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 ‘Mars in Scorpio’
He is coming after her
like love torn to shreds.
It didn’t take her much effort –
whirl of her musk-laced thunder
in his meadow of bruising blooms.
He was locked into the curls of her
lashes – vales of dragon-fire –
eyes coquettish furls of blood-roses.
She smelled of night jasmines
draped on the blade of a sword;
wild tulips renegading the rain.
Her smile, heat of a taming sun.
They met like collision –
unknown with the known 
sway of her grace – mystique
 – his senses snatched.
She pounds petals on stone;
the potion has to be right.
Before he arrives – bolt
of wet silver – delving into her
like light in a star; immersed
like breath in life. Love began
like explosion – of bones
into flesh – feral fragrance
of her illusory-weaves.
She cannot fault this time.
Her cauldron seethes wild.
She chalks a protection belt.
He has awakened – wet fur 
ripping through his wails –
She is made of raw raindrops,
incandescent like fiery moon.
Her creation is complete;
unmistakable like his love –
undoable like her spell –
his breath heavy on her trail.
His eyes are beams of starlight. 
A thousand floating lanterns 
illuming the night’s soul.
Her hair is auburn flames; 
unbridled asteroid 
crashing against gravity. 
She cannot hide. The rage of his
blood bursting inside his veins.
He is madness – black of his eyes 
consumed by obscurity –
She smells of beauty shedding silk.
Clouds burgeon like a kelpie –
his hands cup her slender neck.
She writhes to his rhythm –
smell of stale petals fill the wind. 
Blood moon drops its foggy drapes;
bones echoing shrieks into midnight –
musk-laced storms
overcast with shredded starlight.
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 Kendra Hale @DevourAllWords @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


I’ll Be Needing Stiches 
by Kendra Hale 

There are few things more comforting in this world than that of a strong heart still beating. It provides a relief that is almost unsurpassable. A euphoric sensation that floods the senses and drowns out any fear, or any warning. 
“A life taken, for a life saved.”
The cotton, once white, now held splotches of brownish red tinge. She had chosen the fabrics carefully for the encasement. Each of the individual pieces had to hold import. Personal import. The base of the creation didn’t matter but the individual patches, they were a make it or break it item. 
“My intentions are clear, the way forward paved.”
Her eyes flicked to the candles, their flames seemed to nod in agreement with each sentence spoken. Almost punctuation on her intents. The needle made such a lovely noise as the thread forced the two fabrics to become one. Each patch of different fabric came with a different texture and an important memory. 
“These moments erased, where once they were cherished.”
Her fingers passed gently over the different memories. She let the memories each sweep over her one last time. With each, she sent her emotions, both good and bad, into the being. The new host would soon be complete. 
The first kiss, leather. The first dance, a light plaid. Each cut piece, each memory, added and released. It became a mantra, stitch by stitch. 
Add and release. 
And Release. 
“Sacrificed, a drop of blood. Full of nothing but love. On these deep emotions and memories may you dine. Let your essence, in this host forever hide.”
Upon her last syllables, the flames danced. A bowl carrying cleansing herbs, took the flames as their light went out. 
The smoke seemed to fill the room, but she felt neither a want nor a tickle predicating a cough. All the smoke formed a path to the doll. It was as though the doll truly was breathing it all in. This phenomenon lasted several moments, the moonlight casting the best view to her adjusted eyes. 
As the last of the smoke cleared the room, the glazed, lifeless look in the dolls eyes began to change. Where before there had been nothing…now there was knowing. 
“Hello Darling.”
Fiction © Copyright Kendra Hale
Image courtesy of


More from author Kendra Hale:


Just Emotions:
A Gothic Bite Magazine Anthology

A collection of poetry.

Just Emotions‘ is exactly as it states, a group of writers who had feelings they wanted to express in poem form. Inside, there are a range of emotions to explore. Each writer has given a bit of themselves to you, each in their own way.

We hope that you enjoy these writings and that among the poems you may find some thing you can identify with or relate to. Thank you for giving us this chance to open the catacombs and share with you.

Available on Amazon!  


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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Wish You Were Here
by Angela Yuriko Smith

What a night this is…

the moon seems within my reach…

I wish you were here.


