Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Asena Lourenco @ElaLourenco @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_03Lights of Night
by Asena Lourenco

My legs were loose string hanging from my limbs,
As my breath began to slow,
Panting like a dog I ran,
From shining lights of yellow,
My muscles turned to mush,
But somehow, I carried on,
The shrieking sirens at my tail,
Not even close to gone,
I ran on, petrified,
Swearing I had gone insane,
Dread drove through me as I dared to let,
That thought enter my brain,
I started hearing their voices,
Their steps became clear,
Thumping through the woods with might,
Feeling this overwhelming fear,
Swear began to fill my mouth,
The taste anything but good,
I gave up, catching my breath,
Surrounded, knowing I was screwed.
Fiction © Copyright Asena Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Asena Lourenco:

Asena Lourenco is 13 years old. She loves reading, playing Scottish traditional fiddle music on her violin, dancing, and martial arts as well as writing her own stories.

She would like to be a teacher and writer when she grows up. She also loves cats and babies!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kendra Hale @DevourAllWords @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_01

Fluttering
by Kendra Hale

The tea was always too hot, I remember hating that. I remember everything about those moments, others would flit away and fade away in the bin where those things would go in my mind, but those moments stayed. A stain upon my brain that I could never remove no matter how I longed to, no matter how many memories I jammed in to make my brain forget. That sickly smell of overheated floral tea and the pungent smell of the lemons. It always signaled a conversation that would lead me down into the dark recesses of my mind that I wanted nothing more than to forget and dispose of forever. Funny how our minds work, the happy memories can be pleasant and kind but the dark memories can rock our cores and demolish any work we may have done to repair… All it took was a single whiff of Jasmine.
The invitation down to the library was always something innocent and carefree. A gentle reminder of not having dined together in a while or not having spoken. It had been too long with words that caressed the air with enough longing to make a siren envious. The song was always to the same tune but the lyrics would change to suit the occasion or the need to lash out and feel the power that holding something over one did. In this case it was love. It was hope. It was always the same. But when the world tells you what it expects and places those shackles upon your body…it is not only hard to decline, nay, it is impossible.
One is left with an avenue of extreme measures, of ways out of the insane cycle. The beating of the heart pulsating must have been what so many have written of previously. That agonizing sound, the pulsing of blood. Flowing pure but fast, steady to the rhythm laid out in its own course. The one that was set before it, even amongst the twisting and intertwining of the veins. It always flowed…and tonight so would the tea. The difference would be the peace to my ears as the only breath would be mine own, the voices quieted by the hands that had been bound so long that freedom itself was a maddening lightness.
To move forth without the qualms, the cacophony of endless yelling down from the high pedestal. The Gods in their infinite wisdom had given freedom of choice and tonight…I had made mine. The Matron of this house, the siren whose voice had kept me bound to here with false hopes of love…was silent. That night her eyes were  clouded over as I looked at her across the kettle. There were no lemons that night, though the honey coated my lips in a way I am sure hers once were. Before life had made her bitter and her anger at how life mistreated her had been torn free and  with the preambles gone… free to lick at my flesh, each wound one that had never been free to close.
Her eyes, though clouded over, still held that bit of shock. I relish the memory of it as I sip my tea, heated correctly and now with the warm scent of cinnamon. She had never seen the blade coming, how could she when all she thought of me was less than dirt. Ah, but Mother dear, that is the folly that comes with power. Those so drunk on it refuse to see their failings and yours were so plentiful that it was a wonder you had not toppled off that tower sooner. I raise my cup in a final salute, this is the end of the line for you  Mother, I am moving forward and the memories shall not remain.
I will smile as your ashes are spread to the four winds and I will no longer hear the siren’s call but the flutter of the wings of freedom.
Fiction © Copyright Kendra Hale
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Kendra Hale:

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Just Emotions:
A Gothic Bite Magazine Anthology

A collection of poetry.

 Available on Amazon!  

