tiny frights vol. 1 no. 2
tiny frights has made it to a second issue! I take that as a good omen.
Returning spookers include Alex Bestwick, myself, Mort Duffy, Nolcha Fox, and Jennifer Rodrigues. I'm pleased to have a number of new (to tiny frights) writers and artists in this issue, as well.
Thanks for reading tiny frights! Subscribe for free to receive new posts and support my work.
A word about content warnings
If an author/artist includes a content or trigger warning with their work, I’ll include it here. I do not add content warnings otherwise. I have nothing against them, but many thoughts about them, which I’m working up into a short article.
A word about social media
There are currently no plans to close the tiny frights Twitter account, despite Twitter’s acquisition by Elon Musk. That might change at any time. But, after all, the zine still has a Facebook account.
A word about the next issue
tiny frights will be open for submissions from November 1st to March 31st for the Walpurgis 2023 issue. I’m particularly interested in reviews of horror media: books, movies, music, art, and so on. I don’t want to do them all myself.
And, as always, I want good, short poetry, microfiction, and visual art.
That’s it. Creepy reading!
– Carl Bettis, 10/31/2022
Art, fiction, & poetry
Halloween voyeur this is Laurie’s story but we watch through the killer’s eyes seeing what the victim does not. he’s behind you! an unstoppable force relentless (like the shark in Jaws) time freezes long enough to preserve the thrill of anticipation before the jagged blade strikes the greatest fear contained in split seconds that precede violence we are held taut tight delayed gratification before ferocious release s(laughter) – Jane Ayres previously published in Punk Noir, May 2021
Wild Things Must Be Boxed and Labeled Wild threatens. Wild must be contained and named. Put each wild thing in a box. Cut off anything that doesn’t fit. The wild thing won’t need it anyway. Label the box, describe the wild. Categorize. Categorize. Speak of the wild things as labels, no need to think too hard, no need to see. Wild things rebel. Wild things plaster their boxes with labels. This is me. This is me. Categorize. Categorize. – Nolcha Fox
A Good Mother
By C. O. Davidson
I am a good mother. You hold this knowledge in the palm of your hand. Scroll my feed and I feed you: A tray of cookies, each ginger shape uniform. Nothing here burnt, only clean edges, fondant precise.
Are you hungry for more? Swipe and see: my perfect home, perfect pies, perfect husband and son, and now my perfect baby girl, asleep in pink lace on a pink blanket in pink morning light on the peach curve of her cheek.
She had been fussy the night before, so I set the alarm for 4:40, time to do the work I needed before the dawn, wrapping that blanket around her, placing her hand, curled like a mystery under her chin, all to catch the dawn, that fairy light on her cheek. Just. So.
I administered the cough syrup with care, through an eye-dropper, watching the clock as the codeine lulled her and she became pliant, poseable, quiet.
And she’s never quiet. Never sleeps unless steps are taken. But you didn’t see that. You saw only what I spoon-fed you, this picture, my little peach, asleep, all the evidence you need to see that I am a good mother.
She pressed her foot upon the gas, sped through the intersection, to outrun her bad choices, to find a place where no one knew her name. But Karma sat beside her and grabbed the steering wheel. The truck veered off and crashed into a tree. Karma brushed the glass shards off her jacket. She hitched a ride and walked into the bar, to find her next customer. Karma is such a bitch. – Nolcha Fox
dancing crabs munchkins admire a well-placed house – Jerome Berglund
Cemetery of Suicides
in stacked graves:
– Mort Duffy
embrace of spirits the bodies decayed into the floor, wrapping him in the embrace of spirits; even if it was only the rage and their pain that he felt—he enjoyed being painted in such soulful language, he had never had words that any listened to; so he liked to listen to theirs. – linda m. crate
The Ones Who Cannot Exist
by Madison McSweeney
True, beings from other planes cannot exist on ours. But spirits survive where matter cannot.
When the divide between dimensions cracked, the ghost of a destroyed thing stroked my spine.
Remove Your Perfection
He stands in the kitchen, looking upon his only love.
Focused on her, he awaits the perfect moment to reconcile. He can describe her in thousands of words, but none truly do justice. He talks only about his love for her, hoping it will be enough.
“You need to let me go.” She has no sympathy. Her words are harsh, but honest.
“How do you expect me to do that? You’re all I ever think about.”