This silent night, I send you a final text

as stars vanish, become insignificant, hidden

as full lover’s moon brightens night to day. 

The ships, the cars, the never sleeping city we both 

love takes pause. We hold our breath and awaken

from our hectic slumber. We have been dreaming

of the next meal-deal-feel, hungry for the hustle

always needing more, craving redeem filling that

can plug all our empty holes, leaking tears sinking 

our ships. Our lips confessing fears to no one

but eavesdropping ghosts traveling through 

our lives, living vicariously through our missed

connections, our silent ships passing in the night.

Lonely behemoths close enough to touch

but separated by politics, laws, rules, expectations

…heaven swallowed in bites of obligation

We think ghosts cry for what they have lost, but no…

 caught in the eternal now, ghosts waste no sorrow

for the past, but for us

Us: spinning out of control, spending our minutes 

like Rockefeller in a dime store. We toss our time

like beads in a parade, gifts to the wind 

to fair-weather friends. We leave our sloppy

seconds forgotten on dank pavement, 

like tombstones on a dead lawn 

grass all yellowed and mown 

… gone, wrong, last dawn, so long.

We hustled our time away, trading pearls

for pennies. Too busy, too bothered, too blind… 

So I send you a closing text in this final moment

Too little, too late… I know, it was just a first date

but in this terminal breath, blasted in brilliant moon

so bright it will burn away my future dreams.

I smile, hit send and remember… 

that kiss. Hello and goodbye

in a slip of the tongue.


What a night this is…

the moon seems within my reach…

I wish you were here.


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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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Amy Zoellers @breakfastpoet @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


by Amy Zoellers 

blood to bitters

streaming pink

this blood of fog

a healing drink

until the ghost returned


a soul dissolves

and must consume

without remorse

her site of doom

where living flesh had burned


her poison mists

will ride the air

and seep the ground

and flesh will tear

and burn whoever breathes


from guts to lungs

inside to out—

night shudders with

collective shout

of anguish through the trees—

her bile no longer seethes.

Fiction © Copyright Amy Zoellers
Image courtesy of

More from Amy Zoellers:


Ordeal in French Lipstick

Art! Fun!! Poetry and song! Portraits, dolls, prints, jewelry… and so much more! Find Amy on Instagram:  Hipness and Outrage


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Amanda Worthington @AmandaW58679588 @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

A Host for all your Sweet Nothings
by Amanda Worthington

Your words are bright pinpricks in the gloom of Monday

They twist in me until the dermis breaks

Opening me up to your influence


It feels warm as I bleed

Ever the voyeur, I watch helplessly

As it slicks your fingers around each new point of entry


I feel the pulse quicken in my wrist

It is coming now.

They are coming now.

I try to rip the pins out

And your hand envelops mine

Holding it there

I want to resist but my flesh doesn’t

So long has it been since…


A hush descends as it happens, and I don’t dare to breathe

And I realize that this isn’t who I thought you were honestly.

Who I thought I was


We are brightness swirling around dark cores

Accretion discs.

Treacherous. Worlds still forming.

Always on the brink of disaster

But hiding it with laughter


Something stirs in me

The thing you’ve put there chitters impatiently


And we shouldn’t, I think

And even if we could, we wouldn’t

It doesn’t seem fair, does it? You say


As if reading my thoughts

No, I agree

It doesn’t


I cry out as another pin goes in

The sharp strikes a nerve this time

But the goodness that follows

The pleasure that flows

My veins swallow it down then


My focus shifts and I feel it multiply

And there are so many inside me now

And I can’t deny that I want it

Soon, I will be completely festooned

Until you decide to pull these pins out


When the time is right

You will remove each bright tack

One by one


Leaving me full of holes

And with only the memory of your touch

And the ancient insectile things crawling

Burrowing down deep

Refusing to resurface

Holding fast


I am a host for all your sweet nothings

And if I cannot have you

Then let me have them for company


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 Kathleen McCluskey @KathleenMcClus4 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

by Kathleen McCluskey 

Morgana knew that to get to the spell of resurrection she must first cast the charm of making. She began, “All nall nathrack, oofaaas bethood…” The deserted castle began to rumble. Lightning lashed at the ramparts creating a cascade of rock. A gaping hole in the stone smoked as the rain pelted the newly melted rock. Morgana continued, “..dolce nee  en vay.” The castle shook violently. Morgana was thrown to the ground. Her long gray hair blew all around her face, sticking to her cheeks and forehead. She panted as she stood.

The hours since hearing of her son’s death had not been good to Morgana. Since her beloved son’s demise she had become a mere shell of her former, powerful self. Mordrid was her only son; her only child. He was her world. Her life force drained when he was murdered. She had made him powerful and very arrogant. He was trained by the best knights in the realm. Morgana insisted on it. Not all knights wanted nor needed a round table to kill enemies. There had been a split with the guards and knights when Morgana and her brother, the king, had gone to war. Modrid knew every form of fighting, strategy, and warfare; he was well educated and could not only wield a broadsword but also ride a stallion into battle.

The latest campaign was to be the turning point of the war into Morgana’s favor. She had a vision of victory. Her army was decimated and her beloved son brutally killed. Now his body lay on the altar, his armor stained with his own blood and his milky eyes staring but not seeing. Morgana began the charm of making again as she walked closer to her son. When she finished chanting for the fourth time she placed her hands onto her son. Lightning again lashed at the ground, the smell of ozone filled the air as the entire castle was illuminated. Morgana began the spell of resurrection, “angelus… mortem, bada nooooothra..” The sky above the castle began to grow darker and darker. The clouds turned black and began to pulse. Morgana continued, “…smerrrrth aaav morttthhhhrrrraaaaay!”

The sky sliced open allowing the blackest of black smoke to speed downward onto the altar, Morgana and Mordrid. There was a momentary deafening silence as the smoke dissipated. Mordrid began to sit up; a large, wicked smile crept across Morgana’s face as she watched her son stand and sheath his sword. She looked around; Mordrid’s army had been resurrected with him. An entire regiment of men with one foot in the real world and one in the afterlife. This is the turning point of the war that she had seen in a vision. She thought to herself, “Arthur will never be able to defeat us now! Vengeance is mine!” She took her son’s hand as they stepped off of the altar.

Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of 


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 Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


Luna’s Toll
by Kim Richards 

Nonie’s cell phone stopped working. She felt lucky it worked as long as it did. She guessed it took longer for its battery to die. Most everyone else’s went dark a few days ago. She laughed. That meant she couldn’t call her friends before now…since the cell phone structure went down. Where’s the luck in that?

Standing on a wooden dock, she clasped her hands behind her and watched the sun peak from the side of the moon. Old Luna filled most of the sky now, ever since The Event which shoved it nearer to the Earth. She came here to toss the useless phone into the water. She knew the act accomplished nothing. She just needed to let go of the last pieces of her ‘normal’ past.

The waters of the bay were finally calm and weak sunlight cast a fine sheen across the still surface. Large ships bobbed beneath the bridge in the water. They used to carry cargo containers but no more. No one needed floofy trinkets and things now days. The only thing people wanted now was to live.

Animals weren’t lucky either. Many in the wild died when the extremes of gravity escalated natural events. Confused, they couldn’t make sense of the tides and the wildly gyrating gravitational pull drove them mad. Flooding turned in to inland waves, crashing through buildings and burying everything in mud.

Nonie hoped the calm right now would last longer than before, although the severe quiet unsettled her. She wanted to stand here for hours but the stench of rotted vegetation and dead sea creatures made her dizzy. With a heavy sigh, she launched her phone into the air. It skipped across the water’s surface twice and then drowned.

Nonie turned on her heel and fled. Behind her the sounds of waves began. Hopefully she could make it to the bunker in time.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of


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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!


Don’t Let Us Go Violet
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

The door was heavy, polished and unwavering.  There was no doorknob.  She would have to buzz me in, but she was too busy admiring her nails, posing her phone above the shoulder to show their latest design.  It was like I wasn’t even there, waiting, waiting for a long time, holding these papers in my hands.

“You can go in now.”  She looked past me as one red, sparkling manicured fingernail pushed the button under her desk.


She waved me off and focused on her viewers.  “Like the design?  They’re dragon red.”

“Speaking of Dragons.”  I smiled at her glare.

The office was full of smoke.  There was one window behind a large man, who propped his feet up on the desk and chewed on one end of his cigar, and the window was shut.  The air was suffocating, and the large man folded his golden fingers over his enormous belly, eyeing the papers in my hands.

“What’s that?”

“My story,” I said.  “I want you to read my story.”

“And?”  He waved his cigar around, ash falling onto his sleeve, but he merely glanced at it, enjoying the burn.  “And then what?”

“And if you like my story, and I hope that you do, you would pay me to have it published.  Maybe, also produced.”

His laughter was like an ugly sucker punch.  His lips curled around the cigar, chewing over his next words.  He finally leaned forward, his golden fingers stretched outward, and he snatched the papers from my hands.

“What makes you so special?”  He asked.  “So many that have been granted access to this room, and not many, I might add, have come with great stories.  Or so they say.  It’s been done already.  So many times done.  Why should I pay or those like me pay for unoriginal ideas?”  He flipped through the papers, and his cigar’s ash fell over them.  “It’s good.  I’ll give you that.  Maybe, even some original thinking involved.”  He watched me beam at his words, and he pulled three pages aside.

He ripped the rest of the papers up, showering them across the floor, and before I could react, he tipped his cigar, knocking more ash over them.  The papers went up in fire and smoke.

“No,” I screamed.  “Why did you do that?”

“They were garbage.  I don’t pay for garbage.”  The large man pushed his chair back and opened a desk drawer, taking out his checkbook.  “I’ll pay for the pages that I kept.”  He jotted across the check.  “I’ll also include your name, so you get some recognition for it.”  He handed me the check.  “Thank you for coming in today.”

I stared at the burnt pile of papers on the floor.

“You could say, thank you.”  He continued to hold the check out to me.

“Thank you.”  I smiled and looked at the check.  “That’s it?”  My smile dropped.  “That’s all you’re giving me?”  I watched him shrug in response.  “That barely covers the cost of food or gas.”

“Take it, or give it back.”  His hand nearly smacked me in the face, his fingers lingering on the check.

“I’ll take it.”  I quickly stepped toward the door.

“And do yourself a favor.”

I glanced at him, knowing what his next words were.

“Don’t come back.”  He smiled, tucking the cigar between his lips.  “This world doesn’t need writers anymore.”

“Have you looked outside?”  I watched him blow more smoke at me.  “The world’s gone violet and violent.  There’s nothing out there to ease people or inspire them.  All they see is other people on their phones and computers, showing their lives, and some things should not be seen.  Beatings.  Stabbings.  Shootings.  Live executions.”

“That’s our highest ratings.  Nobody wants to miss a good execution, hanging, firing squad, or my favorite, the electric chair.”  He stared at me for a moment and then crushed his cigar out on his desk.  “Look, you dreamers and writers and poets once changed the world, and we thank you for that.  But the times have changed.  People have changed, and yes, everyone has a phone and a computer now, streaming their lives live.  And people are watching them, and their lives are entertainment, whether they are an idiot, infamous or incredible.  I’m not choosy, and it sells.”

“And you don’t have to pay them.”

“We don’t have to pay them,” he repeated.  “So, go find a real job.”

The door cracked open.  I stepped outside but then looked at him.  I said, “You know, it’s not about the money.  Well, not all of it.”

“Everything is about money,” he responded.

“No, it’s more than that.  It’s connection.  Inspiration.  Humanity.”  He rolled his eyes at my words.  “You want to know why the world outside your window is violet?”


“Because that’s the way the world looks after you gut it.” .

Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of

About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

Melissa R. Mendelson is the author of the Sci-Fi Novella, Waken, and the poetry collection, This Will Remain With Us.  She also has two self-published short story collections, Better Off Here and Stories Written Along COVID Walls.  All the books can be found on Amazon/Amazon Kindle. If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here:


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author R.A. Clarke @RAClarkeWrites @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Detail in the Stitching 
by R.A. Clarke 

Come to me, come to me.

Oh, how you’re weary.

So broken hearted—

filled with such fury.


Closer now, closer now.

Don’t feel so alone.

I’m here to help you

make others atone.


Pick me up, pick me up.

Yes, feel every stitch.

The price is just right

for this fabric witch.


Share with me, share with me.

Lay your burdens to rest.

Tell me who hurt you.

Just whom shall we test?


Pay for me, pay for me.

I’m your doll to claim.

Then I’ll make you mine

and we’ll curse his name.


Take me home, take me home.

For malevolent fun.

You’ll feel so much better

when playtime is done.


Pray to me, pray to me.

May two become one.

Make me your right hand.

It is time we begun.


Play with me, play with me.

Now let’s get cooking!

With fire, spite, and evil

while nobody’s looking.


Take the pins, take the pins.

As many as you like.

It’s his fault he hurt you.

It’s your turn to strike.


Sink them in, sink them in.

Blood sprays from his lips.

That man kissed another.

Let’s stab him to bits.


Make him beg, make him beg.

First one, two, then four.

Let’s laugh as he writhes;

make him fall to the floor.


Kill with me, kill with me.

Three pins to the heart.

Get rid of your baggage.

Now a new life can start.


Fiction © Copyright R.A. Clarke
Image courtesy of 


More from author R.A. Clarke:

Let YourLipsTwitch_RAClarke

Let Your Lips Twitch

Comedy is everywhere if you allow yourself to see it—to feel it. Between these covers, you’ll find short fiction in several genres. Each tale is infused with unique characters and comical situations, some rooted in reality, others certainly not. Flip the page and join a jewel heist executed by bumbling thieves at a gastronomy party, meet a lowly soul gifted the fantastical chance to redo an all-consuming moment of regret, or sweat alongside a father as he realizes his daughter is growing up too fast. Turn another page and you’ll enjoy clowning around while meeting Mr. Right, then zoom in on a perfectly focused meet cute, or feel Mother Nature’s wrath as a rebellious fishing excursion goes all kinds of wrong. There is something in this collection for everyone to enjoy. Let humour in all its glorious forms tempt your lips to move. Don’t fight the urge to smile. Go ahead and let your lips twitch.

Available on Amazon!


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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Elaine Pascale @DocLaney @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Bath 
by Elaine Pascale 

I can hear the thunder, but I cannot see the storm. I see nothing in my sealed chamber. Even when they slip my food through the loose brick they remove and replace in my wall, there is only darkness. I imagine the guards and remaining servants moving freely through the castle, their paths lit by candles.

I try to remember what it was like to have sunlight so bright that it hurt my eyes. To walk in tall grass that tickled my calves. To feel the raindrops that were only a fraction as satisfying as the drops that were manifested to fall into my bath.

I have always hated the dark but worse than the darkness is the smell. My smell. Gone is the brassy zest that flavored my skin. The servants would blanch, and some would faint, when I took to my bath, but I wore the scent with pride. Now, I smell like this room, like the dust from the bricks, like the grime that leaks from me as I evaporate.

I miss the smell of the girls, too. Though they numbered in the hundreds, each had a distinct scent. One would smell like lilies while another like the morning dew. Some had smells so tantalizing that I had to lick their bodies before having them prepared for my bath.

If only I had drowned in them, in their essence, instead of drowning in this soiled isolation.

Without the girls, I am afraid I will dry out until I am nothing but ash.

Worse than the darkness, worse than the smell, is how rapidly I am decomposing without the blood of virgins to fill my bath..

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of


More from Elaine Pascale:

The Blood Lights

They victimize all…

Jezzie Mitchell is in anguish; with her brother’s murder still on her mind, she’s noticed strange behavior among the girls in the residential treatment center where she works. Is there a connection between the contagion on Cape Cod and the deadly Bahamas vacation that changed her life?

Jezzie reaches out to former lover Lou Collins, a scholar who has chased proof of the lights for decades. Will he be able to solve the mystery of the lights in time?

Intensely competitive, reporter Bridgette Collins knows the lights are a way to secure fame in her career. And while it’ll put the final nail into the coffin of her ex-husband’s career, she vows to know the secrets of the lights. Even if it means unleashing a world-wide epidemic…


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