Free Black Treacle Magazine (February 2013, Issue 1) by A.P. Matlock

BLACK TREACLE
MAGAZINE
FEBRUARY 2013,
Issue 1
     
     
    EDITED BY A.P.
MATLOCK
     
    Smashwords
Edition
     
    Copyrights and
Acknowledgements
     
    “Editor’s
Notes” Copyright © 2013 by A.P. Matlock
    “Rattlesnake
Eyes” Copyright © 2013 by Josh Reynolds
    “Amy” Copyright
© 2013 by Kaitlin Bryski
    “A Little Piece
of Heaven” Copyright © 2013 by Rik Hoskin
    “Ascending”
Copyright © 2013 by F.J. Bergmann
    “Rain Gods”
Copyright © 2013 by Jeff Barr
     
     
    Publisher—Black
Treacle Publications
    http://blacktreacle.ca

    Smashwords
Edition, License Notes
     
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    ISBN: 9781301758050
    ISSN: 2291-241X
     
     
    Black Treacle
Publications
269 Charlotte Street
    PO BOX 265
SYDNEY
    Sydney, NS B1P
1T0
    CANADA
     
     
    Black Treacle
Magazine is a free monthly Magazine dedicated to original short
fiction in the Horror, Dark Fantasy, and Speculative fiction
Genres. Released on the first or second Tuesday of each month
     
     
    TABLE OF
CONTENTS
     
    Editor’s
Notes
    A.P.
Matlock
     
    Rattlesnake
Eyes
    Josh
Reynolds
     
    Amy
    K.T. Bryski
     
    A Little Piece of
Heaven
    Rik Hoskin
     
    Ascending
    F.J.
Bergmann
     
    Rain Gods
    Jeff Barr
     
     
Editor’s Notes
    A.P.
Matlock
     
    I’ll keep this short and sweet. I’m very
excited to get the first issue out. We’ve got five great writers in
this month’s issue, some names you may be familiar with and some
names that may be new to you. I hope you enjoy reading these
stories as much as I did.
    * * *
     
    A.P. Matlock is a Writer and the
Editor of Black Treacle
Magazine.
     
Rattlesnake
Eyes
    Josh
Reynolds
     
    “How dead is
he?” John Bass said around a mouthful of sunflower seeds. “Is he
sort of dead or real dead?”
    “He ain’t
dancing, if that’s what you’re asking,” Cestus Clay said. Clay
looked at Bass from the corner of his eye, taking in the lean, bent
shape that sat on the hood of the battered Ford pick-up. Bass was
old, but like a tree he just got harder with age and tougher.
Short-clipped iron-gray hair and round shoulders that strained at
the flannel shirt he wore beneath his suspenders. Scarred fingers
dug into the bag of sunflower seeds as he spat out the chewed
hulls.
    Clay was
younger, by several decades. Young and tall and strong, he still
felt small next to the other man. He wore a stiff blue suit and
tugged at the knotted tie at his throat every few minutes, glancing
at the simple split log house that was set back into the gentle
slope of the hill beyond. “He’s dead. Dead is dead.”
    “But?”
    “But nothing.
Dead.” Clay didn’t look at Bass. Bass, however, looked steadily at
Clay. Birds whistled around them, flitting through the tree
branches. There was another sound as well, just under the birdsong,
and barely audible. Like the clink of a serpent’s scales over dry
leaves.
    “Cestus, you
know damn well I wouldn’t have been invited to no Clay funeral if
dead was dead. Now, you done got me all the way up here-” Bass
gestured, indicating the slow rise of the Appalachians where they
crested across the snout of western South Carolina and Oconee
County. “From my comfortable home, I might add, and for what?”
Bass’ home was further south, down near where King Cotton gave way
to Queen Sugar, and mountains became swamps. The Clays were related
to the Basses, but only distantly. And John Bass had never been one
for familial obligation.
    “Maybe he
ain’t entirely dead,” Clay said, hesitantly.
    “That a
question?”
    “No, it ain’t
either,” Clay said. He chewed his lip. “Uncle Jim had them
rattlesnake eyes, you know.”
    “Hnh.” Bass
nodded. “No. I didn’t