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Thursday, December 10, 2015


by Vincent Daemon

Chapter IV

All That Remains

 The deer-killer sat high in the treetops. What passed for its lungs roughly adjusted to the new atmosphere of this alien world it had accidentally been thrust upon. Our functions were not its functions. Breathing, as such, was new. Inhalation hurt, and exhalation it barely understood. This was a strange place, nothing like what it (somewhat) remembered of its homeworld. This world seemed cold, too humid, nothing at all like the charred piece of dim red rock from whence it came. 

 It looked at this world and its strange colors (for we had colors that neither its eye nor mind had ever glimpsed) and all the life (i.e: food) that seemed to flood every last part of it. It sat hunched in the highest tree, trying to be as close to the slowly clouding over sun as possible, emanating low and unhappy growls of dismal displacement and discomfort.

 A hawk flew by, busily scouring the ground below for mice or a rabbit, maybe even a kitten. As it soared past the creature, it was swiped so quickly from the sky it didn’t even have a chance to realize that predator had just become prey, the large bird a morsel to the colossal maw of the beast. The hawk in its claw looked like a sparrow in a human hand, as it greedily shoved the struggling bird into its razor toothed mouth whole, crunching down hard on every bone and feather and bit of cartilage, until it began to bring the glop of fresh avian gore back up into its cupped claws, then proceeded to slurp up the mess of remains and bile once again, swallowing it back down with animal glee.

 All this did was serve to act as an appetizer, making the creature hungrier, crankier. It was both too bright and too cold out to sleep. At least there was a consistent and self generated source of the steady heat it required in the minuscule comet-shell it had been hibernating for aeons within. Indeed, this thing had been traveling within its capsule since long before the birth of even the planet Earth. Many times had it bounced off the edges of the ever-expanding and once young universe inadvertently consuming whatever even semi-biological thing it happened to bump into. Whether it be by sheer destructive force or its own eternal, infernal, telepathic ability to seep into and devour the minds of the more intelligent beings it came across over trillions of years, beings of which it could not get its claws physically uponyet another odd quirk of its confounding evolutionary development, of its mere existence. 

 In its own way the beast pondered and dreamt, much as any other living  sentient being. It did indeed have vague recollections of things like the sudden appearance of the entity of time; of strange civilizations come and gone before its bleary ageless eye. It had countless memories of spiraling black holes and wormholes and the strange delights and horrors that lay on the opposite sides of each, every one of these loose knit memories taken in through its cosmic rocky womb-shell capsule by sheer psychological osmosis alone, as it traversed these galaxies eternally with one eye perpetually half-open; seeing everything, knowing all...understanding none of it. 

 And now it had been birthed into this strange new world which was in no way shape or form its own, nor meant for it to any capacity. It could barely even breathe, still not properly adjusting to the atmosphere, and its stomach still roiled with an insatiable craving for more fresh flesh. Having for perhaps the first time actually tasted blood, as opposed to merely draining life-forces through its cosmo-psychic abnormalities of osmatic consumptionit fiendishly craved more.

 It caught then a whiff of something in the air, iron-rich and fresh, coming from the ground. Something alive, made of the flesh, blood, bone, and gristle it so craved. As well as a mind. 

 It peered in silence down from the treetops in which it was creeping, and noticed an odd two-legged creature in strangely hued rags, apparently running for some reason. Excited, and being slowly driven by its bloodlust, the beast stilled in the treetops to gain a better visual perspective.

 Its eyes had been focused on Debra Hill, a forty-something homemaker out on her early morning jog. It watched as she quietly jogged along, lost in her own world of wanting to look better for her husband, tone herself up, what trashy grocery store book she was going to read next, how her new pastel-pink jogging suit looked, household grocery many thoughts that had absolutely nothing to do with the nearly indescribable terror that dropped down right in front of her as she jogged aloofly along. Debra’s mouth fell agape yet no sound came forward as this immense thing stared her down, making a low growling sound most comparable to that of a predacious tiger playing with its soon to be meal. 

