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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_Image_01e{[ Untitled ]}
by Asena Lourenco

The room, once filled with music and cheer,
Was now with not a sound,
The paint peeling off the wall,
And clusters of dust on the ground,
The walls had seen so much over the years,
From funerals to weddings,
For it had eyes, quite literally,
Hiding behind the paintings,
Its ears listening to every word,
And hearing everything,
An immortal being some call their God,
Always, listening. 
Fiction © Copyright Asena Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Asena Lourenco:

Asena Lourenco is 12 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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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Tiffany Michelle Brown @TiffeBrown @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_Image_04ePenance
by Tiffany Michelle Brown

“I’m not thirsty,” Laney huffed, turning away from the elaborate setup and crossing her arms over her chest. The crystal decanter was too much.
And also too little.
Did Joe really think this would work? That he could do anywhere near the appropriate amount of penance by serving her tea? While Laney loved the floral notes of a properly brewed Earl Grey, it would take a lot more than her favorite beverage to settle this score.
“You will be,” Joe said with utmost confidence. He flashed that stupid smile that always won Laney over with its wolfishness.
Laney’s dry laugh echoed through her small living room. She squared her gaze at Joe, hoping he could see flashes of fire behind her eyes. She was livid, and the emotion roasted her from the inside out. “Perhaps you should have it, Joe. Seems you’re the one who’s been thirsty lately.”
Joe’s eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched.
Perfect shot, Laney thought.
Joe ran his tongue across his front teeth and sighed. “I messed up, Lane. Royally. I won’t make excuses about it. This is entirely on me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m really trying here.”
The fire in Laney’s gut sizzled. It was nice to hear him own up to his philandering, but she was still seething mad.
“You’re going to have to try harder.”
“Do you want me to beg?” Joe asked, smirking and cocking an eyebrow.
And fuck, there it was, the twist in Laney’s stomach that announced she was still attracted to him, asshole that he was.
Laney opened her mouth to say, yes, that was exactly what she wanted, but Joe interrupted her.
“I’ll do you one better, Lane.” Joe pulled up the sleeve of his jacket. His forearm was enclosed in layer upon layer of white gauze. Despite the tight wrapping, Laney could see a dash of yellow, a spot blood trying to break through the bandage.
“I give of myself to you, Laney. I am completely and utterly yours.” With a flourish, Joe poured liquid into Laney’s cup. It was most decidedly not Earl Grey.
A ghost of a smile tugged at Laney’s lips. She drew the cup to her lips and breathed in iron.
“This is a good start,” Laney said. “But I still want you to beg.”

 

Fiction © Copyright Tiffany Michelle Brown
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Christina Sng @ChristinaSng @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


March_Image_03eThe Price of Privilege 
by Christina Sng

They always fall for the shiny vintage car and my large mansion on the hill.

That’s all they see—the old money and the privilege—and that’s what they want. Not me. I’m just part of the package.

So I let them have it, all I possess, and in turn, I collect their souls on our wedding day and give them to my true love who funds all of this.

This is my story. I hope you like it. You missed my name? Oh yes, it’s Lilith.

Fiction © Copyright Christina Sng
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Christina Sng:

A Collection of Nightmares

Hold your screams and enter a world of seasonal creatures, dreams of bones, and confessions modeled from open eyes and endless insomnia. Christina Sng’s A Collection of Nightmares is a poetic feast of sleeplessness and shadows, an exquisite exhibition of fear and things better left unsaid. Here are ramblings at the end of the world and a path that leads to a thousand paper cuts at the hands of a skin carver. There are crawlspace whispers, and fresh sheets gently washed with sacrifice and poison, and if you’re careful in this ghost month, these poems will call upon the succubus to tend to your flesh wounds and scars.
These nightmares are sweeping fantasies that electrocute the senses as much as they dull the ache of loneliness by showing you what’s hiding under your bed, in the back of your closet, and inside your head. Sng’s poems dissect and flower, her autopsies are delicate blooms dressed with blood and syntax. Her words are charcoal and cotton, safe yet dressed in an executioner’s garb.
Dream carefully.
You’ve already made your bed.
The nightmares you have now will not be kind.
And you have no one to blame but yourself.

