Here’s what 2016 will look like for Black Treacle:

Spring – April 12th, 2016
Summer – August 9th, 2016
Winter – November 8th, 2016

Submissions will re-open on December 31st, 2015.

We will also be re-visiting the podcast idea again, further details will follow, so keep an eye on @BlackTreaclemag for updates.



“The Bread Woman, Baked in Her Own Oven” by David X. Wiggin

The Dough Lady lived three doors down from us on the Cul-de-Sac. We would point and scream when we saw her, us on our bikes. She walked so funny, wobbling and slopping about like earthquake Jell-O, probably because she didn’t have any bones. We made fun of her all the time even though we felt bad about it. It was wrong, deep down we knew that perfectly well, but our moms and dads never said anything, they just kept reading their newspapers or watching the news so we kept on doing it. Continue reading

“Re-Possession” by Geoff Gander

When Dean showed up for work dead, wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit, Vincenzo understood why he had been unable to get a hold of his ex-boyfriend.

“Left,” said Dean’s handler, tapping the zombie with a prod. A faint crackle cut through the air, followed by a blue flash. Dean shuffled past, staring blankly.

Vincenzo’s breath caught. His stomach churned and a chill went down his spine.

“Did you see Dean?” whispered a voice in the next cubicle.

“Zeed,” said Ray in a low voice. “Was he in debt?” Continue reading

“Shaping Destiny” by Colleen Anderson

“What would you like to see?” Nerissa’s gaze followed the languid path of the three bubbles as she read the iridescing futures.

The rangy man in old jeans and T-shirt sitting across from her, said, “What are my options?”

“You only get one.” The filmy spheres swirled and settled onto the pan of soapy water. In the first pearlescent orb he stood on the street begging for money. That could be a temporary problem or long term. She really had no way of determining length of time. In the next bubble, wearing a nice suit, hair well trimmed, he opened two briefcases filled with hundred-dollar bills, and the last did not have him in it. Or rather, Nerissa saw an arm and a knife. It looked like his hands; he was grabbing a scarf, the knife stabbing forward out of the bubble’s scope. Continue reading

“Down in One Round” by Nick Nafpliotis

Michael Corson wasn’t sure how long he’d been out when the sound of the old woman chanting awakened him. The last thing he remembered was getting swarmed by Sam Mansi and the rest of Mr. Abbatiello’s goons on his way home from the bar.

Once they surrounded him, Corson had figured that was it. They’d either whack him right there or take him to a more discreet location to do the deed. At the very least, he’d expected to find himself inside of a trunk or with a bag over his head.

Instead, he now found himself bound upright in the back of a large van. Next to him was an ancient looking woman dressed completely in red. Her head was adorned with something that appeared to be a shark skull and deer antlers. She was also murmuring the same phrase over and over again while rattling a small collection of bones inside her outstretched left hand. Continue reading