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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Boss 
by Alex Grehy

Thank you for choosing me to be your next CEO,

I promise to uphold the values of Femme Unlimited.

Fair pay 

Fair play

Fair life

Our company is integral to the society in which 

we operate, how we work is how we live, 

Compassion

Balance

Trust

Equality is our corporate DNA, every woman may 

have a role here if they wish it, regardless of

Age

Style

Size

I acknowledge the many currencies that we trade,

cash, of course, but our true riches are

Intelligence, 

Diligence

Resilience 

Together we are gently powerful, moving the world

like a pod of orcas, at peace with our women’s weapons

Co-operation

Communication

Laughter

We do not, and never will, employ the sperm, but they’re

happy enough in copulation farms, it’s all they ever wanted.

We are powerful

We are joyful

We are free

.

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 A.F. Stewart @scribe77 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

She Lit Up A Room
by A.F. Stewart

Against the Southern Bayou, she smiled;
a tempestuous child of unconditional joy
She owned dreams of being someone,
of education, of that white wedding with roses

Now the only roses are on her grave

One of a thousand mournful, mirrored stories
Against the Southern Bayou, she smiled,
the darling daughter, that beloved girl;
their brilliant angel who was going places

Whose road ended at an early grave

Her ghost, the echo of her missing laughter
that absent place, grieved at the dinner table
Against the Southern Bayou, she smiled,
at the wrong person, the right sociopath

And at sixteen, he put her in her grave

.

 
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More from A.F. Stewart:

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Visions and Nightmares

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.

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Climbing Curse   
by Kathleen McCluskey 

The stairs stretched before her, a twisting path of cold marble disappearing in the darkness. She places one foot on the first step, her breath coming in slow, measured exhales. The air here is thick, stifling, pressing down on her like an unseen force. It whispers as it moves around her, slipping through the stone banister.

Turn Back.

Her fingers trail along the smooth railing, slick with an oily residue that smells faintly of rust and something sickly sweet, like dying flowers. She feels distant, almost dreamlike. Her steps feel heavy, sluggish, as if she’s moving through water. Each step is more lethargic than the last. Her legs trembled with the weight of something other than exhaustion. She looks down through the banister, the endless circle of staircases make her head swim.

She isn’t sure why she is climbing.

The house is silent, but the silence feels unnatural, like it was stretched too thin. Her footsteps offer no echo, barely an audible sound. They feel muffled. She tries to remember what had brought her here, her mind is hazy. Her thoughts keep slipping through her fingers like sand.

Still, she climbs.

The shadows around her seem to pulse, shifting just out of her vision. The higher she goes, the more the house feels wrong. The banisters curve unnaturally, the angles of the hallway stretch in ways that shouldn’t be possible. The skin on the back of her neck prickles. She feels eyes on her, though she somehow knows she is alone.

Or she should be.

She swallows hard, her throat dry. A part of her internally screams to stop, to go back, but her feet move forward. She feels compelled by something that she cannot control. The air grows colder. Her breath curls in the dim light, wisps of fog that disappear just as quickly as they form. Yet the feeling of cold eludes her, even the marble doesn’t feel chilled.

Her pulse hammers in her ears.

She reaches the landing, her body tense. Her mind is clouded with dread. Then she sees it. A body crumpled at the foot of the stairs below, limbs twisted at odd angles, dark hair spilling across the floor. Blood pools beneath the head, thick and dark. The chest doesn’t rise. The fingers don’t twitch. The lips are parted in a silent scream and the eyes stare blankly into the darkness below.

The body is hers.

A choked sound escapes her throat, gruff and harsh. Her vision began tilting, the room spinning. It doesn’t make sense. She’s here, standing at the top of the stairs. But yet, she is there, broken and lifeless at the bottom of the stairs. She shook her head.

The memory comes rushing back, screaming into her mind.

The suicide. The broken marriage, the financial ruin and her beloved in the arms of another. The tears and the leap. The weightlessness. The way the world spun violently as she tumbled. The crack of bone against the marble, and the sickening silence that followed. She remembers hitting the marble floor. She remembers the stillness. The peace.

She remembers dying.

A whisper curls around her ear, soft, coaxing.

Again.

She gasps, jerking backward, her body trembling. But she isn’t in control. Her foot lifts against her will, stepping forward. A force guides her, silently leading her to the edge.

Penance.

She wants to scream, to fight it, but she can’t.

