The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Marge Simon @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Courtesan: 1804 
by Marge Simon

For you, I dance the Odissi,

gold bangles on my wrists,

fingers stained with bright magic,

a gem on every toe to enhance

your leisure or goad your lust.

 

You find me in every court,

behind the Jacquard velvet curtains,

between the crevasses of time,

commanding your eyes with my grace,

your ears with my poetry.

 

You know my ways–

my breath on your neck,

my thirst, like passion,

driven by an irrepressible need,

as with all desires of the flesh.

 

You allow me to unwind your turban,

wrap the strips around your wrists.

I weave my fingers in your hair,

rub my breasts against your own,

let my tongue play games

 

upon your flesh until you moan,

release your royal seed;

at climax, I plunge my fangs

deep into your noble vein–

a fair exchange of pleasures.

 

When the sitar dies,

I have you either way.

 

Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

Victims_MargeSimon

Victims
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

The title of this collection sets you up for the surprise of lyrical stories of victimizations with unexpected endings for the villains. Be ready to have your heart opened and cheer for perceived victims, human (made and unmade) and other life forms, victorious in the hands of these two award-winning poets. —Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.

Across histories and cultures and from Auschwitz to Babylon this book leaves you questioning who are the victims, and regardless of your conclusion you’re likely to get throat-punched. This is horror where everyone has a knife, and is ready to deliver this message: “Remember, you are always guilty. —Herb Kauderer, author of Fragments from the Book of the After-Dead.

Simon and Turzillo have only gone and startled me again. What a collection! Brutal. Beautiful. This quiver of poems strikes with the unflinching truth of persecution and oppression as seen through the lens of feminism. Prepare to come away bruised and yet strangely bolstered by Victims, a symphony of sadness orchestrated by two masters of dark poetry. —Lee Murray, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Award-winner.

This is one of the braver dark poetry collections I’ve seen in a while. Horror poets generally employ victims in their work, but the focus is generally on the Evil. Turning the camera the other way is unusual, unsettling, emotionally risky, and surprisingly effective. From their stark opening take on Pygmalion, to the ending poem about the wasted life of Stateira of Persia, this powerful collection teases apart an impressive number of the threads of victimhood. Some are the usual cases, but quite a few are surprises, or reversals, or cases with unexpected layers. There is nothing repetitive about this collection. —Timons Esaias, winner of the Asimov’s Readers’ Award and the Winter Anthology Contest

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author D.m. Slate @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_2022_Image_02

Turquoise Moon
by D.m. Slate

Stepping cautiously to the edge of the cliff, Nazia peered down at the waves crashing on the jagged rocks far below. Reflections from the night sky illuminated the water, and for an instant, it was nearly calming.

She inhaled deep, savoring the salty tinge in the air.

The priestess shifted her gaze up to the sky. Hundreds of stars dotted the abyss, but her eyes came to rest on the distant turquoise moon. Memories raced through her mind at hyper speed. Nazia’s heart yearned for a life lost long ago, and for a family that she’d never see again. For a family who’d been hunted and assassinated because of her divinity. Guilt weighed heavy on her soul.

Nostrils flared, she inhaled again, searching for that familiar musk – but the ocean breeze blew strong, hindering her attempt.

Stepping to the side, Nazia turned to face the tree line, moving with poise and grace. She stood motionless, head held high with dignity. The priestess knew it wouldn’t be long, now.

She could feel them getting closer.

Nazia closed her eyes and began her ritual, grasping the moon pendant hanging from the chain around her neck.

It was then that the beasts unleashed their hellish shrieks, bolting from the forest’s edge. She could smell their putrid breath as they panted in excitement, rushing toward her. She continued her prayer, letting them advance.

And then, with eyes still closed, Nazia edged backward. She smiled wide and leaned back, embracing the free-fall.

Time slowed as she plummeted.

The priestess took comfort in the sound of the crashing waves below her. Opening her eyes, she watched as the beasts reached the edge of the cliff, staring down at her with glowing crimson eyes.

Still clasping her pendant, Nazia’s gaze shifted to the turquoise moon. She whispered her final word.

Her body erupted into an atomic blast of light, sending shock waves in all directions.

The beasts wailed in agony as the light blinded their nocturnal eyes, many flailing over the edge of the cliff and plunging to their deaths.

