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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Language of Flowers
by Angela Yuriko Smith

This color suits you.

Purple, color of mourning

I will plant lilac


to disguise the smells

of your transition from life

to post consumer.


Salvia, I plant

though it can’t help you much now…

your longevity


being what it is:

done. The language of flowers

a cacophony


of conversation

where color and scent create

all the nuances.


Dandelion last—

it is the final flower.

The golden blossoms


are coins for passage

upon the silent ferry. 

The root drills straight down


to the underworld.

The autumn leaves are bitter

like winter, like loss.


They make no judgement

and treat all the graves the same.

When I see the seeds


dancing in the Spring

I will be thinking of you

and planting new things.



More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

Angela Yuriko Smith is an American poet, author and co-publisher of Space and Time magazine, a publication that has been printing speculative fiction, art and poetry since 1966. Together we build a poem as a community each month. Visit “Exquisite Corpse” at to submit.

Catch up with Angela here!


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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Naching T. Kassa @NachingKassa @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Clackity-Clack Jack
by Kim Richards

Jack’s eyes fluttered open. His head was down, chin resting on his chest. It took a moment for his vision to clear. The air smelled of sweat, dust, and heat. The sun shone weak daylight upon him.

Eventually he saw grey gravel filling in the space between horizontal wooden slats. On the left and right side, metal rails ran vertically. The whole think looked like a series of connected H shapes.

He lifted his chin and realized it was a set of train tracks parting yellow sun-dried grasses and weeds. The tracks disappeared in the distance within a copse of tall leafless oak and aspen trees.

A cold wind tussled his blonde hair and drew a line down his spine with an icy finger. Jack shivered.

What? Where…?

He tried to remember where he last was. A hotel room? His thoughts were still disconnected and unclear.

He realized he sat on a metal chair. His arms, chest, and ankles were tightly secured to the chair with black nylon rope. This wouldn’t do.

He strained and pulled on them to no avail. He tried to rock the chair from side to side. If he could fall over, he might be able to at least roll off of the train tracks. In his struggles, he noticed the chair was also tied to the track railings. Rocking the chair side to side did nothing.

Where’s Maria? he wondered.

Ah, he was with a woman…probably last night. Bits and pieces came to his memory. Still, he had no idea how he got here or who tied him to the chair on the train tracks.

Ahead, a horn blasted twice from the area of the trees. Jack looked up, confirming his notion that he heard a train. It crawled along the track like a black viper with a plume of white steam puffing from the flu atop the engine. He couldn’t recall anywhere near where he lived where an old timey train ran. Nowdays they were all the sleek, speeding fast trains. This one headed straight towards him.

Oh, shit!”

Frantic, Jack struggled to free his limbs, knock the chair loose, …anything. He screamed out when he remained securely in place.

The train drew closer. Jack heard the clickety-clack of its iron wheels propelling it along. The rude blast sounded again. Once, twice…a third and a fourth.

The conductor must’ve seen him because suddenly a loud screech of metal upon metal filled the air, drowning out Jack’s screams. At its speed, the breaks weren’t effective enough. The iron beast barreled down upon him.

Blast. Scream. Clackety-clack. Pain. Screech. Darkness and peace.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Nina D’Arcangela @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Tectonic Upheaval
by Nina D’Arcangela

From the chasm it rose, wings beating a false current. With a slap of its tail, limestone soldiers gave way to shards that matched the armor it wore. Fuel is what it sought. Evidenced by the dull gleam of cobalt eyes, it had been far too long since it last fed. Pitching to the left, it scented the vein. It grasped the granite facing with clawed foot, began to rip metamorphic rock from the range in chunks. A snort assured its failing eyes: the raw mineral reeked of potency. Slower now, with a delicacy not undue the task, it scraped and scratched with more finesse. As it extracted the raw sapphire needed for its survival, it calmed knowing it would soon sup again.



More from Nina D’Arcangela:


A dank basement, shadow filled hallways, the deep echo of a metal latch being thrown while faint screams are heard… These are the things you might experience in a place where the unspeakable happens, where conscientious action and moral turpitude turn a blind eye in the interest of advancing one’s own personal pursuits in the most deranged and unjustifiable manner. The type of place where power corrupts, and depravity runs rampant among those imbued with it. A place where the unfortunate are abandoned to the devices of those who convince themselves their actions are in the best interest of science.

