readlikeshare

 

Timmy Caldwell stomped the anthill.  

He was only eight years old and his mother had shooed him out of the house so she and her girlfriends could drink wine and gossip.  Left to his own devices, he found the anthill almost immediately.  He watched for a moment as the ants scurried to and fro, but he lost interest quickly.

He looked down, said: “she won’t let me have an ant farm” and flattened the anthill with the heel of his shoe.

 

After the girls were gone, his mother, tipsy from too much wine,  came stumbling out the backdoor.  

“Timmy,” she yelled.  “Come in and take your bath!”

Timmy, who was sitting on the swing set, did not listen.

“Why you little shit!” she muttered under her breath.  She staggered forward, started down the steps on the deck, and fell flat on the concrete sidewalk below.  Blood splattered everywhere when her nose shattered.

Dazed, she rolled over to see Timmy looking down at her.

“You’re an ant,” he said.

Then, he stomped her face in.  He sat on the ground and watched as the ants crawled into her open mouth and broken nose.

“Ant farm,” he said.

 

 

Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes short stories and flash fiction whether it’s horror stories, ghost stories, monster stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, slasher sprees, bizarre dark fiction, classic horror literature or erotica. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the authors.

Become a patron today and support the online magazine!

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-Mr. Deadman

Owner of Dedman Productions, a small production company that focuses on bringing entertainment in both fiction and film.

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