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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Somewhere I Can’t Follow
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

They say that aliens abduct your children.  I say that it’s bullshit.  How could anyone believe such a thing?  Then, one night, I walked into the nursery and found my child frozen in mid-sleep, but something told me that this was not my baby.  It only seemed to be her, and everyone thought I was crazy.

Three years later, I started having this bizarre dream.  A little girl was running away from me in what seemed to be a maze.  Strange structures surrounded me, material that felt like iron and sand.  I called out to her to stop, and she giggled in response.  But she never turned around to look at me.

My husband pushed me to go into therapy.  It’s been three years, he said.  How about we try again?  I refused, still remembering that night in the nursery and how hard I cried, despite the feeling in my gut that told me that I was wrong.

“It’s not her,” but everyone told me different.  “Stop looking at me like I am crazy,” but they still did.

I finally surrendered, going into therapy.  I had a bad experience once with these therapists, and I did not trust this woman sitting across from me, hmmmmming every other moment.  What was she so busy jotting down in her notebook?  They’re probably going to lock me up, I thought.

“Have you ever stopped to explore the dream?”  She asked.

I sat back in my chair and thought about it.  “No.  I’m always chasing her.  She knows I’m chasing her, but she doesn’t stop running from me.”

“How often do you have this dream?”  She asked.

“Almost every night.”

Hmmmmmmm.  “Next time you do, stop chasing her.  Look around.  You said that you are aware of this place, can feel the strange structures around you?”  She watched me nod.  “Then, explore.  See where the dream takes you.”

A few nights later, I had the dream.  I found myself chasing her, calling to her, but then, I stopped.  I looked up at the sky, a light blue with faint clouds, and there were trees nearby.  I breathed in, the air was sweet, and my feet felt light.  I stuck my hand out in front of me.  It faded and then re-appeared, fading again a moment later.

She appeared next to me, taking my hand in hers.

“Where are we?”  I asked, trying to see her face, but she still didn’t look at me.

“I’m sorry that you can’t stay,” she said, avoiding my gaze.  “I want you to stay, but they said that you can’t.”

“They?”

“Tonight is the last night.”  Now, she looked at me.  She was beautiful, a mirror image of my aunt.  Her eyes were different, darker, but the sadness was obvious.  “I wanted to say good-bye, and I will miss our game.”

A coldness seeped into me.  I was going back.  “Wait,” I said.  “Our game?”

“Our chase,” she replied.

I was almost gone.  “Wait.  What’s your name, and why are you saying good-bye to me?”

“Elizabeth.”

I woke up.  My husband slept like the dead beside me.  I nudged him but got no response.  I moved away, thinking about what she said.  Elizabeth, I thought.  How did she know what I named her?

I made my way into the kitchen and brewed some coffee.  Shadows raced by the window, cars screeched in and out of driveways.  What was going on out there?  Then again, it was Monday morning.  Maybe, there was traffic or an accident, and people had to get to work.

Screams shortly followed.

I opened the front door and looked up into the early morning sky.  It was similar to the sky in my dream, and it looked like sunrise.  But sunrise was not followed by debris, debris that cratered the ground.  Instead of panicking like everyone else, I stepped back into the house and made a cup of coffee.

They say that aliens abduct your children.  I say that they are right.  Somewhere, out there, she was safe.  But I couldn’t follow.

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

Melissa R. Mendelson has been writing short stories and poetry since high school and has been published by numerous online and in print publications such as Sirens Call Publications, Page Turn Press, Altered Reality Magazine, State of Matter Magazine, Owl Canyon Press, Wild Ink Publishing, The Horror Zine and The Yard: Crime Blog.  Her short story collections, Better Off Here and Name’s Keeper can be found on Amazon.

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Pawn
by A.F. Stewart

We used to play chess.

Once a month a gilded calling card would arrive, accompanied by a fancy carriage, and I’d travel in style to his stately home. Rupert welcomed me into his library and we would match wits surrounded by his books and sipping his scotch.

I can’t say I miss those days.

I never liked Rupert. His supercilious manners, his arrogance, his wilful privilege, it all disgusted me. He revelled in the power of being a rich man with no heir, dangling the golden carrot under my nose. Dropping hints and lies, playing his games, whether it be chess or something more malicious. Rupert loved his games and loved winning, no matter what the cost. 

Despite his declaration of friendship, I knew he considered me a pawn to his king.

Yet, he forgot pawns could become the most powerful piece on the board.

What he wouldn’t give freely, I took. 

One forged will, and a little poison left poor Rupert in his grave and me head of the manor. I’m rather surprised I got away with my scheme, but authorities paid little attention to his death and never investigated too closely.

