With Malice Magazine is back and baring its fangs this October 15th (preorder ebook versions here).
Every quarterly issue will be published with three or four unique, indie author short stories. As well, there will be an author interview and an indie book review.
Ebook versions will be $7.99, paperback versions (only in the continental US) will be $14.99 sold on Amazon.
We are also now available on Substack for paid subscriptions: all stories will be available for $6 an edition (versus $8).
Yearly subscriptions will be offered at $28 ($7 per 2027 issue) for all four ebooks, $52 ($13 per 2027 issue) for all four paperbacks!!
Here is the first part of one of October’s stories for you to sink your teeth in…
THE CROSSROADS REMEMBERS…
Fey found Grandma in the garden before sunrise, kneeling between the rows of tomatoes with dirt beneath her fingernails and a wicker basket beside her.
“You know civilized people are still asleep at this hour,” Fey called.
Grandma glanced over her shoulder, her silver braid hanging down the back of her faded blue dress. “Civilized people eat tomatoes that taste like wet cardboard.”
Fey lifted the paper sack she carried. “I brought cinnamon rolls.”
Grandma stood faster than someone her age had any right to. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”
The farmhouse sat at the mountain’s edge, surrounded by oak, hickory, and rhododendron. Mist turned the woods beyond the garden into shifting gray. Inside, Grandma poured coffee into two thick ceramic mugs while Fey opened the bakery sack. They sat across from each other and divided the largest cinnamon roll, and Grandma tore hers apart with careful fingers.
A raven landed on the fence outside the kitchen window, and Grandma stopped halfway through lifting her fork.
“What is it?” Fey asked, following her gaze. The bird was larger than any raven she remembered seeing around the mountain. Its black feathers shone blue beneath the early light, and it sat perfectly still, watching the house.
“It’s just a bird,” Fey said.
“I know what it is.” Grandma stared through the window as the raven tilted its head and gave one low, gurgling croak. Her fingers tightened around her fork. “Too early,” she whispered.
Fey frowned. “What does that mean?”
Grandma turned away from the window and reached for her coffee. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
The raven flew from the fence and disappeared into the trees. Grandma watched the place where it had been while Fey let the silence sit between them for a moment.
“You’ve been strange lately,” Fey said.
“I’ve always been strange.”
“Stranger than usual.”
“I’ve quit trying to hide it.”
Fey studied her. Grandma’s face had softened with years, but her eyes remained sharp. They had always found Fey’s lies and known when she was sick, frightened, or heartbroken. Now Grandma was the one hiding something.
Grandma reached for her coffee. “You remembered the cream?”
“I always remember the cream.”
“And the honey?”
Fey placed a small jar on the table.
Grandma nodded with approval. “I raised you right.”
Fey reached for the cream. “I want whatever amount makes this stop tasting like coffee.”
“That would be hot chocolate.”
“Then why did you give me coffee?”
“Because you’re an adult.”
“Debatable.”
Grandma snorted and picked up her fork.
The kitchen table still bore the cut she had made carving a wooden spoon at nine, and her height marks remained on the pantry doorframe because Grandma refused to paint over them. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling beams. Fey could name the obvious ones, like sage, rosemary, and mint. The rest she’d always called Grandma herbs because every time she asked what they were, the answer somehow became a lesson instead.
The farmhouse was quiet except for the ticking clock and the scrape of Grandma’s knife against the plate. This was what Fey loved most. Coffee with Grandma. Teasing that never changed. A house that smelled like cinnamon and herbs. A woman Fey had quietly believed would always be there.
After breakfast, Fey carried their mugs into the living room. Bookshelves covered two walls, packed with herb guides, family Bibles, local histories, and hundreds of leather journals. Fey ran a finger along the cracked spines.
“Have you ever counted these?”
“Two hundred and eighty-seven.”
“That’s not normal.”
Grandma smiled as she settled into her rocking chair and picked up her knitting. “Neither am I. We’ve already established that.”
“What’s in all of them?”
“Things worth remembering.”
“You’ve never let me read them.”
“They aren’t mine to share.”
“But you wrote them.”
Grandma’s needles clicked together. “Not all of them.”
Fey looked back at the shelves. Several journals appeared older than the farmhouse. Their leather covers had darkened with age, and strange symbols had been burned into some of the spines. “Whose are the others?”
“Family.”
“What kind of family stories need this many books?”
Grandma kept her attention on the yarn in her lap. “The kind everyone swears they’ll never repeat.”
“See? Strange.”
“I warned you.”
A floorboard near the window creaked. Both women looked up. The curtains stirred, though the window was closed, and Grandma quietly set down her knitting.
“What is it?” Fey asked.
Grandma crossed to the window and peered into the yard. After a long moment, she drew the curtain shut.
“Grandma?”
“Nothing,” she said, but Fey knew better.
“You should head home before dark.”
“It’s barely morning.”
“I know.”
Fey frowned. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Grandma crossed the room and took Fey’s hands. Her palms were rough and worn from years of work. “You know I love you.”
“I do.”
“Say it.”
Fey blinked. “I know you love me.”
Grandma smiled softly. “That’s all I needed.”
“You’re frightening me.”
Grandma looked toward the shelves for the briefest moment before smiling again. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
Fey nodded.
“Then quit borrowing tomorrow’s worries.”
They spent the rest of the morning in the garden.
By afternoon, clouds had gathered above the ridge, and thunder murmured in the distance. Fey placed jars of jelly and the remaining rolls in her car.
“I’ll come back Saturday.”
Grandma stood on the porch with her cardigan pulled tight around her. “Get home safe.”
Fey smiled. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
Fey climbed back onto the porch and wrapped her arms around her. Grandma held her a little longer than usual. “I love you,” Grandma whispered.
“I love you too.”
When they finally pulled apart, Fey smiled. “Saturday.”
Grandma returned the smile. “Saturday.”
Fey drove away beneath a sky the color of bruised flesh. In the mirror, she saw Grandma standing on the porch, one hand raised. The old lady remained there until the trees swallowed the farmhouse.
Grandma went inside and locked the door, then slid the deadbolt into place. She checked every window before crossing to the living room, where the journals waited in their rows. She pressed her thumb against a narrow knot in the wooden shelf, and a hidden panel opened. Inside lay a thick book wrapped in faded black cloth.
Grandma touched it but did not remove it. “I kept my promise,” she whispered. “As long as I could.”
Rain struck the roof, and three knocks sounded at the front door, slow and evenly spaced. Grandma closed the compartment and pushed the panel into place. She took the iron fireplace poker in one hand and walked to the door.
The man beyond the garden was tall and lean in a dark wool coat. Rain flattened his close-cropped hair, exposing gray at his temples. A pale scar ran from his left temple across his cheek and beneath his jaw.
Grandma stopped. For a moment, neither of them moved. Then the man smiled.
“You got old, Evelyn.”
Grandma’s grip tightened around the poker. “So did you.”
“Evening.”
Grandma kept the screen door latched. “You came a long way to die.”
A slow smile touched his mouth, not amusement but recognition. “I came for the road.”
“You will leave without it.”
His gaze moved past her toward the shelves. “Where is the journal?”
“There is no journal.”
The smile widened slightly. “You were always a poor liar.”
“You were always easy to disappoint.”
Just like that, the smile disappeared. He opened the screen door, snapping the small brass latch. Grandma tightened her grip on the poker as the stranger stepped into the house and closed the door behind him.
Grandma did not lower the poker. “Where is the road?”
“You found one.”
His mouth twitched. “You know which road I mean.”
“I know you’ve wasted your life chasing stories.”
His gaze shifted to the shelves. “The Blackwoods wrote more than stories.” His eyes settled on her. “Still pretending you’re just an old woman living alone on a mountain?”
Grandma’s expression hardened. “I am an old woman living alone on a mountain.”
“You’re a Blackwood.”
The way he said the name made it sound like something more than a family name.
“That hasn’t meant what you think it means for a very long time.”
“It means enough.”
“To people like you.”
His smile returned. “There are fewer of you now.”
“Still enough.”
Grandma stepped between him and the journals. “You came here believing that gives you power.”
“No. I came here believing you would be reasonable.”
“You broke into an old woman’s home in the middle of a storm.”
“You are not just an old woman.”
“No,” Grandma said. “I am the last person standing between you and something you do not understand.”
The smile returned. “That sounds like fear.”
“It is.”
His expression brightened, pleased with himself. “Good.”
Grandma held his gaze. “Not fear of you.”
The smile vanished, and Grandma moved first. The poker caught him across the shoulder with a hard metallic crack, sending him staggering into the wall. A framed photograph dropped and shattered at his feet.
He lunged before she could swing again. His forearm slammed into her chest and drove her backward, and the poker slipped from her hands and clattered beneath the table. He grabbed her by the throat.
“Where is it?”
Grandma jammed her thumb into the hollow above his collarbone. He cursed and released her, and she stumbled into the kitchen, reaching blindly behind her until her hand closed around the cast-iron skillet on the stove.
“You think this ends because I’m bleeding?” he asked.
“No.” Grandma swung, and the skillet struck the side of his head with a thick, ugly sound. He crashed against the counter, sending jars to the floor as rosemary, mint, and lavender scattered beneath his boots.
Grandma raised the skillet again, but this time he caught her wrist and twisted. Pain shot up her arm, and the skillet dropped. His fist slammed into her ribs. Something cracked, and Grandma folded over the pain as he shoved her against the kitchen table.
“What did your family hide?”
She spat blood onto the floor. “Nothing meant for you.”
BE SURE TO GET YOUR COPY ON OCTOBER 15TH AND FINISH THIS GREAT STORY AND THE OTHER THREE!!