 The beast lurched a good five feet or so over her, and that was while it hunched. Debra stood catatonic, little parts of her brain shutting down, neither a fight nor a flight response, she was truly paralyzed. She could not tear her eyes away from it as the beast gazed down at this new and strange looking being in astonishment. She smelt delectably good and was quite obviously incapable of any kind of self-defense against its tyrannical size; its mouth bigger than her head alone, and dripping copious amounts of viscous brown and rank smelling saliva.

 It watched her skin grow from its initial rosy jogger-pink to absolute death-white, her lips purpling, her once naturally dark brown hair (of which she’d always been so proud, with nary a gray hair to be found at the age of forty-seven) doing the same, as the beast used its eyes, locked onto hers, into hers, to begin its psychic drain, before maybe tearing her to pieces for physical consumption. To the creature, that would be a main course and some dessert as well. The drain being the dessert, of course, the drain from these particular beings having an almost narcotic effect on the creature that it immediately noticed, and was quite fond of.

 It decided it was time to just tear into her, and raised its left arm to slice her in two just as a very loud and unexpected sound startled the creature into immediate flight and it unfurled its massive wingspan and took off, leaping straight up into the sky.

 The sound was that of a horn from a fourteen foot U-Haul truck. It immediately stopped, the driver jumping out and rushing to check on the woman as she merely trembled and collapsed.

 She gibbered in strange incoherencies he could not understand, and knew the woman was in some kind of obvious shock: her hair was riddled now with streaks of a brilliant white; she had wet herself, leaving a giant dark stain on the front of her new pink sexy-soccer mom jogging suit; and her eyes were strange, looking almost seared, cataract over and glazed, no longer aware of this plane. Her face, its visual appearance, was now withered and grotesque looking, like some end-stage bag-lady atrocity only more unnatural. She looked as though she had aged fifty years.

 John Agar happened to be the driver of the truck, and he scooped Debra up and took her immediately to the hospital. He did try to use his cell phone to call an ambulance first, but it was still not working. His own trembling hands were having a difficult time fumbling with the micro-buttons as it was. Fucking government cell phones.

 Weaving the truck maniacally in and out of traffic, going back and forth between chaotically watching the road and checking on Debra simultaneously, he just couldn’t shake the form of what he thought he had just seen in the road suddenly disappear up into the sky. It very much resembled the hideous shadow form that he’d seen at 3 a.m, the same shape as the one that was blacker than black, when its silhouetted, darkened hell-form blackened out the luminous glow of the stars in the moonless sky as it swooped with eerie gracefulness through the silent night. 

 This deeply troubled John to no end. As he rushed the woman into the emergency room he had to give a statement to police (which he was not thrilled about, still having four reeking joints on him in his coat sleeve pocket), but was allowed out to have a cigarette first, after being thanked profusely by the staff for his quick and thoughtful act of bringing a suffering stranger into the hospital. They told him most would’ve just driven by, left her there, etc, but none too much of it really settled into his mind right. In fact, it barely registered at the time. There was no way he could erase what he’d seen, and this time he knew he saw it. 

 What the fuck was he possibly going to say to police? Should he even mention the catching a glimpse of the “suspect”? Plus, he was supposed to have the truck back to the U-Haul center, and Corman was furious. John didn’t even bother calling the cranky fuck back. Dealing with the poor, scared, improperly doped polar bear was enough. Fuck Corman. Prick.

John needed to stay and make sure the woman was going to be okay, and maybe find out just what the hell happened, what had she just witnessed that rendered her now seemingly devoid of mind and soul, a withered husk of nothing but rapidly, continually wasting madness. What had they both seen?

Click Here to read
Chapter V

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Archive of Stories
and Authors

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's

Sean Padlo's exact whereabouts
are never able to be fully
pinned down, but what we
do know about him is laced
with the echoes of legend.
He's already been known
to haunt certain areas of
the landscape, a trick said
to only be possible by being
able to manipulate it from
the future. His presence
among the rest of us here
at the freezine sends shivers
of fear deep in our solar plexus.

Konstantine Paradias & Edward

Konstantine Paradias's

Konstantine Paradias is a writer by
choice. At the moment, he's published
over 100 stories in English, Japanese,
Romanian, German, Dutch and
Portuguese and has worked in a free-
lancing capacity for videogames, screen-
plays and anthologies. People tell him
he's got a writing problem but he can,
like, quit whenever he wants, man.
His work has been nominated
for a Pushcart Prize.

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz's

Tim Fezz hails out of the shattered
streets of Philly destroying the air-
waves and people's minds in the
underground with his band OLD
FEZZIWIG. He's been known to
dip his razor quill into his own
blood and pen a twisted tale
every now and again. We are
delighted to have him onboard
the FREEZINE and we hope
you are, too.

Daniel E. Lambert's

Daniel E. Lambert teaches English
at California State University, Los
Angeles and East Los Angeles College.
He also teaches online Literature
courses for Colorado Technical
University. His writing appears
in Silver Apples, Easy Reader,
Other Worlds, Wrapped in Plastic
and The Daily Breeze. His work
also appears in the anthologies
When Words Collide, Flash It,
Daily Flash 2012, Daily Frights
2012, An Island of Egrets and
Timeless Voices. His collection
of poetry and prose, Love and
Other Diversions, is available
through Amazon. He lives in
Southern California with his
wife, poet and author Anhthao Bui.


Phoenix has enjoyed writing since he
was a little kid. He finds much import-
ance and truth in creative expression.
Phoenix has written over sixty books,
and has published everything from
novels, to poetry and philosophy.
He hopes to inspire people with his
writing and to ask difficult questions
about our world and the universe.
Phoenix lives in Salt Lake City, Utah,
where he spends much of his time
reading books on science, philosophy,
and literature. He spends a good deal
of his free time writing and working
on new books. The Freezine of Fant-
asy and Science Fiction welcomes him
and his unique, intense vision.
Discover Phoenix's books at his author
page on Amazon. Also check out his blog.

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

Sanford Meschkow's

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Owen R. Powell's

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)

Gene Stewart's

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.

Paul Stuart's

Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.

Rain Grave's

Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth

BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and

G. Alden Davis's

G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.
He's also the best friend I ever had. He
was taken away from us last year on Jan
25 and I'll never be able to understand why.
Together we were a fantastic duo, the
legendary Grub Bros. Our secret base
exists on a cross-hatched nexus between
the Year of the Dragon and Dark City.
Somewhere along the tectonic fault
lines of our electromagnetic gathering,
shades of us peel off from the coruscating
pillars and are dropped back into the mix.
The phrase "rest in peace" just bugs me.
I'd rather think that Greg Grub's inimitable
spirit somehow continues evolving along
another manifestation of light itself, a
purple shift shall we say into another
phase of our expanding universe. I
ask myself, is it wishful thinking?
Will we really shed our human skin
like a discarded chrysalis and emerge
shimmering on another wavelength
altogether--or even manifest right
here among the rest without their
even beginning to suspect it? Well
people do believe in ghosts, but I
myself have long been suspicious
there can only be one single ghost
and that's all the stars in the universe
shrinking away into a withering heart
glittering and winking at us like
lost diamonds still echoing all their
sad and lonely songs fallen on deaf
eyes and ears blind to their colorful
emanations. My grub brother always
knew better than what the limits
of this old world taught him. We
explored past the outer peripheries
of our comfort zones to awaken
the terror in our minds and keep
us on our toes deep in the forest
in the middle of the night. The owls
led our way and the wilderness
transformed into a sanctuary.
The adventures we shared together
will always remain tattooed on
the pages of my skin. They tell a
story that we began together and
which continues being woven to
this very day. It's the same old
story about how we all were in
this together and how each and
every one of us is also going away
someday and though it will be the far-
thest we can manage to tell our own
tale we may rest assured it will be
continued like one of the old pulp
serials by all our friends which survive
us and manage to continue
the saga whispering in the wind.

Shae Sveniker's

Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.

Nigel Strange's

Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)