From the top kitchen drawer, she pulls out a knife. It is tipped with a fine point and smooth along the blade. She holds it out for him.
He draws an incision around across his skin just above the eyebrows. His fingers slide under the flesh and pull upwards. Strands of tissue snap, blood pours down his eyes, he does not stop until he removes his flesh like a swimmer’s cap.
The white of his skull is now visible.
He places the tip of the knife against his bare forehead. It aligns with the clump of matter known as the prefrontal cortex. He walks towards one of the brick walls of the. She remains standing behind him.
On the first headbutt, the knife only chips the bone. On the second it goes deeper, becoming caught in the skull. On the third it slices through.
He turns back around but she has already left
He cannot remember who he was talking to.
August 2021 The New York Times says the combined carbon footprints of 3 average Americans is large enough to cause one climate related death. I stand at my thermostat and wonder— Am I hot enough to murder someone? – Celeste Oster
– Jane Ayres
by Melissa Pleckham
Trying to remember where I parked, I stumble over a leg, an arm, body parts strewn across the dirt. I peer down; a torso. The inside gleams silver—chrome, like a luxury car, a high-end appliance. He’d always said that we were just the same, that he was built just like me, no matter who had put him together. They all think that—they’re programmed not to know about the emergency kill switch hidden behind the earlobe. One quick flick and I’m widowed. “Ah,” I sigh, kicking a limb aside. It clatters like a tin can. “There’s the car.”
Nightly Sojourn Waking, drunk, in a car by the side of the road, like a skeleton in a creek-bed, this bridge of bones barely able to hold the weight of my errant soul as it scrambles, madly, to get back across from its nightly sojourn to the underworld, back to the surface world of sun- light, relative safety and something close to the laws of physics. — Jason Ryberg
waking up next to him
burying him again
– Kimberly Kuchar
by Ren ElisaBeth
TW: body horror
I had an itch, so I scratched it, but my fingers bumped over something. A pustule. A small little growth that contained things my body didn’t want inside it.
I poked it. Pain thundered through my leg, and I realized that whatever my body was working to purge was still firmly rooted deep within me.
So I squeezed. I gently pressed my fingers around it until the head popped and the pressure released, and oh I wish I hadn’t done that.
My flesh ripped and tore into a hole, making room for all that was inside to escape. The meat of my calf spewed out like sausage from a grinder without a casing attached, splatting as it hit the ground.
Oddly enough, there was no blood. Whatever made up the things my body didn’t want had congealed my blood and created a mostly solid mixture of tissue and plasma and fat.
Once my leg was empty of the contaminants, I was left with a small sense of relief at the lack of pressure and overall infectious feeling, but that soon seeped out of the cavern it all left behind.
I peered into myself and saw the walls of my limb from the inside out - veiny and crimson, softly pulsating with the flow of blood through the skin.
My bone, sucked clean by the sticky conglomerate, shone brightly when the light hit it just right.
It’s sad that part of me is missing, but the things that were trapped inside that part felt worse.
I can live with the hole.
by Margaret Sefton
Ms. Linden wasn’t bothered by state moratoriums against trick or treating. At night, a child’s soul would travel to her cracker house in the woods where she fed on their innocence. Many years later, the grown child would feel as if there was something missing, become depressed, maybe die.
Vampiric Haiku On her wedding day she meets a tall pale stranger and death is his game. In his cold embrace sharp fangs flash in the moonlight exposing her vein. A scarlet fountain erupts from her long white neck, stains her pure white dress. – Tracy Davidson
Night Manager The dishwasher working nights at the Ritz scrubbed everything so clean, I could see my face in the plates. When I showed him, he had no reflection. I’ve had a taste for blood ever since. – Nolcha Fox
The Patchwork Lady
by Ren ElisaBeth
TW: body horror
“Go see The Patchwork Lady,” Mama told me.
I was at the end of a fraying rope, grasping for anything to help pull me out of the hole. I was willing to try everything, even Mama’s old folk tales of backwoods witchcraft. So I went.
Dust exhaled from the wood of the door with each knock, the walls around it threatening to crumble. It opened, and I stood face-to-face with a decaying woman wrapped in a tattered patchwork quilt.
“Whatchu need boy?” she rasped out.
“Help.” I didn’t know how else to ask, but it’s all I needed. Her eyes narrowed on me, glinting in the amber sunset.