Mental Ward: Experiments is a collection of ten short stories that demonstrate the worst of humanity’s ambition in the interest of ‘civilized’ advancement. Step into a world where sanity is left behind, and horror is what the doctor ordered!

Available on Amazon!


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sue Renol @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Purple Tongue
by Sue Renol

We don’t know where it came from. Some say the first of its kind it grew on the side of a cliff high in the Andes, others that it was found deep in the caves below West Virginia. Others still, claim that it was perched on a coral reef awaiting the opportunity to root in soil. What we do know is that when it was discovered, it was a worldwide sensation. ‘Give the Gift of Purple’ – that was the catch phrase.

Soon, the flower was so prodigious that it had spread to every country. It was the toast of the Great British Flower Show, crowded the Keukenhof in Holland, and found a home in every Grandma’s back yard. The plant became prolific overnight.

Two crucial point of interest regarding the viola-amerithis, otherwise known as ‘the purple tongue’ – it kills all indigenous flora surrounding it, and in juxtaposition to other known plant species, this one thrives on oxygen and emits carbon dioxide.



Wicked Deeds: Witches, Warlocks, Demons and Other Evil Doer’s

Sometimes wicked people do wicked things simply because they can… The twelve stories in Wicked Deeds tell tales of witches and warlocks with ill intent, devilish demons bent on destruction, and other doers of evil who make the world a terrifying place. What is a mother to do when her daughter is gifted but lives under the thumb of her fanatical preacher husband who will brook no talk of the supernatural? What of a demon so desperate to free himself of a trap that he will force another to repeat his atrocities and condemn a young boy to his demonic fate? Or maybe the story of a crotchety old witch with a score to settle against the town she lives in is more to your liking – what evil will the seemingly harmless town-crazy call upon when faced with an ultimatum? If you’re looking for wicked people with supernatural abilities doing wicked things, this is the collection for you!

Available on Amazon!


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Terrie Leigh Relf @TLRelf @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

There Be Monsters 
by Terrie Leigh Relf

As children, we were warned not to venture too far beyond the rocky shoreline cliffs. While there were a few well-worn pathways, the cliffs were supposedly unstable. Rumors of disappearances were also common. If that didn’t put fear into our young minds, someone’s gran or gramps would add, “There be monsters,” with an ominous tone, teeth bared, hands twisted into claws, which would always cause us to burst into laughter.

Still, the idea of exploring what lay beyond the rocky cliffs intrigued us. Me, most of all. Since I minded my elders, I never did venture much further than a favorite ledge to watch the sun set. It would be quite a few years before I answered the call . . .

I set out one morning before it was too hot. The hike wasn’t all that challenging as I’d always been a bit spry. Once the path gave way to another large outcropping of rocks, some more stable than others, I slowed down my pace. When I sat down on a rock to have a drink and eat a bit of cheese and bread, I looked out toward the sea. It was high tide, which was unusual for this time of day. Nevertheless, it was a gorgeous morning with an occasional glint of silver as a fish, or some other creature, surfaced before diving back beneath the water.

Break over, I shoved myself up off the rock and it shifted in place. My nose twitched at a dank scent that emerged from beneath it. Curious, I wobbled then shoved harder. The rock teetered and fell to the side revealing an opening. I turned on my flashlight and pointed it down into the hole. There was plenty of room for me to climb through. Even though there was a bit of a drop, it seemed safe enough.

Once I’d clambered through, I discovered a well-worn path that descended into shimmering darkness. I turned on my flashlight and continued walking, wondering who or what had worn it so smooth. While the dank scent increased, a cool breeze accompanied it, which lead me to believe there must be breaches in the cave walls, or perhaps an exit to the beach. Thus far, I hadn’t seen any vegetation or signs of life. Not even a single crab or other scuttling creature. I shone my flashlight on the cave walls hoping for drawings or paintings, anything that would reveal the purpose of this cave, for surely it had once held a purpose.

