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

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:

“Babes, it’s Giving: #truecrime.”