Alex Grehy(she/her) enjoys writing quirky, thought-provoking horror and is a regular contributor to The Sirens Call and Ladies of Horror Flash Project. Her fiction and essays on being a lady of horror have featured in a range of publications, including Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora. Alex’s first poetry collection, Last Species Standing, which explores mankind’s relationship with nature and technology, is available on Amazon.
The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Live, Laugh, Lovecraft by Lisa Harris
“Amanda, you’re being a total arsehole right now!” I pathetically slap at leaves and stumble over gargantuan roots, chasing after my blonde co-star. “If production sees we’ve left the villa we’ll get booted off the island!” My pleas fall on deliberately deaf, gold-hooped ears. Eerie trilling from the surrounding trees is the only response. Amanda charges forward through the imposing vegetation with a confidence more akin to a veteran explorer than a Hott Hott Holiday contestant.
My up-do gets caught in a particularly grabby low-hanging vine, tugging out a hunk of hair. Those extensions were bloody expensive! Fuck this.
“AMANDA BANTER! YOU ARE NOT BEING A GIRL’S GIRL RIGHT NOW!”
She stops dead. White-gold sequined dress glittering under what trickle of moon is brave enough to speckle the gloom. She looks pissed off. At least, as pissed off looking as the daily ToxBox injections mandatory for all contestants will allow.
“That was a low blow, Tilly Whittens, and it’s Giving: #Petty.”
“Oh fuck, ‘Giving,’ Amanda! This is madness!”
“It’s not madness! Blayze’s TikTok said – “
“Blayze’s TikTok was clearly a load of made-up bollocks!”
“It has over four million views!”
“Oh, ‘views’ don’t mean anything!”
Amanda shrieks, horrified. Ashamed, I regret it immediately.
“I’m sorry. I… didn’t mean that.”
“Tilly… You’re my oldest content collaborator. You were the first account I ever tagged on InstaGrim.” Her tone is soft. “But if you stop me reaching the hidden temple that Hott Hott Holiday Season 16 winner Blayze Bayleigh accidentally discovered while running from the crew during her Menty B over Tiggy Muffins stealing Hammer Steele off her during the Couple Off, and inside the hidden temple was a Goddess who granted Blayze her wish of becoming the most famous influencer of all time, then I will block you. On everything. Even ChatSnap.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I would.”
“But Mandy, we’re on the show! Think of all the sponsorship deals we’ll get afterwards! Think of the brands! Isn’t that enough?” Amanda’s face hardens.
“You’re Giving: #Basic, Tilly, Basic. If being some marketing mouthpiece with a “K” after her follower count is good enough for you, then crawl on back to the Villa and your little situationship with Georgie McPudding. But it’s not enough for me. I don’t even want an “M” after my follower count. I want a “B.”
“You want… A BILLION FOLLOWERS?!”
“I want them all, Tilly. All must follow me.” She turns sharply on her backless silver kitten heels and marches awkwardly through the undergrowth.
I know my Yoni Yoga Guide-ess would tell me to put myself first and leave Amanda to it. But I’d been in Amanda’s long, dark, streaky, fake-tanned shadow for too long. I couldn’t let that bitch find this Goddess thingy before me. I’d seen the TikTok too. Seen it first. That orange tramp hadn’t even had The Dreams afterwards. Dreams of Temple, Statuette, and Sacrifice. And followers? All she knew of “followers” was confined to the few billion flesh-sacks, lumbering in their decay on this one planet. A billion followers, when there were over a trillion cosmic realms to rule. I had to be the first of us to touch that Statuette.
An ecstatic squeal ahead, Amanda’s found the fabled clearing. Panting, hair destroyed, silk purple off-shoulder jumpsuit shredded, I sprint as fast as my gold ankle boots will let me and catch up to the bitch, halting suddenly. There it is. Ancient, unknowable, looming. We’re both in awe. Amanda turns to me and smiles serenely, takes my hand in sisterly solidarity, and together we walk under the full moon through the stone entrance.
