Scifaikuest, Midnight Echo, Trysts of Fate, Spaceports & Spidersilk and the book Anomalous Appetites.


Susan Burch likes to write haiku, senryu, tanka, kyoka, and sedoka. She has been published in magazines such as A Hundred Gourds, Ribbons, Frogpond, Moongarlic, and Bones and enjoys drinking Coca-Cola Slurpees.


Joshua Gage describes himself as an ornery curmudgeon from Cleveland. His first full-length collection breaths is available from VanZeno Press. Intrinsic Night, a collaborative project he wrote with J. E. Stanley, was published by Sam’s Dot Publishing. His most recent collection Inhuman: Haiku from the Zombie Apocalypse is available on Poet’s Haven Press. He is a graduate of the Low Residency MFA Program in Creative Writing at Naropa University. He stomps around Cleveland in a purple bathrobe where he hosts the monthly Deep Cleveland Poetry hour and enjoys the beer at Brew Kettle.

We've two new poems for you today, both offering an interesting spin on familiar themes – and both with intriguing final lines. We start with Black Suit by Illinois-based Paul Smith and then we have Sweet Tooth by John Reinhart. John describes himself as "a one-time beginner yo-yo champion, tinkerer, and certifiable eccentric," adding "John lives in the Weird, between now and never, collecting and protecting discarded treasures, and whistling combinations of every tune he knows." His poetry has recently been published in Black Heart Magazine, FishFood & LavaJuice Magazine, Star*Line, and Liquid Imagination.


Black Suit
by Paul Smith


The man in the black suit finally came
And conscripted us
But he was smart about it
Sending men ahead of him each month
To get us used to the idea
In suits that got darker
First there was a man in a white suit
Who brought us ice-cream
Then a man in a lime-colored suit with melons
Followed by a man in a red suit
Who brought us V-8 juice
Finally, like I said, came the man
In the black suit
By now we were ready for it and him
So we went along with him
And he gave us each our own black suit
Which we put on
And then we rounded up 
Those who weren’t and didn’t



Sweet Tooth
by John Reinhart


I thought 
her pointy teeth
looked sexy
when she gleefully accepted
my offer
of dinner

afterwards
when she invited me in
for a drink
I did not realize
she would and I was