The trail ended in a grotto where light and shadows played along the walls. Water trickled into tidepools. When I peered into one, it was strangely devoid of life. Not a single fish or anemone. While fresh air filled the space, I couldn’t find where it was coming from.

I sat down to drink some water and pulled my camera out of my backpack. After snapping several photos, I moved further into the cave. This time, the flash revealed a painting that seemed to pulsate with life. I walked closer, took a few more photos of the strange creature. It had the head of a woman and the body of an octopus. She was hideous in her beauty: Mesmerizing eyes, lips that parted in a slight smile, human hands that beckoned me closer. Whoever had drawn this was a true artist, and it dawned on me that this drawing was likely the origin of the monster stories from my childhood.

Curious, I stepped even closer, reached out a hand to trace the painting’s contours. Rather than feeling rough, cold rock, my fingers tingled as they sank into the cave wall, followed by my hand and arm. Before I could catch my breath, a strong wind swirled around and thrust me into her tentacled arms.

Agonizing moments passed as I tried to move my limbs to no avail. I screamed for help, but no one came . . . and then the descendants of the Old Ones began to whisper.

And so I remain here within this painting, my heart still beating, as a warning. This sleepy little beach town harbors a very old secret: These caves are a gateway to realms both ancient and strange. Yes, there be monsters, and I am now one. Come closer . . . yes, closer, and I will tell you another tale.



More from author Terrie Leigh Relf:

The Sisterhood of the Blood Moon

For thousands of Earth years, the Transgalactic Consortium has had a quiet interest in this planet and its inhabitants, the Haurans. While the Sisterhood of the Blood Moon works together with the Consortium and Haurans to maintain balance in the universe, the Blood Moon is fast approaching. The power of this moon reveals untold secrets . . . including a sacred covenant with the Mora Spiders. There is an ancient pact that needs to be honored—but at what cost and for whose purpose? The world may come to an end. But will there be a chance for a new beginning?

Available for purchase from the Alban Lake Store!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


by Sheikha A.

to giving Venus a body 
She lays tracks with strands of her hair –
white-pall, pallor of her eyes silvery veins;
her bearers will arrive soon – death on gale –
her amethyst sleep-spell like streaming sash.
Figurines on gust, their invisible footsteps
coming for her: legion rising from myth
when she falls, she strikes smooth 
splitting a night in neat halves 
her weapon within her – cold shadow –
watching through her teeth when she opens.
The tracks she lays will bring them to her,
her nightmares in their dreams fast fading,
she is ageless moon – web on ghoul –
silky wisps of heat on surface of void
how she glides sends rings of shivers 
into light; her claws a tight eagle grasp
They travel fast, wings on speed, yet distant,
yet flurry of rage, tides of spinning planets
flashing their flags; the black hole mouths
its cry. Her face tilts in half smile. This fury
of noise: empty echoes of wasteful energy;
they have never landed on her thick veils
she is trap: waterless venus lotus, 
her teeth graceful tines of katana
her fields are spiralling crescent cones
of magic and delusion. She is rising Lilith.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of


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 Loren Rhoads @MorbidLoren @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Riders on the Storm 
by Loren Rhoads

When she looked up from the book she’d been immersed in, something in the air felt wrong. Alondra put the book down open over the arm of her chair as she stood. Then she drifted from room to spacious room in the borrowed mansion, trying to get a fix on what had gotten her hackles up.

She stopped in one of the second-floor bedrooms to stare out at the view. The Rockies rose in the near distance, their snowy peaks usually brilliant white in the sunshine at this hour. Today, they stood against a sky as blue as a bruise.

Alondra opened the window and drew a deep breath. The pines surrounding the house had a stronger aroma today, heavy and resinous. A blustery wind brought her the scent of dust. Things were so incredibly dry now.

She circled the house’s central atrium to check the view in the East. In anything, things were worse. The Eastern sky had gone dark as wet concrete. The clouds flared with sheet lightning. Thunder rumbled across the valley. She tasted ozone.

Colorado needed rain, was desperate for it. Unfortunately, if the lightning preceded the raindrops – if even a single bolt found a tree – the tinder all around her would explode into flames.

