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

Posted on May 21, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Best in Show 
by Elaine Pascale

“Note how his ears are perfectly equidistant. His eyes are large and round. He’s able to hear and see past, present, and future. His fur texture is course yet soft, such a pelt does not happen overnight. This is a well-cared for familiar. Best conjuring companion and sixth place best in show is Chechnya the rabbit.”

Siggy applauded half-heartedly. She wanted the judges to move faster. Her two-headed cat, Periwinkle Louise de Waffles, had come in second ten years in a row. This was a direct snub to the de Waffles dynasty, a clan that was known for producing superior familiars for centuries. Siggy had been preparing Louise for months and was sure she would take best in show.

Siggy scanned the remaining contestants. There was a new entrant, an orange cat, Bartholomew Curtis de Costa who was still in the running. He was an ordinary single-headed feline.

“The tail is a formidable thirteen inches, providing superior stability. The teeth are sharp and clean and the tongue is an admirable length…and strong, too! Best potions protector and fifth place overall is Nicoletta the bearded dragon.”

Siggy glanced over at Bartholomew and his wizard. They were strategically placed beside the judge’s table. Siggy swore she saw the wizard muttering spells. Bartholomew appeared to move his feline lips in unison.

“Best emotional support and fourth overall, Skybird Meer the dog.”

“Don’t worry, Louise…there is no way you can come in second. You’re the most regal, the most beautiful, the most talented, and the most powerful.” Siggy stroked one black ear followed by another and another and another.

She looked again at Bartholomew. The cat’s mouth was definitely moving. Siggy believed the wizard had bewitched him along with the judges.

“Best in flight and third overall  is Chandy Lancer the owl.”

“Here it is Louise. Time to give the newbie his award and then we take all.” Siggy couldn’t imagine what that simple orange cat had over the other contestants.

“This creature moves with a regality rarely seen amongst familiars; in this case, it’s almost as if the familiar is primed to be the new supreme. Immaculate incarnation and number 2 overall is…”

Siggy knew what was coming next; yet she refused to accept it.

“Periwinkle Louise de Waffle, the two-headed cat.”

Siggy could barely breathe. She was outraged. The only way this snub was possible was trickery. She grimaced as she took the ribbon which seemed shabby and cheap in comparison to the first place that remained on the judge’s table.

How quickly they move on. Siggy thought as the announcer sprang right into the description for the best in show. “The opposable thumbs are a great advantage…”

What? Siggy looked at the feline who had regular paws.

“And the beard is trimmed into exact corners; this is exquisite grooming.”

Beard?

“Best familiar meaning best in show goes to Modesto, the human.”

Siggy swore that Bartholomew winked at her as he allowed the judges to place the winning ribbon at his feet.

..

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com
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More from Elaine Pascale:

TheKitchenWitches_ElainePascale

The Kitchen Witches

The women of Cape Cod have a story that is dying to be told. If only they could live long enough to tell it.

When Fiona Walker is contracted to write about a party attended by her social circle, her friends begin dying. She captures the competition and misery of the women around her through three different stories.

In Wishes, Melanie Voss discovers a Time Between Time where nothing that happens counts. Initially, Time Between Time is a welcome escape from a life spent watching the clock while doing chores for her family. But something sinister is in the Time Between Time and it is headed straight for Melanie.

Death and Taxes tells the story of Nashville DeCota, the Cape Capo. Nash swears that she is not the Island Impaler, nor the Tooth Snatcher, but she has just as many skeletons in her closet. When her husband, Derrick, is kidnapped, she has to come clean about her crimes if she ever wants to see him again.

Fiona tells her own story in Hazing, where she finds that the real source of evil behind the deaths of her friends is worse than she could have ever imagined.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lisa Harris @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on May 21, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

To Haunt and to Hold
by Lisa Harris

The haunting of Rebecca continued right up to the night before the wedding. Her nerves, already frayed from the weight of seating plans, floral arrangements, and her soon-to-be mother-in-law, were now like shredded skin around gnawed fingers. 

The disembodied voices crying her name, desperately seeking her out, she could dismiss as just the pressures of pre-wedding social demands. A natural introvert, Rebecca had never spoken to so manypeople in her life. No wonder she was hearing her own name in her sleep! And the creeping chill circling her temples slippity-sliding down her chest and settling around her heart like a glacial vice was just bridal jitters. Probably.

