DL Shirey writes from Portland, Oregon, where it's probably raining. His short stories and non-fiction appear in over 60 publications, including including Confingo, Page & Spine, Zetetic and Wild Musette. You can find more of his writing at www.dlshirey.com and @dlshirey on Twitter.
Everyone who reads this piece asks if it’s true. Thankfully, no. It was sparked by the above photo that I happened upon online. The story was originally submitted to the dear departed Reflex Fiction in April 2019. It didn’t win the contest, but they were moved by it and decided to publish it anyway. In addition, this story was read by the author on a podcast.
Yesterdays’ Pictures
by DL Shirey
The boy beams when finished. Beams. Like the face of God’s son whose name I no longer invoke. For eleven years he’s smiled whenever he sees me. Smiles when I feed him yoghurt. Smiles as I clean up shit and vomit. Gabe is a happy child. Happiest when he finishes a drawing.
Exciting update on my short story “Faithful.” It is now available in an anthology on Amazon US (Kindle or paperback) and Amazon UK (Kindle or paperback).
Horror Tree has assembled all stories previous published in their 2018 “Trembling With Fear” column. That’s 204 tales of fright and weirdness (I counted). Stories are listed by the month they were published. Mine is in December.
Despite the title, this story is more horror than sci-fi. (And as horror goes, fairly mild.) As Corner Bar Magazine editor Garry Somers told me, “It’s like a Twilight Zone episode, only without the preface by Serling that warns you that you’re about to be freaked out.” Being a TZ fan myself, that is high praise. First published in July 2019.
Where Pluto Used To Be
by DL Shirey
The nausea hadn’t started yet, but it was just around the corner. Right now the problem was itching, and those awful thoughts that if she scratched too hard, too often in the same spot, her skin would shred like grated cheese.
Elsa tried not to scrape her manicured nails where it itched most, on her ankles. Instead she crossed her legs, placing a foot on her knee, then gently rubbed at the itch beneath her pant leg. But a laying-on of hands wouldn’t sooth it, nor would a lotion to moisturize skin. Oxy or Vikes would do it.
Published in February 2019 by the Oregon-based journal Cascadia Rising Review (may they rest in peace), this story can be categorized as creative-nonfiction-ish because it’s written about actual events. Truth be told, though, liberties were taken to enhance the drama. Since these characters are based on my relatives, but not 100% pure, their names have been changed.
I must give a shout out to Alle Hall, whose editorial prowess helped shape the story. Even though I withdrew it from consideration for her journal, some of the rewrites she requested definitely made the piece better. Thanks Alle.
Marine Corps Chow
by DL Shirey
If a machine gun expelled staccato laughter instead of bullets, that would be the sound my uncle made after every joke I heard him tell. HA-uh-uh-uh-uh-uh followed the punch line, a clipped rat-a-tat-tat before anyone else could laugh.
He was used to people doubling-up from his stories. Franklin Chandler Penney was a Marine, a commander of Marines, a full-bird colonel once in charge of an airbase in the Pacific theater. I never saw him in his Marine Corps cap, but there was no hair for it to hide. He had thick brows, constantly stuck in the frown position, which gave him a hawkish squint. He was tall and held his backbone at attention, even in the most casual occasions. Whenever he laughed, his jaw would barely unhinge, as if it was a Herculean effort to unclench his teeth.
This story is written in first person, which is weird because it’s from the perspective of an alien creature native to the planet Mercury. It’s also short. But somehow I was able to squeeze in the creature’s entire life cycle in 300 words. Published in June 2019 by Local Train Magazine, may they rest in peace.
The Thin Rim of Mercury
by DL Shirey
I crawl from the carcass of my motherfather. Me and thousands of sisterbrothers. Weaker ones are eaten to gain the strength needed to push against the baked shell of dirt above us. Most die trying, each arching a feeble spine against unbending crust, all eighteen legs pushing up, straining to crack through.
The ground gives above me, a fissure forms and the heat doubles. I push through vulva-end first and am immediately penetrated. The weight of my writhing suitor keeps me from pulling my phallus-half out of the ground. I brace myself until shehe is finished, then wrench the rest of me into massive sunlight.
DL Shirey 