It’s pitch-black inside, but a quavering green light guides us towards a chamber at the back. There it is. A rough-hewn, humanoid – yet somehow not human – figure gouged from a strange mossy wood, indecipherable glyphs circling its head like a crown in a language clearly older than anyone could imagine. Amanda recoils a little as she leans over for a closer look.
“It’s Giving: #Germs. Got any hand-sanitizer, babes?”
“Yeah, babes. Lemme… Just…”
I rifle in the leather clutch tucked under my arm. Hm. It took quite the beating in the jungle and still survived. Definitely shopping that brand again.
I pull out a small, lethally sharp scissors from my emergency manicure kit. I plunge it straight into Amanda’s peering, stretched neck. Right in the jugular. A visceral choke erupts from her artificially inflated lips. She staggers back against the wall, sliding down slowly, watching me place both hands on the side of the now bloodied Statuette. I feel its power flow into my veins. The power of a trillion cosmoses.
Amanda, near bloodless yet blood-soaked, croaks out her last words:
The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Lacuna by Sheikha A.
Thunder caws — sigil burnt. After tonight, she will be every where like a picture imprinted in his mind. He will carry her like an emblem on his skin; she will clamp on, and his bones will open, without resistance, to receive her. How she sets fire will be a thing of mystery as he scrapes with nails of blood
.
cawing thunder —
smell of bone-rust
spitting embers
.
to erase her memory, She will be scripture in the wind, waves of her presence coursing through his veins. A dry rose waits in a metal cup — for fire — a candle to be struck lit, and a soft flame of topaz heat
.
rimming rose reduce with love amber ash
.
he, who called her plain like a haunting stem of stars that conjured no fright, and her echoes did not make his heart shiver. There was always someone more ghostly, like a voice driving splits into canyons, and emerging as an undelivered curse — so beautiful — soraw — unclaimed by the mortal world; someone pure and profound like a spell passed down since centuries — olden — uncut —
.
ancient moon
burning at midnight
— latching cords
.
exuberant and fresh, her true form will show him how she will be everywhere, and nowhere. The dry rose is fully burnt — breathing atoms of undone life. She draws her next sigil: wings of crow holding fallen thunder. His flesh will burn in sweet avoidance, her trap narrowing against his oblivion
.
lacuna stars alight altar empty rolling metal cup
.
and when he thinks she has been obliterated, from the nightly scar delicately handled to his skin, she will seep —
Nyctophiliac 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.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Beneath the Flashing Lights by Melissa R. Mendelson
Beneath the flashing lights, I grimaced at the mud on my boot, disgusted by its presence. I dug my boot deep into a pile of dirt, trying to wash off the stain. I kicked my boot out into the air, releasing the dirt around it, and as I did, I listened to their grating voices near me. Hey, did you see last night’s game? Boy, did I get plastered earlier today, but don’t worry. I’m now right as rain. Hey, remember those young girls we caught? Well, I gave them something that they will never ever forget. If only they would shut the fuck up, but what was worse than them? The damn sighers. Those antsy, restless, eager, chomping at their lips and fingers. What the fuck were they waiting for? So what if this girl was dug up and dead? No one cared, and I stared at the mud still on my boot, which helped avert my gaze from her mangled body, one arm stretched outward with dark red nails matching the blood in the dirt. Finally, the coroner had arrived. It’s about time. We were finally free and ready for our next departure, but now, they were annoyed at me. I was taking too long, wavering, glancing, wondering whose daughter were we leaving like this, but as one man had said, no one cared. I shouldn’t, and I knelt down, rubbed the mud away, and grabbed the silver ring with an Onyx stone off the dead girl’s finger. My daughter always liked things like this, and I slipped it into my pocket. I stepped away, leaving her body there, beneath the flashing lights.
Melissa R. Mendelson is a horror, science-fiction and dystopian author and poet. She has two publications with Wild Ink Publishing. One is a prose poetry collection, This Will Remain With Us, and the other is a short story collection, Stories Written On Covid Walls. She also self-published a sci-fi novella, Waken and a small short story collection, Name’s Keeper.