And then the turquoise moon shined a shade brighter.

Fiction © Copyright D.m. Slate
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from D.M. Slate:

Roots of Deceit

Fueled by the underlying currents of her daughter’s death, Gianna vows to unravel the mystery surrounding the foreboding apparition who keeps making appearances in her new home, but she’s not prepared for the grisly trail of clues that’ll unfold before her; testing not only her sanity, but her guilty conscience as well.

Zack and Gianna call on a team of paranormal investigators to start them in the right direction, and after the initial terror of the ghost’s presence begins to dull, Gianna finds herself sucked into a web of deception, lies and murder, as the ultimate questions are posed: who is the terrifying pale-faced ghost, and what does she want? As the secrets of the past reach their gnarled fingers out beyond the grave, grasping firmly onto Gianna’s soul, she starts to suspect her only neighbor, old farmer Peterson, of committing the unthinkable crime.

But finding evidence to prove a twenty-three year old murder is more difficult than Gianna anticipated, and when the ghost gets tired of waiting, she takes matters into her own hands; at which time the distinction between the two women begins to blur…

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

March_2022_Image_01

The Choice of Yōkai  
by Elaine Pascale

She was beautiful once.

Her dress is made of cherry blossom petals. Her eyelashes are spun silk, her eyes as sharp as a sword.

Her parasol casts her face in shadows, and she holds a very large fan in front of her mouth. The fan is cumbersome and covered with dragons. You imagine her breath comes out as flames behind it, so compelling is her energy.

“Do you find me beautiful?” she asks. Her words are hard to make out, maybe because of the fan, maybe because of something else. This creature almost sounds intoxicated, and she is intoxicating. She does not smell of firewater, but her presence is pure fire.

You say nothing. You have forgotten how to speak. Her essence enters your pores and temporarily paralyzes your tongue.

She will not accept silence. “Do you find me beautiful?” she asks in her slurred speech.

If you answer no, a dragon from the fan whispers; its voice is in your head, strong and true, she will kill you.

“Yes,” you answer, honesty in your choice, “you are beautiful.”

You allow yourself to exhale; she seems flattered. You want to stay in her company awhile. She is a sensual mystery, with her fan and her scintillating eyes. You want to touch her cherry blossom dress; you wish to remove her cherry blossom dress.

Her choice of strip tease is more devious. She lowers the fan slowly and flirtatiously but what is behind it is far from seductive. Someone had slashed at her mouth, chin, and cheeks with a knife. She is not drunk; her tongue is cut in half. There are large bloody gaps in her face that ooze anew as she smiles.

“Do you find me beautiful?” she repeats. Her words smell like decay.

If you answer no, the dragon echoes, she will kill you.

 You are speechless but in a different way. You stare at her wounds. She is far from beautiful, but the dragon did not steer you wrong the last time.

Yes,” you answer, making the same choice, only this time it is based on fear and not honesty, “you are beautiful.”

Instantly, your flesh is on fire as her sheath finds your face. Her fan is a sword comprised of many blades, and the dragons each have claws that rise from the washi paper like diamond daggers. She slashes without mercy until you match her disfigurement.

She will never let you heal. She will lacerate you for eternity.

Sometimes death is the better choice.

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com

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More from Elaine Pascale:

The Blood Lights

They victimize all…

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

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

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

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Our Home  
by Asena Lourenco

The sun used to glow, at home,
The grass used to grow, at home,
The water used to dance, at home,
The fish in a trance, at home,
But life is now not, at home,
The grass begins to rot, at home,
The water has no sheen, at home,
The animals have grown mean at home,
As the ones that have come, to our home,
Steal away the sun, from our home.

 

Fiction © Copyright Asena Lourenco
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More about Asena Lourenco:

AsenaAsena Lourenco is 14 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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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Roh Morgon @RohMorgon @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Keeper 
by Roh Morgon

Impossible.

My thoughts stuttered over the word as it echoed through me, unable to accept what my eyes were seeing.

He’s alive. Or . . . not.

He appeared at the top of the sweeping staircase, backlit by a cold winter sun beaming through the central window.

A sun that did not blister his porcelain skin, nor slow the smooth glide of his steps as he sauntered down the sweeping staircase, the carvings in its burnished wings backlit against the broad expanse of floor-to-ceiling windows.