Alondra closed the window and hurried down the stairs. She swung through the kitchen to grab the fossilized bone Rene had purchased at the gift shop in Estes Park, a hunk of petrified wood that served as a bookend, and the turkey vulture feather she’d picked up beneath the trees yesterday. From there she opened the doorwall onto the back patio.

The wind moaned through the pines as the storm clouds drew nearer.

Alondra hurried outside. She set the rocks down, pinning the feather safely in place, and cranked the cover from the hot tub.

A small lizard stared up at her as the cover peeled back. Alondra paused to give the lizard time to run, but it only tilted its head to look up at her.

She tried to remember all that Rene had told her about the native lizards. This one was long and thin, striped, its tail three times the length of its body. Alondra thought it was a checkered whiptail. Rene said they were all female, reproducing parthenogenetically, the egg-hatched infants exact clones of their mothers.

“Hello,” Alondra said. “I’d be glad for your help.” She continued to open the hot tub’s cover, but her thoughts were racing.

Water wasn’t Alondra’s element and she didn’t have any favors she could call in from them. She didn’t have anything she was willing to sacrifice beyond the items from Rene’s collection. She knew that if she pulled moisture from the sky, somewhere else was going to suffer. But if she let the lightning fall, she – and every living thing in the valley – had no way to escape the firestorm.

A second lizard had joined the first. While Alondra watched, a third raced up the side of the hot tub to join the others.

Alondra took that as inspiration. She scooped water from the hot tub and sprinkled it in a circle around them all. She washed the fossil, then the petrified wood, setting them in the cardinal corners. She dipped the vulture feather and flicked the water from it in the four directions. Some of it blew back into her face.

Another lizard joined the others.

Alondra discovered a forgotten pottery cup beside the hot tub’s base. She rinsed it in the tub, then filled it from the tap nearby. She set it near the lizards – there were a dozen of them now – and stepped away so that they could drink.

Then she watched the sky between the pines. Something enormous lifted off from one of the mountain peaks. Stirred by its wings, the clouds swirled, trailing it as it approached the patio where Alondra stood.

Winds cooled by snow shivered over Alondra’s skin, driving back the humidity of the onrushing storm. A moment later, hail bulleted down around her. It stung where it struck her bare arms, but Alondra stood her ground.

It was a race now: would the rain fall before the lightning struck? Alondra couldn’t tear her gaze from the massive creatures swooping overhead, one with wings like fire, one with wings like leather. One of them crowed with a screech louder than thunder. The other answered as it slammed into the first, talons outstretched…and the rain flooded down, warm after the hail. Lightning exploded overhead.

Something sharp stabbed the top of Alondra’s foot. She looked down to find herself surrounded by the lizards, two dozen or more of them. One had fastened herself onto Alondra’s bare foot.

The others rushed at her. Without thinking, Alondra scrambled over the lip into the unheated hot tub, carrying some of the boldest lizards into the cool water with her.

She sucked in a deep breath and settled to the floor of the tub. The unprepared lizards, forced to choose between biting or breathing, released their holds on her. Ribbons of her blood followed them as they floated upward.

Alondra surfaced long enough to splash the lizards from the tub on waves of water. The overflow washed the waiting lizards from lip surrounding the pool.

Another sheet of lightning exploded nearby, already moving off toward the plains.

Alondra felt grateful her sacrifice had been enough today. Next time, though, she wasn’t inclined to be so generous to the lizards. Next time, she was wearing her boots.

Fiction © Copyright Loren Rhoads
Image courtesy of


More from Author Loren Rhoads:


Alondra’s Experiments

Alondra DeCourval travels from San Francisco to Prague to Olso, encountering magical creatures and searching for the limits she will go to for love.

Available on Amazon! 


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheri White @sheriw1965 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Little Miss Purple Girl
by Sheri White

After the tent fire at the Under the Big Top Circus was extinguished, after all the spectators were evacuated, after the wounded were taken to hospitals, after the bodies were laid out at the city hall, and after those bodies were claimed over several days by their families, one body remained.