If you’d like to learn more about Melissa, you can visit her accounts here: www.MelissaMendelson.com
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Faerie Ring by A.F. Stewart
My Mam, God rest her soul, believed in faeries. Told my brother and I all the stories and laid on us all the warnings. Never cross the faeries, she said. Never make a deal with a faerie, never give them your name, and never ever go to the stone circles on the hill at sunset.
That’s when the faeries come out to dance. More than once she told us they’d snatch us clean away and we’d never see this world again. I attended to every word, soaking in her wisdom, but of course, my brother didn’t heed.
A wild one, was my brother.
He thought Mam was more than daft for believing and made fun of the old beliefs when out of her earshot. Laughed at her, he did, called her warnings superstitions, and flaunted her teachings behind her back. I followed him sometimes, when he and his friends went to the stone circles at night. I watched them drink whisky and beer, and carouse with fool girls into the wee hours. And sometimes, I wasn’t the only one watching. Some nights the hilltop filled with lurking shadows, all eager eyes and greedy smiles.
Not that my brother saw them.
Yet he courted trouble, going there regularly until the day he left our village. When he left me alone to take care of our Mam. Not that I minded, but it made me realize how much I disliked my brother.
I guess that animosity is why I didn’t listen to Mam, either.
It happened after she passed, the day after her funeral. My brother came home, back to the house all swagger and piss, saying the place was his now, never mind that I had as much right to it, even more seeing I stayed. Tried to kick me out, he did.
But I’m stubborn. And a damn sight more clever. I remembered those days at the stone circles, those other eyes watching him with hunger. I made my plan. After a week, I told him I would sign over my claim, but only if he would raise a glass to Mam at the stone circles. He laughed, scoffed at my sentimentality, but agreed.
I took him to the hill at sunset, on a day when the veil would be thin. Pouring him a generous drink into a tin cup, I smiled, and put just a splash in my cup. My brother wandered in the circles as I left the opened bottle of whisky inside the outer circle as an enticement. I stepped back, waiting, and fingered the protection charm Mam gave me.
Then my brother asked, “Do you hear music?”
I widened my smile, retreated further, snuggling into the cover of the trees. It didn’t take long for the faeries to arrive. Dozens of them all laughing, singing, dancing. One grabbed the whisky off the ground, swigging a drink, and passed around the bottle. Another swept my bewildered brother into a dance.
Yet another beckoned to me, but I shook my head. He laughed and bowed, joining the dance; I was soon forgotten.
But my brother, oh, he was their prize. My gift offered and accepted.
Just the way I wanted it.
Mam might not have approved, but I smiled all the way home.
Tragedy spares no one… and takes no prisoners. In the twilight shadows, secrets are revealed past the whispers of madness.
Wander into the realm of the old gods with Elenora, where humanity and marriage are a prison. Step through a looking glass of dark horrors with an Alice you never knew. Join with Zenna to seek the truth as her death by magic grows closer. Journey with Olivia as she crosses paths with a monster of the forest and runs for her life. Watch Isobel summon the faerie to solve her problem of an unwanted husband. Shiver as Doctor Killbride experiments with corpses to create life from death. All that and more await within the pages.
Ten stories. Ten women. Who will survive? Who will fall? And who will succumb to their inner evil? Find out in Visions and Nightmares.
Warning: This book contains disturbing scenes that may be upsetting to some readers.
The Ladies of Horror Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
The Other Side by Lee Mitchell
I’d thought I would feel an overwhelming sense of relief once I finally reached this place, but now that I stand here, all I can process is grief. The wooden fence is even taller than I had imagined, reaching far enough into the sky to block out the midday sun. Its finish is less impressive, the metal frame peeling with rust and rot and the once-white paint cracked and stained.
