The Haunted Traveler Vol 1 Issue 2

weaselpress

Kick in Halloween with the latest issue of The Haunted Traveler. We opened up and looked for the strangest and the most horrific tales from this universe, bringing them here in a single collection for the readers to get a little twisted. The Haunted Traveler is a horror and science fiction literary anthology that releases twice a year. Published through Weasel Press, the anthology seeks to roam around with the stories you'll never forget. Those dark little tales that are sort of etched in everyone. We love the dark and twisted and we really want to be scared. Check out our website to see when we're open next. The Haunted Traveler is a non-profit, Horror and Science Fiction anthology that accepts a wide variety of art media such as photography, short fiction, creative non-fiction, digital artwork and more.

100

Boyle could not see the chair under his massive bulk

- it looked as though Bob had sprouted, like some

monstrous cancerous mushroom, from the tiled floor

overnight.

Boyle flexed his muscles, tightened his washboard

abs; he had to admit he felt good in the midst of

these fat fucks. The juxtaposition was ridiculous; he

was a harpoon in a sea of whales.

‘Think I’ll go for a run after,’ mused Boyle.

‘Running? You ever hear of that? You’ve probably

seen it on the telly.’ Bob stared at him, his frightened

eyes lost in the pasty expanse of his face. ‘Then later,

sex. Ditto.’

Bob turned away, picking at some errant morsels

on his jumper, licking his sausage fingers with his

hideous pink duvet of a tongue.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you, Blobby.’ Boyle

kicked out at the tree root of his leg. ‘You ignoring

me? I’m only telling you some home truths, y’know.

I’m only trying to help, it’s my job see.’

Bob emitted a pathetic mewl, a high pitched

drone whose frequency aggravated the prickle in

Boyle’s crease to a dancing frenzy. Boyle pushed his

face down into Bob’s, unleashing his anger in an attempt

to ease his suffering.

‘You think by growing a beard no one will notice

your collection of chins, Fat Boy? I bet your blood

cells are like dinghies, ringed by a halo of grease, I bet

your liver’s like a torpedoed gunship, I bet your -’

Bob was crying, and when Bob cried his colon

tended to applaud; the stench rose in a stinging cloud

comparable to sulphur and napalm.

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