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Chelle Storey-Daniel @burningeden @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_04

Unknown
by Chelle Storey-Daniel

Boot McKay’s yelling woke us up before the sun even threatened to rise. Sleepy eyed, I stumbled to the window in time to see him flop headfirst over the new fence Granny had paid dearly for and plant his face in the turnips. The falling was no surprise since Boot was the clumsiest thing on two legs this side of ever, but the yelling was ’cause Boot seldom spoke. Not since Vietnam, anyhow.

“Or’belle!” he yelled, still lying flat.

My grandma, Ora Belle, turned on the porch light and stepped outside. “Boot, what the hell are you doing here this time of morning?”

“I been cursed! You gotta help me!” Boot got to his knees and crawled to where Granny stood. He gathered handfuls of her nightgown and robe in his skinny hands and stared up at her.

Granny yanked herself free. “What do you mean you been cursed?”

Boot felt around on the ground and then crawled back to the garden and felt around some more. He got to his feet and rushed forward, holding something out. “It was on my front porch.”

I couldn’t make out what he was holding, but it was small and dark. Granny clucked her tongue. “You sure ‘nuff have been cursed. Keep ahold of it and come on in.”

I raced from my room and hid in the shadows outside the kitchen doorway. Granny always saw her … well, clients sounded wrong. Patients sounded even more wrong. The kitchen is where she saw the folks who believed in her ability to see unknown things.

She told Boot to put what looked like a bird’s nest on the table. Without a word, she took his hand and held it over the nest and before I could guess what was coming, she sliced the same knife she used to cut up potatoes deep into Boot’s palm.

“You just let that bleed on it until it stops natural-like.” Granny pointed at the nest and disappeared into the sunroom where she grew her herbs.

She tinkered with the bottles and I knew she was moving around the canning jars she kept full of her ‘potions and pints and poisons.’ That’s what she called them: potions and pints and poisons. Sometimes, when one of her folks showed up for a miracle, she’d have them drink from the pints, and I knew that Old White Lightning was in those jars, brewed fresh from the still up in the woods behind the house. The other stuff — I had no idea.

When she came back, she was holding several jars. She fed Boot some green leaves, and he didn’t protest, even though the smell of rotten eggs burnt my nose where I stood. The ritual went on for over an hour. By the time Boot left he had cried, prayed, sobbed, talked nonsense, and then gratefully thanked Granny and pressed a wad of cash into her hand.

Granny pulled out the spray bottle she kept full of bleach and water and began cleaning the table, carefully wiping around the nest. She put the knife in a bowl and set it in the sink. “You can come on out, child.”

I took a step forward. “Sorry. He woke me up.”

She motioned for me to take the chair that Boot had sat in. I stared at the bird’s nest and saw it contained a single egg and what appeared to be the bones of a small animal. Red drops of blood coated everything. “What is it?” I asked in a small voice.

“Death. Death hugging the life inside that egg until it blacks out all that’s good and hopeful. Until everything it touches withers up and dies.”

“You fixed it though?”

“For now. Curse like that … it’ll never be stopped full.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

“Ain’t no telling, child. But you’ll be learning soon ‘nuff to work your own kind of way, and you’ll feel just how powerful strong They are. When They scent you a-ruinin’ things … They’ll come to get you, too.”

“I don’t want to get got by nobody who curses people!”

“Some things in life you ain’t got no control on, child. This here is one of ‘em. You was called just the same as me. They’ll come and you’ll win. You have to.”

“What if I just don’t do it?” It was a question I had asked a million times.

Granny’s answer was the same. “If you don’t do it … it will do you. You won’t never make it off’n this mountain alive. You hear what I’m telling you, little girl? You do it or it does you. It’s the onliest way you keep a-breathin’ on.”

She took a deep breath and pulled me into her arms. I hugged her back, fiercely.

“Now, what do you say I cook us some nice thick fritters, and we can watch the sun wake up together?”

“’Kay,” I mumbled, drying my eyes.

