There was only one escape from the dread and terror of the labyrinth subgenre…to destroy Labyrinth Inhabitant Magazine!
Detective Jack Dweeb and his better-looking assistant Farraday unravel the final secrets of the labyrinth legend.
I told the whole story to King Minos, explaining that Daedalus’s escape was no fault of mine, but the king was not in an understanding mood.
“If man was meant to fly, he’d have wings.” Minos said.
“He did have wings,” I pointed out.
Farraday and I were returned to the labyrinth. Maybe I shouldn’t have called Minos a Cretan.
Copperroof comes to life to terrorize its royal inhabitants. But Copperroof is only a house. (Or isn’t it?)
“I don’t know what they fought for, but my father said it began like this; smoke and drums. The armory had been rearranging itself for days, and some of the suits had gone missing, but the archivists were too afraid to let anyone know.” Something hit the marble floor with a heavy clang, and the Duke and Duchess froze like two suits of armor themselves. A round object was rolling towards them in the dark: clang-bringa-bringa-clang-bringa-bringa-clang.
“The King had been gone then, too,” Paride said.
A story about a man who sacrifices everything for his art, and about the agony and regret fiction editors feel when they reject submissions. (heh, heh.)
I’m not really a person; at least not anymore. “I” was once Francis Macchione, but now I’m just a “construct.” It’s impossible to explain exactly what I am and how I exist, but I am certain that once “Tide of The Graying Moon” becomes published, Francis Macchione, — “I” — will no longer be anyone or anything.
It’s fine if you send the five dollars to my Paymate account which you can pay into by using my email address. Or you could keep the money. I don’t have any survivors so I’m not quite sure what Paymate would do with that money when I’m gone. Also, for the reasons I’ve mentioned, I don’t really see much point in printing a bio.
The author returns to Labyrinth Inhabitant with an alternate-world retelling of The Experiment, Issue 5’s story of Cumbrians stoically facing ecological collapse.
‘But, yes, you could carry on living here and we’ll provide you and the others with provisions and medical supplies before we seal the area off. But you have to understand we can’t ensure your safety. Whatever happens here after the test, you’re completely on your own. If you change your mind and try to get out, you’ll be shot. So think very carefully.’
‘I don’t have to think about it,’ I said. ‘And I’m sure David feels the same.’
Madelaine has five hours to live three lives. But can she learn to want any of them?
“After you experience a lifetime of a job, you will see my point,” he father had said when he chose for her the occupation of an attorney. “In the end, the high-paying job is the one that affords for you the luxuries you have grown up with. It is the one you will be begging for after your ‘gratifying’ archaeology career becomes another race against the clock.”
The impact of the needles on her skin stings for half a second, and then a numbing buzz begins to travel through her body, spreading and spreading until she feels nothing.
She blinks to stop the room from spinning, but to no avail.
A computer simulation of a dead actor finds out he’s been a puppet his whole life. But when his network comes under attack, it’s time for him to play the heavy once again.
“I don’t go in for the fancy stuff. Ham sandwich, cup of coffee, that’s me. Also, the play acting is spoiling the mood. What is it you want besides food? I don’t like people who impersonate other people and then ask us all to play along. It makes the rest of us feel stupid.”
“Interesting, Mr. Marvin,” says the mouse man. “Aren’t we all ‘play-acting’ at being someone else in ‘this’ world?” At ‘this’ my blood runs cold. I’m one of the very few people, in fact the only one I’m aware of, who knows the truth about the other side—the world of Leonard Giles. The real world.
A living space can give you much more than just shelter. But sometimes it asks too much in return.
For the first time, he noticed the stillness of the room. The room was not breathing anymore!
Now where are the seams?
The conventional axis for a revolving cylinder passed through the hollow core parallel to the five stitches to close the mouth of the Apocalypse and all the doors gave up their meanings when left open much longer than necessary and the windows were upright slabs of all that were cold and fleeting and the blanket on the cot would never be thick enough against it. Think. Think. Where are the seams?
Warm cake awaits within this poem.
Over at Fantastic Horror, Jack Faber has published a story about a disorienting mansion. As an added bonus, it features a Lovecraft word. Not eldritch, the other one.