The world blurs and the fall begins. Her body twists, weightless for a fleeting moment before the impact comes. It was sharp and deafening. Blinding pain as bones snap, nerves ignite then the darkness swallows her whole.

Silence, and then a breath.

She places one foot on the first step, her breath coming in slow, measured exhales. The air is thick, pressing against her like an unseen force. It whispers as it moves around her, slipping through the marble banister.

Turn back.

She climbs.

.

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Only Way 
by Elaine Pascale 

She stood on the cold sand and spoke to her sea sisters. “I made a deal with the sea witch. I told her I would do anything to be with him, to be on land.” She stifled a sob and continued, “She gave me legs and took my tail. Now, it feels like I’m walking on knives with every step I take.”

“You were duped,” her sisters sneered synchronously.

“It was the only way,” she wailed.

Her sisters took pity on her. “We’ll help you. We’ll end your pain. In the meantime, cover those abominations.”

She struggled to drape herself in the clothing and boots she had gotten from the witch by trading pearls. The pearls had been in her family for generations, harvested during their migrations. The pearls glistened and shone and were the antithesis of the bartered clothing. The dress and boots were black, the color of death and she was grieving her own death now. She hadn’t realized all that she would need to forfeit for this love. She hadn’t realized how happy she had been in the sea.

She examined her new state as she dressed. Her legs looked thin and brittle. She was surprised to see small tufts of hair breaking through the skin. Veins were visible around her ankles and her toenails were dark and sharp. She couldn’t see him like this. Worse, she couldn’t live like this.

She spent a day lying on her back on the sand; the slightest movement of her legs and feet was excruciating. That evening, her sisters appeared in the surf. They had crafted a dagger from their sharp sea hair. They told her that his death would revert her to her aquatic form and free her from her pain. “Drench those vile appendages with his blood and your tail will return.”

It took days for her to reach him, the tiniest of steps making her feel as if she were being pierced from her ankles to her pelvis.

During that time, she convinced herself that she could kill him. Her pain was so great that it surpassed any feelings she had for him. When she finally saw him, she felt her resolve dwindling.

Her sisters’ voices swam in her head, making her feel dizzy. They sang of retribution, they crooned about freedom from bodily and mental anguish, they chanted the evils of man.

She slid off her boots in the hopes of silencing her approach. Her awkwardness amplified her agonizing steps and he tossed in his sleep, kicking the sheet off.

His legs. His legs were gone. In their place was a tail, heavy with scales.

He saw her and gasped loudly. It was clear he was struggling to breathe. “I made a deal with the sea witch. I told her I would do anything to be with you, to live in the sea.” He gasped again. “She told me it was the only way.”

She couldn’t believe her ears. “Why aren’t you in the sea where you need to be to survive?”

He nodded toward his wrists which were buried under the pillow beneath his head. When she moved the pillow, she saw that his hands were tied to the bed with thick ropes.

“She left me here, for her own amusement.”

“You’re going to desiccate here.”

His eyes filled with tears. She recognized his suffering and fear. “Kill me. It’s the only way.”

She lifted the knife and he squeezed his eyes shut. She knew there was another way. She sawed at the ropes that bound him until he was free.

As much as it pained her to use her legs, she lifted him from the bed and carried him in her arms to the ocean. Each step was like a bear trap slamming closed on her shins and thighs. Each stride was like being flayed alive.

He was still gasping, still breathing when she reached the water. She rolled him into the shallows.

He was still for a moment and then she could see the life flowing back into him. He splashed and thrashed and got his bearings. He blew water happily into the air and smiled widely. He was pain-free in the ocean.

She held back her tears as she watched him swim away. Eventually, she turned her back to the sea.

It was the only way.

.

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com

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More from Elaine Pascale:

TheKitchenWitches_ElainePascaleThe 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 Rie Sheridan Rose @RieSheridanRose @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Here Would be Perfect 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

Caroline examined the beach. Silent as a tomb at this time of year.

Yes, she thought, this will do nicely.

She glanced over her shoulder at Richard, following dutifully behind her with the picnic basket and blankets, like a faithful dog.

“Here would be perfect, dear! Don’t you think? Look at that view.”

Richard struggled through the sand, the weight of his burdens obviously weighing on him. “Whatever you say, darling.” He dropped the basket to the sand with an audible sigh, his back creaking as he straightened.