Available on Amazon!

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Stacey Turner @Spot_Speaks @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_Image_02e

Knock Wood, Lift the Latch
by Stacey Turner

Hilde approached the bed. Her aunt, Lottie, lay buried amidst the blankets, small, nearly lost in the pile. Her face appeared puckered and brown like the flesh of an apple someone had bitten, and then left out. But her eyes were as sharp as ever. Hilde had always harbored a secret fear of Lottie. One she couldn’t explain with some anecdote of meanness her aunt had ever displayed, or cruelty she’d visited upon anyone. It was just something about her eyes; they were cold, shark like eyes her smiles never seemed to reach.
Lottie reached for her hand, clutching it with a strength belying her condition. Someone in such a frail state of health should not be able to bruise flesh with her grip. Hilde tried not to flinch at her aunt’s talon, but instead plastered a smile on her face and sat beside the bed.
Drawing down her oxygen mask, her aunt rasped out a question. Hilde had to lean closer to catch the words, noticing the sight stench of Sulphur as she did.
“Did your mother ever tell you about Baba Yaga’s door?”
“No.” Hilde shook her head. She’d been called from work for fairy tales?
Her aunt’s eyes grew larger and one side of her mouth turned up in amusement. “Oh, Hilde. I do wish your mother were here with us. But, never fear, this is not your normal fairy tale. There are no ugly witches with warts on their noses to defeat. And beautiful princesses do not have happily ever afters.” She coughed then, a harsh rattling sound that stung Hilde’s ears.
After Lottie’s breath returned she continued. “When your mother and I were small, our mother, your Oma, would tell us tales of Baba Yaga to make us go to sleep, or finish our chores, or keep us out of the woods. She was as your Boogeyman, blamed for everything from kinder napping to murder. But, your mama and I found what we were sure was Baba Yaga’s house. We passed it on the way to and from school every day. All the children gave it a wide berth, but sometimes, when we felt especially brave, we played a game, ‘Knock Wood and Lift the Latch.’” She coughed again and Hilde offered her water from the glass beside the bed.
She swallowed and lay back. “The door was a work of art guarding who knew what treasures. Yes, the house was big, old, and spooky, but that door. Dilapidated as it was, you could tell it had been magnificent once. Made of golden oak, with a latch of burnished copper, in the shape of a heart. We would dare each other to run up, knock on the door once, and then lift the latch. We were scared, but we would do it, each to outshine the other. That was our other game-who was prettier, smarter, better? We were always in competition. And when your mama turned sixteen, well the question was answered. She was so lovely, just like the golden door guarding the witch’s house. And though I was older by a year, everyone wanted to be in your mother’s radius.” She snort coughed. “Even my boyfriend.”
“Are you okay, Aunt Lottie? You don’t have to finish your story,” Hilde said, rising from her seat. Again her aunt’s bony hand grabbed her.
“But I do. I do have to finish the story, dear Hilde. You will see in the end.” Hilde thought she heard her aunt cackle then, but it turned to a cough before she could be certain.
Lottie continued. “Yes, your mother glowed like that golden door. And I was angry and jealous and vengeful. And that, mien Liebling, is a bad combination. So I played the game by myself at midnight, hoping the other stories I’d heard might be true. And what do you know? The door opened. There was a dark hall, but I could see a flickering light coming from one of the rooms. So, I crept silently forward. Nearing the entrance, I could tell the light was a fire crackling in its grate. On a chair placed near the fire, reclined the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I asked was she Baba Yaga.” She chuckled at that point. “I know, it sounds silly now. I was just surprised that there was anyone in the house. Never before had our games had any resolution. The woman smiled and said, no, she was much better than that old hag. I giggled at that and it seemed to amuse her. She invited me to have some chocolate and I agreed. Over steaming mugs brought by a quiet maid, I poured out my heart. And she offered me a solution. I could choose a new body, any time I wanted. And I choose you. More beautiful than your mother, married to a rich handsome man, and young, so young. I’ve watched you grow and waited for this very moment.”
Hilde stared at her, confused, annoyed, and oddly furious with her aunt’s bewildering behavior.
Lottie knocked on the wood of her oaken bedstead, lifted a piece of metal hidden in the design and whispered, “Offen für mich.” She followed with a fit of the offensive coughing.
Hilde’s head swam, she started to sit, but curiously, she could feel something supporting her entire body and realized she was staring at the ceiling. A gruff, grating sound seemed to bellow from inside her as she struggled to take in a breath. Why did it feel like an elephant was sitting on her chest? She thought she must have fainted trying to breathe. But then a face came into view. Not just any face—HER face—her face, but with Aunt Lottie’s cold eyes. The face cocked to the side.
“It worked,” the face said in her voice. It shot her a pitying glance. “Good bye, dear Aunt Lottie.” The face swished from view.
Hilde turned her head from side to side, though she could see little, so many blankets in her way. She tried to think, but it was like trying to swim though cotton. What were they talking about? Witches? She didn’t believe in witches.
Fiction © Copyright Stacey Turner
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Stacey Turner:

