Fleas jumped off of the tangled hair, copulated in mid-air and settled back amid the black tendrils.
I stared in disgusted fascination, my nostrils having made peace with the assaulting stench.
My mind was drawn inward, savouring the festering feeling of satisfaction acting like balm against the long-aching depths in the pit of my stomach.
I watched the gaping hole betwixt its eyes, the hole I had just made, rendering its horns useless; unable now to ram at me; its dead legs unable to stalk me; its glassy eyes, emptied of the evil spirit that has haunted me for so long.
The mummified corpse on Dr Jade’s table lay on its side with fingers clawed and legs crouched, kneeling. The mouth was open, caught in the middle of a frozen scream.
All Dr Jade was interested in were the teeth though; the perfect white teeth on the grey, withered body. Continue reading
I started this journal with ‘Day 5’ because it feels like almost a week since I washed up here.
A month ago, I boarded the yacht for the adventure of a life time. Breaking the yacht on the rocks was unexpected. Waking up with my face buried in the sand at the break of dawn was a miracle. Continue reading
Copyright – Jan Wayne Fields
We watched them stomp across the water into the harbour; marching in a disciplined straight line, their giraffe-like necks moving backwards and forwards with each stride.
We were the last to leave; squeezed into the only remaining boat that was much too small.
The invaders made it inland and the screams became a howl; a frenzied cry of terror that carried over the water, past the broken statue.
Then another sound.
The motor on our boat coughed and died. Our eyes mirrored terror, then resignation as we waited while the current carried us back towards the screams.
For Friday Fictioneers. Hope you liked it 🙂
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?
Copyright -John Nixon
For Friday Fictioneers.
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.
Copyright – EL Appleby
This was for Friday Fictioneers and inspired by the picture below. Not what you were expecting, huh?
I don’t usually start by introducing my piece, but this week I did. The thing is, I think that this is the darkest piece I’ve ever written. And so, before anyone starts reading, I want to assure you that it is all fiction, and, yes, it is dark, so beware. I hope you like it though.
For Trifecta; word of the week: APPEAR Continue reading
Like any self-respecting cubbyhole, this one was dark and oppressive. I was determined though; I’d stand tough this time…
… until the fire-snakes appeared.
I screamed; ‘It’s me, mum. I broke the vase!’
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.
Heavy breathing sets in.
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.
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.
Copyright -Kent Bonham
Something was wrong with this house. He’d felt it the minute he walked in; it was alive, hungry.
Voices rumbled, crowding Nate’s head in different languages; tongues. But it was the skeletal faces that disturbed him most, staring down at him, eyes wide.
The rumbling took on a new note. Nate looked up. The dragon at the top of the stairs opened its jaw. It dashed at him, slithering.
‘Ssh! What the hell’s wrong with you, man? Everyone’s looking!’
‘The stairs, Matt. Can’t you see?’
‘Damn! Let’s get outa here, before anyone else realises you’re stoned off your ass.’ Continue reading