Through the Crack

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Crack of the door by *Mariana-Vieira
Digital Art / Drawings & Paintings / Fantasy ©2011-2013 *Mariana-Vieira

Her body was sprawled on the floor visible through the heavy door’s open crack.  Her eyes were shut, but I knew that face, only, I couldn’t remember how.  I couldn’t remember much of anything.

I wanted to see if she was alive; I felt that I needed to.  My breathing was getting too fast and too loud, so I held it and stepped closer pushing the door open.  But that widening inch sounded like thunder hitting the dark hallway and my hand withdrew from the wood like it had turned white hot.

Footsteps came from my right.  The corridor was a long, narrow expanse of darkness, but a golden archway was now rippling forward, lighting the stone, approaching in time with the footfalls. Continue reading

The Speed of Mouth

It all started when Emma told Donna that she liked Fred. At the time they both giggled and left it at that.

Later that day, when Donna was walking home from the bus drop-off with Pippa, Donna found herself at a loss for words.  Pippa, who was in with the cool crowd, only walked with Donna because she had to, them living on the same street and all, so when Donna felt that familiar awkward silence coming on, she fished frantically inside the innards of her brain for a topic.  And she found it; only, when Donna told Pippa that Emma liked Fred she scrunched up her nose and tried hard to sound all-knowing; “Not just likes Fred…she likes-likes him.” Who could blame Donna? This was Pippa she was talking to!  Pippa shrugged and allowed the silence to fester. It was not until the next morning that the little piece of news came in handy.

She was sitting in the aura of Maggie; taller, blonder, more beautiful than Pippa could ever be.  Gazing at the jocks walking by, Maggie disturbed the air with a high-pitched; “I dunno what you’re all looking at! They’re all little boys!”

“Hmm-mmm, we all know what your type is!” said Sammy, and Maggie smiled her I’m-so-grown-up-and-mysterious smile, which basically gave her a duck face.  Pippa, who in the two years of high school had become allergic to that smile, began to simmer; “If it’s Fred you’re talking about, forget it.  He likes Emma!”

And that was the last peaceful morning Emma spent at that school.  She was jeered at and bullied to the brink of depression until her parents dragged her and their belongings out of town.

Still, Emma got it better than Fred did.  His attorney pleaded with the judge that it was only a rumour, and the judge should know how rumours fly; especially ones so juicy.  But the judge didn’t buy it and Prof. Fredrick Simmons ended up in jail for abusing a minor.

mona-lisa-duck-face

For Trifecta.  The word given to us this Monday was FLY:

You know it actually took me two days to come up with a story?! But my mind pulled through in the very early hours of the third day (It’s 00:53 over here).  Hope you like this one.

The Trigger

It is a crude drawing, done in orange crayon – the kind with the tick tip and pasty wax that seeps into your fingers and leaves them sticky until someone comes along and stretches your hand into the basin to wash it all off.  The figures are clear; two adults and a child.  Not a family though, not even resembling one.

I remember drawing that picture.  I was four, sitting on a low red plastic chair.  Miss Jane was hustling like a nesting hen, yammering that we were going to be late for the Christmas play rehearsal.  It wasn’t the nativity that year, for a change.  I was to play a tree; I can’t remember what the rest of the act was about.

All the other children gathered their things, but I lingered on my picture.  There is an orange uneven line still, to the side of the left figure where Sammy, that little busybody, tore the paper away from me; ‘Miss Jane told us to stop drawing!’ Her piping voice still rings in my ear, as clear as the image of that pig-like nose she had.  I hated that girl!  I remember the fury that twisted my stomach into tiny moth balls when I saw my masterpiece ruined, and I remember the feel of the moist pig-like nose flattening against my fist.

‘That’s it!’ Miss Jane had screamed in my face, but then she paused when she saw the orange figures on the white page and her face changed.

It was all headmasters and social workers and foster parents after that.  They tried to help, of course, but I didn’t want them to, not for a very long time.  For years I didn’t even know what had started all the meddling and I resented it, all of it; we were happy, I thought, and they should have left us be.  Only now I remember why it all had changed.  Now as I hold this yellow, dog-eared drawing in my hand… I understand.

crayons

For Trifecta.  The word this week is CRUDE.  I am missing too many of these challenges lately, but work is like bitchy hag on hormone pills right now. I’ll try to keep up where I can though.

Have a good week!

Carnivor

My father always said that his piano was part of him. All day he played, humming out tunes, scratching on the scrap-book and playing out pieces he’d just made up.  He’d forget to eat and sleep until exhaustion caught up on him like a sneaky robber in the dark. He died there on that stool.  We found him with his head resting on the keys.

My theory is that the piano devoured my father’s soul, because how do you explain the fact that the piano is still playing to this day; the keys rising and falling, playing out my father’s compositions?

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Copyright -John Nixon

For Friday Fictioneers.

Exe’s Skill

Exe switched on the light and, on cue, the screaming started – hysterical, tortured sounds that Exe knew were not coming out of pain.  He knew, because Exe knew pain.  He knew it by the expression in the eyes; conjuring pity.   By smell; the salty sweat released from the exhausted being. By touch; the heat emanating from the feverish body.

Knowing this, Exe knew that the helpless, shapeless creature that now lay before him beholding its own reflection was not screaming out of pain but in horror; revulsion at the beast it had now become.

Exe put away his tools and smiled at a job well done.

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Copyright – EL Appleby

This was for Friday Fictioneers and inspired by the picture below. Not what you were expecting, huh?

 

Picture This…

haunted-mansion

Thunder shatters the skies. A lonely mansion stands atop a hill.  Inside, a marble telephone rings, its cry hardly audible above the ravenous storm outside.

 ‘Hello?’

Silence ensues.

‘Hello?’

Heavy breathing sets in.

Hello?’

The breathing now assimilates bellows propelling a simmering fire.

‘Seriously?  You called me at—what—precisely midnight to just breathe into the receiver? Can you be any more of a cliché?’

The voice croaks, ‘The call is coming from inside—

‘That’s. It.’ An eardrum-shattering whistle cracks like thunder through the speaker.

The line goes dead shortly after and the rest of the night passes on peacefully.

danny-bowman

Copyright: Danny Bowman

 

For Friday Fictioneers where the prompt this week is the picture on your left.

The inspiration for this story came from a mix of countless horror movies and a little snippet from real life.  I’ll not go into details unless you ask me to, but I just want to say that blowing a die-hard whistle into the speaker does indeed result into the annoying caller hanging up with a moan of pain and a bad-tempered harrumph.

Whoosh, Zoom, Crash

That thought again, recurring.

Brain clutches at it,

Eyes glaze over,

What lies ahead, ignored.

A car comes forward

fast, unseen.

Whoosh.

Steering wheel, useless.

Zoom.

Crash.

One errant thought.

Two souls departed.

Target: Trifextra

The Challenge: Exactly 33 words including an onomatopoeia

Aim: Fun

Acknowledgement:  Thank you Trifecta for placing me 3rd place in last week’s challenge; I really, really appreciate it 😀 (kisses)

End note: Hope you like this week’s post as well.