Three New Flash Fiction Stories from Three New Contributors

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Our first contributor is Patty Templeton. Her work has most recently appeared in Night Terrors III, Mythic Delirium, and Primeval: A Journal of the Uncanny. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association and her first novel There Is No Lovely End was released in 2014. 


Juke Joint Banshee
by Patty Templeton


There’s a juke joint down somewhere – might be between a graveyard and a broke-down laundromat. I ain’t telling where. Nothing shits-up a place quicker than tourists. But some stories are heavy to hold, so I’m spilling truths on you.

The red-wearin, blues-wailin’ Santella Smith built a juke joint in 1932, and don’t I know? Wasn’t she my kin? Sanny nailed that shack together. Built a three-stool bar. Hammered her own tables. Sang there. Got murdered there.   

See, Sanny’s ol’ man thought she was eyein’ Robert Johnson. Stabbed her in the heart for it.
But dyin’ don’t mean leavin’. Sanny went banshee. Never heard her myself, but plenty have. 
Robert Johnson beheld her howl, told everyone, and was poisoned a day later.

Buddy Holly wanted to see Robert Johnson’s old haunt. Heard ghostly moanin’. Plane crash three weeks later.

Patsy Cline stopped by for a beer. Died in a plane crash not a week after.

Otis Redding happened in. Same as Patsy.

Janis left spooked. Overdosed in a fortnight.

Fella named Kurt asked, “Where’s the singing coming from?” Died a month later. 

Sanny, I think she’s tryin’ to give folks shake-ups of “don’t go there” or “you gotta get straight”. But all Sanny’s got is a wind-ridin’ ghost song and it seems to be everyone who hears it passes on. 

Do I miss my Great Aunt Sanny? Hell, yes. 

Do I ever wanna hear her sing again? Hell, no. 

But I reckon what will be, will be. 



Next up we have Betty McIntyre who describes herself as "an eclectic Canadian woman". She's been previously published online at Halloween Forevermore. Check out her pen and ink art at www.redbubble.com/people/bettyrocksteady – as you can see, we did just that. Our "Grievous Angel" this time incorporates one of her illustrations and we have also included another example of her work featuring the spookiest selection of children's toys we've seen for a long time.


The Wretched Pet
by Betty McIntyre


I caught it at the beach last summer. It was a beautiful creature, long and dainty, a luminescent rainbow of color. It wound and twisted itself into arcane shapes as it slid through the water in my bucket. Dad said it would never survive, but it did. 

We weren't sure what to feed it. It would eat whatever you dropped in, but it liked meat the best. 

It grew very quickly. The beautiful rainbow scales flaked off, revealing an ugly, raw-looking flesh tone. It glared at me with palpable hatred. It outgrew aquarium after aquarium until we had to give up on accommodating it. Its malevolent eyes followed us constantly. Its cramped body writhed as it knotted itself tighter and tighter inside its prison. I longed to set it free but the weather grew cold and it was too late. Dad was afraid we would kill it by returning it to a freezing ocean.

When spring finally came we crept out by moonlight to release it. Dad thought we might get in trouble for having kept it so long. It took the two of us to carry the aquarium. The creature burst through the glass as we neared the ocean, shocking us as it spread to its full length. It seemed impossible that it had survived being cramped and crunched into such a small space. It slipped elegantly into the water and was gone.

A lot of people have disappeared this summer. No one goes swimming anymore.



Finally, it's over to Jessica Patient. Jessica is currently stuck in an endless loop of redrafting her novel. She reviews books and blogs over here: www.writerslittlehelper.blogspot.com


The Ice-Cream Van
by Jessica Patient


Some say I am a superhero but all I do is drive a rusty old ice cream van.

Faded stickers of ice cream cones, lollipops and chocolate ices are pimpled with bullet-holed wounds. Nothing serious. I just didn’t get back before curfew. Not even the food relief lorries come this far - they stop at the fence and lob over the sacks of rice. My van, except for the patrolling tanks, is the only thing that comes up these roads, littered with bricks from bombed homes and bits of blown up furniture. The exhaust shakes as I drive over bits of debris and craters.

Nowadays there’s only one choice of ice cream – whipped up cream that tastes of air with hints of vanilla all swirled into a stale cone. But that’s if the shipment has made it through customs.

Those scared faces smeared in dust and dirt, turn to joy as I turn the corner and they clamber out from their hiding places. I watch from my rear-view mirror as their skinny bodies run behind, trying to catch up, wanting to be first in the queue for a double helping. They cheer even though blue smoke from the exhaust blows in their faces.

I waive the ration tokens.

But it’s the adults, lingering at the back of queue who are my real customers. They want what’s hidden away in the freezers, buried under the tubs of ice cream and my own stash of food. It’s the guns, covered in a layer of condensation and the bullets that they pay for, ready to take down the government. These are the guns I find at the side of the road, next to charred bodies or abandoned by retreating regiments.

But what my customers don’t know, as they run across the rubble, back to their makeshift camps inside crumpling village halls, is that the government are paying me to pull the ice cream pumps and dish out those chocolate flakes. The smiles and friendly chatter is real though. Someone needs to keep the population sweet.