“Gimme your han'.” I reached out my palm, but instead of giving me anything she laid her hand onto mine, closing her eyes. I felt a shift. The space between the particles that made me breathed and my connection to the particles that made everything else ignited. I knew I’d be okay.
“Now you pay.” I stared at her. Suddenly, her hand that was still on mine clawed into me and ripped down, fileting the skin on my palm. I screamed. She dropped the quilt revealing mottled patches of skin pieced together with scabs and scars covering her entire body.
Tears fell as I watched her raise the piece of my skin to her mouth and slide it over her tongue.
“You take sometin' from me, I take sometin' from you”, she spoke low as she laid the patch of me onto her cracked chest and picked up a needle and thread.
Storm Area 51
The moon is a UFO
Area 51 is an illusion
I lick the salt from the earth like a deer
You sent me your rockets,
I sent them back with your fear
The sky is a prison
Night is television
You promised me absolution,
I paid you back
Absence is energy pulsing through a wire
Your body craves it like it does air
The sun is an eye.
– Madison McSweeney
Puss, Pony and the Axeman
Once upon a time in a compound where
discarded ponies go after the parties are over,
it came time to ponder forever farewell.
Puss watched adoringly as Pony bucked up
a tornadic storm of crusted dirt.
A fortified wooden gate slammed shut.
Pony rammed his head hard.
Puss admired his courage, determination.
Theirs was a mixed affair, could not come true.
The axeman, better known as the veterinarian,
swung the ax high in the air. Puss could
almost see Pony’s spine split right down
the middle. Blood spurting all over the room.
But suddenly, the door opened to light
and Pony raced through with Puss on top.
Then because he raced faster than the speed
of life, they flew over the fortified gate.
– Kathy Allen
by Jeannie Marschall
We have done too much to them. They keep this place running—cleaning up the dead, aerating soil, sparking fruits and seeds… and how do we repay their efforts—their millions of years of a right to existence on this world? With poison, pesticides, and disgust. We—the destroyers of this world.
Well, no more.
They come at every single human soul in a teeming, buzzing, skittering wave that flows once around the planet, following the rising sun. They bite into skin and eyes, crawl into mouths, shred lungs from the inside. Do what they have always done.
by Margaret Sefton
At the swank Orlando hotel on Halloween, the costumed guests receive a warm jazz piano greeting compliments of Leonard. While his fingers glide along the keys, he slips from his body to caress skin, listen to hearts, learn buried histories. They slip him bills. He sows his dark, secret seeds.
Zombie Tanka 2
I taught history—
stuffed dates, names and dynasties
into bored young brains.
skull cracks, and I eat my words.
– Carl Bettis
Some Say Sirens my heartbeat rides the tides. in each shell pink breast, a pearl embedded. they say we grow weary of the water but what woman wants her sand dry? they say we sing them to rocks, to wreck but what woman works her mouth for men? we sing for ourselves alone; we sing for our sisters and daughters, we sing for the golden sun as he dips into dark waves and rebirths as she, the silver moon and when we cry, it is not for them. it is not for their splinters and sails their secrets lost— it is for the net and the spear, their weapons of war it is for the very fact of their ships that slice the sea. some say sirens’ songs are a warning some say an invitation but our call is not for them at all. under the waves the forests sway and plead for them with greedy green fingers their bones want a home amongst the coral and kelp can we help if our song sings them along? – Melissa Pleckham
by Tracy Davidson
Sharp claws cut slivers of soft flesh. Humans taste better served rare, while their pounding hearts still beat, their thick blood seasoned by adrenalin. The best hosts can keep meat alive for hours.
But I never claimed to be the best host. Besides, my guests are far too hungry to wait. And my new bride hungers for much more than food. She makes the deepest cut, the resulting gush turns her white dress scarlet.
The hunk of meat voices one final scream. It dies, watching my beloved gorging on its guts. Beautiful.
We consummate our love on a bed of bowel and bones. Demon seed passes between us. It will grow and grow until it kills me.
I'm a lucky devil.
like father before him will not suffer a successor; decrepit poplar bear finds seals scarce in late autumn, must improvise… – Jerome Berglund
Feet are lonely
without their shoes.
Even the feet
that washed ashore
without their bodies
in British Columbia
with their shoes.
Ask any woman
to give up her shoes,
even shoes stored
in boxes for decades.
She’d rather part
with her husband.
