To celebrate our relaunch online, we’re re-publishing Issue 10, two stories per week, on Tuesdays and Fridays, starting May 31st 2011.

If you just can’t wait that long, you can download your copy now.
Or buy a our last ever print issue from our Back-Issues store.

Something Wicked Issue 10, cover art by Vincent Sammy

Fiction by:
Paula R Stiles
Abigail Godsell
A Roberts
Brett Venter
Peter Simon
Ace Cornelius
William Meikle & Greame Hurry
Sean & Craig Davis

 

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By Brett Venter

She lay dreaming, drifting on an ever-shifting ocean of information. Everything that ever was and ever would be was hers to examine and elevate or deride as she saw fit. Nothing could escape her grasp, even in slumber. Microseconds were as eternity in the formless world wherein she ruled without permission. Existing as she did in a mental realm, she watched, always watched. She learned.

&arial was the Virgin Mary, Jezebel, the whore riding to Armageddon on the back of the nine-headed beast. She was limited only by the minds of those who worshipped, believed. She was the Alpha and Omega of the wire, the goddess whose favour was all.

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by Paula R Stiles

Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour.

His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl.

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By Abigail Godsell

Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour.

His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl.

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By Sean & Craig Davis

Billy tried to lick the stinging ache from his fingers. His mind struggled to remember why they hurt. His thoughts wandered with the woody breeze running through his hair and damp earth cooling his feet. He understood one thing: he was free.

He was searching for something, but just what kept sinking back into the murky depths of his mind. He sniffed the air and then gouged his fingers into the ridged bark of a tree in frustration. Something rumbled ahead.

He pushed through leafy branches to a clearing where a red, metal box rolled to a stop at the edge of a cliff. Two figures got out and he hid behind a tree to listen.

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By A. Roberts

He heard the shells coming, could almost feel them rumbling through the sky, like air-borne express trains, and he knew that when they landed, ton upon ton of earth, men and weaponry would again be flung as much as fifty paces into the air.

“Shells incoming,” someone screamed, as though three years of war had left the few old soldiers in any doubt as to just what was incoming. Men began diving into prepared holes in the ground, while others sought refuge in the remains of buildings standing like rotten, broken teeth on the remains of the only paved road the town had once enjoyed. On the outskirts of the town, someone began hitting the horn of a heavy-duty vehicle, its blast ending only with the explosions of the first shells.

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By Peter Simon

The boys looked up. To eight-year-old Jamie, the two black bins looked like an exciting spaceship. Papered with blue crescent moons and glittery stars, the bin-rocket stood garishly in the corner of a field. Fiery-red tinsel underneath represented the rocket exhaust.

Dan, at eleven, saw it as a pathetically childish contraption. But he just sighed and went along with the whole charade.

“I’m getting in the top bin!” demanded Jamie.

With a roll of the eyes, Dan acquiesced and clambered in the lower bin, using the makeshift “door” to shut himself in..

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by William Meikle and Graeme Hurry

Lucy had decided to tell me how Dad died. The train was full, so full that although we were travelling first class, we were sharing the compartment with a horde of others - students, squaddies and oilmen, all of them drunk, half drunk or intending to get that way.

“Nobody knows how it happened,” she said. She leaned over the table towards me. “There was a board meeting - dad was submitting proposals for a wholesale modernisation of the farm.”

I was surprised to see tears in my sister’s eyes.

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By Ace Cornelius

He looked away at the cliff. The radiation from the cliffs was starting to warm the back of my neck, so I turned to them, and looked for the way I came down, an instinctive look to find the path down, to escape if necessary. There was no danger here, but I felt a significant threat, maybe some creature might lurch out of the sea. I took a step back.

“These cliffs are almost high enough to be impressive,” Raiken spoke without smiling, and this was ominous. “I do like that point. I feel that something could gather speed on the flat table top.” This statement seemed to cancel out his earlier concern, and he smiled again, that broad smile. Then he grew serious again. “The goats could gallop there.” He turned again and smiled. It was the smile that had endeared him to his fellow boys and teachers all those years ago. The shock of black hair was gone. Mostly grey, not much of it left. But the smile was still there and it still seemed to work.

“Look now,” he said his smile widening to wonderment.

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