A little girl, only nine or ten years old, now lay alone in the hall. Earlier, when mothers tearfully looking for their children, hoping not to find them here but in the hospital, remarked that the girl appeared to be sleeping. No flames had licked at her flesh. No soot discolored her face.

For records purposes, the coroner, Dr. Murphy, identified the girl as Little Miss Purple Girl 1565, but he called her “Purple Girl” when he talked to reporters. The name fit—she wore a dark purple dress dotted with light purple flowers. Purple lace rimmed her white anklet socks. Purple ponytail holders and purple ribbons adorned her blonde pigtails.

Dr. Murphy sent her picture to media outlets for everyone to see and hopefully someone would recognize the little girl.

Do you know this child? Please contact the Hartford County Police Department with any information you may have.

Local women would often visit the city hall to look at Purple Girl, sad nobody had claimed her.

“Her mother must be so worried!”

“Maybe her mother abandoned her. Got out of the fire and figured her little girl died in there.”

“I think the mother died in that fire.”

“That makes no sense; she would have been brought here with the others.”

Speculation and rumors grew as the days passed. The coroner checked on her every day, in between performing autopsies on the other victims.

Why isn’t she decomposing? he wondered. There isn’t even an odor of decay around her.

People from out-of-state began to visit Purple Girl in the guise of looking for their missing child. They brought flowers, all of them a shade of purple. Soon violets, lilacs, petunias, hollyhocks, and lavender covered the girl, so many they fell to the floor around her.

Five days after the deadly fire, the coroner met with the town officials. Dr. Murphy directed his comments to Andrew Glass, who served as mayor.

“It’s obvious that nobody is going to claim this girl,” he said. “I think it’s time to let her go.”

“What do you mean,” Andrew asked.

“He means we need to bury her. She’s going to start rotting soon, right? We can’t have that.”

Andrew glared at the man who spoke. “Jeff, there’s no reason to be so crude and disrespectful.” Jeff served as city clerk when necessary, city asshole the rest of the time.

“He’s right, though,” said Dr. Murphy. “Even though we’ve been keeping the room as cold as we can, we should at least see mottled skin at this point. I have no idea why the process hasn’t begun, but it will. We also need to close the hall to visitors. If someone were to claim her, it would have happened by now.”

They announced a funeral the next day and prepared for a massive crowd at the cemetery.

“I’m going to stay with the girl tonight,” Dr. Murphy said. “Since everyone will know soon this is her last night, I want to protect her from freaks who might want to break in and see her or even try to steal her body.”


Dr. Murphy sat at a desk he had moved into the room for the night, catching up on paperwork from the week’s disaster. The only light in the room was from a small lamp on the desk, casting shadows on the walls and ceiling. Something moving caught his eye across the room. He hoped nobody was trying to get in and cause trouble. He stood up and looked around, but he was alone in the room.

Before Dr. Murphy could sit back down, he heard an odd sound. A buzzing fly? No, the sound was too soft for that. He stood perfectly still and silent, hoping to identify the sound. He felt a chill run down his spine when he realized what he was hearing.


“Whoever is in here, you should not be here! Show some respect.”

Nobody responded. The whispering continued.

Dr. Murphy walked around the room, even though he knew nobody could hide in the mostly bare area. As he got closer to Purple Girl, the whispering grew louder. He began to feel heavy, his legs Jell-O by the time he got to her side.

Purple Girl’s lips moved quickly, as if she were praying. Although Dr. Murphy could hear her, he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He backed away slowly.

Yeah, fuck this, he thought.

The dead girl’s eyes snapped open. They had no color, only white. She turned her head, neck bones cracking, and stared into the doctor’s eyes.

Come closer.

Her lips still moved, but he heard the command in his head.

“No,” he whispered. He tried to turn around and walk away, but his feet wouldn’t move.

Come closer.

“No.” This time he kept his voice firm. He still couldn’t move, and now Purple Girl’s lips stopped moving. She chuckled, a low, threatening animalistic sound. Then she stretched her mouth into an impossibly wide and sinister smile.


Against his will, he moved right to her side.


Dr. Murphy bent down so his head was close to hers.