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Finding Fiona: A Pine Haven Novel

What happens when a witch has no idea she’s a witch?

Mayhem, that’s what. When Paranormal Bureau of Investigation (PBI) agents Kyle Gibson, Cian O’Malley, and Larry De Groot, travel to a small Midwestern town to neutralize a rogue paranormal, they don’t expect to find an untutored witch unaware of her legacy of power.

Fiona MacDougal has never felt like she belonged to her oh-so-perfect family. She’s a klutzy, curly-haired, mess who always seems to have the strangest accidents. But when she meets the members of the PBI and learns she’s a witch, she’ll have to decide between fitting in with the normal world or embracing the paranormal possibilities. Can she survive the danger and heartbreak her choices create?

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_Image_01e

Eight Minutes Of
by Nina D’Arcangela

Eight minutes of… the gala was in full swing. Women adorned in their finest gowns, men in their spats and tails. All twirled the dance floor with inebriated glee.
Seven minutes of… the lights dimmed, the glass baubles above took on an amber glow as heads lifted in wonder and delight.
Six minutes of… the largest crystal began to gleam, none could draw their eye from it; they froze, all motion ceased as they stood entranced.
Five minutes of… the bloom grew blinding. The skin around each reveler’s eyes began to darken and crack; to ooze brown rivulets as they gazed beyond the light. Slack of jaw, their lips began to curl exposing desiccated gums. Teeth clattered to the floor as sockets shrunk and tongues retreated to withered husks.
Four minutes of… the first horn emerged from the starburst, followed languidly by the enormous beast – it struck the marble with a resounding crack as it landed upon cloven hooves and bent claw.
Three minutes of… the aberration stalked among the paralytic ensemble. The men it had no use for – it sought only breeders.  It sniffed, it tasted; it rent the unworthy to pieces. Gold and silver damask rippled through the air as it discarded one female after another.
Two minutes of… it chose a single sheep, a prize in grand finery festooned with shimmering gems.
One minute of… the creature stepped back through the starburst having seeded its offspring. The assembly of revelers fell to the polished slab; their flesh dusted the air upon impact, what clothes remained lay poised in eternal waltz.
At the stroke of midnight the brilliant glimmer of the seven pointed star diminished to the chandelier’s soothing glow as a single scream ushered in the new day.
Fiction © Copyright Nina D’Arcangela
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Mental Ward: EXPERIMENTS

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 Bailey Hunter @DarkRecesses @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_Image_04e