– Nolcha Fox
by Alex Bestwick
My pumpkins went to rot the day after Halloween. I woke the first November morning to find them transformed in the night. They slouched like old men on my doorstep, flabby and lean-to. White fuzz crawled all over and the carved face wept a watery yellow. These were no longer the doorway guardians of late October. Perhaps I should have carved scarier faces, perhaps I let the little tealight blow out too often, because I have not succeeded in warding off any evil spirits. I’ve given them a home. And I fear what happens when decay collapses their roofs.
(Previously published in Friday Flash Fiction)
hearing its feet…
feeling it crawl deeper
inside my ear
– Kimberly Kuchar
vivisepulture Deep chestnut crescent moon fingertips held above as if shielding constricted pupils from blinding rays of sun Breathing in that fresh dirt smell no string to pull no crypt keeper to hear A funeral three days done her loved ones grieve a corpse who woke up on the wrong side of the ground – Eve Greenlow
Reviews & notations
Dark Country, by Monique Snyman
Reviewed by Carl Bettis
Stuff to get out the way
Compensation for this review: an ARC of the ebook. No other consideration, and no solicitation of a favorable review.
Dark Country is a combination horror and crime novel. It follows Esmé Snydera, investigator of occult crimes, as she tries to catch a serial killer who intends to become a god. Esmé works for Snyder International Religious Crime Investigative Services, or SIRCIS, an organization sometimes consulted by the Pretoria police. As the investigation continues and the body count rises, Esmé finds herself a target. Meanwhile, her personal life (even apart from sorcerous attacks) grows increasingly complicated.
Snyman calls the novel, set in modern-day Pretoria, South Africa, “a fictional tale with one foot in reality.” I knew nothing of muti before starting this book. According to Wikipedia, muti is "a traditional medicine practice in Southern Africa." The same article mentions muti killings. It is obvious from early on in Dark Country that the supernatural is real.
Point of view switches between Esmé and the killer. Snyman, a Bram Stoker Awards nominee, follows Stoker's example by collaging in news stories, crime reports, and other documents. Usually this is done to good effect, but some of these pieces go on too long.
The main ideas of the novel are intriguing and the action scenes are well-written. Unfortunately, Esmé is only about the third most interesting character in the story. Ahead of her is the mysterious killer, and ahead of them both is Esmé’s enigmatic grandfather, occult researcher and founder of SIRCIS. Another important character is Esmé’s colleague and romantic/sexual partner, Howlen. The romance seems like a distraction, and Howlen’s dark backstory is heavy-handed for my taste, but I’m a jaded old curmudgeon.
I was told my copy was an uncorrected ARC, so some of the snaggly bits might have been smoothed out by publication time.
by Carl Bettis
I received no compensation for reviewing any of the items below, not even review copies. Nor do I receive any compensation if you click any of the links to buy the books.
Manhunt, by Gretchen Felker-Martin
“Beth and Fran spend their days traveling the ravaged New England coast, hunting feral men and harvesting their organs…” I went into this book afraid it had been overhyped, but it did not disappoint. Whatever content warnings you need, this book has that content. Parts definitely made me squirm. If it’s the right kind of squirming, I like that in a book. This was the right kind.
Coyote Songs: a barrio noir, by Gabino Iglesias
Like Dark Country (but not much like), a combination horror and crime novel, involving ghosts and gods and the U.S. Southwest. Iglesias has a knack for evocation. Though I have little in common with the young man in the opening scene, the writing took me back to fishing trips with my father.
My Heart Is a Chainsaw, by Stephen Graham Jones
… really doesn’t need my endorsement, does it? Nonetheless, the best horror novel I’ve read this year, with a fresh, and emotionally resonant, treatment of the “final girl” trope.
The Hollow Places, by T. Kingfisher
Marvelous and wonderful, in the full senses of both of those words. All the main human (and feline) characters are decent, so there's emotional investment to spare. No romance, which is neither a plus nor a minus for me, but I know it matters to some.
Convulsive, by Joe Koch
A collection of horror stories. Koch’s writing is both visceral and poetic—sometimes so poetic that I’m not sure what’s happening, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Story titles include “How To Fillet Angels,” “The Object of Your Desire Comes Closer,” and “The Revenge of Madeline Usher.” The last-named should be taught alongside Poe’s tale, IMHO.
Beneath the Rising, by Premee Mohamed
A combination of cosmic horror and coming-of-age. The protagonist, Nick Prasad, has only one real friend: child prodigy Joanna “Johnny” Chambers. Then Johnny invents an energy source that awakens malevolent cosmic forces, and the end of the world looms.
The Curious Case of H. P. Lovecraft, by Paul Roland
A biography of the influential horror writer and notorious bigot. Interesting and entertaining, though the writing is clumsy in spots.
What Can You Say Against a Death Machine? by Marty Shambles
Absurdist flash fictions, delightfully unsettling, not a clunker in the bunch.
The Atrocities, by Jeremy C. Shipp
Follow governess Ms. Valdez through a grotesque maze to her new posting, where her charge, Isabella, may or may not be dead. Shipp has a vividly visual imagination, and a way of throwing out tantalizing hints of stories behind the story being told.
Your Body Is Not Your Body: A New Weird Horror Anthology, edited by Alex Woodroe and Matt Blairstone
I’ll just say that this is the best weird horror anthology I’ve read in years. Also: “Proceeds from this anthology go to the Trevor Project to combat the attempts of the Texas government to criminalize Trans youth.”
Last but not least, the Septagram Internet Hazard Catalogue at https://septagram.suricrasia.online/ was submitted to tiny frights. It’s a bit too long for the zine, but a clever and fun site. Check it out.
The Flying Dutchman We met the Flying Dutchman, By midnight he came, His hull was all of hell fire, His sails were all aflame; Fire on the main-top, Fire on the bow, Fire on the gun-deck, Fire down below. Four-and-twenty dead men, Those were the crew, The devil on the bowsprit, Fiddled as she flew, We gave her the broadside, Right in the dip, Just like a candle, Went out the ship. – Charles Godfrey Leland
After Death The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay, Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept. He leaned above me, thinking that I slept And could not hear him; but I heard him say, "Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept. He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold That hid my face, or take my hand in his, Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head: He did not love me living; but once dead He pitied me; and very sweet it is To know he still is warm though I am cold. – Christina Rossetti
About the contributors
Only contributers who provided a bio are listed below. If you sent a bio and I lost it, please accept my apologies.
UK based neurodivergent writer Jane Ayres re-discovered poetry studying for a part-time Creative Writing MA at the University of Kent, which she completed in 2019 at the age of 57. In 2021, she was nominated for Best of the Net, shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and a winner of the Laurence Sterne Prize. Her first collection edible was published by Beir Bua Press in July 2022. Ayres writes: “In memory of my parents, I'm raising funds for Pancreatic Cancer UK (Registered charity no. 1112708) via my JUST GIVING page. https://www.justgiving.com/Jane-Seaman1.” See also https://janeayreswriter.wordpress.com/ and https://www.amazon.co.uk/Jane-Ayres/e/B004MWCTD8.
Jerome Berglund graduated from the University of Southern California’s Cinema-Television Production program and spent a picaresque decade in the entertainment industry before returning to the midwest where he was born and raised. He has exhibited many haiku, senryu and haiga online and in print, most recently in the Asahi Shimbun, Failed Haiku, Scarlet Dragonfly, Cold Moon Journal, Bear Creek Haiku, and Daily Haiga. Jerome is furthermore an established, award-winning fine art photographer, whose black and white pictures have been shown in New York, Minneapolis, and Santa Monica galleries.
Carl Bettis (he/him), the editor of tiny frights, is a software engineer and writer in Kansas City, MO. He is also the tech guy for Riverfront Readings (https://riverfrontreadings.com).
Dan Caliban is a painter, visual artist and graphic designer from Rio de Janeiro. He was a founding partner of the Nurder special effects makeup team and in 2018 started his painting career.
Linda M. Crate’s works have been published in numerous magazines and anthologies both online and in print. She is the author of ten published chapbooks, four full-lengths, and three micro-chaps. She has a novella, also, called Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022).
Tracy Davidson lives in Warwickshire, England, and writes poetry and flash fiction. Her work has appeared in various publications and anthologies, including: Poet’s Market, Mslexia, Atlas Poetica, Modern Haiku, The Binnacle, A Hundred Gourds, Shooter, Journey to Crone, The Great Gatsby Anthology, WAR, In Protest: 150 Poems for Human Rights, Black Hare Press and 2022 Dwarf Stars Anthology.
Mort Duffy cultivates a rich inner life, finding the external world too drearily real. His ambition is to one day become a stray thought that troubles somebody's mind before vanishing into the ether.
Ren ElisaBeth’s (she/her) writing centers around a desire to dissect the human condition as it relates to her experiences—from growing up on a farm in southern Kentucky to being a mother living in north Alabama today—all through the lens of horror and the macabre. You can follow her writing journey on IG and TikTok @renelisabethwrites, and on Twitter @renelisabeth.
Nolcha Fox (@NolchaF) has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. That led to a long career in technical writing. She retired into creative writing. Her poems have been published in WyoPoets News, Duck Head Journal, Ancient Paths, Dark Entries, The Red Lemon Review, Agape Review, Bullshit Literary Magazine, Storyteller’s Refrain, Wilder Literature, Paddler Press, the 2022 WyoPoets chapbook Emergence, Gone Lawn, and Levatio’s first issue, “Serenity.” Her chapbook, My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats, is available on Amazon.
Eve Greenlow (she/they) is a twenty-two year old black and queer writer who was born and raised in the golden state of California. Her Scorpio nature gave her a love of writing, horror movies, and true crime. Her personal experiences often bleed into her work, leading to a strong bond formed with every word she writes. She is currently earning her MFA in Creative Writing from City College of New York.
Jeannie Marschall is a Germany-based teacher who also writes stories. She likes frolicking in her semi-sentient vegetable garden and adores puns.
C. O. Davidson’s work has appeared on PseudoPod Ep. 826 Fiction Broadcast, in Cemetery Gates, Georgia Gothic, Black Poppy Review, Dark Moon Digest, and Dark Ink’s collection Generation X-ed. She has also co-edited Monsters of Film, Fiction, and Fable, a collection of scholarly essays. She is a founding member of the Atlanta Chapter of the Horror Writers Association and a board member for Broadleaf Writers Association. You can find her on Twitter as @colearydavidson.
Angela Patera is a self taught artist that likes to make art of who and whatever inspires her. Her original art usually contains elements of fantasy and/or horror and she also loves to draw scenes from nature. She uses many different mediums, but her favorite are watercolors. You can find her on both Twitter and Instagram as: @angela_art13.
Melissa Pleckham is a Los Angeles-based writer, actor, and musician. Her work has been featured in numerous publications, including Flame Tree Fiction, Luna Luna, Hello Horror, Under the Bed Magazine, and FunDead Publications’ Entombed in Verse poetry collection. She is a member of the Horror Writers Association. Her short screenplay "Moon-Sick" was awarded Best Werewolf Short Script at the 2020 Hollywood Horrorfest and was a Finalist at the 2021 Shriekfest Horror Film Festival. She also plays bass and sings for the garage-goth duo Black Lullabies. You can find her online at melissapleckham.com and on social media at @mpleckham.
Jennifer McKeen Rodrigues currently lives on Nisqually tribal land in DuPont, WA. She is a certified yoga therapist, mom, and military spouse. She hails from a small town in middle Georgia and has lived in several states on Turtle Island. She considers Kansas City, MO her home.
Jason Ryberg is the author of eighteen books of poetry, six screenplays, a few short stories, a box full of folders, notebooks and scraps of paper that could one day be (loosely) construed as a novel, and, a couple of angry letters to various magazine and newspaper editors. He is currently an artist-in-residence at both The Prospero Institute of Disquieted P/o/e/t/i/c/s and the Osage Arts Community, and is an editor and designer at Spartan Books. His latest collection of poems is The Great American Pyramid Scheme (co-authored with W.E. Leathem, Tim Tarkelly and Mack Thorn, OAC Books, 2022). He lives part-time in Kansas City, MO with a rooster named Little Red and a billygoat named Giuseppe and part-time somewhere in the Ozarks, near the Gasconade River, where there are also many strange and wonderful woodland critters. https://www.facebook.com/jason.ryberg.5/
Margaret Sefton’s work has appeared in Best New Writing, The Dos Passos Review, Danse Macabre, Atticus Review, Corium Magazine, decomP, and other journals. She received her MFA from Seattle Pacific University and lives in Central Florida.
About tiny frights
tiny frights is a free e-zine, published on the tiny frights website, via Substack, and in EPUB and PDF formats. No print edition is planned.
The zine is published twice a year, appearing at the end of April (Walpurgis Night) and the end of October (Halloween).
Facebook: tiny frights
We might at some point have a presence on Discord and/or Mastodon, but not yet.
Editor, publisher, social media team, and webmaster: Carl Bettis.
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