Her lips moved once again. Whispering, whispering.


At 6:00am, just after the sun rose, Mayor Glass arrived.

“Are you ready, Dr. Murphy?” asked the mayor. He checked his watch, then looked up. “Oh my god!”

A police officer who had accompanied him to the building rushed in. “Mr. Mayor, are you all right?” Mayor Glass didn’t answer, he just stood with his hand over his mouth and his eyes wide. Officer Gleason looked in the same direction and gasped.

Dr. Murphy sat beside the cot, legs stretched in front of him, arms limp by his sides, surrounded and covered by purple flowers. His hair, now stark white, stood almost on end. A purple rose adorned each eye socket. His eyes lay in his open palms. His mouth was frozen in a silent scream of terror.

“Jesus,” said Officer Gleason.

“I don’t think Jesus had anything to do with this,” answered Mayor Glass in a shaky voice.

Purple Girl was gone. Only the impression of her body on the cot showed she had ever been there.

Fiction © Copyright Sheri White
Image courtesy of


More from Author Sheri White:

sw`Don’t Turn Out the Lights: A Tribute to Alvin Schwartz’s Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Featuring stories from R.L. Stine and Madeleine Roux, this middle grade horror anthology, curated by New York Times bestselling author and master of macabre Jonathan Maberry, is a chilling tribute to Alvin Schwartz’s Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.

Flesh-hungry ogres? Brains full of spiders? Haunted houses you can’t escape? This collection of 35 terrifying stories from the Horror Writers Association has it all, including ghastly illustrations from Iris Compiet that will absolutely chill readers to the bone.

So turn off your lamps, click on your flashlights, and prepare—if you dare—to be utterly spooked!

The complete list of writers: Linda D. Addison, Courtney Alameda, Jonathan Auxier, Gary A. Braunbeck, Z Brewer, Aric Cushing, John Dixon, Tananarive Due, Jamie Ford, Kami Garcia, Christopher Golden, Tonya Hurley, Catherine Jordan, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Alethea Kontis, N.R. Lambert, Laurent Linn, Amy Lukavics, Barry Lyga, D.J. MacHale, Josh Malerman, James A. Moore, Michael Northrop, Micol Ostow, Joanna Parypinksi, Brendan Reichs, Madeleine Roux, R.L. Stine, Margaret Stohl, Gaby Triana, Luis Alberto Urrea, Rosario Urrea, Kim Ventrella, Sheri White, T.J. Wooldridge, Brenna Yovanoff

Available on Amazon!


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


She Washed Away
by Melissa R. Mendelson

They had no idea that I was there. I slipped along the rocks like a shadow, watching them, watching her. My body was resting somewhere that did not belong here, and my mind slipped through like a waterfall. I actually thought it was a dream until I found the same place in my waking world, and there, it was not so beautiful. Here was different, and so was she.

She reached for the waterfall, letting her hands disappear beneath the water. She glanced over her shoulder. Did she see me? Did she know that I was there? Her eyes moved along the jagged rocks, a pebble kicked out from underneath her shoe. Satisfied that she was alone while her friends searched the caves, she slipped her hands back and forth beneath the waterfall. If only it were that easy.

I thought I was being punished, stuck watching her from where I was, but as I watched the water pour over her skin, I wondered. Was it that easy? If it was, then would I miss the life that I would leave behind? No, I would not, so I waited.

I could feel my body back there, where it did not belong here, turn cold. I was running out of time. It was me or her, and there she was again, sitting by that waterfall, watching her hands disappear beneath its surface. Only this time, I was strong enough to grab hold, pull tightly down on her wrists, and she screamed. But her friends were too far away, too busy with their discoveries to hear her, and I pulled again. She fell beneath the waterfall, slipping down, all the way down into the cavern below, followed by a soft thud.

Are you okay,” traveled along the caves to the waterfall.

Yes.” I stepped out of the waterfall and took her place sitting beside it. “I almost fell in.”


Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of

About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is a Horror, Science-Fiction, and Dystopian Author. Her short stories have been published by Sirens Call Publications, Dark Helix Press, and Transmundane Press. She also has a variety of short stories and poetry available on Medium.


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