But the knocking! Thorns! The knocking! How many times this last week alone had she startled her groom-to-be, Michaelis, (and rankled their Housekeeper, Elzberta) with the crash of a shattered tea cup because she’d been caught unaware by a sudden booming knock heard only by her, as if some monstrous fist demanded entry into the very core of her sanity.

Poor Michaelis! He was baffled and alarmed at the nervous whims of his future bride, but secretly blamed himself for them. He thought it only natural that Rebecca’s subconscious was trying to save her; save her from the vampiric curse of his family name and the mausoleum that was Roseblood Manor. But his love for her was as possessive and selfish as it was (initially) forbidden. He couldn’t live without her, nor she without him. Michaelis couldn’t tell if Rebecca’s haunting was paranormal, or just the terrible burden of their infernal love. Love that was costing them both dearly: Michaelis, his immortal soul’s honour, and his wife-to-be, her once wilfully strong mind – a mind he loved as much as her mortal beauty.

Rebecca was weeping in the rose garden, her form ethereally lit under the moon, frail ivory hands clawing at her raven black curls. 

“Make it stop… Go away… Leave me be…” she moaned to the eerie voices tangling in her ears. Michaelis found her just after midnight, technically the day of their wedding, and swept her up into a shivering bundle, striding back into the manor, and settling her onto her four-poster bed. He made to leave but she grabbed his arm.

“Micahelis, I’m sorry…”

“Rebecca, you are my soul, it pains me to see you so. If severing ties with me is the only way to cure this spectral affliction – “

“NO! I love you – “

“I love you too, but -”

“I want to be with you forever. Please. We can ask the priestess if she knows how to banish whatever is… pulling me away from you. I just want to be with you.”

Michaelis’s face softens.

“Forever?”

Rebecca giggled through her tears.

“Forever.”

Michaelis held her slim face in his broad hands and pressed his lips to hers. Rebecca had chosen her fate; she would stay with him forever. The distant knocking thundered to a deafening crescendo – 

***

“Not anudder feckin’ one, wha’?” moans Paddy, spinning the dusty gaming chair, revealing the desiccated corpse of Rebecca Moore. His Dublin City Council colleague, Paudie, finishes kicking his way through the front door, setting down his sledgehammer. 

“Ah Jaysus! How long’s this one been plugged in fer?” 

Paddy tugs Rebecca’s head to the side and unceremoniously yanks out the hot-pink wires fusing her temples to the strange gaming console before her. 

“Judging by the state o’ dese cables, I’d say she’s been stuck “in dere” a few months. See, dey’re all fritzed at d’end. Water damage. Starved t’death without even knowin’. Stupeh’ bitch.” Paddy tosses the wires to the ground and switches off the monitor, blinking out the loading screen for “Immersi-Verse F(ai)ntasy L(ai)fe: Romantasy Expansion.”

     Paudie kicks aside festering rubbish and settles himself on the couch, taking out his cigarettes and gazing in disgust around the mouldy little flat.

“Time was, when people stopped payin’ rent it was cos dey were on d’bag of sniff, or d’rock. Now it’s all dis hookin’ yer brain up to a computer bollix. Dangerous stuff. Bigger killer dan cancer.” He takes a hearty drag of his cigarette. “An’ who’s gonna tell d’sister? Wasn’t she d’one who called it in dat herself wasn’t answerin’ d’door? Bangin’ away in a mad panic fer weeks.” 

Paddy snorts.

“Not our department! We’ll call d’piggies, sure, let dem handle it.”

He quickly checks the other rooms: a kitchenette, and a tiny bathroom hidden behind a re-purposed Twilight shower curtain. No one else here, only Rebecca’s body.

“Jaysus knows where her soul is… In d’feckin’ Matrix or somethin’.” Paddy thinks cruelly. He snaps a photo of the dead girl, evidence for his rent collection report, then nods at Paudie. Time to go – lunchtime pints are calling. Just as well, a bride must not be disturbed on her wedding night. 

.

Fiction © Copyright Lisa Harris
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Lisa Harris:

To the Devil, a Daddy
by Lisa Harris

Satanchu, I Choose You! Unbridled noughties nostalgia runs rampage in this dark and deranged debut novella. Devilish daddies, mysterious murders, and raising Hell with Pokémon cards; nothing and no-one is sacred in this story – especially one child in particular. A surprisingly atmospheric tale of friendship, fecked up families, and the horrors of adulting as a millennial. Read if you dare…! This version also contains the bonus story “O’ Holy Fright!” – a festive feast of fear, in bloody tribute to all the brave soldiers of Christmas retail out there.