At first glance, it looks weathered enough for a person to break through in a few hefty blows, but it’s heavier than it seems. Each panel isn’t just a plank of wood; it’s a solid beam that runs surprisingly deep. There is a spot nearby where someone apparently tried to chop through with an axe, but the hole—about three feet wide and much shallower along the sides—is only about a foot in at its deepest spot. The person responsible must’ve given up quite a while ago as there are no tools or chunks of wood visible anywhere in the vicinity.
I take a closer look, finding the top of the vandalized area black with soot. Seems that burning the fence is also not an option. I search for handholds and attempt to scale up the side, but beyond the metal frame—which spans only the top and bottom of the structure—the overall surface is smooth.
I feel a knot tighten in my throat, resisting the urge to drop to my knees and let loose the grief that wants to come bellowing out from deep within my being. I can’t lose it now, not after everything I’ve survived to get this far. Not after everything I’ve lost….
I remind myself of the goal: Get to the other side. The people there are free, free to think and say whatever they please. There is no one waiting to shoot people at the smallest sleight, no one wanting to strip others of their basic dignities over contrived differences, no one ready to punish them for wanting better lives.
I must find a way.
I follow the fence for about a mile before I notice a knotted rope dangling from the top and reaching down the side. The end is just within reach, so I take hold and begin to climb. My upper body strength isn’t what it used to be, so I struggle my way up, but my resolve is stalwart enough to make up for the weakness in my arms.
I’m determined. I must reach the other side.
One hand over the next, I make my way to the top, then hoist myself up and collapse onto my back, taking a moment to catch my breath. The landing is several feet wide, and despite its sturdiness, I can feel it shifting subtly beneath me in the warm breeze. I smile. I did it. I found my exit from this awful place. Now, all I have to do is climb down the other side.
I inch myself across the landing, my fear of heights kicking in as I realize just how high off the ground I am. My muscles grow tight, and my hands tremble as I pull myself to the opposing ledge. I look down.
The air rushes from my lungs as I survey the barren terrain ahead. Remnants of buildings, all in various states of disrepair, litter the landscape. Numerous sections of sun-bleached skeletons—some clearly from animals, some possibly from humans—protrude from the sandy earth. Below me, just ahead, written in bold lettering across a crumbling façade, is a sign that reads: Warning! Turn back now! You will only find death here.
Alisha Brown led a mundane life until the day monsters started trying to kill her and random strangers began to shy away from her in awe.
All hell broke loose, quite literally, after Randy Thomas turned right on Main for Honey’s instead of making a left for home and then murdered his beloved wife in an unusually gruesome way. Escaping police and stopping traffic in New York City with a gas-spewing tentacle erupting from his mouth, his fears are confirmed: That one small backslide would serve as the final tipping point for all mankind, inviting in a timeless destructive force that would lead him to the frontlines of the war to end all wars.
A growing population has succumbed to their worst fears, some transforming into dreaded fictional monsters—leaving the streets flooded with vampires, werewolves, spontaneously combusting humans, and other horrors—while others have become angels and demons determined to fight in the holy war they believe is upon them.
Questions soon arise as Randy’s and Alisha’s roles in this bizarre apocalypse become uncertain. One is a professed sinner, the other an asexual virgin. Each has been touched by the hand of fate, and each believes they are humanity’s last hope. But belief can be a funny thing…
The Divine Darkness is the first installment of The Divine Darkness apocalyptic horror trilogy.
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.
The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
Still Warm in the Dirt by Kathleen McCluskey
They buried her when she stopped making noise.
The men who had beaten her, and gang raped her dragged her lifeless body into the clearing. They had not intended a ceremony or confirmation. They only needed concealment. When her body ceased its weak, reflective struggling and her breath thinned to something they could not hear over their shovels, they decided she was finished. One of them checked her pulse out of habit rather than mercy, pressing his fingers into her neck until he felt nothing. Then he shrugged and callously wiped mud across her cheek with his boot and told the others to dig.
The hole was shallow and poorly cut. Roots jutted through walls like splintered bones. They rolled her into it face down, arms bound behind her back, wrists swollen from the restraint. A ring remained trapped on her finger, a thick band that cut deep into her flesh that had begun to swell long before the first shovel of dirt fell. None of them noticed it. No one ever looked at her long enough to notice.
They covered her quickly.
Soil struck her back and shoulders in dull impacts, then cascaded around her body and head. Loose earth filled the space beneath her cheek, packed into her nostrils and mouth. Weight accumulated steadily, collapsing against her ribs until each shallow breath became a strangulated effort.
Consciousness did not leave her immediately. It thinned, retreated then returned in fragments.
Pressure came first. Pressure and cold. The earth pressed into her spine and the back of her skull, cradling and crushing in the same relentless embrace. Her lungs fought for air that tasted of clay and rot, drawing in what filtered through the packed soil. Each attempt grew weaker than the last, her body trying to conserve oxygen that she did not have.
Her right arm partially lay twisted beneath her chest. Blood pooled there, trapped by gravity and the restraints. Her fingers swelled until the flesh was fat and shiny. Her ring cut deeper as the tissue expanded, its metal edge carving a slow groove that filled with dark, sluggish blood. The trapped pressure had nowhere to go. Her slow pulse beat against the band, each beat forcing her flesh harder into unyielding gold.
Movement eventually found her.
It began as a faint disturbance near her knuckles, subtle enough to be mistaken for settling dirt. Then came the unmistakable sensation of legs. Fine. Numerous and methodical. They criss-crossed the back of her hand. A millipede had surfaced from the loose soil near her wrist, drawn by the warmth that lingered stubbornly in buried flesh. It paused at the base of her finger, antennae working, tasting the salt and damp that seeped from her skin before continuing to the tight metal circle.
It discovered the wound beneath almost immediately. The metal had already broken the skin there, opening in a thin, wet crescent. The creature pressed into that space, exploring with patient insistence. When it began to feed, the sensation registered as a distant, blunt flair. The pain filtered through layers of shock and suffocation. Her body attempted to react. A faint twitch traveled through her finger. The rest of her remained pinned and unresponsive.
The disturbance attracted others.
They emerged slowly from the surrounding earth, not a swarm but a great succession. Each one drawn by the same signals of heat and moisture. They gathered around the trapped finger, slipping beneath the edge of the ring where the blood collected. The confined space offered shelter and sustenance. Soil shifted as they worked. Mandibles and bodies moving with instinctive purpose. Beneath the band, tissue gave way, what had been trapped began to slowly loosen.
Above her, the ground settled into a stretch of dark earth, undisturbed by wind or witness. The clearing returned to an eerie silence.
Below it, long after breath had ceased and the last spark of awareness had dissolved into suffocating darkness, subtle movement continued beneath the soil. Fingers shifted slightly against the packed dirt. The ring, no longer anchored by living tension, slipped gradually along the damaged finger.
And over time, the earth pressed closer, claiming the space inch by inch as her form weakened beneath it. Moisture, pressure and darkness erased the boundaries that had once defined her. What remained settled into the soil that surrounded it, indistinguishable from the ground, leaving no division between body and grave.
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.
The Lost Girl A nailed-up door. An inheritance which comes with a ghost. A missing girl. A fifty-year-old mystery. Parapsychologist Berkley Osgood is hired to investigate. What he uncovers reveals secrets the living want to hide and the dead will never forgive.
Spindleshanks Adam is having nightmares about a skeletal shadow figure, who he calls Spindleshanks. Soon his whole class are sharing the same nightmare. Adam’s dad, Rob, knows that Spindleshanks can’t be real. But is he? One terrible night Rob has to face his son’s nightmare creature and fight for his son’s life. What would you sacrifice to have your child back safe?
“A decent two-for-one. Alyson Faye brings the engaging and eerie in equal measure.” CC Adams – horror / dark fiction author
The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!
False Flag by Kai Wilson
I feel this story should have a trigger warning for infant loss. Please proceed with caution if that is upsetting for you.
The inner blast door loomed before me—a slab of cold iron scarred with dents. An acid taste coated the back of my throat, and I shot a baleful look at the basket.
This was all for my baby sister – guilt, anger and loss washed up, meeting the acid in my mouth. I’d given her my last real wool—guilt-tripped into it—only for it to end up here.
I rocked and began to hum quietly, and waited for the yellow light to turn green, thinking about colours. About our flags. T I am red. Not worth risks. Not worth resources beyond the meagre items for survival. We were waste handlers, we did the dirty, dangerous jobs. But…my green-flagged sister and her partner had created something with no flag at all. Something we weren’t to talk of. Just remove. As if echoing my thoughts, the light shifted. It completely switched off, the hall black. Then it lit. Green for go, get out.
I gripped the wheel, twisting until it squealed, pulling the door open a crack, and slipped inside, barely lifting the basket over the lip. The heavy metal groaned shut, sealing me in the transition zone. I raised a bare ghost of a smile.
The hall behind me smelled of sweat, fear, and too many bodies; this room smelled of ozone and silence.
“Airlock decontamination cycle, in to out, two minutes,” a pre-war recording chimed. Static followed, a different voice overlaid. “Out to in, twenty-two minutes.”
Those twenty-two minutes were worth it. Others might not think so, but I did. I got to breathe fresh air. Even if it tasted like pennies, even if I was blasted for 22 minutes with precious compressed air. I made the best of it. I didn’t use guilt to get what I wanted.
I peered out the porthole. The mist curled around the pier like a thrown-off duvet, isolating the world beyond. It was crumbling into the water, but I could still make it most of the way out. My glance moved to the Geiger counter on the wall. I was used to the slight tick. Everyone was, really. You could see people inside moving unconsciously to that rhythm. The tick and our heartbeats were the same now.
I wrapped myself tighter in my shawl, hearing the gentle ping of a thread letting go. Then another.
I sighed, glancing back at the basket. I’d had the chance to repair this shawl with that yarn, and I’d passed. For no reason other than this. But the yarn…I looked down, and then pulled that meagre blanket off savagely, despair and anger mingling with that acid taste in my mouth, metallic copper beyond conscious thought, seeing red, BEING red.
My throat tightened as I cranked the handle. The door swung out, and the Geiger counter’s tick screamed up into a mechanical whirring scream. I stepped away from the door, down to the jetty where it was a matter of balance and a couple of steps to reach the furthest usable point, a flat portion much bigger than the basket. I was just about to place the basket at the end, when my breath caught.
A two-fingered hand had forced its way out of the bundle, waving dumbly, pushing the swaddling away. Wide, white eyes looked back from a doll’s perfect face whose colours were wrong. It was beautiful, aside from the lack of pigment. Its stare was…wrong. Its grey mouth rooted blindly for a mother almost gone too.
Not quite gone enough to take them out together, the bitterness rose like gorge.
“Sorry, little one,” I whispered. The tingling across my skin made me tense. It was probably imagined, but it was real enough to keep me RED. “This really is for the best…”
I rose and turned before I could falter. The walk back to the airlock felt more unsteady, and much longer than the walk out. It was punctuated by only one cry—a sob escaping my own throat, as harsh as vomit as I stepped off the jetty. I didn’t look back until the door was sealed and the pressure began to rise, the uneven blast of air puffing and sucking my grief with it. Through the thick glass, I watched the mist swallow the end of the pier, the blanket of the outside stealing it all away. Wiping away tears, my eyes fell to the bench. It was already unravelling. What a waste. I’d use the yarn to repair my shawl. Maybe in a month or so.
Nina D’Arcangela is a quirky horror writer who likes to spin soul rending snippets of despair. She reads anything from splatter matter to dark matter. She's an UrbEx adventurer who suffers from unquenchable wanderlust. She loves to photograph abandoned places, bits of decay and old graveyards.
Nina is co-owner of Sirens Call Publications, co-founder of the horror writer's group 'Pen of the Damned', and if that isn't enough, put a check mark in the box next to owner and resident nut-job of Dark Angel Photography.
Spreading the Writer's Word 