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$350 pledged of $900 goal
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By Tim Whitcher
$350 pledged of $900 goal
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About this project

Ten Little Terrors is an anthology of short stories that I have written over the last few years. The stories are all in the horror and dark fiction genre and range from psychological horror, supernatural horror and even horror / comedy. I've been a fan of horror novels, short stories and movies all of my life, to the point of even going so far as making my own movies and fanzines as a teen. Now that my family is grown, I have had more time to pursue my desire to write. I hope this will be just the start! All I need is a kickstart.

Thanks for your interest.

Excerpt: Deadly Crop

He had a “delivery” coming in later this morning. One he would personally receive. He passed his home, a sprawling three acre compound with high wrought iron fencing and video surveillance. He pulled onto a winding dirt drive which led to a nondescript white barn. There was an old battered pickup waiting for him.

“Where you been, daddy?” said Bo, Ronnie’s son. Bo was dumb as they come, but proved useful to his old man. His mother had died during childbirth, and Bo had been a nuisance to the farmer until the last few years.

“You was supposed to be here an hour ago, daddy.”

“Had business in town. Don’t question me, boy. You brought what ya’ was supposed to, right?”

“Yessir. The food and the water. Just like every harvest,” Bo said, eyes diverted.

They smoked as they waited for the delivery, the sounds of Hank Williams coming from the cab of the Silverado. They soon saw the dust cloud approaching them. It was the refrigerator truck, right on time. The truck came to a halt, and Ronnie approached the driver.

“Let’s get em’ out of there!” he called out over the engine noise. Bo and the driver walked to the back of the truck, the driver unlocking the door. Bo pushed him aside, impatient, and swung open the truck door. He gagged from the odor that hit him square in the face; an odor of rotten meat and potatoes was all his simple mind could compare it to.

“Daddy, they’re dead. All of ‘em!” Bo blurted out.

Ronnie became consumed with anger as he viewed the carnage. “You idiot! You cooked these people! Jesus Christ, when did the air conditioning unit go out?”

“What? It went out? I drove straight through the last seven hours. I was running behind…” the driver stuttered, fear rising in his throat. Fear from what he had done, but he was more afraid of the possible consequences.

“Holy Hell, Freddie! We gotta’ dispose of these bodies!” railed Ronnie, pushing the frightened Latino driver to the ground.

The cargo of dead illegal immigrants was removed from the truck by a reluctant Bo and Freddie, both with bandanas tied over there mouths and noses. While the bodies were stacked on a farm cart, eight men, six women and eleven children, Ronnie fired up the backhoe and dug a trench, three foot deep along the side of the barn, the grave hidden from the road by the adjoining strip of wooded area. The cart was towed by Bo’s pickup, and he and Freddie had the honors of throwing the corpses into the ditch.

“I guess no pay off for me,” sighed Freddie as he stared into the pit.

The farmer approached Freddie from behind, pulled a 38 revolver from his bib overalls and shot him in the back of the head, kicking him into the ditch below.

“Nope, no pay off for you, asshole.”

Ronnie plowed dirt over the dead migrants and trafficker, the dirt invading open mouths and eyes, flies already congregating over the dead. Bo smoked a cigarette in rapt silence as he observed the gruesome spectacle.Bo thought, Daddy’s crazy.

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