Available on Amazon!

 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Alex Grehy @indigodreamers @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on May 20, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Monkey’s Paw  
by Alex Grehy

The explorers were obscenely excited 

>hearts tripping<

.

when they found me in the jungle

>to offset costs<

.

a brand-new species, to them.

>patentable<

.

Forest guides spoke of my miraculous power

>positive anecdotal evidence – believed<

.

cures for every ailment, it seemed.

>dollars in their eyes<

.

Local elders spoke of my accursed nature.

>mere superstition – ignored<

.

They collected seeds, cultivated me in the lab

>oh, how I grew<

.

researched, isolated, purified my essence.

>as if it would be that simple<

.

They finally found my secret in the soft touch of lips.

>life is love after all<

.

Their healthy subjects sickened, death inevitable

>there’s the catch<

.

their subjects embraced their loved ones, a last kiss.

>but the loved ones lived – forever<

.

They named me the Monkey’s Paw Orchid

>How very apt<

.

then quietly buried their research, stopped all trials.

>lawsuits averted<

.

But you can buy my seeds in garden centres

>what a beautiful flower<

.

everyone grows me, I am so easy to cultivate

>I cure all disease<

.

a tisane of my flowers tastes of fragranced honey.

>Who will you invite to tea?<

.

They’ll drink and take pleasure in your generosity

>no need to feel guilty<

.

they won’t mind, they want the best for you

>Don’t forget to kiss them goodbye<

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Alex Grehy:

Last Species Standing

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.

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on April 27, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

In Greener Pastures
by Melissa R. Mendelson

Words. So many words. My words fluttering down into my mind, spilling across my tongue and out my mouth. Beautiful depictions. Interesting characters. Inquisitive and Inspirational. These words give me power, make me want to take on the world and change it for the better. They’re like Monarch butterflies storming the skies, and there is a little girl standing in the field with one hand open and outstretched. My words come in for a landing, filling her hand, her mind, and her heart, and she smiles.

I watched the little girl run off, but as she did, my words did not follow. The Monarch butterflies just hovered, maybe one stray clung to her shoulder as she shared my words with those that she knew. But they did not believe her. Prove it, they said, and she couldn’t. Later, she would find that butterfly dried and dead, caught in the fabric of her life, and she would throw it away along with the memory that she had because maybe it was not real.

My words still fluttered, grasping at air, trying to breathe. The words were mine. They were me trying to be heard, felt and lived, but a wicked cold wind was blowing. An echo was growing. Prove it. Are those words really yours?

My words are looking for greener pastures because there must be some place out there, where they could grow and thrive and live, but now they are falling down, twisting into some kind of strange circuitry, cocooned into a metallic state, where lips part and spill out the words that I once held.

In greener pastures are not the remains of what was so many words, my words. In greener pastures, the cocoons do not remain but burst open with razor sharp wings, cutting down anything, anyone that dares say otherwise. In greener pastures, the shells that you find in the grass, stomp on and crack apart are the dreams that I once held, stories I wanted to tell, but those shells are simply that, shells because my words became hollow, slipping further and further away.

 

.

Fiction © Copyright Melissa R. Mendelson
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
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About Author Melissa R. Mendelson:

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

 
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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kathleen McCluskey @KathleenMcClus4 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on April 26, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Last Bloom
by Kathleen McCluskey

They had been told that the roses were a blessing.

That was the lie that kept the monks from running.

Brother Alard learned the truth the first night he was led beneath the abbey, down past the wine stores and the bone crypts, into the chamber where the air never moved and the candles burned low and sickly. The chest sat at the center of it, ironbound and swollen with age, its lock thick and as black as a clot of dried blood. Upon it rested the roses, pale, red-edged and heavy with dew that never dripped.

He had leaned closer then, drawn by their scent. Not floral. Metallic. Sweet and wrong.

Something inside the chest shifted. Not a thud. Not a stir. But a response to him getting close.

The Abbot struck him hard enough to split his lip. “Do not invite it in,” the old man hissed, dragging him back.”It listens.”

