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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_002_June_2020Poison Prey
by Asena Lourenco

A single drop, all it could take,
For someone to go out cold,
The internal light flickering in defeat,
Dead bodies growing old,
The steaming turkey with the smooth red wine,
Lay secretly tinted with death,
Awaiting a new victim,
Lips hiding its bloody breath,
One after one, bodies disappeared,
I cannot confirm where to,
Patiently, he waits for prey,
The potion, he continues to brew. 
Blood stains marked the white rug,  
From the bodies sacrificed there,
There was not a clue until one day,
When I saw flesh stuck in his hair.
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 Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_002_June_2020

Saturated
by Melissa R. Mendelson

I don’t want to live forever.
I want something left behind.
Something to say that I was here.
Something for the world to find,
so I cut out all my trauma,
bled it from my mind.
Let it spill into the glass,
black and blue, darkness over the side.
As I bled deeper,
I grew hollow inside.
The bleeding persisted.
I tried to stop, I tried,
but I released it all,
no more left to hide.
The last to fall was my soul.
My body liquefied.
Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Melissa R. Mendelson:

nmkmmName’s Keeper

I got a one-way ticket out of hell. All I need to do is drive across country with a body in the trunk and run miscellaneous errands, but a lot of those errands come with a heavy price. And if I lose the body in the trunk, then I have to go back, and I’ll be damned if I return down there. I will fight to stay here, even if there is no rest for those wicked.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_001_June_2020Sundown
by Kim Richards

Anseli stood on the bank of the wide lake. His body shook with the frustration of his inability to cross the water. He wanted to reach the town on the far side, next to where the lake emptied into the sea. That’s where food was. Yes, he tried to go around on either side but was met with rivers dumping their waters into the pool before him.
His kind could not cross any moving water. A few throughout the years scoffed at that and dove in. They immediately sank to the bottom and were unable to move. The others were fearful to rescue them without endangering themselves. To his knowledge, those fools remained in their watery prisons still.
Except for one. A fisherman caught her in a net and hauled her out. She looked worse than dead with a pale bloated body, eyes like white pupil-less orbs, and shreds of clothing rotted by the years underwater. The fisherman felt her frigid skin and built a small fire. He draped his shirt over her shoulders.
It took her a while to move and she watched him. Once she could stand, she fell upon him and fed. Still, the warm blood did little to heal her. She was never the same.
Anseli was desperate and hunger wracked his thin body. He already consumed everything near this place and left several villages in ruins. The animals avoided the area too, having learned it was a dangerous place for them. He hated eating animals anyway. However, sometimes one cannot be choosy.
As the sun set, painting everything red and orange, he noticed a small speck on the water. As he watched it came closer and he recognized a small boat coming straight for him. This was his chance!
He looked around and noticed a cropping of rocks. The center one was large enough to conceal him. He quickly ducked behind it and hid, hoping the two people on the boat hadn’t already noticed him. He waited.
After about twenty minutes, he heard their voices, though he did not understand the language they spoke. It was a strange staccato cadence. The sounds of splashing came next, along with grunts and groans. He figured that meant they dragged their little boat ashore. Still he waited.
When he saw a pair of legs and feet round the south side of the stones, he nearly leapt upon them. Caution held him back because he understood he only got one chance at surprise. He leaned forward on the balls of his feet in anticipation.
The person near him spoke in a tone which sounded inquisitive. Their heartbeat thrummed in his ears. After a long moment, they stepped forward two steps Anseli took that moment to attack. He stood and was immediately slammed to the ground from behind.
Spitting out sand, he cursed and thrashed. Something sharp pierced his skin and struck a rib, sending it sideways. His attacker bound his wrists and then flipped him over.
Two young men stood over him with hate filled eyes. They each grabbed him by an arm and hauled him to the water’s edge. The last think he remembered was sinking beneath the waves.
Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_004_June_2020Rebirth
by Ela Lourenco

It started with a low dull hum
Gentle vibrations, a lullaby from the stone below
Rapidly gaining momentum
Until the Earth shook and the obsidian sarcophagus 
Tore open
Air pierced my lungs like molten lava
The agony shaking me out of my stasis,
My infinite sleep interrupted.
Stretching into my rebirth
I walk towards the pulsating stone embedded
In the heart of the cave.
Placing both hands upon it
I am infused with purpose.
Eyes flash green in symbiosis with the crystal
Spidery black wings erupt from my back
Smoky scythe appears in my hand.
Reaper, harbinger of death.
My time is come…
Fiction © Copyright Ela Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Ela Lourenco:

awakeningDragon Born: Book Three
Awakening

The Royal tournament, the Karnac, is fully underway. But there is deception and betrayal at every turn. Unseen dark forces are at play, both within the school grounds and out with. Even the Gods are unable to help when a new threat looms over them all.The very existence of Azmantium depends on Lara fully becoming the Child of Fire and casting aside the Shadows lurking in every corner of her beloved planet.Can she overcome the challenges that await? Will the Shadows cover the world in darkness? Only Lara and her friends can change the fate of Azmantium.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Rie Sheridan Rose @RieSheridanRose @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_002_June_2020
Ink in the Glass

by Rie Sheridan Rose

Cadra sat behind the scarred oak table, chin in her hands. Staring into the glass of water before her, she bit her lip. It would tell her one way or the other. All she had to do was squeeze the bulb on the eyedropper and let the ink tell her the truth. She had tried every other divination tool she could think of—runes, scrying, entrails, crystal…and they all gave her the same answer. 
Damon was lying to her.
Now, the question was, what should she do about it? She picked up the stiletto sitting beside her laptop, toying with the point. It pricked her finger, and she studied the bright red blood. The drop fell from her finger to add to the other stains on the table.  
Sighing heavily, she picked up the eyedropper and held it above the goblet. She squeezed the bulb, and the blue ink swirled into the clear liquid. The image was easily readable. There was no longer the least bit of doubt in her mind. 
She gripped the stiletto and climbed the stairs to the bedroom where Damon lay sleeping peacefully—as if he had never cheated on her. As if he were an angel instead of a devil. 
Then, she saw the image in the ink again. It had to be now. He must die in bed…just like the ink said. She had seen the skull hovering over him. There was no other interpretation. The ink never lied. Unlike Damon.
She plunged the knife downward. And now the pattern she had seen in the ink was red.
Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

Skellyman

“I have always preferred the supernatural in tales of horror, the knot between life and death. Rie Sheridan Rose’s Skellyman is cool and creepy. Her first horror novel is a chilling read.” — Charlee Jacob – Stoker winner, Best novel, “Dread in the Beast”

Brenda Barnett is trying to cope with raising her four-year-old daughter all alone after an accident tore her family in half. As she and Daisy go for a much-needed treat, the little girl spots a Skellyman on the corner.

This pivotal encounter leads to a wave of mounting terror as Brenda’s life begins to come undone around her. Who is the Skellyman? Why does he keep appearing? Can the sympathetic policeman Brenda turns to stop the madness before it is too late?

And why does Daisy insist that her dead brother is trying to tell them something important?

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Angela Yuriko Smith @AngelaYSmith @Sotet_Angyal #LoH

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_001_June_2020

Hiding from Monsters
by Angela Yuriko Smith

I want to be the giant
towering over a cracked land
with splintered fingernails collecting stardust
and cumulus in my cuticles.
I want to be a titan
treading on parched earth
with no concern or care for tiny man
as I salt crops with my sweat.
I would tame Leviathan
and together swim the deep
slipping into the ever dark
and stirring volcanoes to life.
I would rather be a monster
—unfeeling, unaware—
then my soft, mortal self
salting only my smiles with tears.
How do I harden a bleeding heart?
Instead, I am here
tripping over the fragmented world
watching a spinning compass…
too small to pull down the heavens
too big to hide from monsters.
Fiction © Copyright Angela Yuriko Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

The Bitter Suites

Book a stay at the Bitter Suites, a hotel that specializes in renewable death experiences. Whether you schedule your demise as therapy, to bond with a loved one or for pure recreation, your death is sure to give you a new lease on life. Renewable death is always beneficial… at least to someone.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Josie Queen @JosephineQueen9 @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Image_004_June_2020Maleficium
by Josie Queen