His shadow preceded him, heralding the darkness he has brought upon our world.

Such as he should not exist. This could not be.

His trim figure radiated power, his expression indecipherable. His eyes, once so warm, were hidden behind a pair of wrap-around sunglasses. He stopped, mid-stair, his gaze drifting as he surveyed the room.

“Hello, Cassie.” His voice skittered across my skin.

Then he smiled – an icy smile filled with brittle intention.

All hope drained away as he fastened that smile upon me and exposed glittering fangs that did not exist before.

* * *

I hadn’t believed the rumors.

They’d started as whispers among the lesser Unseen, fearful mutterings that a new power had arisen among us.

The demons I spoke with laughed off the stories, bragging that their underworld connections gave them dominion over all, and that nobody would be foolish enough to give them challenge.

The insufferable witches and warlocks I had the misfortune to know dismissed the talk as nothing more than idle gossip, refusing to consider that anyone would deny their authority and the magic backing it.

And the weres with whom I’m acquainted – canids, ursine, and the secretive felines – shrugged off the hearsay with growls and bristling bravado.

The vamps, though, the vamps were tight-lipped, more than usual. I suspected they knew something, but they weren’t sharing, especially with the likes of me.

They don’t much like Keepers. In fact, most of the Unseen despise us, but understand we perform a necessary job to keep things in balance.

That job? To take out – permanently – any whose actions threaten to tear down the veil between the Unseen world and the human world. And vamps, with their predilection for human blood, were the most frequent offenders.

But though the fangheads kept mum, I sensed the lies running through their veins.

So I kept digging.

I dug until I nearly put myself into the ground, courtesy of said fangheads.

For the past week, I’d been tracking one of their higher-ups each night as he visited lair after lair on some sort of undetermined mission.

I’d just settled into a dark alley, waiting for him to emerge from his latest meeting when they grabbed me.

Normally, I can handle a few vamps. I’m faster, stronger, and heal instantaneously. But there were too many this time. When several pinned me against the wall and one seized my head in both hands and threatened to tear it off, I stopped fighting.

The vamp I’d been stalking strolled up as my wrists and ankles were bound.

“It appears your curiosity has gotten the best of you, Keeper.”

“Go screw yourself. Whatever it is you’re up to, we’ll find out.”

He grinned, his fangs reflecting the moonlight beaming into the alley entrance.

“It matters not. Soon everyone will know that a new king is in play, and all their petty squabbles will cease beneath the power he wields. And you Keepers will be . . . repurposed.”

I chuckled, undaunted by his toothy smile.

“Right. And then the sun comes up and he’ll have to crawl back into a hole in the ground, just like the rest of you disgusting leeches.”

His answering laugh didn’t faze me as he signaled the others.

“Bring her.”

* * *

My confidence deserted me as I beheld their new king.

“Jared . . . ”

I stared at my fellow Keeper, appalled at the changes wrought upon his body. Upon him, his cold arrogance at odds with his usual, easy-going demeanor.

“Jared, what’s . . . what happened?”

“Destiny, Cassie. Destiny is what happened.”

“But Keepers can’t be turned. It doesn’t work. Vamp blood has no effect on us.”

“Ah, but there you are wrong. There is a way. And now, we can all become as one and embrace our new position in the world.”

“You  . . . you’re a goddamned bloodsucking vampire. Who can walk in the sun.”

“Yes. And soon, you will be one as well.”

Fiction © Copyright Roh Morgon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Roh Morgon:

RohMorgon_Watcher

Predator. Killer. Monster.

The words echo in Sunny Martin’s head each time she looks in the mirror. Since the night she was torn from her car and drained of her blood, Sunny’s fear of the hungry beast within her is rivaled only by the fear of exposure.

Her lonely struggle to survive on the edge of the human world leads Sunny to the mountain peaks of Colorado where she meets Nicolas, the enigmatic leader of a hidden society.

Their passion, tainted by betrayal, violence, and murder, reveals a shocking truth behind Sunny’s savage nature and drives her toward an agonizing Choice between her heart and the last remnant of her human soul.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sue Renol @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Hopes and Dreams
by Sue Renol

Time passes quickly with an infant in the house. Before they knew it, it was the end of January. Six months had flown by without notice and little Dolly was standing upright and already beginning to take her first steps. Benji took the baby upstairs to put her down for the night. He glanced at the painting hanging above the crib and still couldn’t see what his wife loved about it. He thought the entire scene was a little creepy.