Years passed, the Abbot rotted in his grave yet the duty remained. The roses must be fed. That was the only command that mattered.

Blood had to be poured at the roots hidden beneath the blooms. Names spoken. Prayers muttered through clenched teeth. The offering had once been plentiful, bandits, heretics, prisoners dragged from distant wars, but time thinned everything. Villages emptied. Cells went quiet. Chains rusted in place.

Still the chest endured. Still it listened. But lately, it had begun to speak.

At first it was nothing more than a murmur, something that escaped between breaths, too faint to grasp. Then came the scratching, slow, thoughtful, tracing the inner walls as if hunting for weakness. Alard had tried to ignore it. Bury it beneath prayer, but prayer did not silence it.

Nothing did. Because it was not trying to escape. It was waiting. Testing. Tonight they gave the last sacrifice. It was all they could find.

The boy sobbed until his voice broke, until it dissolved into dry, animal sounds that echoed off the stone. Alard did not look at his face as the blade was drawn. He focused instead on the basin. On the ritual. On the containment. On the roses.

Always the roses.

When the blood touched them, they shuddered. Every petal tightened, then spread again, drinking with slow, obscene eagerness. The dew upon them thickened, darkened and ran along the thin lines of the chest like diluted wine. For a moment, just a moment the chamber felt still. Satisfied.

Then the last drop fell. Something inside the chest exhaled. A long, low sound that dragged across the wood like a breath through broken teeth. The roses did not brighten. They sagged. Alard felt it in his bones, a hollow uncertainty that sank deeper than fear. Not enough.

The other fled above, their prayers rising into the chapel in trembling waves. Alard remained, someone had to. Because someone had to see what happened when the roses finally failed.

The chamber grew heavy with a sweet, rotting scent. The petals continued to curl. To loosen. Then came the scratching. It was soft at first. A single point along the inner lid. Then another. And another. Then many.

Not frantic. Not wild. Careful. Testing.

The scratching moved with growing certainty and a low, buried growl thickened beneath it, vibrating through the stone and into Alard’s bones.

Above, the monks’ hymns faltered as more petals fell. The scratching stopped. A slow, wet breath slid from the cracks in the chest, lingering in the air as if tasting it. Tasting him, before sinking back into silence.

The last petal fell.

The chest split open with a sharp, internal crack, the iron bands bending as the lid jerked upward enough to break the seal. In that instant, the singing upstairs stopped abruptly, cut off with an unnatural finality.

Something shifted in the darkness within, turning with deliberate slowness until it faced him. The blackness deepened, then focused. Two red eyes opened, wide and unblinking. They fixed on Alard with a suffocating, ancient awareness that stripped him where he stood.

He felt the moment it found him.

His skin tightened and split. Fire belched and fractures spread as his body collapsed inward without sound, breaking apart into a fine, gray dust that spilled across the stone.

The eyes watched the dust settle.

A long, pale clawed hand slowly emerged over the top of the box. Its fingers flexed as though remembering how to touch the world again.

Fiction © Copyright Kathleen McCluskey
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 
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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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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Naching T. Kassa @NachingKassa @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on April 26, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Soundtrack to My Agony
by Naching T. Kassa

Luke Smith glanced at the homeless woman as he passed. He noticed her world-weary expression, and the dirt which covered her dress. She seemed so forlorn. So alone. Unfortunately, he couldn’t stop and speak with her. He hurried home. The Angel was waiting.

He felt the presence of the divine being the moment he stepped through the door. The air thrummed with energy and a soft light illuminated the living room.

“I’m sorry, I’m late,” Luke said. “I hurried as fast as I could.”

Spheres of light coalesced before him. The Angel’s beautiful face appeared.

“Never fear, my child,” The Angel replied.

Luke smiled. He didn’t know what he had done to deserve The Angel. One day, it had simply manifested before him. He had bowed down before it, sore afraid, but the creature had bid him rise, telling him just how special he was. Luke had been chosen by The Lord.

“There was a woman in the street,” Luke began. “I think we should help her.”

The Angel nodded, arching a golden-blonde brow. “A woman in the street? And you passed her by?”

“Forgive me, divine one. I should have stopped. I shouldn’t have allowed her to wallow in poverty.”

Wings, blinding white, rose behind The Angel. The being was beautiful, the most beautiful thing Luke had ever seen.