“Grandmama says not to touch the crystal.” The boy’s eyes are an astonishing shade of brown, almost black, and I can’t help but be unnerved by the intensity of his stare. The children at school avoid him and even adults don’t care to be in his presence for longer than necessary—I hope we aren’t alone too long in this room with its dusty corners and odd, musty smell. 
“I had no intention of touching the crystal,” I say. I chuckle, though it feels false and I fear, unreasonably, that he feels it too. He smiles that strange mirthless smile and looks directly up at the aforementioned forbidden thing. 
“But I won’t tell if you don’t,” he says in a sing-song voice. I shiver.
The crystal, a weak amber-colored gem, sits on the mantel and seems to absorb all of the light that enters the room. It’s the only explanation I have for the shadows and gloom in a room that should be filled with sunlight—it’s graced with large, floor to ceiling windows. 
“Will your grandmama be along soon?” It was surprising to me that the boy opened the door to my knock, I expected the grandmother to answer. We’ve been waiting for some time now, or maybe it’s been a shorter while and I’m discomforted by this strange child. He just smiles in response to my question.
“Would you like to see the crystal up close? It’s very pretty.” We both look at the object. It’s not at all attractive—yellow and shapeless and exuding almost a sickly ambience—I would rather not get too close. I hold my case of school papers tighter on my lap and shake my head. “My friends tease me,” he says quietly. “They say Grandmama is a witch. They say she turned my mother into a toad and if you look at her wrong she’ll turn you into one too.”
“You mustn’t listen to the silly rumors of children, Matthew. Their heads are filled with fancies,” I say. I’ve heard the rumors too, though. And I’ve seen the way he repels other children like soap repels pepper. They gather in hordes and whisper cruel things—that his mother walked out on her child in the middle of the night because she lost her mind and that the grandmother has a cauldron and a familiar. 
“Miss Thompson,” he whispers. “I really hope Grandmama isn’t really a witch. Witches have to burn, don’t they?”
“There is no such thing, Matthew.”
“But didn’t they do that when they found one? Burn them?” His voice is whispery, but it seems as if it’s close by my ear, even though he is across the room. But he isn’t now, I didn’t notice, but now he is by my side. I jump, then laugh—I’m one to talk of childhood velleities. I’m doing a grand job of frightening myself in this shadowy, damp room with this child who seems much older than his years. 
“Well,” I say. “That was a long time ago and it…”
“But don’t you think witches should burn?”
“Where on earth could your grandmama be?”
‘Oh, you’ll see her soon enough,” Matthew says and smiles again. I do wish he would find an insect to torment or talk nonsense to me about toys or animals or trees or some such inconsequential thing that children usually talk about.
“Don’t you want to see the crystal?” he asks me.
“Well, if your grandmama says you’re not to touch it…”
“But Grandmama isn’t here,” he reasons.
“Will she be here soon?”
“Will you take the crystal down so I can see it? I promise not to touch it.” I don’t see the harm in humoring the boy, so I rise from my chair and approach the mantel. The room darkens and the crystal seems to shimmer. It is a very pretty little thing after all—the yellow glows in the darkness and I fancy I can hear it humming. I reach up to take it in my hand and as my fingers close around its coldness the world around me winks out.
I come to in a room with damp stone walls and a dirt floor covered with mildewed straw. I am sitting on the floor and there’s a chain attached to the wall and, in turn, to a band around my ankle. There are thick metal bars between my cell and the room beyond. I can smell smoke and I see the flicker of flames dancing on the walls and ceiling. I can hear the low roar of a congregation somewhere and the torturous screams of a person in sheer pain. I hear low footsteps coming down the stairs into the dungeon and then his eyes are looking into mine— those deep, dark, almost black eyes now in the face of a grown man. The evil in them is plain to me.
“Would you like to see Grandmama now?” he asks. “She is barely alive and won’t be for very long, but I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.
“Mama didn’t take so long to touch the crystal,” he says with a sigh, as if he’s reminiscing about a fond memory. “But Grandmama suspected what had happened to her witch of a daughter and tried to be rid of the crystal. I had to trick her. You weren’t so hard to trick.” He laughs loudly and claps his hands and I watch as the shadows of the flames flicker and lick across the walls of the cell.
Fiction © Copyright Josie Queen
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

line_separator2More about Josie Queen:

Josephine grew up in England and now resides in the northeast corner of the US. She writes flash fiction and short stories that err on the creepier side of things. She just completed the final draft of a novel length middle-grade fantasy, which she hopes to get published during her lifetime.

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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!

Image_003_June_2020Immortals
by Sheikha A.

He knew what they were, apex crawlers
of the high domains – mobius chains –
fire-follicles erupting like lava from skin
pores; they would come steel-taloned
looking for their children, those he had
fed until he killed. They donned masks,
eyes mesmerising pits of shadows –
altered realities – mirrors of untapped
souls – unspoken desires pervading
human minds. He would have to gouge
out his eyes, but he would wait until
they arrived. The walls are thick on
shadows of caretakers like himself
as he waits between them – green
neon blazes of the children’s dead flesh
burn against his palms. The crawlers
are slow and precise, their talons cleave
with deliberate pleasure; yet he waits on
the sound of their slithering bellies,
his fingers positioned like pluckers
over his eyes; this time no illusions
will manipulate what they know of
his unspoken dreaming – the woman
he loves, the children he had wanted –
this time he will face them soulless.
He hears them coming as he braces,
his  hollow eyes resembling theirs,
dark like ghosts, discarded and dead.
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 Michelle Joy Gallagher @Aphelia @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Image_002_June_2020

Irises
by Michelle Joy Gallagher

Sinclair had very few benefactors since the last great war and the government started censoring all artforms for public consumption. They eventually outlawed most forms of expression entirely unless it adhered to a strict set of guidelines that enabled “Loyalty, Honor, and respect for the Government of New Utopia” which really came down to only a handful of art pieces and literature curated by official government “Art Scientists” who crafted works they felt sent the correct message, leaving citizens “well in control of their emotions and sentiments”
Sinclair and her colleagues; Artists, writers, dancers, singers and musicians had been forced underground several years ago. Punishment for breaking what the government called “Terroristic Art for Malicious Purposes” law was severe. Disfigurement or death, depending on the severity of the “crime.” She was assigned to work at one of the state sanctioned marketplaces. 18-hour days were not unusual. They considered it essential to keep the economy from collapsing, even at the expense of mental and physical health. It was her “duty” and her “service.”
She hid her writing under the floorboards of her bedroom. A small stack of paper she’d gleaned from the market in the form of invoices, and employee files served as her medium. Her benefactor found her through a network of artists that used the market as a secret hub of communication and collaboration. She received a handwritten message about a time and a place to meet. She heard horror stories of artists being contacted by benefactors that turned out to be secret government agents and they were never heard from again. Some were malignantly deranged and used it as an opportunity to garner the trust of an unsuspecting artist only to rape or murder them. She packed a sharpened piece of plastic she’d recovered from a broken display at the market just in case and hurried to the Corridor.
The Corridor was a rapid transit system built during the war to transport soldiers to the various state fronts quickly and efficiently. It remained in service for citizens afterward except for restricted travel zones and she used it every day to get to her assigned employment station. A man sat next to her but got up after only one stop. He left a brown paper package behind on the seat with her name on it. Inside the package was a yellowed notecard handwritten. It said “1927 Hibiscus Drive. After your next shift. Careful you aren’t followed.” With it was a stack of ivory paper with a silken texture in pristine condition. She tucked it under her jacket and got off to catch the next train home.
Her shift the next day crawled. She watched the doors and aisles for Enforcers and nervously bit at the skin beside her fingernails. When she was finally allowed to clock out, she ran to catch the Corridor train into the highlands to meet with the man who she hoped would be her benefactor. Benefactors served a different purpose now and their support came in the form of supplies and delivery as well as dispersal of what the artist created. Her previous benefactor had been captured by Enforcers and never heard from again. It was a risky prospect no matter how you looked at it or what role you took.
When she arrived at the house she was greeted warmly by a younger gentleman and escorted into a small living room. He shut the front door and locked it. He moved the couch away from the wall and felt around the floorboards until one lifted and he pulled a cord beneath to reveal a trap door with stairs beneath. They descended and he lit a candle on a table at the end of the stairs. When her eyes adjusted, she saw the room was lined floor to ceiling with important works of art she thought had been destroyed by enforcers when they raided the museums. Van Gogh, Cezanne, Monet. He’d collected every important impressionist work he could get his hands on. And how he must have paid dearly. She couldn’t imagine what he’d offered in return or where he got the resources. She just stood in awe gazing at paintings that she’d only seen on television or online before the war.
“You look shocked.” He chuckled and smiled widely
“Should I not be? This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He picked up the candle and moved to a small seating area and gestured for her to sit down. “It’s why you’re here. I want you to make a written record of what I’ve done here.”
Her eyes widened. It was quite an undertaking, and incredibly dangerous.
“Why the impressionists?”
He chuckled again. “They’re the only ones I feel would fully understand what I’m doing here.”
He produced a bottle of vodka from underneath the seat. Contraband also. He offered her some and she shook her head. She’d be on public transport soon and didn’t want it detected.
He nodded and poured a sizeable amount for himself in a wine glass.
He plucked a smaller canvas from a pile next to where they were seated.
“You see, I feel this is the only way I can keep these works of art perfectly safe.”
She laughed incredulously. “Here? In your basement?”
“No.” he said flatly, not appreciating her tone.
He pulled a folding knife from his pocket and then plucked a small canvas from a stack of painting beside them.
It was Van Gogh’s Irises. Sinclair gasped.
He cut a small square from the corner of the canvas and placed the square into the glass of vodka. The old paint dissolved slowly making a strange tincture. She screamed.
“NO! You can’t! How could you?? What do you think you’re doing?”
“I am the only one truly worthy. I will be a living record of all of these works. They will be part of me.”
“Well, They can burn you just as easily as the paintings!”
A sly smile and a glint in his eye. “Oh, but darling. They’d never burn one of their beloved Art Scientists.” She shuddered, convinced now he had done this time and again to various artists as a form of torture. He never intended on being her benefactor. In fact, she was sure that his next step would be to kill her.
She stood suddenly over him, shaking.
“I won’t let you get away with this!”
“You won’t? How do you suppose-“
The words were cut off and she drove the sharpened plastic deep into his throat. Blood poured forth at an alarming rate. All over the Van Gogh and over her. She would never make it home. She was dead the moment she got on the train. This was a trap and a dirty one, but they didn’t expect her to be armed. She grabbed the bloody painting and ran up the stairs. She reached the door before an alarm sounded. There must have been security cameras. She stopped at the door and took a deep breath, then opened it and ran out into the street. She held the painting above her head, dripping with the man’s blood. She opened her mouth to scream but the bullet from a rooftop snipe entered her head from a long distance before she’d had a chance to get any words out. She crumped to the ground, cradling the painting and bled out before wary onlookers.
Her actions had been recorded and played on state television for weeks. An example of what exposure to non-conforming art could do to the general populace. A lucky citizen won a lottery to burn the Van Gogh at a special event. Everyone cheered as the flames turned it to ash.
 
Fiction © Copyright Michelle Joy Gallagher
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Michelle Joy Gallagher:
cafemacabre
Café Macabre

This collection of twelve stories and artwork by women is truly a collection of the macabre. Make a reservation for terror and get ready to delve into the deepest, darkest fears of some of the best writers and artists in the fiction game. Leah McNaughton Lederman has collected an anthology of the truly strange… a tome of the weird. Take a seat and order a cup, you’re dining at Café Macabre!

Available on Amazon!

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Return from… Where?

Check out Lydia Prime’s latest blog update. 🙂

Lapsed Reality

clock-2535061_1920.jpgAh man, I’m pretty awful at keeping my own posts updated. I’m working on being better at that…

In the meanwhile, since the last update anyone seems to have seen from me was the #Release from #KandishaPress for: Under Her Black Wings: A 2020 Women of Horror Anthology (Volume 1), new and exciting things have been in the works. There is actually a Volume 2 on its way out to all your horror-hungry eyes! Stay tuned, it should make an appearance very, very soon. 👀!


Additionally, while you’re itching for that terror fueled fix – hop over to Pen of the Damned and check out what everyone’s putting out for #FREE!

If the somber, angst filled dark fiction of The Damned is a place you’re not yet ready to tread, perhaps one might consider,  Spreading the Writer’s Word, to check out the latest pieces from the Ladies of Horror…

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