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Submissions Open for Issue 4, Summer 2017

***DEADLINE EXTENDED AS REQUESTED TO 21ST AUGUST ***

From July 13th to August 12th we are open for submissions for our Summer 2017 edition, Issue 4. Take up your mouse and send us your short fiction, up to 500 words in length.

The theme for our fourth issue, which will see Strippedlit500 complete one cycle around the sun, is “Lovecraftian.” Your editor is an HPL fanatic; feed my appetite for elder gods, non-Euclidian angles, and the lurking horrors and whispered madness that lies, ancient and waiting, in your large metropolis.

You don’t have to use the words “Lovecraft” or “Lovecraftian” in either your title or the body of your story, but your story must deal with something related to the HPL mythos.

Please read our full submission guidelines here.

Bring cosmic weirdness, lurking horror, and unnameable depravity; summon the spirit of shadow covered, muttering Arkham – summon the ancient chaos that is the LOVECRAFTIAN!

For those readers who aren’t familiar with the man and his mythos, here are a couple of links to whet your appetite; what a treat awaits you!

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Don’t Pet The Bunny Rabbit

By Jim Freeze

I have many memories, mostly good and from childhood. You may not agree with my assessment but my memories, however, may be different than yours on the same occasion. That is the memory holder’s prerogative. For example, I thought the possibility of going to hell was something to worry about.

I have a special uncle who went out of his way to make sure my birthdays were unforgettable. He said since my birthday fell on October 31, Halloween, he wanted to separate it from all the chaos of that day. My tenth birthday stands out particularly.

The autumn’s quiet arrival seemed to deceive that year. But as I remember when I looked closely I could see a bit of orange on the Maple leaves, a touch of red on the Oak and the Poplars were turning more and more golden by the day.

I remember expressing to my uncle that year and hoping that he would come up with some ideas that would go beyond the common celebration. He told me that nothing he and I could do would be considered common by the people around me.

There were always fireworks on my birthday but this time with a proud, yet melancholy fervor, my uncle almost cried out loud that this year would be the best yet.

I remember trembling like a leaf as the appointed hour drew near. It seemed the hours dragged by slowly. A murmur ran through the crowd as all the children made ready to trick or treat. My uncle made a special point to tell me not to pet the bunny rabbit. I had learned not to question him so I just made sure to do as he requested.

My first stop was at the house occupied by what was known as the Rose lady who now and then added a touch of home- grown tomatoes to her rose garden. I rung the doorbell and she opened the door.

“My, you are a cute little devil,” she said with a smile. I responded with, “Trick or Treat?”

She looked at me with her wandering blue eyes which were miraculously darkened, and there appeared in them a murderous fire.

“Remember,’ she said, ‘don’t pet the bunny rabbit,”as she handed me a chocolate covered stick of licorice.

As I was leaving the Rose lady, a kid was coming up the walkway and had stopped to pet the cute little bunny rabbit. I thought to myself, this can’t be good. Just then, the sky lit up over the city about 20 miles east of our bedroom community. A missile had hit directly in the center of the town. The shock wave rolled in all directions. We had been warned, but there is always someone who ignores the warnings.

I called my uncle, Lucifer, and told him I believed he may have gone too far with the fireworks this year. My uncle responded, “The happy birthday is over and the sinner takes all.”


Author Bio: Jim Freeze is seventy- one years old and retired. He has been happily married for fifty-two years and has two grown sons along with two grandchildren. He began writing in early 2012 to have something to do or to fool his wife into thinking he’s too busy to help her. His short stories have been featured in several publications including Brilliant Flash Fiction, Calliope Magazine, and The Original Writer.

The Lurker

By Megambiguous

It lurked.

It lurked like it always did, in the desolate, depths of the darkness, just paces away from the triumphant path, observing all who passed in good confidence. So effortlessly did it remain hidden, invisible to the usual bystander, like a ghost sent to haunt those who routinely passed by, just waiting, waiting until their backs were exposed, just waiting to sink its teeth in.

That was its favorite. That’s when it liked to feed; when the threat was not perceived, when the prey felt safest, secure, all guards down, all trust and faith in their physical senses- No, the coast is clear they thought, I can move on. That’s when it would attack, when it would strike its deceptive claws into their backs, instantly returning to its den, only to observe the residual effect of its subject’s confusion.

Its favorite part was when its prey would swivel around to be met with nothing, nothing at all, minds betraying them, longing to identify the threat, longing but finding no evidence to validate their perception. Distrust, they began to feel, distrust in their own cognition, their own senses; now that was its goal, that was what it fed on.

Doubt.

Time would pass, and again it would wait for its prey to pass too, internally cackling at their fear, their concern, their anticipation of attack, fueling him further, as he remained hidden and situated, not today it thought, not today, better when they least expect it, better when their focus is upon greater things, when their desires grow stronger than I, and when they forget I exist; that’s when they are most vulnerable.

The distrust of themselves would grow, as would its power over them. That’s how it kept them there. They could go nowhere else really, how could they? How could they trust themselves to such a thing?

Stay with me my pretty, it thought, stay with me and you’ll never have to rely on yourself too much, not too much at all; your existence will be limited but at least you won’t risk losing more, but at least you won’t risk gaining more.

You belong to me my beloved, it cooed, as it returned to its den, scuttling in reverse to its empty nothingness, its lurking hollow. Yes, I will be here it thought, I will always be here.

They remained. They remained like they always did.


Author Bio: Just a 23-year-old girl, totally on her own, with a passion for writing. Literature has given me the opportunity to live various lives, and I wish to provide others with unique experiences that can only be obtained through living vicariously through another character or story. Life has left me with lots of bumps and bruises, much more than the average girl my age, but I long to provide others with perspectives for their current circumstances, and potentially even connect with the reader, to remind them that we’re not all alone after all- we fight the same demons, we wage war with the same inner conflicts, and despite what we might believe, there’s hope. Though our settings and circumstances may vary, we are indeed still the very same; we are wired for affirmation and we are crippled by our insecurities. That is what I long to portray. I hope to inspire, move, stir, and motivate the reader. I’m just a 23-year-old girl who wants to leave her mark on the world.

I have a personal blog with pieces which genres vary greatly, but I do write to share them nonetheless: megambiguous.wordpress.com

Vivisepulture

By Shannon Bell

I’m not allowed control or choices. You buy my clothes and food. I wear what you want, when you want and I eat what you want when you tell me to. I have nothing and I’m not allowed to go anywhere. You remind me that I’m lower than an animal and don’t need rights or freedom, that the only privilege I need in life is being with you.

“Congratulations. Your ability to inflict pain is remarkable. But I wonder, what is your tolerance for receiving it? Well, my love, tonight we’ll know.”

I smooth your jacket and straighten your tie.

My friends don’t bother with me anymore. You embarrassed and humiliated and threatened them. At first, they were uncomfortable, then insulted, and finally afraid for their safety. I have no one. You tell me that’s the way it should be because I’m a worthless, useless piece of shit.

“Most of my suffering was physical. Yours will be emotional. I lived through mine. You won’t survive yours.”

I tighten the ropes and remove the gag.

When we have sex, it’s rough and painful and borders on rape. I learnt the hard way never to say no. You tell me I deserve it because I’m a dirty whore, a filthy slut who fucks everything she sees, someone who can’t be trusted with anyone or anything.

“Your agony won’t be as long as mine, but my pleasure at being the cause of your anguish will be as intense as yours.”

I stroke your trembling hand and kiss your quivering lips.

It’s hard to clean away the blood and dress your wounds when your bones are broken. I gave up trying to hide the bruises and injuries. I gave up making excuses. Everyone knows, but no one helps me. They all turn a blind eye and pretend they don’t see. Who can blame them?  I’m scared to get anyone else involved. Who knows what you’d do to them.

“No one will hear you. No one will find you. No one will miss you. No one will care.”

I close the lid, climb out of the hole and grab the shovel. I smile, enjoying the sound of your screams, enjoying the sound of the dirt hitting your coffin.


Author Bio: Shannon Bell is addicted to words. You will find him madly writing away in the spare time he has available between holding down a full-time job, being part of a dysfunctional family and looking after his attention seeking dog. His stories have been published in Dark Edifice, Short & Twisted, 101 Fiction and strippedlit500. You can follow Shannon at @ShannonBell1967.

Featured

Issue 3 Is Here (Spring 2017)

See the unseen… we have fantastic, horrific, amusing and tragic tales for you in this issue of our simultaneous blog and PDF edition of Issue 3; we will publish the stories simultaneously on our Twitter page; please do have a read of them, we are proud to present more great new short fiction.

Our theme for this issue was “unseen”; the quality of the writing and storytelling is once again very high.

Scroll down from this post to read the issue 3 stories individually. You can also search for stories by category in the sidebar. The stories are also collected under the Issue 3 Category

Issue 3 is also available in a free PDF file for you to download or read online.

Happy reading, and enormous thanks to all our contributors.

Margaret

Ring of Truth

By Mike Olley

In three determined strides, Paul Matlock reached the front porch of the semi-detached house and stood with his finger hovering over the doorbell. His hand shook. This was more difficult than he’d thought. He only needed to say a few words, what if it came out all wrong?

‘I er… I’m conducting a survey for British Gas, do you have a couple of minutes?’
Not engaging enough.

‘How do you feel about God?’
Too powerful.

‘Can I have my ball back?’
Child-like, but along the right lines. In the end he should just be honest:
‘I’m Paul, you gave me away forty years ago today. Hello Mum.’

He pushed the doorbell decisively. Whether the bell sounded decisive inside the house was hard to tell; the double-glazed glass porch, crammed with flowering plants, muffled any interior sound. He pressed the bell again. Still no answer. He took a step back. The curtains were drawn in the front lounge.

Inside, Margaret sat in her kitchen with a large gin and tonic, she never normally drank this early. Today was special. She felt tired. She’d taken all the pills.

Paul pushed the bell once more. Waited. Nothing. Maybe another day, maybe not. He left.

He never saw the notice that said ‘Bell not working, please knock.’



Author Bio:
Mike Olley writes short fiction. His work has been published in several anthologies. A designer by trade, he’s also quite a good carpenter and grower of cactus plants. Originally from London, he spent a few years in Spain before a quirk of fate brought him back to live in an English seaside town.

Mikeolley.com
@mike_olley

Not Seen and Not Heard

By Stephanie Hutton

There are more siblings than windows at home. She must find a way to her parents’ eyes. One brother does it with thrashing and crashing and screams. Their eyes follow, but so do their fists. The eldest sister does everything precisely and well. Her success leaves an afterglow of approval in their irises. The twins’ symmetry mesmerises her parents without effort, pulling their pupils along on invisible threads.

She practises smiling in the mirror whilst pinching thin skin on the tops of her hands. Separation of what is seen and what is felt, like oil from water. Waiting to be wanted, she sits among the shadows in corners of the house. She watches for signs of their thirst or hunger, for red cheeks that need an open window or blue feet to cover in silk slippers.

There is a world of colour out there. But to step out of the front door leaves her clutching her stomach and breathing as fast as her old dog. Did their eyes flicker towards her as she glanced away? Best to keep quiet watch.

In her dreams, she pirouettes or soars or strides out of flames, as loud as opera as her parents turn their heads away.

She reaches the end of childhood belonging to nowhere and no-one. As the cataracts of attachment fade, she sees that they both look straight through her.

One cool evening, she shuts all the windows and heaves the curtains across. She wets the dog’s head with tears as she rubs her nose against his. The weight of his gaze holds her steady as she steps out of the back door under the watchful eye of the moon.


Author Bio: Stephanie Hutton is a writer and clinical psychologist in the UK. She has published her flash fiction, short stories, and poetry online and in print.

In 2016 she won the Writers HQ Competition, Ad Hoc Fiction, and Bibliophone 1000 Words Heard Competition, and was shortlisted for the Black Pear Press Short Story Competition and Brighton Prize. She believes in the therapeutic value of short fiction.