“Oh – and, honey? You get the ladder and go put that dead nest as high up in a pine tree as you can. Leave the bones. Leave the egg. Reckon we oughta hope against all the hope we got that life’ll find a way and a new bird’ll start layin’ in it soon.”

“Why?”

“Onliest way Boot will keep on a-living, too.”

Fiction © Copyright Chelle Storey-Daniel
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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Please visit Chelle on Facebook for more info. 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheikha A. @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_03bone-food
by Sheikha A.

she watched her rice fields turn
into desiccated tillers and roots;
her lover is an alchemist
that mates with bones
growing hairs out of nails,
tying knots of everlasting
bondage. the sky is never
clean of jaundice-fever
and fire-flies flick between
teeth of skulls; in her dream
she crushed grains of rice
with bare feet and watched
hills open like snouts
sucking her harvest dry.
her lover is a tree of dead
teeth; last night she tried
to conjure him; words arranged
into lines, yet all she managed
was a burst of fugue. his strength
grows as he eats, bones turning
scarce. the moon churns amber
as she sleeps; the night cackles
as her legs are parted;
fist-sized foetus enters
her body – the spell in motion –
her lover is an eater of bones.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Sheikha A.:

Screen Shot 2019-12-17 at 10.57.17 AM.pngNyctophiliac Confessions:
Poems by Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee

“The night is cold enough to inspire poetry,” says Sheikha A. in her poem, “Reading My Bones.” This is the basis of Nyctophiliac Confessions – poems that are introspective and luminal, poems that require a certain amount of silence and space to be fully formed and appreciated. Reading these poems, I imagined that they were the kind of poems that assert themselves unbidden during a bout of insomnia. (A nyctophiliac being someone who loves the night or loves darkness).

Nyctophiliac Confessions is the 17th installment of Praxis’ chapbook series and contains twenty-six poems written by two poets, Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee, interspersed with abstract paintings by Robert Rhodes.

Available Here!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Scarlett R. Algee @ScarlettRAlgee @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_02Sustenance
by Scarlett R. Algee

At Processing Site 17, on Wednesdays, we feed dissidents to the Machine.
It’s a simple process: their crimes are read, they’re dropped from the platform, they scream until they meet the crushing, gnawing metal teeth below. Later, when they’re paste, when they’re liquid…well, the residents of Housing Site 49 don’t care what fertilizes the gardens, so long as they get to eat the results.
It’s economical this way.
I got over the screams early on. The usual sound of the Machine at work is a steady, patient rumble; at my desk, thirty meters away, it muffles conversations and vibrates the floor beneath my feet. It’s soothing in its way, that constant growl of hunger.
That’s my job, keeping the Machine fed. And sometimes the sins of its prey are real, mundane and small, but sometimes, if I’ve had a particularly good day, they can become quite creative.
Because on Wednesdays we feed dissidents to the Machine, even if we have to manufacture them.
Fiction © Copyright Scarlett R. Algee
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Scarlett R. Algee:

The Lift: Nine Stories of Transformation, Volume One

The hall is dark and the overhead light flickers. Sounds echo, and there’s a creaking and clanging that gets louder as you stand in the semi-dark. The elevator opens and you’re offered a ride. Step inside and ride it to the story chosen for your transformation. Don’t be afraid, for Victoria, the mysterious girl who operates The Lift, waits to guide you. Set in the same world as the award nominated audio drama, The Lift’s first written anthology features nine all new stories by fan favorite writers and special bonus content by creators Daniel Foytik and Cynthia Lowman. The collection is brought to life with beautiful illustrations by Jeanette Andromeda for each story.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kathleen McCluskey @KathleenMcClus4 @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_01The Jester
by Kathleen McCluskey

The jester sat in his humble room and looked around. His grandmother’s urn sat on his small desk mocking him. He looked at it and sighed, he thought about how she would always tell him, “Don’t ever underestimate the power that your family legacy holds. We are the keepers of secrets. We are the keepers of all things deadly.” He smiled as he remembered her getting revenge on the man that had smacked him when he was a boy. She went into their small hut and began her incantations. He watched with his eye swelling as the man began to cough, the cough up blood. Watching as the color ran out of his face and blood poured out of his eyes and nose, he smiled. Vengeance always made him smile.
Now he sat, in his cold desolate room and thought about the king. The king had a nasty habit of making him do the most obscene things. He shook his head as he remembered the monarch making him drink one of the knight’s piss. All because he laughed at the knight for having spilled wine on his shirt, “drink, fool. Drink!” the king cackled at him. A large tear rolled down his cheek as he recalled the humiliation and the sickness that followed. He knew that he would never have the nerve to tell the king that he was being cruel. To do that would drop the wrath of the king onto his head. He was only a jester after all.
He stretched out onto his bed, turned his head and looked at the urn again. Closing his eyes he began to think about the things she taught him. Tossing the blankets off, he went to the cabinet. There sitting on the shelf were the flowers that she had given him on her death bed. He smiled a crooked, evil smile and lifted the container off the shelf. He knew what he was going to do. He would make the king drink, he would make him drink the tainted tea. The jester would watch as the king and some of his court writhed in pain on the floor as death would come to take them. And the jester smiled. Vengeance always made him smile.
Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Kathleen McCluskey:

The Long Fall: Book 1: The Inception of Horror

Lucifer always cunning and intelligent challenges father to a battle of wits. Being the angel of light he casts a judgemental eye upon mankind. He begins a war with his fellow archangels and God. Michael, along with his siblings defend their home and mankind from their deranged brother. Broad swords and hand to hand combat drench heaven in blood. The four apocalyptic steeds are released, each having their own destructive power. Betrayal and lust are at biblical levels. Understand the very creation of evil and the consequenses that transpire in the first of THE LONG FALL series.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lydia Prime @LydiaPrime @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

May2020_Image_04

Speckle
by Lydia Prime

The brightest star faded, falling from the sky, as the planetary spinning dwindled to a shattering halt; vibrant colors of the land lost to a withered world. Animals, people, plants — all wasted away to be forgotten by time. The seas dried up, and the lining of the earth cracked. Small rocks trickled through eroded slivers in the ground, never to ‘plunk’ on their bottomless drop. Astronomical devastation scrubbed the global guise.
Upon its face, tiny hands held lovingly to a speckled egg. A creature, unfamiliar with the unborn being deep within, spent its last remaining moments clutching the shell as if to say, ‘You are not alone.’
The blood that had seeped through the brittle nest did nothing to quell the parched ground beneath. At last, final breaths expelled into the forever blackened sky. Time was unkind as it wore down more lands, more lives. Flesh of the minuscule monster gave way to muscle then bone as its carcass caved to the harsh atmosphere.
Skeletal fingers loosely cradled the petrified egg, the skull gently nestled along the top in despondent comfort.
Fiction © Copyright Lydia Prime
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Lydia Prime:

UHBWUnder Her Black Wings:
2020 Women of Horror Anthology

– A glamorous actress whose very flesh is reanimated by a beloved Hollywood icon
– A Boy Scout Troup encounters a frightening mythological creature in an American forest
– A lonely woman finds a home among a group of lost-and-found souls, all cared for by a tentacled sea-creature called Mother
– A Faceless Woman attacks like a virus and takes on the identities of her victims
– A post-apocalyptic battle for survival rages between human and insect
– A Shadow Woman leads the spirits of the murdered to take revenge in the desert

These are just some of the stories nineteen women came up with when tasked with creating their own Women Monsters. Step inside and experience tales of bloodsucking entities in the jungles of Southeast Asia, Cuban river goddesses, an Aztec bruja, werewolves, mermaids, soul-stealers, obsessive lovers, furious spurned wives, bloody murder in Gothic manors and on Southern plantations… and so much more…

With Foreword by Brandon Scott (Author of Vodou and Sleight, Devil Dog Press)

 Available on Amazon!  

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