After the baby was settled, he came back down for a little snuggle time with his other favorite girl. She was sitting on the couch with her legs curled under her watching the baby monitor.

“Spying on me to make sure I do everything right?” he joked as he leaned in to give her a kiss, then wrapped himself around her on the settee to stare into the fireplace. They both leaned their heads inward at the same time, whacking their noggins together. “Ouch,” he laughed. She shushed him and pointed to the monitor. Dolly was an extremely light sleeper. He nodded and continued to rub his forehead. They spoke softly of future plans, his job, her daily routine. When she would go back to work, how her parents were, even discussed moving to a warmer climate so Dolly would be able to play outside year round. The sort of things happy young couples tend to ruminate about. As the fire burned down to smoldering embers, they became drowsy. Not wanting to drift off and leave the baby alone upstairs, they decided to call it a night.

“I’ll check on Dolls while you take care of the fire. What do you say?” she tilted her head back and he kissed her nose.

“You’re wish is my command, oh exalted one.” They both laughed quietly. She headed up the stairs while Benji used a poker to crumble the remaining bits of burnt wood.

“Ben! Ben, I need you. NOW!” He could hear the frantic tone of her voice. Rushing up the stairs, he went straight to the baby’s room knowing he’d find her there.

“What is it?” he blurted as he rushed in. “Jess, what the…”

His wife stood staring straight ahead. Dolly wasn’t in her crib.

“Jess, where’s the baby?” panic began to creep into his voice.

She lifted her arm and pointed. Dolly was there, she just wasn’t in her crib, she was in the painting. The young girl that once sat on the rock was gone and their precious Dolly was in her place, precariously close to the edge.

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Wicked Deeds: Witches, Warlocks, Demons and Other Evil Doer’s

Sometimes wicked people do wicked things simply because they can… The twelve stories in Wicked Deeds tell tales of witches and warlocks with ill intent, devilish demons bent on destruction, and other doers of evil who make the world a terrifying place. What is a mother to do when her daughter is gifted but lives under the thumb of her fanatical preacher husband who will brook no talk of the supernatural? What of a demon so desperate to free himself of a trap that he will force another to repeat his atrocities and condemn a young boy to his demonic fate? Or maybe the story of a crotchety old witch with a score to settle against the town she lives in is more to your liking – what evil will the seemingly harmless town-crazy call upon when faced with an ultimatum? If you’re looking for wicked people with supernatural abilities doing wicked things, this is the collection for you!

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Michelle Joy Gallagher @Aphelia @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Gate  
by Michelle Joy Gallagher

Tam prodded the arid dirt with the toe of her boot. A faint hum could be heard from deep underground. It could be felt too, when you were still. The hum had been there since before her village was founded almost 200 years ago.

The first Premier, a man banished for heresy from his birth village, found the place while wandering. He was drawn to it because of the low and mesmerizing sound. He tried digging to find the source, but after many days and nights of work and scoring the earth deep in many places, the only thing to ever surface was a flat black rectangle with a glassy surface that reminded him of obsidian. He began to erect a crude stone structure around it and from that moment on, it became a sacred place.

Other banished seemed to gravitate there as well, and they’d come in waves, bewildered at first and then awed. The man had made a place for them, they all said. It was a prayer answered. As their number grew, a village took shape.

The hum became the basis of a myths and songs. Mothers soothed their babies by mimicking the tone.

The black rectangle that the first Premiere found had come to be called “The Gate” due to how it reflected the sky. At the end of every harsh winter and summer, there would be an animal sacrifice atop the gate to usher in the crops.  The humble structure built around it had been replaced with a skillfully built stone edifice. The first inhabitants of the village  to guard the site, on reputation of strength and honor, and the role was passed down through the proceeding centuries.

Tam was one of the chosen, born to guard The Gate. Tonights vigil was like any other, staring out at a vast expanse of nothing but swirling dust. The familiar landscape, sun seared and jagged, cut a swath across her vision for what felt like the millionth time. And then the humming stopped.

Tam doubled over, her body immediately stricken with vertigo trying to adjust to a silence that she’d never known. She vomited onto the hard pan, and winced.

People poured themselves out of their lean-tos and flooded The Gate Temple. They looked around at each other in fear, and at Tam for an explanation. She was just as lost as the rest of them. The last of the vertigo finally subsided and she held her hands up in supplication toward the clamoring crowd.

“Please. Remain calm.”

The current Premier came forward, shielding Tam from the onslaught of questions that had started to turn j to accusations and abuse.

“HERETIC!” One man yelled “SHES MADE THE GATE SILENT WITH HER HERESY!”

The premiere called for silence. “Surely there is some explanation. Maybe we are on the cusp of a great blessing!” He offered, but the crowd only became more angry and insistent and soon a chant grew up from their ranks like a cresting wave “OFFERING!! OFFERING!!”

A group of men rushed the Premiere and Tam, surrounding them, holding blades to their throats. They gave the Premiere the option of walking away or being one of the ones offered to The Gate.

He looked back at Tam, his eyes sorrowful, then he put his head down and walked through the group of men and into the crowd. Tam screamed and kicked and lashed out at the men but was soon overpowered.

The pulled her to The Gate by her hair and laid her upon it. She was done screaming and fighting now, instead quietly sobbing and whispering please. Two men that urned her face down, while two more sharpened a blade. She opened her eyes, still in awe of being this close to the Gate. Feeling the warmth it had collected from the sun. As her eyes adjusted she could see something inside the stone. A depth to it, as if she was looking through the window at unidentifiable shape and shadow.

“WAIT!!” She screamed. “THERE IS SOMETHING INSIDE THE GATE!!” But the blade came down onto the back of her neck and severed her head from her body. Her blood pooled around the sides of The Gate, collecting at the edges. Her executors piled on to her body, kicking and stomping her corpse in abject disdain. She’d caused The Gate to silence. She deserved no honor or mercy.

Cracks began to form on the surface, in their fervor they took no notice until The Gate gave way. Tam’s body and her killers tumbled through the opening into a cement shaft 12 feet below. Dust flew up in clouds at their arrival at the bottom, choking the men who’d suffered broken limbs and twisted spines. They looked around in astonishment at what surrounded them. Bodies stacked to one side, mummified. They wore green camouflage uniforms and gas masks, but the men with no frame of reference thought they looked like insect men.

One of the men dragged himself toward the mummified pile and whispered “Uhs-Ar-May” attempting to read the “U.S ARMY.” patch on the front of their uniforms. A sign on the wall informed those who occupied the bunker of protocol surrounding nuclear fall out. It was dated July of 2032.

“UHS AR MAY!”  He yelled “UHS AR MAY!!!” And the rest joined them.

Their sacrifice of Tam had revealed the old ones. The day had indeed been blessed.

Fiction © Copyright Michelle Joy Gallagher
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Michelle Joy Gallagher:
31dLq1v2KHL._SX308_BO1,204,203,200_Disremembering
Welcome to Blackhawk, Colorado. Blackhawk has always been strange. Natural disasters. Disappearances. Murders. High strangeness is a part of daily life. We can’t hope to explain it, but we can chronicle its past. Learn from it. Fear it. Blackhawk is an experimental fiction series set in a shared universe, written by a variety of talented authors. It is the brainchild of David M Brown (Plague Doctor, Modern Animals) and Carl D Smith (Moleb the Giant, Darkness Out of Carthage). Each story will contribute to an organic, evolving mythology as diverse as the voices behind its tales. For fans of True Detective, Lost Highway, Twilight Zone, and The Terror. This is Volume Two of the series and contains five stories by five different authors, each in tune with the specific strangeness Blackhawk has to offer. NOTE: For fans of Lake Lord Publishing’s prior horror titles, be warned that Blackhawk will contain content that is perhaps more disturbing and mature.

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Arch Enemy  
by Alex Grehy

Noble poets with soaring words,

venerated artists with brush and paint,

respected scientists with theorems,

failed to capture its purpose. 

.

The Arch denied them all.

.

But callow teenagers understood, 

were awoken by its silent call,

heard its wild promises of joy,

were drawn by its beguiling charm.

.

A dozen drowned before authorities

applied to put up warning signs; opposed

of course, by aesthetes who deplored

defacement of its loveliness.

.

A dozen more drowned while

committees made their decisions.

.

The signs went up, barriers erected,

but still the teens came to swim

up the estuary and under The Arch.

A rite of passage for the brave.

.

Another dozen drowned.

.

The authorities launched

public information campaigns.

Parents tutted, held their

little ones close; but still the

teenagers came.

.

So many dozens drowned, too many to count.

.

Geeky geologists with measurements,

intellectual engineers with calculations,

skilled demolition experts with explosives,

failed to destroy its span.

.

The Arch defied them all.

.

Meanwhile, across the internet,

teens transmitted its wordless voice,

around the world; those who

could not travel, envious of the

ones who flocked to swim

upstream, fighting the current

to vanish beneath The Arch.

.

The river sent them back, quickly,

before fish and decay had

despoiled their corpses.

.

On Tik-Tok and Insta the photos appeared,

beautiful youths floating downstream,

face up, beneath The Arch,

eyes open in wonder,

euphoric smiles forever frozen,

as if this death were the best thing

that had ever happened

in their brief lives.

.

Filters on the social sites,

warning posts on blogs and vlogs,

parents’ pleas to ISPs,

failed to block its dark allure.

.

The Arch broadcast its dark desires

and took each soul it called

.

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More from author Alex Grehy:

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After a lifetime of writing technical non-fiction, Alex Grey is fulfilling her dream of writing poems and stories that engage the reader’s emotions. Her work has been featured by a wide range of publications including Siren’s Call, Raconteur, Bookends Review, and Toasted Cheese. One of her comic poems is also available via a worldwide network of public fiction dispensers managed by French publisher, Short Edition. Her ingredients for contentment are narrow boating, greyhounds, singing and chocolate. It is a sweet life, yet Alex’ original view of the world has led to her best friend to say ‘For someone so lovely, you’re very twisted!

Please click here to discover more!   

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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Naching T. Kassa @NachingKassa @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Bride of Whitmore Hall
by Naching T. Kassa

Sundown erupted beneath a tortured sky of crimson and gold. I knew it was a portent of evil to come, but I went along with them anyway.

They were the bridesmaids—Candy, Jessie, Sherry, and Linda. I’m one too, except I don’t hate Rachel like they do. Believe it or not, Rachel is our best friend. She’s supposed to marry Bobby Kleinstead tomorrow. The Bobby Kleinstead, the cutest guy in Spearsville.

Candy was furious when she found out Bobby proposed to Rachel. Seems they had been an item for a few months before he found out what a gold digger she was. He’d started dating Rachel after that, and you know, the rest is history.

Except it wasn’t history for Candy. She hated Rachel for it. Oh, she was nice to her face—Candy’s the type who keeps her friends close and her enemies closer—but she was definitely sharpening the knives behind her back. And we were the knives.

She told us all a bunch of stories about Rachel, about how she was the only one who could break the curse at Whitmore Hall.

Oh, wait, I didn’t mention the curse yet, did I? I know this is a lot of exposition, but bear with me. I’ll get to the good stuff soon enough.

Whitmore Hall is the scariest house in town. A guy in the 1800s owned it, built it for his bride. Unfortunately, the bride’s father decided she should marry some stooge from another town, and she wasn’t the kind who stood up for herself. When the groom tried to convince her, the father had him shot. He died on the grand staircase of his mansion, but not before he cursed every wedding in Spearsville. Anyone who weds here is doomed to die.

Nobody believed the curse at first. Twelve people had to die, all brides and grooms, before they took it seriously. Most of them died horrible deaths, reduced to a pile of broken bones and limbs, more like a pile of dead meat than anything else. That’s when weddings were outlawed here.

The only way to end the curse was to give the ghost a new bride. Candy wanted us to give him Rachel. She came up with a plan.

First, we would blindfold Rachel. Then, we would bring her to the mansion under the guise of a surprise bachelorette party. Once there, when the ghost arrived, we would offer her as a sacrifice. It seemed to be a foolproof plan. Except…it really didn’t go that way.

You see, neither Candy, nor Jessie, nor Sherry and Linda know Rachel like I do. I’ve been friends with her way longer than any of them. I know her secrets and she knows mine. They thought she’d freak when they removed the blindfold. That she might scream when she realized where she was. They didn’t expect the smile.

“Thank you, girls,” Rachel said. And there were tears in her eyes. “I have always loved this place. Ever since I was little, I’ve wanted to get married here. I guess this is the next best thing.”

The silence grew awkward. They hadn’t expected her to like it.

But I had.

Footsteps filled the vacuum their voices had left. They tapped on the staircase as someone descended.

The ghost appeared then. He stepped into the moonlight provided by the largest of three windows and stared down. Clad in his Victorian suit, complete with top-hat and cane, he reminded me of Gary Oldman’s Dracula. He even had the dark glasses, though he didn’t have the long hair. One word described him. Sexy.

Everyone froze, even Rachel. I began to tremble, and I couldn’t meet his eye.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“We are women of Spearsville,” Candy said. “We’ve come with a gift in hopes that you will end the curse.”

She grabbed Rachel by her arms and pushed her to her knees. Rachel’s eyes grew wide. Ever the drama queen, Candy shouted, “Here is your bride!”

I stepped forward then, my knees like Jello. “Um…no, actually. It’s not her. It’s me.”

Candy, Jessie, Sherry, and Linda gaped.

The ghost peered at me. “Myrna?”

“Hello, James,” I said. I gave him a little wave. “It took me 124 years, but I finally stood up to my dad.”

“Is this so?”

“Yes. I—I hope you don’t hate me.”

“My darling, I could never hate you.”

I took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. James, my James, smiled and held his hand out. I hurried up the steps and into his arms.

“Who are these ladies, my love,” he asked.

“The pretty brunette down there is Rachel. She’s my best friend. She’s taught me a lot.”

“What of the others?”

I turned and frowned down at the other four. “Dead meat.”

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

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More from Naching T. Kassa:

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Arterial Bloom

Lush. Brutal.

Beautiful. Visceral.

Crystal Lake Publishing proudly presents Arterial Bloom, an artful juxtaposition of the magnificence and macabre that exist within mankind. Each tale in this collection is resplendent with beauty, teeth, and heart.

Edited by the Bram Stoker Award-winning writer Mercedes M. Yardley, Arterial Bloom is a literary experience featuring sixteen stories from some of the most compelling dark authors writing today.

With a foreword by HWA Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient Linda D. Addison, you are invited to step inside and let the grim flowers wind themselves comfortably around your bones.

Available on Amazon!

 

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kim Richards @Kim_Richards @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Epiphany and the Stupid Man
by Kim Richards

Epiphany sat on the top surface of her personal space. The wispy green grass covering the ground across her rock tickled the soft skin on her legs. She absently rubbed her leg. Shaped like a bottle stopper, the rock bobbed in the air among the clouds. Above her, the sky wore robes of azure.

Over her shoulder, the moon whistled a quick, bright folk song.

A murder of crows flew by. They cawed in sharp, angry sounding voices. Epiphany ignored them. A light breeze toyed with her blonde curls and the dove feathers woven into the white circlet she wore upon her head. It fingered the hem of her diaphanous tunic, making it flutter.

She clasped her hands and leaned forward to better peer over the ledge. An hour passed since she pushed the brash man off the side. He vanished into the clouds below and faced from her view, taking his screams with him. Still she stared.

She did not expect him to return but was curious about how he suddenly appeared in her personal space, making ridiculous demands. There were no doors here or stairs reaching up from the earth. He did not look to her like someone intelligent enough to evoke a spell.

She laughed when his face turned red after she refused him all that he wanted. Her body and her magic were not his to share.

Then he reached out with his rough hands to grab her by the shoulders. She ducked and danced out of reach. The man lunged forward.

The moon shouted, “Look out!”

Epiphany spun around and stepped aside to allow him to stumble past her. Then she dug her heels in the soil and shoved him hard with both her hands.

Off balance, he tumbled over; his arms flailing.

“Stupid, stupid man,” she called after him as he tumbled downward.

She stood and brushed the grass off of her tunic. She turned to the moon and said, “Now, where were we?”

“Nevermind that,” he said. “It might be time to cast a protection spell on your personal space.”

Epiphany nodded. She gathered the elements she needed:  wind, sunshine, and clouds. Then she set to work.

Fiction © Copyright Kim Richards
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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