Caroline studied him with cool detachment. It won’t be long now, in any case. I’m doing the poor sod a favor. She flashed him a brilliant smile. “Why don’t you spread out the blanket and rest? I’m going to walk down the beach a little way.”

He shook out the larger blanket over a patch of sand and sank down on it, groaning as his joints protested.

Caroline waved as she strode off down the beach. Thank god, this is almost over. It better be as worth it as Jeremy says. I never should have let him convince me to marry his father. Still, if the payday is even half what he expects it to be…

She shaded her eyes with one hand, looking back down the beach at Richard. He was three decades her senior, and in miserable health. He wasn’t fit to take her on the worldwide travel he’d promised when courting her. No, she’d wait for Jeremy to give her that. All they had to do was rid themselves of the old man. Enough sedative laced the champagne and crab cakes she had packed for their picnic to knock out an elephant, much less a wizened old wreck like Richard. And then it would just be a matter of slitting his wrists. The red algae would soak up most of the blood, and the tide would carry him out to sea, anyway.

They had planned this down to the last detail. Hooray for Forensic Files reruns!

Richard raised a hand in greeting when he saw her looking his way, gesturing to the picnic laid out on the blanket. Caroline nodded and started back up the beach.

Almost to the finish line. When this is done, it’s off to meet Jeremy and wait for the inevitable discovery of the body. This part of the coast has lots of shark traffic. By the time they find him, no one will be able to tell how he died. And, even if they do, Jeremy will alibi me…just like we planned. Unless I decide the whole is better than half, and find a way to get rid of him too…

Caroline chuckled to herself. One step at a time, my girl. Don’t count your diamonds before they are mined.

She sank down on the blanket before Richard and picked up the plate of crab cakes. “Care for something to eat, darling?”

.

Fiction © Copyright Rie Sheridan Rose
Image courtesy of
Pixabay.com

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Daily Nightmare 
by Marge Simon 

I have this friend. She told me how she’s having a hard time sleeping. She keeps dreaming the same dream over and over. There’s a chain link fence, a child in a stroller.  In the dream nobody is watching at the time she passes by.

Then there’s a baby crying but it isn’t hers, it can’t be hers. Shadowy whispers underneath the dark, the clicking of teeth, and the moans begin. They’re small at first, banging around her room, bouncing off the walls growing ever louder, going from whimpers into loud shrieks.

But the baby (that can’t be hers) wails on through her dreams, high above the hellish clamber in the unforgiving darkness of the heaviest hours before dawn.

.

Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

MargeSimon_CastFromDarkness

Cast from Darkness
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

Cast from Darkness is another triumphant collaboration between award-winning Speculative poets, Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo.

The poetry includes themes running the spectrum of the speculative genres and forms ranging from the haiku through many nuances of vere libre to the prose poem.

Available on Amazon!

 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheikha A. @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Dragoness
by Sheikha A. 

Over a metal bowl of milk, she burns

a piece of scripture on his name –

.

an iceberg in an ocean keels upwards,

blue-diamond underside, violet spinel

.

studs the curve of waves. She hums

his name into a candle’s melting wick,

.

her eyes glassy cyan mirroring his writhes

as the ocean throbs his ice-trapped form

.

into being. Ripe seeds of a pomegranate

cluster to shape a heart in the milk bowl,

.

embers of the burnt scripture fork

like a gush of veins through his skin.

.

His scales sprout like a grieving wail

of metallic sharpness, fangs and tail

.

molten. His eyes open to the urge of her

verses – white cataracts enveloping ice –

.

ocean in shivers as his nape pries out

of the clutch of an age-long sorcery.

.

She has pined these lands since ancient

times; his topography slave to her survival.

.

Splinters of ice stab the ocean’s surface

as her now unshackled beast emerges,

.

silver medallion like an ever watchful eye

glazing his chest. She drinks from the bowl

.

and swallows the seeds. He has died over

centuries brought to life by her relentless

.

craft – power of his eye guarding secrets

of the past – future laced on the magma

.

of his tongue; what he dies for without

revealing. It is eternal winter where she is –

.

where he encaged her in human form.

She will get him to rage fire, storm winds

.

in her direction. He expands his wings

to manoeuvre; the ocean shrivels under

.

his breath. Silver tinsel in her hair glows –

drenched in claim – this time he will not

.

escape. Her reach on the medallion is close.

Soon, she will be her true self: Dragoness.

.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from author Sheikha A.:

Screen Shot 2019-12-17 at 10.57.17 AM.pngNyctophiliac 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.

Available Here!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Kendra Smart @DevourAllWords @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Can You See Me Now? 
by Kendra Smart 

Alexandria Castile had always had the “imaginary” power of being invisible. Her Mother had instilled in her at every turn that there was never a want for her, it was all in her head. Her mistaken perception that warped the world to fit the narrative of her mind. In no short terms, her Mother made sure Alexandria never questioned the visage of the dutiful and perfect daughter her Mother had never wanted in the first place. No assumptions in that viewpoint at least. In one of the rare true conversations she had had with Claudine, from the horse’s mouth the truth had poured. An accident made in haste in the backseat, it would have been better if in truth Alexandria had been invisible. Had never existed at all. 

Hard enough to fight against that type of environment at home, but school had promised peace. A beautiful mirage of a lie, a delusion, but fallacy all the same. She tried to interact and to be their friend in the way she had always wished she had had. But the world is not as kind as fantasy permits it to be, and that could be seen in every media that portrays “lifestyle”. Relationships, bonds of any sort really, were not for her. But she still stalwartly trudged forward. Everything about her life began to become pretend. She just flowed through the days, time and date not mattering when no aspect of you is ever made important or special. 

She became numb. 

But really in the long and thick of life, what was she meant to have done? Was her course really to accept all the continued pain from the insanity of trial and error with the end result always being the same predictable ending? Pessimistic it may have been, but a truthful outlook was the least she owed herself. These peers her age had never made her feel any differently than her Mother had. In fact, they had found ways her Mother hadn’t thought of, and those seemed to cut worse in a way. 

Fate is not kind to those with insight and knowledge though, sometimes life decided that a smack on the hand was necessary. Alexandria made it to her Junior year of high school before life decided that her hand was the one meant to be rapped upon. Maybe that was how it was always intended to be.

A promise for extra credit wrapped in the thrall of adventure and memories made with friends. An easy enough venture for those not of the Physical Education fan club. 

She should have known better. 

It all started well enough, but the barbs began shooting around about why she was there. What help could she need with her grades? Five minutes. Alexandria timed them, it took all of five minutes for them to have her on their radar of conversation before they began joking and story swapping. The funny thing was, in the events of her pretending, she had BEEN there for most of their stories. Yet, none ever seemed to remember. 

Even the teacher would occasionally chime in. But never once after those five minutes was her name mentioned again. 

Alexandria just wanted to feel seen, to matter, to exist. Not as some forgotten bygone wisp of conversation, but truly feel seen by someone as necessary, as needed and wanted, just once. The more this sadness turned to anger, the warmer her body felt against the cold of the hike. The mountains weren’t too steep and the paths were clearly defined, but there were still warning signs for those outsiders seeking thrills. 

The gym teacher had probably done this hike himself several times over the years. But the path was icy, more so than anyone expected. But the ice conditions weren’t the only thing that worried her. Alexandria began to notice her skin changing as the warmth fed through her system. Her bones began to crack but it wasn’t painful, no the sound may have been cringe inducing but there wasn’t any pain. Only relief.

She was changing, becoming one with her surroundings. 

No. That wasn’t it. 

She was disappearing from view, becoming transparent. Invisible. 

She could see a small blur as her hands moved in front of her, Candy Moore, the girl directly in front of her, was clearly visible through her gleam. She dropped her hands, the cracking phase now gone. She felt a rush of energy with the warmth. She was faster, stronger, and all of her rage began to shockwave out from her body. 

She let the past go in the form of all her adornments and clothing. Embracing fully the fact that if she were truly to be invisible…she would make them all feel the pain that had created this monster. Why not? She had never been treated as human…so where was the impulse to keep acting like one going to get her? She would make them all suffer. 

The wind on the mountain howled, but as night fell the mountain was also alive with the sounds of torment and torture. A new myth would be born from the whispers and terrified musings of the townsfolk, but Alexandria had finally found her calling. The newspapers would soon enough catch wind of this “unseen terror” that had 157 deaths to their name…and counting.

.

Fiction © Copyright Kendra Smart
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Kendra Smart:

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Just Emotions:
A Gothic Bite Magazine Anthology

A collection of poetry.

Just Emotions‘ is exactly as it states, a group of writers who had feelings they wanted to express in poem form. Inside, there are a range of emotions to explore. Each writer has given a bit of themselves to you, each in their own way.

