Nails Without Pictures

      Michael Sellars
Nails Without Pictures

When Jack finds a tiny corpse in a shoe box in his back garden, he begins to question his sanity. But is his mind the only thing he's lost? Originally published in Nocturne Magazine.At first, Jack had been convinced the thing was some twisted little urchin’s idea of a toy. But then he’d cut open its belly and something like semi-liquefied worms had glistened through the skewed slit of his inexpert incision...

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    Undressed Wounds

      Michael Sellars
Undressed Wounds

Still struggling to come to terms with the death of his wife, Steven finds something in his attic. Something that shouldn't be there. Something alive. Originally published in Fusing Horizons from Grey Friar Press.At first, I thought it was a dead chick: one of those barely feathered near-foetuses you stumble across every now and then while out walking in the woods. I wondered how it had got there: in the attic, on top of a pile of newspaper clippings, themselves stacked upon a small tower of battered suitcases containing my wife’s favourite clothes. Scrutinising the thing (squinting, as if this would somehow make up for the naked 60-watt bulb’s lack of generosity), I was proved wrong. It wasn’t a chick at all. And it wasn’t dead. It was a foetus of sorts, however; I’d got that much right. It was vaguely simian, with the consistency and colouring of regurgitated liquorice. It pulsed and twitched, its tiny, gluey mouth opening and closing, its grimy eyes rolling.

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    Today is Not

      Michael Sellars
Today is Not

A tale of the apocalypse or a tale of personal tragedy and psychological collapse? Originally published in Murky Depths magazine, then republished in Best Tales of the Apocalypse from Permuted Press.There are days when Abigail doesn’t think about them at all, the Luminissmus, days when windows are windows and bottles are bottles, when glass is just glass. On those days, she cooks, cleans, shops, sends out job applications by the truckload and spends the remaining daylight hours in the cemetery. Those days are the exception. Today is not one of those days. Today, she is thinking about the Luminissmus. It’s all she can think about...

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    And Everything but Wretchedness Forgotten

      Michael Sellars
And Everything but Wretchedness Forgotten

Alone in the trenches following a devastating barrage of enemy fire, Robert discovers there is more than just his own innocence at stake in this godforsaken war. Originally published in From the Trenches by Carnifex Press.It was just the driving rain and the liquidity of the mud that made them look like a child’s footprints. Robert had no idea how long he had been following them, or even why. He wondered if he was simply keeping himself busy, distracting himself from the squealing in his ears, the festering wound in his thigh, the cold numbing his face and fingers, the knowledge that everyone was dead, that he was alone and lost in this cemetery, this sewer, this labyrinth. These trenches.

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    Tabaniday

      Michael Sellars
Tabaniday

When a weird creature the size of a house appears at the end of Timothy's street, his first instinct is to contact the Department of Incidents and Occurrences, even though Doctor Sheehan told him there was no such government department... Originally published in Morpheus Tales magazine.Timothy didn’t know what it was, the thing at the end of Elbow Street. It was big – bigger than a house, he didn’t doubt, if it were to unfurl to its full height – and it was made of something beginning with ‘c’.He didn’t know what it was, the creature at the end of the street, but he suspected it was there because of him.

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