“There will be poor always, Luke. And most are unworthy of your time. They are liars, cheats. They pretend they are poor so they can live off those who have more.”

Luke nodded. The Angel was wise.

“They are the root of all that is evil in the world,” The Angel continued. “You must save this woman from herself.” A strange grin twisted The Angel’s beautiful face. There were many teeth in that smile.

“What must I do?” Luke asked.

The Angelic eyes grew crimson and blood leaked from the corners. “Take me to her. Mark her with a kiss, and I shall reward you with silver. After that, you can leave her to me.”
“What will you do to her?”

The creature grinned fiendishly. “I shall squeeze the life out of her, of course. For is it not written, ‘Thou shalt not allow the poor to live’?”

Luke watched as pustules, angry and red, covered the once alabaster skin. The golden hair sloughed away. Luke’s eyes widened as he marked the change, but he said nothing.

“You have doubts?” The Angel asked.

“No, divine one. It’s just…well, I’ve never heard that before.”

“But you believe it, don’t you?” The Angel’s dulcet tones had become deep and guttural. “You believe in me, do you not?”

Luke paused. He stared at the once beautiful face. A face which had become a wounded and bestial travesty.

“I have offered you the thing you treasure most,” the creature said. “Surely, you can overlook the rest.”

In Luke’s mind, something screamed at him, the same word over and over. Wrong. But he found himself nodding. The Angel, no matter what horrific or perverse form it took, was still a divine being, a servant of the Lord.

He led it to the door and through it.

***

A war continued in Luke’s mind as he hurried toward the alley where he’d seen the woman. Part of him knew he shouldn’t lead the creature there. It nagged him, trying to dissuade him from the path he had chosen. At last, he silenced it. The Angel was right. He should not suffer one such as she to live.

He rounded the corner and found the alley empty.

“Where is she?” the creature asked.

“I don’t know, divine one. She must’ve gone.”

The sound of a horn filled the air, a great and heavenly trumpet. Luke turned. Too late he saw the SUV bearing down on him. The impact sent him flying and when he landed, he knew he was broken inside. He lay gasping on the pavement.

A strange almost maniacal laughter drifted toward him. For the first time, Luke saw the demon standing in The Angel’s place.

“Now, that’s what I call Divine Intervention,” the creature cackled.

The laughter continued to assault Luke’s ears, just as it would for the next millennia, within the depths of Hell.

Fiction © Copyright Naching T. Kassa
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
 
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More from Naching T. Kassa:

NachingTKassa_SherlockHolmesAndTheArcanaOfMadness

Sherlock Holmes and The Arcana of Madness: A Horror Mystery

Discover the untold mysteries of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson in Sherlock Holmes and the Arcana of Madness, a trilogy that unveils three captivating cases intertwined with the mystical allure of tarot cards, designed by the renowned, yet infamous artist, Richard Dadd.

A collection of manuscripts, meticulously penned by John H. Watson M.D., is unearthed in 2019 amidst the restoration of Broadmoor Hospital, found inexplicably in the grave of Richard Dadd. The manuscripts’ concealed journey and their remaining unpublished raise a myriad of questions, enveloping them in a veil of mystery.

Available on Amazon!

 

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

Posted on April 25, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Lost Girls 
by Rie Sheridan Rose

We sit here, discarded, broken…but once we were the life of the party. Billionaires and celebrities fought for the right to take us to parties as arm candy. Sometimes literally coming to blows over the honor. No one had ever seen our like. Mechanical beings who could carry on conversations with the most erudite of party guests—holding our own with politicians and professors alike. We were our culture’s “It” girls, envied by the world.

But I think my sisters here in pieces knew the same thing I did. We were new; we were different; but we wouldn’t be that way forever. Sooner or later, there would be new models. They would have faster processors, or more realistic skin. They would think faster. They would have voices you could program to mimic that girl you loved in the third grade.

We would be obsolete.

And so it came to be. One night, men in black jumpsuits loaded us into the back of a van and brought us to this hilltop. They removed our legs so we couldn’t inconveniently show up somewhere and cause a scene.

I wish they had removed our processors. This would be easier if we couldn’t think, and remember, and whisper to each other about the glory days. But we can. And we do. And we will. Probably for a long time to come.

I can only pray my battery gives out.

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from Author Rie Sheridan Rose:

519RiHK+1wL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_

Overheard in Hell:
Dark Poetry

Poems exploring hell and damnation. Tales of sorrow, vengeance, betrayal, and redemption. Ghosts, ghouls, and demons stalk these pages. Don’t read in a lonely house…in a darkened room by a single candle…

…unless you like the touch of an icy finger up your spine.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Alex Grehy @indigodreamers @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on April 25, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

What we make, only we can break  
by Alex Grehy

Trust, that is what our society thrives on,

trust, and secrets never disclosed.

.

I am of the Makers, of generations wedded to the 

deep earth, mother to daughter, whispering our 

sacred craft, the bonding of souls to vessels

shaped on the potter’s wheel, a wheel of life.

.

We are well rewarded for our labour, sealing,

as we do, our population’s spark of immortality 

within these plaques, displayed proud but safe

in our vaults, for none can break these nameplates.

.

So they believe, so they trust, so they forget.

Forget to be grateful, forget to sustain us with

tributes, forget that each plate has two sides, 

that makers too are breakers, that hands

which moulded may also destroy.

.

I stand in apparent humility, gathering my strength

for the ritual of breaking; the maker’s secret, never

revealed, then or now. As the plates smash and spit

across the stone floor, they will drop dead, unknowing.

We trusted them to provide for us, who dedicated our

lives to them, but their faithless betrayal spelled their end. 

.

I will sweep the broken shards and grind them to dust.

At the potters wheel I will mix the grog with fresh clay, 

finer than the homely terracotta we gifted them before.

I will spin life into new peoples. Maybe the fragile

porcelain of their making will remind them to be grateful.

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Alex Grehy:

Last Species Standing

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.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Donna J. W. Munro @DonnaJWMunro @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on April 24, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


The Mirror of Men 
by Donna J. W. Munro 

“Come on, Laurel,” He said, cheeks red and his eyes swimming but full of interest.

I’d worn the red dress to catch his eye, sure. I tipped my head shyly but smiled into my compact mirror knowing exactly how this was going to go.

“I don’t know.” I edged closer so his arms might entwine me. What I imagined, what I hoped for seemed so close. “Do we really have to go to another bar? There’s always your place.”

He smirked the universal signal to his primate friends that he’d won. I leaned into the drape of his arm as he said his good-byes and good lucks to his friends. We wove through the Friday night crowd of co-eds and young professionals trying to remind themselves of life before the 9-to-5.

“I’ll call an Uber,” I said, texting Julia, my bestie who’d have her own turn next Friday.

While we waited, I let him give me sloppy kisses while My hands ran across his hot, sweaty skin.

“Hey, get a room!”

He roared something back at the less wasted, less ensnared young man with his own lady attached to his arm.

I nodded to her. Professional courtesy after all.

“Ignore them,” I said as Julia pulled up in her latest chariot, a four-door Toyota just big enough for a little heavy petting in the small backseat. “What’s your address?”

“20 Washington Ave.” His hand was on my thigh and his breathy words muffled against my neck.

Julia heard and turned into the directions, her eyes catching mine through the rearview. My bestie couldn’t really be hungry. Not yet. She’d had her turn last Saturday, but that didn’t mean she didn’t appreciate the looks of a snack like he was.

When they pulled up to his apartment building, he fumbled with his wallet but I smiled and pushed his hand away.

“I’ve got this, hon.”

Julia smiled as I pulled him to his feet, all 6 ft four, 220 pounds of him. Getting him upstairs without waking the whole building took much of my muscle. As strong as I was, he was loud and stumbly. I hoped his neighbors were used to him moaning and groaning.

“This one’s me.” He fumbled with his pocket for keys.

Inside was a matchstick existence: expensive gaming chair and crappy dining table, fridge full of beer and old lunchmeat, bathroom so splattered with urine it was more a litter box, and bed with thin sheets, unwashed as long as he’d been living on his own. The thought of all the women who’d come before me staining the cotton threads with their essence thrilled me, even as he fell across the bed.

“Dance for me, baby,” he mumbles, fingers tangling in his belt and buckle.

“Soon, babe,” I said, pulling ropes from my Hermes bag. It doesn’t take long truss up a drunk pig when they think that it’s part of foreplay. He giggled with the tying of each knot until he was spread eagled on the bed, only his boxers between him and the world.