We hope that you enjoy these writings and that among the poems you may find some thing you can identify with or relate to. Thank you for giving us this chance to open the catacombs and share with you.

Available on Amazon!  

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

We Shouldn’t Know
by Nina D’Arcangela

Oma arrived with the fog. She rode the planks leading from the shore to our stilted cabin, the bell on her bicycle dinged in frantic rhythm. The water had risen, her wheels squelched through the overflow. She’d warned it would come, and we’d practiced: shutter the windows, bar the door, slide the curio over the fishing trap in the floor – all tasks we completed within moments of her arrival. When we no longer heard sounds from beyond our walls, we snuffed the candles, sat quietly together on the floor wondering what was out there. Oma said we shouldn’t wonder, we shouldn’t know. Knowing would be worse than not.

The hush from without became deafening. Oma breathed, “It’s begun.”

All was muffled, even our nervous whispers. It was as though we were hearing sound from far off, though we sat shoulder to shoulder. Oma stood; we fell silent. Arms extended with hands palm-up, Oma began to move about the room in a noiseless, disjointed dance. She kept her own measured pace to a metronome none could hear other than herself. She sighed her prayers with the motion of her body; I knew those prayers did not end with an Amen. Oma’s other people did not have such a word in their language. Backing into the corner farthest from the door, Oma stood stock still, her lips quivering. She looked to each of us one by one, tears rolling freely down her face. When her gaze settled on the last of us, her resolve strengthened. She shakily slid a piece of paper out of her pocket and carefully unfolded it, held it to her chest. Looking to us again, her eyes urgent this time, she did the last thing we’d practiced.

My heart slowed to a bare thump, my breathing calmed, my mind cleared; I was to inherit this duty if I survived. If not, others had been trained. I knew what the paper said, I knew the dance and its foot-scuffed sigil meaning, I spoke the words of the prayers with foreign lips for Oma had taught me, prepared me for my turn. Whether or not my people followed the ways, Oma’s did, and as her descendant, I was obligated to protect the mountain and its people. All of this I knew, and all this I would perform if necessary.

Oma flipped the paper over, and screamed the single word scrawled upon it – RUN! As we unbarred the door, we heard a deep rumble from under the house. A look back revealed a waterlogged arm punch its way through the floor, followed by a bulbous head and strangely elongated torso. Moreso than its appearance, its presence was paralytic. We locked eyes, Oma and I, just before it wrapped its mouth around her throat and dragged her broken body into the lake.

Now it’s my duty to watch for the fog, my obligation to protect what Oma left behind. If I’m lucky, it will skip my generation, if not, I’ll serve as Oma did. I’ll give birth, raise my children, and grandchildren, and one day, if the fog comes and the lake calls, I will have already passed on the ways, my new ways, to one of my own, and I will pray they never bare witness to what I saw that day.

Oma said we shouldn’t wonder, we shouldn’t know. Knowing would be worse than not. And she was right.

.

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Bent Metal

Where does reality end and dreamscape begin?

Woken each night by the sounds of screams and twisting metal, Lauren must relive the panic and fear of discovering her brother’s broken body on the asphalt. But each morning, she finds it’s only a dream… One she doesn’t want to keep having.

At what point does a dream become a nightmare, and a nightmare more than a figment of her subconscious?

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Angela Yuriko Smith @AngelaYSmith @darc_nina #LoH

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Her Special Day
by Angela Yuriko Smith

This is my special day, the moment I have waited for, my chance to be a queen. It’s the day my family brings me flowers, dresses me in jewels, and tells me I am beautiful. A tiara, a veil, and a dress that costs more than my rent adorn me, and for this day, this most special of days, I am a queen…

…but why am I celebrated on just one day? Am I a queen, or an offering? Draped in veils, the sacrificial lamb, your bride bribe, your constructed perfection. I stand amidst the lights, a silent centerpiece. My wishes dissolve into the folds of satin, my voice muffled beneath the veil.

Fairy lights flicker.
Borrowed time in rented silk—
Whose dream is this now?

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More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

Angela Yuriko Smith is a third-generation Ryukyuan-American, award-winning poet, author, and publisher with 20+ years in newspapers. Publisher of Space and Time magazine (est. 1966), two-time Bram Stoker Awards® Winner, and HWA Mentor of the Year, she shares Authortunities, a free weekly calendar of author opportunities at authortunities.substack.com.

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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments