Eighty-third Issue! Second Skin
Welcome to the chill of November, which brings colder, darker nights as the world starts to shed its skin. Heavier, damper air lingers with the scent of earth and endings. The leaves start to rot beneath our boots, and what was once bright turns brittle. A month caught between decay and renewal, where the familiar peels away to reveal what lies beneath...
Welcome to the eighty-third edition of the Flame Tree Fiction Newsletter.
This month’s theme is Second Skin. Step closer, if you dare, and explore the stories that crawl just under the surface. These are terrifying tales of transformation and of what happens when we shed who we were... or when something else decides to wear us instead. Thank you to everyone who submitted this month; your stories have haunted our pages and screens. Ready to look beneath the skin?
Congratulations to both winners of the October theme: Zach Shephard and Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia!
Please Be Respectful at Little Fawn Park by Zach Shephard – A self-righteous man storms into a clothing boutique to confront what he thinks is moral corruption, only to discover it’s him who’s being stripped bare...
WASH by Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia – A house servant’s desperate longing for acceptance curdles into horror as he tries to scrub away the skin that defines him...
This month's newsletter features:
- NEW Flame Tree Press and Gothic Fantasy titles!
- Myth & Fiction Podcast
- The Fractal Universe from Allen Stroud
- Original Horror Flash Fiction #1: Please Be Respectful at Little Fawn Park by Zach Shephard
- Original Horror Flash Fiction #2: WASH by Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia
- EXCLUSIVE Newsletter Subscribers Special Promotion
- Next Month’s Flash Fiction Theme
FLAME TREE PRESS | November Title
Stars Like Us by Stephen K. Stanford
In the sequel to Stephen K. Stanford's 'Jubilee' follow Col Perolo in Stars Like Us.
Col is security chief for the artificial mini-world of Jubilee – a kind of Vegas-in-space. But his peaceful life is shattered by a surprise attack, and desperate to save his young family, he flees with an unlikely crew including ex-wife, Sana. But the League base he reaches is riven by politics and infiltrated by the enemy. Col must escape again, this time to his birth planet, where he faces long dormant personal demons. Where is Jubilee? What’s happened to Col’s wife and kids? How can he stop these politically incorrect feelings for Sana from bubbling up? Only the stars can tell.
Opposite World by Elizabeth Anne Martins
Piper “Pip” Screed remembers nothing of her mother’s death or the sleep that stole years from her life. After escaping isolation, she enters The Reverie Cloud - a dream-therapy program that blurs memory and reality. But when she’s trapped inside, Pip must face buried horrors and uncover the truth about her past before the dream consumes her.
A dark fusion of sci-fi and psychological horror, Opposite World explores memory, identity, and the thin line between perception and reality.
Original Horror Story #1
Please Be Respectful at Little Fawn Park
Zach Shephard
There was something sinister going on inside the clothing shop. Even the name disgusted Curtis: “Little Fawn Outfitters.” Like they were trying too hard to appear harmless. But he’d seen how that place could warp a child’s mind: his step-daughter had never acted up until she’d started shopping there. Jessica would be getting taught a lesson soon enough, but until then, Curtis would address the problem at its source.
Shoulders hunched against the November wind, he approached the downtown shop. The windowed facade was painted with autumnal oak forests, hiding whatever transpired inside.
On the door, a message:
At Little Fawn Outfitters, we believe everyone feels better when they’re showing the world their true selves—and that fashion is the language that shouts, “This is me!”
So please, come in. Look around. Feel safe in baring your beautiful soul, because within these walls, you’ll never be judged. All we ask is that you extend your fellow patrons that same courtesy, and heed our sole request:
Please be respectful.
Beneath the text, a lifelike illustration of a tiny fawn gazed at Curtis. He wouldn’t be fooled by its projected innocence.
The door opened. Out stumbled a woman in a long coat, her face sagging like dripping molasses. She pulled her hair into a tight ponytail. The skin around her eyes and cheeks cinched up. She looked at Curtis, seeming to notice him for the first time. She smiled a gummy smile.
“Reverend Branson!”
In response to his title, Curtis reflexively brandished a fake grin.
“Becky Redding—always a pleasure.”
His eyes flicked to Becky’s ear. It drooped like it was melting. She covered it with her phone.
“Sorry—need to make a call. I’ll see you Sunday.” She pushed past and hurried away.
Normally, Becky would listen politely until someone else ended the conversation. Rushing off wasn’t like her. Something was wrong.
With renewed conviction, Curtis pushed through the door.
A range of fashions greeted him: business attire, goth jewelry, activewear in every color. The unnatural transition from one display to the next sickened Curtis. And everywhere he looked there were placards showing that same damned fawn, along with the store’s mantra: Please be respectful.
“Welcome in! I’m Lynelle. Holler if you need any help.”
The woman had the wavy blonde hair of an angel, but instead of a white robe she wore a forest-green sweat suit.
“You can help by staying away from my step-daughter.”
“I’m sorry?”
Curtis stepped right up to Lynelle, raising a stiff finger at her face. She flinched.
“Jessica was an obedient kid before she started coming here. I barely even recognize her anymore.”
“Ah,” Lynelle said. “Jessica. That must make you the preacher. She came in because she needed help. The kind that clothes alone can’t fix.”
“I knew it! What did you do to her?”
“The same thing we always do in cases like hers. We sent her to the park.”
Lynelle pointed to the back of the shop. There stood a rustic green door, a familiar fawn burned into its wood. If that was where the problem lay, so be it. Curtis shoved past Lynelle and marched to the door.
Below the image of the fawn was wood-burned text:
Please be respectful at Little Fawn Park.
Curtis looked back. Lynelle gestured with an upturned palm, as if inviting him to continue. He called her bluff and stepped through.
The back room wasn’t a room at all. It was a park, its trimmed lawn stretching out under the moon and stars. Distant, shadowy oaks peppered the grounds. Long shapes dangled from their lowest branches, nearly touching the grass. Curtis stared, hypnotized.
The sound of a door closing snagged his attention. He spun. Behind him was more park, but no door. At his feet stood a tiny fawn, half the height of his shin.
It nodded at one of the nearer trees. Some of the hanging shapes there swayed in a light breeze. Curiosity took hold of Curtis, drawing him forth.
When he got close enough to make out the shapes, he stopped, covering his mouth in horror.
Suits of human skin, all different sizes and colors, hung like hollowed-out corpses on nooses. Their empty eye-sockets and mouths gaped like latex Halloween masks. They were hideous. Unnatural. So repulsive that they instilled in Curtis an uncontrollable desire to purge them from the world.
He ripped the grotesque things down, throwing them to the grass and stomping their evil away.
“We only have one rule in Little Fawn Park, and you’re stepping all over it. Literally.”
Curtis turned. There stood Lynelle, clad now in an angel’s robe, glowing faintly white.
“What is this?” Curtis shouted, shaking a skin-suit like a madman. “What have you done?”
“Some people need a new skin to cover their scars—like the ones you left on Jessica. Others just want their outsides to finally match what’s inside. But not you,” she said, wagging a finger at Curtis. “You wear a second skin to hide who you really are. That’s okay. We get some of those, too. Even the little fawn itself doesn’t want people to see what lies beneath.”
Lynelle tossed something that fluttered like cloth, landing at Curtis’s feet. He picked it up and held it to the moonlight.
A tiny fawn’s hide, empty and loose as the hanging skin-suits.
“We don’t mind if a person wants to hide from the world,” Lynelle said. “But what we won’t tolerate is someone who doesn’t respect others’ choices.” She aimed a nod at something behind Curtis.
In a flash, he was thrown to the ground, landing hard on the skin-suits he’d ripped down. Curtis struggled against the loose flesh to turn and face his attacker.
A man-shaped figure towered over him, skinless, its striated red muscles exposed to the cool park air. Its legs ended in hooves, and atop its neck was a deer’s skull, looking streamlined without the antlers. A stout knife-blade gleamed in its hand.
“You’ve cultivated a friendly exterior,” Lynelle said, kneeling beside Curtis and running a finger down his cheek. “Maybe someone else will wear it better.”
The huge figure bent forward, grasping Curtis’s ankle in its red-raw grip. Its blade touched his flesh.
Beneath the hanging skins of Little Fawn Park, a scream sliced the night.
Zach Shephard lives in Enumclaw, Washington, where he writes stories that are sometimes dark and sometimes humorous, and sometimes so maddeningly vague not even he understands them. His fiction has appeared in places like Fantasy & Science Fiction, the Unidentified Funny Objects anthology series, and several of Flame Tree Publishing’s anthologies. He’s a huge fan of Roger Zelazny, and would probably never have started writing if not for the battered copy of Nine Princes in Amber on his bookshelf. For more of Zach’s stories, check out www.zachshephard.com.
Original Horror Story #2
WASH
Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia
Solo stood with sleepy eyes, watching the pile of dishes in the kitchen corner. He breathed in, then sighed, knowing all of that work was his. Madam liked her dishes washed by hand. No dishwasher. Mr. Rockefeller, Madam’s husband, watching on from the balcony, didn’t care.
“See? Right there!” She’d yelp over an invisible speck of dirt, probing the plates with her spectacles. “I don’t pay you that much to be incompetent.”
“In-co-pi-tens,” Solo would repeat after her. He didn’t know the meaning of the word, but he could guess it wasn't a good thing. Working in the household was tough, especially with all of Madam’s screaming, but there were many benefits — money to treat his ailing mother and a chance to learn English. For example, he’d just learnt a new word, in-co-pi-tens.
The previous day, there had been a celebration for Alice, Madam’s daughter, so there were many plates to wash. Sitting on the balcony with her father, Solo could watch Alice all day from the kitchen and imagine her lovely white face, bright and beautiful as the plates he washed. Her voice, a miracle that made his heart bleed with song.
Alice, he sometimes whispered in his sleep. Alice, what a name, the exalted one, the noble. Solo often dreamed of the day he would become a big man, like Mr. Rockefeller. In that marvelous future, he would drive into the household with his mother in the latest fancy car, flash the headlights, blare the horn, and make his grand appearance. He’d say to the Rockefellers. “I am here for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” in the best English possible, and they would not refuse. For now, only for now, there were plates to wash.
The work of washing was tedious, scrubbing the plates, and scrubbing them to a brilliant sheen. It drained his energy. The more he washed, the more the plates seemed to stack up. More and more and more. He often imagined he was stuck in a dream, but would just shrug it off. Not with a sun like that out the window amidst the heavenly sprawl of sapphire blue. Not with Madam screaming into his ears. Not with Mr. Rockefeller’s steady gaze, and Alice on her father's lap. If only she could spare him a glance once, if only she would consider him, then maybe his needless suffering would be over, and he would scream, “I love you”.
Solo grew frustrated with the washing and Madam’s terrible, high-pitched voice traumatizing his ears. Mr. Rockefeller’s blank stare was also discomforting.
Dipping his hands that long in the water, Solo’s skin began to peel off. Blisters formed over his knuckles. The only thing that kept him going was Alice. “One day, one day,” he told himself. If he were being completely honest, he could have left the household long ago and returned to take care of his mother. But it was love that kept him. Love first, then money, then English. On some days, he thought about his mother. When last did he see her? It was becoming difficult to remember.
"In-co-pi-tens, In-co-pi-tens,” Solo mumbled as Madam’s voice rang in his head constantly. Mr. Rockefeller kept on watching him with Alice on his lap, her back still turned away. Why wouldn’t she look at him? Solo trembled so hard he lost his grip on a plate and let it shatter on the floor. As he gazed at his reflection over the shattered plates, he suddenly realized a painful truth. He was as dirty as the plates he washed. All that muddy black skin. So he picked up the iron sponge and began to wash himself.
Left arm, right arm, left foot, right foot, thigh and buttock, and belly.
Mr. Rockefeller grinned now and began to nod his head. “Attaboy,” he guffawed. “Attaboy!” There was bleeding, and there was pain. Solo’s innards spilled from his belly, then all over the kitchen floor. But there was nothing more satisfying than the white of bone making its appearance beneath all that black. For Solo, to know there was beauty buried beneath him was bliss.
After he had finished washing, Solo stared at his reflection again on the plates. A body of skeleton with a face that brought to remembrance everything. It takes self-reflection to see the truth. He was a black boy with big dreams. He loved his mother, and he loved a white girl. The words ring in his ears now.
Poor, incompetent fool. Words the Rockefellers used as they let some stranger take his love away from him. All those years washing plates to their satisfaction, and he couldn’t measure up.
Solo looks back at the balcony, but Alice is still turned away from him. She flashes a wedding ring for him to see and whispers into her father’s ear. “In-co-pi-tens,” he imagines her saying. He laughs. They both laugh. Even Madam upstairs, and in his head, is laughing too. Staring at the plates, Solo examines what remains of his face. Parts of it scrubbed to the bone, other parts a defiant, bleeding black. He thinks of home now, whether his mother would still recognize him. Oh, mother, the more he thinks of her, the more he remembers. No, he was wrong all along; this is a bad dream, and he has to wake up.
Inimfon Inyang-Kpanantia (he/him) is a Nigerian writer of Ibibio origin who lives in Uyo. A winner of the WNDRRNG prose contest and the Igby essay prize. Finalist for the K and L Short story prize for Africa and the Awele Creative Trust Award. Longlisted for the Commonwealth Short story prize for Africa, 2022. His works are influenced by writers like Stephen King, HP Lovecraft and Mary Shelley. He is an alumnus of the Mo Issa Writing Workshop 2025 and his stories and poems have been published in the Isele Magazine, Shallow Tales Review, Kalahari Review, Yours poetically mag, Mausoleum press, Nigerian News Direct, BPPC Anthology, WritersSpaceAfrica and elsewhere. When he is not writing, you’ll find him confabulating with his three alter-egos. You can reach out to him on X @inyang_k.
Next Month’s Newsletter SCI-FI Theme:
Our next edition of the newsletter will be SCIENCE FICTION themed, and we are looking for stories around the theme of:
Quantum Solstice
Please note that all stories submitted should be within the SCI-FI genre.
Terms and conditions for the submissions here: https://flametr.com/submissions.
Please send your 1,000-word story to the Newsletter Editor:
Leah Ratcliffe
flashfic@flametreepublishing.com
The deadline is 16th November 2025.
We look forward to reading your submissions. Happy writing!
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