He grinned though I knew it wouldn’t last. Guys like him have never been out of control. They expect their muscles, their beauty, their maleness to keep them out of trouble and usually, it works.

“Don’t leave me hanging.” His voice was less bleary, more lusty. Good. I preferred my men aware even if it meant they were louder.

How did these beings come to dominate the world? I snickered as I thought about all they’d done and not done. I didn’t feel like I owed him my “men are really from Mars and women are an entirely different species” speech. He wouldn’t believe it anyway. Not with so much history to reinforce his belief that we, women that is, were made for his consumption and not vice versa.

I did owe him something though, didn’t I?

“There’s a spark in us,” I told him as I unbuttoned my top. “Most women are told that something shameful burns in us.”

Once my buttons were loosed, I let the shirt fall away and started in on the bra underneath.

“Yeah baby. Shameful,” he growled, eyes full of my skin.

When the bra dropped away, I began to tug at my seams. The seal was tricky, but it began to soften as I circled him.

“We aren’t of you. We are your natural mirror, even if you’ve forgotten.”

Clearly, it didn’t matter what I was saying because he liked the look of my bare breasts more than the meaning of my explanation. Too bad. There was something so satisfying about the apex predator realizing that he’s the prey. He was swimming in his own lust, frustrated by the wait to take the prize he’d wanted so desperately. When my false breast vest fell open at the seam revealing the surgical weaponry I’d stowed within, something in him cracked. He laughed.

“What the hell?”

Poor dumb animal. How could they know? Every time we stared in a mirror we shared information with our entire sex. Every single time one of us achieved the true burn, releasing from the shackles of Eve, we were there to arm, train, and celebrate our sister in her liberation. Our advanced empathetic weaponry paired with our innate ability to camouflage our dominance serve us well.

Why wouldn’t we eat the lesser predator?

The knifes glinted in my vest brightly, winking at him as he finally understood. He screamed as I pulled out the bone saw.

###

The red dress hid the stains of my work when Julia came to get me and my bags of groceries.

“Saved you some.” I handed her a piece of his liver I’d fried to hold me over.

“Yum,” she said, popping it in her mouth and turning the car back toward home. She smiled at me through a glance in the mirror. I smiled back. We all smiled.

.

Fiction © Copyright Donna J. W. Munro
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com
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More from author Donna J. W. Munro:

Revelation: Poppet Cycle Book One

In a dark future, people with money live in doomed cities and use the recently deceased as
repurposed servants and workers called poppets. Ellie DesLoge is the teen heiress of the
company that makes and distributes poppets–your basic reprogrammed flesh robot complete
with training chips and kill switches. If Ellie does everything her Aunt Cordelia says, she’ll have a
life of wealth and power. If she chooses to be what is planned for her, life will be perfect.
Everything she ever dreamed. But something about her sweet poppet Thom goes against what
Aunt Cordelia and tradition have taught her. Will she choose to believe what everyone knows is
true or will she follow what her heart tells her about Thom? Her choice will change the world.

Available on Amazon!

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Elizabeth H. Smith @bethsmithwrites @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on April 24, 2026 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Sleeping Gods
by Elizabeth H. Smith

Legends said the Gods once stood proud over the world, forcing their will upon humanity with uncanny power. Their immortal bodies were strong, their skin harder than stone. They ruled their domain with absolute authority. No one had a choice but to obey; it was either that or be sent to the beyond. They could dispatch dissenters with one quick motion. No one could have gone against them, despite how cruel and unloving they may have been.

Those tales told us we lived in servitude to Gods we didn’t belong to. That they were false, wearing our faces to deceive us. Some believed they did not create the world, nor were they always here. No one could guess where they originated, only that they were not the ones who made us.

Then the great slumber began; all the Gods across the world went dormant. No one knew why, but a theory suggested unknown magic had been used to put them to sleep. No one knew who it was, or if they were even real.

Most wonder if someday the spell will wear off, if they’ll rise and take vengeance upon us, revoke our freedom, make us suffer. But it’s been centuries and they still haven’t woken from their rest. We pray they never do.

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Fiction © Copyright Elizabeth H. Smith
Image courtesy of Pixabay
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More About Elizabeth H. Smith:
Elizabeth H. Smith is a storyteller who writes while trying to keep her cat, Luna off the keyboard. The musical group, Rasputina is her muse. She was born in the state of New York and would never feel at home anywhere else.

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment