Dark horse/'därk '?hôrs/noun1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds."a dark-horse candidate"Join us for a monthly tour of writers who give as good as they get. From hard science-fiction to stark, melancholic apocalypses; from Lovecraftian horror to zombies and horror comedy; from whimsical interludes to tales of unlikely compassion--whatever it is, if it's weird, it's here. So grab a seat before the starting gun fires, pour yourself a glass of strange wine, and get ready for the running of the dark horses. In this issue:COYOTE AND HUNTERBrenden PontzTHE GREEN WORLDTerry SanvilleTHE LEVIATHANHarold HossHOMING PIGEONMehitabel ShapiroTHE EULOGYMax RissmanMINTStephen McQuigganSÉ DO BHEATHA 'BHAILEDerek Alan JonesTHE APBRocky BoudreausTHE TERROR IN LAKE MICHIGANKelly PiggottTHE PRIMEVAL WORLDWayne Kyle Spitzer

Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 11 December 2022 - Dark Horses Magazine, #11

He fell silent and doubled over as someone punched him in the stomach, then toppled completely as someone else shoved him. And then, suddenly, there was a cry-a cry that sounded as though it had come from Ank and yet utterly different from any Williams had ever heard. A warbling, frightened, pitiful cry-the kind an animal might make if it were sinking into tar while surrounded by predators."Marshal?" said someone. "That came from the Lonestar Corral.""Then that means we've got 'im cornered, " said Rimshaw, and shouted, "Johnson! Let 'em into the armory! Let 'em all in!" And to everyone else he said: "Get your weapons and meet me at the corral. And someone fetch Creebald and Teller. I don't care how sick they are. I want them by my side.""But, Marshal, I just came from there, " said Johnson, pausing. "And they're plumb gone.""What do mean, gone?" snapped Rimshaw."I mean they ain't there. They're not at the Rio Grande. No one's at the Rio Grande."Williams craned his neck on the ground to observe Rimshaw's reaction, and what he saw sent a chill up his spine, for it all but confirmed what he'd begun to suspect. For as Rimshaw stared at the man coldly, his eyes black as coals and his face pale as the dead, his tongue slipped between his lips like a snake's and was just as quickly sucked back in.

The Quick and the (Jurassic) Undead

"Ha! The flu. You should see 'em: pale and black-eyed as serpents, just lying there in the Rio Grande like zombies." She leaned toward him over the bar again and he caught a whiff of her fragrance, and there was a stirring in his groin he hadn't felt since, well, since he couldn't remember."What do you mean, like zombies?""I mean like zombies, like men who are dead but still walking, or lying there staring at the ceiling. See, something attacked us only a few weeks after the Flashback . something . new. At first everyone just assumed it was a rogue raptor, because it didn't have a pack-that was the first thing. But then it started talking, like a parrot, I suppose, saying things like 'Pig' and 'Eggsucker, '" She laughed her contagious laugh. "Can you imagine? A raptor calling you names as it attacked you? Deputies Creebald and Teller put up one hell of a fight, you can be sure, and they did eventually kill it, with Rimshaw's help, but all of them were wounded in the fight, and the deputies worst of all. After that, things started changing around here. At first it was just Creebald and Teller acting strangely, abusing their power, you might say, telling me not to forget to paint on my mole, or insisting Doc Allen wear that ridiculous little vest. But then Marshal Rimshaw started getting into the act, as well, and before any of us knew it we were living in a kind of police state. Decker was the only one who didn't pile on, which is funny, because he was the only one not wounded in the fight with the raptor. It all came to a head when Deputy Teller had his way with one of the saloon girls-Molly, was her name-after which there was a full-blown shootout between the Marshal and his deputies-not Decker, he tried to maintain the peace-and the rest of the town." She unscrewed the cap from a bottle of beer and took a swig, then concealed it behind the bar. "You didn't see that. Anyway, the town didn't fair so well, and now there's a row of graves out by Serpent's Butte." She paused, locking her beautiful brown eyes up in his own. "They were good men, Williams. The best I've ever known. And now they're just as dead as that raptor." She snapped the bar towel in her hands and then wiped the counter. "And that's why we all talk and dress this way." She indicated his empty glass. "You want another?""Sure, " he said. She pulled one from the wall and unscrewed its cap, sat it down in front of him. At last she said, "So what about you? What's your story? And how did you come to be travelling with an armored dinosaur?"

Tales from the Flashback: "The Ank Williams Story" - Tales from the Flashback, #4

"This is who we are, " said the man in the bandana, who stood next to him on the grassy hill. "And this, fellow paladin, is what we do. Beautiful, isn't it?"Williams watched as the steeples of a church burned and collapsed, then focused on a woman carrying a child from the wreckage. The stranger continued: "Don't look to us for the method of carnage-fire is of the Other's design. We only use it as a means to an end. But watch now as I show you what will happen when we descend upon your Barley-and what mercy to expect from us when we finally do. And tell me if it would not be better to simply turn around now, while you still can, and ignore the Call completely."Williams squinted through the smoke as a motorcycle burst into view and bore down upon the woman, its headlight creating a halo, its rider brandishing a sword. Then, before he could so much as cry out a warning, the rider struck, beheading the woman in one fell swoop before continuing on with a rumble and leaving the child abandoned in her arms. And then Williams was turning to the mysterious figure with the intent of killing him with his bare hands, but froze when he saw that the man was no longer there: that he had been replaced with something else, something about 9-feet-tall and covered with kinky hair, with a goat's head and six golden eyes, which vanished as he blinked-awakening with a start-and heard Sheila say, with desperation in her voice: "Will, It's Ank. And he's gone."

A Dinosaur Is A Man's Best Friend: "The Enemy Comes in Dream" - A Dinosaur Is A Man's Best Friend (A Serialized Novel), #5

First came the time-storm, which erased half the population. Then came the Dinosaur Apocalypse . How did it all begin? Well, that depends on where you were and who you ask. In some places it started with the weather-which quickly became unstable and began behaving in impossible ways. In still others it started with the lights in the sky, which shifted and pulsed and could not be explained. Elsewhere it started with the disappearances: one here, a few there, but increasing in occurrence until fully three quarters of the population had vanished. Either way, there is one thing on which everyone agrees-it didn't take long for the prehistoric flora and fauna to start showing up (often appearing right where someone was standing, in which case the two were fused, spliced, amalgamated). It didn't take long for the great Time-displacement called the Flashback-which was brief but had aftershocks, like an earthquake-to change the face of the earth. Nor for the stories, some long and others short, some from before the maelstrom (and resulting societal collapse) and others after, to be recorded. Welcome to the Lost Country. From "The Devil's Triangle": There were six of them, as I said-all of whom rushed us the instant our feet touched the ground. All of whom snarled and charged us like wolverines as we raised our weapons and fired-the flare gun cracking and hissing, blanching the scarlet haze (for the sun had painted everything red and gold), its projectile punching through one of the raptors' chests and lighting it up so that its ribs were backlit briefly and I could see, if only for an instant, its burning, beating heart. Yet still they came, another one leaping at me even as I dropped the gun-which clattered against the planks-as I dropped it and grabbed the thing by its neck-then brought the knife down with my other hand and stabbed it between the eyes. "Run!" I shouted, even as Amanda shot another-her second-and then bolted toward the shore, drawing the others so that I was able to snatch up the flare gun and quickly reload it; so that I was able to pursue them and to shoot one in the back-while Amanda turned and took out the last of them (shooting it in the head so that the back of its skull exploded like a spaghetti dinner thrown against the wall; so that it collapsed, writhing, about 10 feet in front of her-whereupon she quickly approached it and shot it again, just to be sure). And then she looked at me (as the dead and dying animals lay all around us) and I looked back: our chests heaving; our faces covered in sweat, our worn clothes bloody and disheveled, and I knew that she knew-which was that today we were the predators, the thing needing to be feared-the killers. And that neither of us needed to worry; not about food or other predators or mysterious lights in the sky or anything. Because we were the masters of our fate, we and no one else, not even God. And we were the master of the world's fate, too. At which she ran to me and we collided and I held her fast, there on the long jetty in the Atlantic Ocean (in the Bermuda Triangle), there beneath a day moon and the blood-red sky, in an instant in which it was good, so very good, not to be afraid, not to be alone. And as to what may or may not have happened in those breaths, those pulse points between that moment and the next-the next day, the next search, the next milestone; as to that, I offer only a quote from Gandhi: "Speak only if it improves upon the silence."

The Lost Country, Episode Four: “The Devil’s Triangle” - The Lost Country, #4

There is a byway between reality and dream. A transit we call Möbius Blvd .Inspired by the enigmatic Möbius strip, a mathematical construct that defies conventional notions of linearity and infinity, Möbius Blvd has no beginning or end but exists in a place where reality and dream have fused . coalesced . merged. With each turn of the page, you'll encounter a unique blend of horror, fantasy, and science-fiction-fiction that will challenge your perceptions and leave you in awe of the infinite possibilities that exist within the written word. Indeed, Möbius Blvd is far more than a magazine; it's an experience. It's an exploration of the infinite, a passage through dimensions where the only constant is storytelling at its most daring, a kaleidoscope of wonder and terror. Join us on this winding, never-ending journey of speculative fiction that will keep you entranced from the first twist to the last loop. Open your mind to the limitless worlds of Möbius Blvd . and discover that the boundary between fiction and reality is as thin as a strip of paper with a twist. In this issue:SEEING IS BELIEVINGGale HuxleyFIRSTNAME LASTNAMEWil MagnessON THE BUSMatthew SpenceCROSSROADSRob RosenTHE AUTUMN OF '79Wayne Kyle SpitzerTHE TIMES THAT BROKE BONESK. A. HunterSOFT SCIENCEJoseph HirschTHE UNMASKEDDaniel LoeblTHE WAY OF THE WINDRick M. ClausenTHE UNWEAVINGElana Gomel

Mobius Blvd: Stories from the Byway Between Reality and Dream No. 1 | November 2023 - Mobius Blvd: Stories from the Byway Between Reality and Dream, #1

In a land of wind and willows, two canoeists encounter some other-worldly wind turbines. From The Sentinels: Dunn: He said that he was taking the way of the wind and the sky, and that he was going in-to Them-by which I presume he meant going into the tower and scaling the ladder. And he said other things: That our thoughts made patterns in their world-left 'prints, ' as it were-as did theirs in ours; and that that was how they'd found us, by listening to our thoughts, zeroing in on our patterns. And he said that Bobby was merely a bundle of sensory organs wrapped in a skin of decaying matter and so wasn't important, wasn't needed. That only they mattered-they, the beings attached to and inhabiting the turbines. And that . that . Detective Shaw: What, Mrs. Dunn? Say it. Dunn: But . don't you see? It doesn't matter what he said, because it wasn't him speaking, not really. Bobby would never have described a human being as just a bundle of sensory organs; he truly believed, with every fiber of his being, that we were more than that-more than just the sum of our parts-it was what inspired him to become a doctor in the first place. And knowing what I knew, knowing what kind of man he was, I pressed him, telling him that Bobby did matter-that he mattered to his patients and that he mattered to me-more than I would ever be able to describe. And then I approached him and embraced him and told him I loved him-feeling, for the briefest of moments, the spirals beginning to close on his back-and he smiled, his eyes returning to normal, after which he said, or started to say, "I love ." (room tone) Detective Shaw: (inaudible) He-he told you he loved you? Dunn: No. He . his eyes rolled back . and then his face, it . it simply imploded. In a spiral. Like someone had flushed a toilet full of blood and brains.

The Sentinels and Other Stories

The race is on to get out of post-apocalypse New York in an all-new Flashback thriller. Welcome to the world of the Flashback, a world in which man's cities have become overgrown jungles and extinct animals wander the ruins. You can survive here, if you're lucky, and if you're not in the wrong place at the wrong time--which is everywhere, all the time. But what you'll never do is remain the same, for this is a world whose very purpose is to challenge you, a world where anything can and will happen. So take a deep dive into these loosely connected tales of the Dinosaur Apocalypse (each of which can be read individually or as a part of the greater saga): tales of wonder and terror, death and survival, blood and beauty. Do it today, before the apocalypse comes. From The Ghosts in Their Boroughs:She loosed her hair and shook her head, allowing the locks to spill down her shoulder-and I zoomed in on them to get a focus."Do I look any different?" she hollered."Yeah . you shine."Which she did, like a candelabra, as the lights reflected off her hair, her skin, her beaded jacket. As the music played and she reached for the brass ring-and got it. As she circled and laughed and gripped the pole and the camera went click, click, click. That's when I saw them; or thought I did. The shapes. Gathered beyond the farthest poles (I'd zoomed up on the opposite side whilst waiting for her to come back around); gathered like outsized crows. That's when I focused through and saw their eyes; their awful, red, vertically slit eyes, before dropping the camera and unslinging my rifle-pointing it directly at them . and finding them gone. That's when I realized that I was starting to lose it-to slip, as the writer Hugo Eagleton once said. That the terror and uncertainty of what had happened-the sky, the missing people, the remaining people who seemed intent on burning the city down-had affected me more than I realized. Sylvia, for her part, only looked at me like I was insane. And I would have agreed with her; had I not looked behind her and saw them again. Had I not seen with my own eyes their black bodies and crimson snouts as they weaved between horses and slowly closed the gap; as they stalked her like panthers and the carousel went around, the music like a carnival, the horses rising and falling. As they closed to within about twelve feet of her and I fired-causing them to stop and to crouch and to look around-only to inch forward again as I resumed shooting (missing, it seemed, every time). Until there was an ear-piercing pulse which I recognized as coming from Madsen's sound cannon (he'd demonstrated it for us before we set out) and the animals scattered-even as Sylvia crouched and covered (from the excruciating noise) and I did the same; paralyzed, debilitated.

The Ghosts in Their Boroughs

It was the first night of the Sacrificium, a night of sacrifice and death, a night when the black coins tendered in the Lottery would be tendered back. It was also the Hora Mille Semitis, the Hour of a Thousand paths-for that is the day the Sacrificium had fallen on this year-the hour when best friends might become enemies, when lovers of longstanding might betray oaths, the hour in which anything and everything was possible. And the alignment was felt: from the upper echelons of the capitol to the poorest quarters of the downriver provinces. For the message of Valdus' rebellion had spread-whether it was a tract nailed to a door before quickly being torn down or a blast in the night that caused the power to fail in entire regions. It was a night for dreaming and for huddled collusions, for the breeze to course through rustling leaves, for long dead hearts to awaken and start pumping blood. The Sacrificium had once more come to Ursathrax, but so had the Hour of a Thousand Paths, and Valdus' Revolution, and something else, something elusive but impossible to ignore, nebulous, but as real as the River Dire, which seemed to have stolen into the world on the wind itself.

Dark Horses: The Magazine of Weird Fiction No. 11 December 2022 - Dark Horses Magazine, #11

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