Tagged: Unholy Trinity

Unholy Trinity: Witch Hunt by Deborah Tapper

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.


One, Two, Buckle My Shoe


They dragged Tolly away and tortured him for days, crushing his feet until bones shattered and the relentless boot-like vise drooled scarlet. He was chosen because I made the poppet, adding a thread stolen from the witchfinder’s cloak and mud scraped from his footprints. I named it, sewed those watchful eyes shut and buried it under the blackthorn.

Tolly crawls from the shadows again tonight, sobbing and clutching with desperate hands, his lower legs a bloody ruin. If he knew about me, he’d turn me in. But he doesn’t.

He’ll hang soon. Or burn.

Then he’ll leave me in peace.


Three, Four, Knock At The Door


The witchfinder’s men are pressing Adelise with her own door.

She’s already stretched out on the muddy ground, ropes pinning her wrists and ankles. She screams and begs as the heavy door covers her, incoherent with terror. She’s a good woman who works charms for childbirth and sickness, but that doesn’t matter.

Now they’re piling stones on top. I cover my ears. Still feel every thud, every airless wail. She’ll come tonight, writhing into my nightmares. Shapeless, smashed, eyes flopping in her wrecked skull, her broken mouth demanding justice while condemning me with that one last, suffocating word.

My name.


Five, Six, Pick Up Sticks


They’re building my pyre.

They half-drowned me. Beat me. Stabbed me with long iron nails, searching for witchmarks. Crushed my hands and feet. Tightened ropes around my head until my eyes bled. Signed the confession that I’d spat on and left me alone in darkness and filth.

Waiting to burn.

They have to carry me to the stake. Rope me up like a child’s toy, kindling piled around my legs. Spectators jostle and jeer, eager faces squeezing closer, hungry for entertainment.

So I let the fire build and build before I turn it on them.

Give them what they deserve.


Deborah Tapper

Deborah Tapper is fascinated by folklore and the supernatural, lives in the middle of nowhere with her understanding partner and writes at an old desk surrounded by five hundred pet bugs.

Unholy Trinity: The Beginning of the End of the World by Dana Vickerson

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.


One: Dark Shapes Inside the Clouds


Lightning flashed, and Christine peered into the gloom. The sky was a deep, menacing gray, with overtones of sickly green. The cloud mass took on an undefined haze, save a few dark undulating masses. Christine thought of the ocean and huge moving creatures just below the surface.

A high pitch noise ripped through her head, and she looked around in panic. In every car, people jumped and pressed hands to ears.

Chaos. People ran through the darkness in all directions. More screams cascaded off the cars, and the distinct sound of crunching metal and breaking glass echoed through the night.


Two: Too Many People for the Party


“No!” Elijah screamed. “Stay back!” He pushed his body against the dumpster and threw out his hands, signaling to the approaching group.

The woman — their obvious leader, straight backed and loud when the rest looked hunched and exhausted — inched forward, her arms out in the universal we won’t hurt you gesture.

Elijah looked to the green gray sky, looking for signs of agitation. No matter her intentions, the woman and her group were a danger.

They moved closer, and Elijah looked back to the dumpster, to those he loved huddled inside. 

The sky roiled, and the pods began to fall.


Three: Suck It Up and Keep Walking


Dane moved slowly through the overgrown brush, wishing for a car, a bike, anything from the world before. His oversized boots thumped on the uneven ground, and he thought how much easier this would be if he could walk on pavement.

The pods had destroyed so much in the early days, and whatever freaky shit had leaked out when the huge things exploded made quick work of buildings, infrastructure, and every last convenience Dane had known.

Suck it up, man. You’re alive. 

He pulled down his bandana and kept walking, the toppled concrete overpass barely visible through the huge vines.


Dana Vickerson

Dana Vickerson is an architect and writer living in Dallas, though she’s most comfortable deep in the woods where she loves to sit and listen to the symphony of nature. When not crafting buildings or stories, Dana can be found analyzing horror movies with her husband or making elaborate paper dolls for her daughters. Her short fiction has appeared in Trembling with Fear and Tales to Terrify, and is forthcoming in Zooscape, Dark Matter Presents: Human Monsters and other anthologies. You can find her on Twitter @dmvickerson.

Unholy Trinity: What Can You Do? by Andy Martin

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

What Can You Do?



Morning and the air was cool, the city still sleeping except for the birds, so when Kate got to 2nd and Reed she kept going.

She was three blocks passed her usual turn around when she skidded to a halt.

She’d never seen this little park before, tucked in on the west side of Two Street and in the shadow of 95.

She jogged in place, taking the statue in, then shook her head and turned for home.


“You ever see that crazy statue?” she asked Craig.

“The Band of Brothers one?”

“No, it’s like somebody’s Nona…and a UFO.” 




“I thought you were kidding.”

She gave him a look.


The statue was indeed somebody’s Grandma. She was waving a rolling pin in front of a crashed UFO. A little, big-headed alien was crawling out-


Allied Bread was on fire, and Marie could hear air raid sirens over the fire trucks.

Marie was running toward the bread factory, she had neighbors, friends working there, what could she do? 

A silver disk spun out of the columns of smoking rising from the factory and poured narrow beams of green light into the street, flames exploding where they touched down-




“This is like some weird art thing, right?”

“I don’t know. If any place can keep a secret, it’s South Philly.”


Confused screams in the street, no one believing what spun above Two Street spraying laser-death.

The saucer dove to incinerate a fire truck and clipped one of Allied Bread’s Egyptian Revival columns and skipped across Two Street like a stone.

The bubble at the top opened, a little gray bug-eyed thing crawling out-

Marie was running, remembering the rolling pin in her hand, neighbors, friends, burning up all around her and raised it high-

What could she do?


The End

Andy Martin

Andy Martin is an archaeologist and musician who lives in South Philadelphia with his partner and cat. His writing profile on Instagram is @grassapewritesandyells. His music can be found at clamfight.bandcamp.com and Instagram @clamfight.

Unholy Trinity: Cotton Ball by Gully Novaro

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Cotton Ball

Adam was a curious boy, like every three year old. As often seems to be the case, curiosity was bold. 

Chanced upon a cotton ball, deep within a rose, noticed it was really small, and stuffed it up his nose. 

Then his throat felt funny, a thousand tiny legs, the cotton ball was spider web protecting little eggs. 

Daddy tried to bring him back, seeing he couldn’t breathe, attempted doing mouth to mouth, got spiders on his teeth.

This is how the story ends, now Adam is no more, because he came upon a choice no nose has known before.


Little Worm

Little worm whispering in my head, where did you come from? And why would you say that?

That rings true, little worm. Your voice appeared after we brought mom and baby Jane from the hospital. Makes sense I met you there. 

But why would you say those things?

You saw?

Oh, little worm inside of my head, if you saw we need to do something! They swapped baby Jane with an evil monster baby?

But how can I know? Pinch its little toe?

It cried! You spoke true!

Stab it? Okay little worm. Mom will be so happy with us!



I watched her sleep, victim to the sedatives in her water.

Admiration. Envy. Hatred. 

Bella, the good twin. The one with beautiful auburn hair and perfect green eyes. It should have been me.

I took a deep breath, grabbed my scissors, and cut her hair. I needed all of it. Snip.

I looked in the mirror, holding her hair to my head. I still wasn’t beautiful. Something broke.

I held Bella’s mouth open and forced her hair down her throat, pushing it deep with my fingers. 

And when I was done I went to sleep, the choking gasps my lullaby.



Gully Novaro

Gully Novaro is a Non-Binary writer from Buenos Aires, Argentina, with love for all things out of this world. Their work aims to explore feelings of dread, solitude and wonder, and has been featured in “Wyrms: An Anthology of Dragon Drabbles”, “Well, This is Tense” and the “Dystopian Drabble Showcase, Vol. 2”, among others.
Twitter: @GullyNovaro

Unholy Trinity: The Lure by Tony Hipwell

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

The Lure

Picking the right lure is the trick. Not all fish are attracted to the same insect you see. I take my time and craft the perfect fascinator for my quarry. Everything would be perfect if it weren’t for all the mosquitos. I spend half the night brushing them away. One in particular dances around me to the point of contempt. Finally, I snap and angrily crush it between my hands. I open my palm with grim satisfaction to find a curious hook resting in my finger. The thin line connected to it grows taut and I’m lifted into the air.


Black Rain

They fall like black rain. Bound in tear drop vessels made of alien tar from a pitiless storm, they hatch upon landfall and crash upon the inhabitants. I wanted to stay and fight, I wanted to help my friends, but I saw too many collapse into a mess that no longer resembled them.

I ran. Made for a cargo ship that was breaking atmosphere as the malice began. Hunched inside a cramped hold and streaming in sweat made from fear, I praised my ingenuity for sneaking aboard. I had escaped. And then I felt the black rain on my neck.


The Eye

I adore the stars. A billion pin pricks in the nights veil. As a child I had whiled away countless hours studying them. I still have my first telescope. It sits now beside the one I designed. Larger than any built by mankind to see further than we ever have before. I excitedly scan the endless horizon, the stars never brighter. They almost seem to pierce the blackness to reveal a world beyond. Suddenly, they begin to blink out as a great shadow moved in front of them. No behind. And then I saw the hungry eye behind the stars.

Tony Hipwell

Tony is a multi-award-winning storyteller whose work has screened at Academy Award, Canadian Screen Award, BAFTA and BIFA qualifying festivals such as Fantasia, FrightFest, Edinburgh, and in competition at the Leeds International Film Festival.

In 2012 Tony co-wrote, edited and directed the micro budget feature, Whoops! The comedy horror premiered to sell out audiences at the 2013 Raindance Film Festival before being picked as the only British film for the national Raindance on Tour in 2014 with Vue cinemas.

Since then, Tony has developed projects with the BBC and Searchlight Pictures, worked as the Video Producer for Young Thugs Records in association with EMI Records and been selected for the inaugural Future of Film Incubator.

Tony’s most recent project, an award-winning adaptation of ‘Standing Woman’ by internationally acclaimed author Yasutaka Tsutsui has screened at academy award qualifying festivals such as Deadcenter and HollyShorts and is now available on ALTER. Find him on Twitter and Instagram @hipsince1980.

Unholy Trinity: Unhappy Endings by Alan Moskowitz

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.


When Dreams Come True

Arlo was cursed. He could never catch a break unless it was a limb or a relationship.  

In spite of this, Arlo still had a life to live and a dream to realize: To become a policeman of unquestioned bravery. In other words, a hero.

A renowned TV psychic promised his dream would come true.

Upon graduating the Police Academy, Arlo crowed happily how he was going to spend his life protecting and serving.  

On his first patrol he drew his gun, stumbled and shot himself through the eye.  

At his funeral an embarrassed Police Chief declared Arlo a hero. 

All’s Fair

Alyssa inserted the single bullet, spun the cylinder, and held up the coin, “heads or tails?” 

David pleaded, “Can’t we just keep sharing the water?”

Alyssa’s voice rasped, “Then we both die of thirst.” She flipped the coin.

David called heads. The coin landed, tails. A tear slid down David’s cheek. “I can’t.”

She took the gun, pointed it at herself. “I can.”  

“I love you!” David cried. 

“You cheated,” Alyssa answered, turned the gun and shot David in the head. She wiped the telltale tears from his face, kissed him, then sat back to wait for the rescue craft.

After Life

“Any questions?” Marcus had only one. How long did he have before the Big C ended him? The answers he got were vague: Three to five months.  Maybe a year. Maybe never. Live in the moment. 

‘Vague’ was Marcus’s nightmare. “How can I live in the moment when I don’t know how many moments I have to live in?” 

A precise man, Marcus devoted all his time and effort trying to find the exact amount of time left to him.

Finally, about to expire six months, two days and twelve hours from his diagnosis, he smiled. He had his answer.  

Alan Moskowitz

Alan has worked as a successful screen and TV writer for over forty years. Recently retired he began writing short genre fiction. So far he has been published in several online venues. New to the art of short fiction writing he welcomes feedback. He may be reached at [email protected] or his Facebook page under his name.

Unholy Trinity: Who Cries for the Executioner by Martin P. Fuller

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Who cries for the executioner

They follow. Long lines of the silent. Never speaking, but always watching me.

I’d had to kill them. I’m the state executioner, paid to end their forfeited, judged lives. I comfort my soul with the knowledge some were murderers, thieves, rapists, vagabonds. 

It’s the others which haunt me. The women, the children I’ve killed. Their grey faces mouthing curses as they point to me, their killer. I cannot live with this and place my head in my own noose, jumping from the scaffold.

They watch no more, but I know they wait to meet me at the gates of Hell.

Burning desire

‘You will love me even in death’ was her curse, her screaming words a lament of pain, mixed with rage. 

Yet I’d loved her, cherished her. Turned a blind eye to her ungodly ractices. Then she rejected me, laughing at my proposal.

The laughter wounded and humiliated me.

So, I told the town about her deeds. Planted satanic evidence in her house. When she was convicted, I offered to ignite her pyre. I watched her burn. 

Afterwards, they found me in the smouldering embers, my skin charring as I kissed her partly cremated skull, my love for her finally rekindled.

Tales from the toolbox

I despise sloppy work, being precise, skilled, an artist and craftsman of extinction. 

My fees are reasonable, depending on the sentence requested. Inside my ‘special toy box’ is the simple long hafted axe, requiring strength and although it  requires proficiency to wield it. The double-handed sword is more efficient but not as awe inspiring. The garrot I find tedious, and multiple knife cuts death takes time. I charge accordingly. My secret passion is in the dark recesses of the box. A tinderbox for a good old-fashioned burning. Now there’s a spectacular execution.

I’m available for sanctioned executions and children’s parties. 

Martin P. Fuller

Martin P. Fuller lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: –  a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years. He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

Unholy Trinity: Ones and Zeros by F.M. Scott

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Ones and Zeros

The thrust, the firepower, the ones and zeros.  The flawless timing of every component, every brain involved.  The money.

Meritok Corp., with this mission as a trophy of its holdings, a token to the planet that owed its progenitor the spoils of a man who reflected the promise of global community, bankrolled the Juliette.  Andries sat in its cockpit, waiting to depart asteroid Murnau-8 with samples of the blue ore detected by a previous probe.

Outside the window, a purple cloud advanced.  Sensors warned 1,000 feet, 500, 100…  Fixed, angular faces poured from it.  Cabin lights went out like candles.


Backup power and communication failed.

An hour passed, then another.  Ignition failed, countless times.

Murnau-8 turned away from the Sun, snuffing out all ambient light.  Andries sat strapped inside the Juliette, playing a loop of his life movie, his conquests.  And failures.

Shining a penlight, he fumbled for the case under his seat.

The Gray Pill.  Chemical execution in a vitamin-sized caplet.  Three time-release phases—sedative, paralytic, heart stopper.  Less than a half hour.

Dark tranquility cupped Andries.  Like clockwork his muscles became leaden, breath labored.  Above him hovered a glowing face like those he’d seen through the window before.

Wait for It

The asteroid mission he’d funded, supervised, and flown solo as his money and legal machine stipulated, had dissolved.  It sank under last-second failure, marooned him in the land of a blue ore whose gases promised repair for an overheating Blue Planet.

Barely conscious and fading under the paralytic phase of the Gray Pill, Andries felt the jolt of ignition as the Juliette’s power returned—the result of commands queued up before it blinked out.

He lifted off, managing a feeble, resigned laugh as the spirits of this rock returned him to a desolation encased in the artifacts of his kind.


F.M. Scott

F.M. Scott is from Tulsa, Oklahoma.  His stories have appeared in Apple in the Dark, The Horror Tree, The Killer Collection Anthology (Nick Botic Horror), Sirius Science Fiction, The Tulsa Voice, and The Rock N’ Roll Horror Zine.

WEBSITE: www.fmscott.com

TWITTER: @fmscottauthor

INSTAGRAM: fmscottauthor