Caveat Emptor
by Bailey Hunter

Old Zeb is a creature of habit and a slave to time. Every night at 6:50 pm he takes Ike, his Bull Mastiff, out for the evening constitutional. He never leaves a second earlier, nor a moment later. It is the same with everything in his life.
Order must be maintained.
Zeb and Ike are a team. They are greeted at the door of his complex by plastic smiling faces of people he couldn’t care less about and given wide berth by those who see Ike as a frightening sort, which is why Zeb got him in the first place.
“Evening Zeb, Ike. National Post?” The newsstand owner is just another caricature in Zeb’s orderly world. “We have a new magazine about dogs in. Would you like to take a look?” 
“No thank you.” Zeb puts his money down and takes the newspaper.
As they head off into the park Zeb checks his watch. 6:54 pm. Right on schedule. 
The watch is a peculiar piece of machinery. The gears are all visible and its timing is impeccable. It has never lost a second. Not a single one in the fifty years he’s owned it. He purchased it from the TimeKeeper during one of his shore leaves at an obscure Brazilian port. It was so long ago, but he remembers it sharply. The taste of bitter coffee and the scent of stale smoke lingered in his memory still.
He has seven minutes to get to the bench and read his paper. Timing is everything.
Ike keeps perfect pace with Zeb as he takes long, languid strides through the park, ignoring everyone around them. His arms and legs swing in synchronization to the rhythm of an internal metronome. 
As they reach the bench, Zeb furrows his brow. It is full of unruly teenagers. They climb about like monkeys, shoving each other, cackling. Even when Ike approaches the bench, they don’t move. 
“Excuse me. This is my bench and I must sit there.” Zeb checks his watch again, the second hand just passing 7:00 pm. 
The group laughs.
“You don’t understand I must sit there now.” Ike begins growling at the teens.
“Pick another bench old man,” retorts the one with a face full of metal, pushing his foot at Ike.
“Please… I have to sit there. I need to!” Zeb’s voice rises to near panic, his face burns as he checks his watch again. The second hand is fast encroaching on 7:01pm. 
Ike begins to bark furiously. Zeb looks up and sees the TimeKeeper watching him.
“You have to move NOW!” he screams.
Then the second hand ticks over. 7:01pm. Zeb moans, the blood draining from his face, his eyes riveted on the TimeKeeper.  
Ike circls Zeb, whimpering, looking over to the TimeKeeper then back at his master. 
Zeb watches helpless as a quick convulsion tears through the metal faced boy before he drops, followed closely by the two kohl eyed girls.
Zeb’s shoulders slump.  How many more? How many other people have purchased their own slice of Hell from the TimeKeeper?  He’d give it back in a second if only he could. He has tried. He travelled back to that Brazilian port more than once, following the dark alleyways to where he’d picked up the damned watch to no avail. The shop and Zeb’s salvation have long since faded to dust.
 “I tried to warn them, Ike. They should have just listened to me.”  Ike nuzzles up to Zeb’s legs. “Well, come on boy. Nothing we can do here anymore,” Zeb scratches the top of Ike’s mammoth head, “might as well sit down.”
Fiction © Copyright Bailey Hunter
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Bailey Hunter:
Bailey is a publisher with Dark Recesses Press.

DeadWomenInLoveCover_FrontDead Women in Love

Harvey Drago, Intangible Private Eye, is back in DEAD WOMEN IN LOVE.

Join him as he investigates the brutal death of a history professor, as well as the disappearances of several ladies of the evening. Both cases turn out to be related to the mysterious human-shaped piles of ashes being left around Nashville, and the decades-old theft of priceless Egyptian relics, including the mummy of a nefarious pharaoh. Supernatural Investigations Bureau agent Amy Marten weaves a seductive spell over our hero, as does the oddly rejuvenated Pam, his long-time occasional paramour. Is it his body they’re after, or his heart? Maybe his soul? Or is it something even more intimate than that?

 

DarkRecessesPress.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!

March_Image_03eLegacy
by Ela Lourenco

Gleaming windows in the dying beams of sunset,
Framing majestic turrets atop a dome
Proudly standing still under the darkening sky
Manicured lawns and hand-trimmed hedges as far as the eye can see
Reflected on the deep blue waters of the tranquil lake
Shadows lengthen, then shrink as another day ends
Pride in my breath I gaze upon my kingdom
Father would be proud
The sickness came, I persevered
Turning out the fleet of servants
I protected myself
Protected that which he had built
The empire which is now mine stands still
Everyone is dead and yet I remain
Alone I may be, but my legacy lives on…
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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