Letters from Innsmouth – It’s broken
By Paco Garcia Jaen Blip… Blip… Blip… He heard the machine blipping, counting the beatings of his heart and wondering […]
Fiction
Short story – Car Boot Sale
By Paco Garcia Jaen The morning assaulted me with genuine subtlety. My eyes were itchy when I opened them and
The G*M*S Magazine writing competition – Timelike
By Sarah Anderson The destruction of Earth took us all by surprise. In our telescopes we saw the lines of
The G*M*S Magazine writing competition – Timelike Read Post »
G*M*S Magazine Writing competition submission by Porrick Rasdole
By Porrick Rasdole I’m in front of a door. It’s dripping with green ichor running from deep veins of engraved
G*M*S Magazine Writing competition submission by Porrick Rasdole Read Post »
Minerva–a story for our Writing Competition
By Ishi Shen To lovers of history, the hidden and the arcane, I give you the story of Minerva, recorded
Letter from Innsmouth–We are here
She has told me I should write a letter to myself. But there is no “myself” anymore. It’s “us” now. It’s been us for a long time and we don’t want to hide it anymore. We understand each other better than anyone else. We know us. The real us, not the me that I’ve put up for the world to like me. So we’ll write to you instead because writing to myself is stupid. We already know about me. About us!
Letter from Innsmouth. I won’t tell!
I won’t tell you everything. No, I won’t tell you anything. You must be with them, otherwise why has she suggested that I write to you? That’s because they’ve got to you, but they won’t get to me! I will not tell them anything either, even if they keep giving me these medicine, though I’m sure they’re not medicines, I have seen medicines before and they don’t look like these.
Letter from Innsmouth. Nana
Hello Dear,
I am so sorry I haven’t been in touch for so long. The nice people at the institution where I live said they didn’t have any pens left, which is very strange because how do they write then? And I know they do because I have seen her coming into my room with notepads but not with pens.
I don’t know dear, I’m just a silly old woman, so what do I know?
A letter from Innsmouth
If writing this letter is not proof that my sanity has left me, nothing is. The likelihood of you finding this this piece of paper is next to nothing, but then, the likelihood of me ending up where I am is meant to be next to nothing too.
I shouldn’t be here. Neither should you.
The Barn
I wonder if you are still here. I wonder if you are still hiding behind a stack of hay trying to catch me by surprise and throw a bunch of reeds over my head.
I’m hoping you still think of the times when we used to set the traps for the rats, to stop them from nesting and infesting the whole place, ruining the crop that we so hard worked to harvest that year. Your way with cats is something I don’t have and they don’t hunt rats like they did when you were here.