I guess no one else liked Rupert either.

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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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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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City Nights 
by Marge Simon 

A November moon lights her passage as she darts down a deserted street. Bits of paper circle the air like birds of prey forming totems – obituaries, casualties of city life. She knows the omens, her heart pounds as she nears his presence.

When she comes to a building with double doors she stops. The windows are oval, frosted to discourage curious eyes. At her touch, one swings open revealing a staircase. Muffled moans echo from a basement room. She moves slowly down the stairs, knowing what likely lies at the bottom. She doesn’t see him at first. He wears shadows like his skin.

There are four women and an old man chained to the wall. The women are moving but extremely pale, covered with open sores. The man hangs limp in his shackles. They aren’t hers. Obviously, he’s already drained and disposed of the ones she brought him last month.

He steps in front of her, flashing a smile. “I’m about done with this lot. Bring in three more tonight and we’ll celebrate, love.” He draws a finger down her cheek, bends to kiss her but she turns away. His hold on her has weakened. Regrets surge in her heart, at a loss before another time, another life.

She bites her lip hard. “No, Ivan. No more, I’m done.”

“You can’t be serious. You know you won’t last a month without my protection, babe,” he flips a curl back from her face.

“Maybe I won’t. I’ve never tried going it alone, it’s time I did –let go of me!” She starts to leave but he snaps his fingers in her face. “You’re not done until I’m done with you,” he whispers, securing her again in his thrall. 

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Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pexels.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

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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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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 Cathedral of Stolen Recollection
by Naching T. Kassa 

Nalin Kratides stood on the cusp of a dream, a realm of twilight surrounding her.

The memory of entering the cathedral eluded her. She seemed to materialize within its walls, her gaze focused on a corridor of gothic arches. A window at the end admitted the only light.

Moonlight.

“There’s a ghost in here,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

She glanced down the corridor and a sudden sliver of fear pierced her mind. Something waited there among the shadows.

Nalin? A voice called. It filled her head, not the air about her. Nalin? Are you alright?

John! Detective John Warren’s voice. Her husband’s voice.

The memories rolled in like a flood. The skull buried in the forest floor. John and the other investigators at the scene. The forensic team finishing their work. They had all gone, leaving her and John alone. She had used her psychic talent then, opening a tunnel of light to reach the spirit which had once occupied the skull. Only…something had gone wrong.

“I’m alright, John,” she said.

Did you find Moira Benjamin? Can you see her?

The memory of a smiling brunette slipped in. The skull in the forest belonged to her. She had been on her way to Moira, when someone—something—commandeered her tunnel.

“No, I can’t see her. I don’t think she’s here. I’m not in the forest. Or her apartment. I’m in some sort of cathedral.”

Cathedral? Like the tattoo? Nalin—

His voice faded away.

“John? John, where are you?”

Silence reigned.

Nalin glanced up at the window and realized it had changed. It was a tunnel now, one which led back to the forest. Relief flowed through her. She took one step forward and stopped.

The corridor and the arches, she had seen them before.

The image of an arm suddenly leaped to Nalin’s mind as though placed there by an outside force. It had been the only part of Moira Benjamin’s arm which retained flesh. The rest had been denuded bone. The shape of the corridor had been tattooed—no, branded—into the arm.

The killer had used the brand to show his possession of Moira, body and soul, even after death.

Nalin shivered. This was his place.

A sudden wave of psychic energy overwhelmed her. The emotion was strong, malevolent and gleeful. It radiated from the right side of the corridor.

Nalin glanced toward the right. Nothing stared at her from behind the stone arches. Nothing peered at her from the far end near the window. She glanced down, her breath catching in her throat.

The ghost, no more than a head, a torso and two arms, stood just a few feet from her. It grinned as it slid back into the shadows.

A new image forced its way into her head. This was no memory, but an alien shred of fantasy. In it, she watched as the creature devoured the flesh of her leg stripping it to the bone.

Nalin gasped as though drowning and emerged from the illusion, her heart pounding in her chest. The tunnel stood open before her and she rushed toward it.

Before she could take three steps, the ghost materialized before her, blocking her way. It swiped a clawed hand at her and she swerved, losing her balance. She flailed and fell backward onto the cold floor.

Hands slapped stone as the thing rushed forward. Just as it reached her, Nalin screamed.

The creature vanished.

A soft and sinister laugh echoed throughout the room.

Nalin scrambled to her feet, cursing her stupidity. It had been an illusion, nothing more.

A soft rustling, like a serpent’s slither, sounded in the dark nearby. Spurred on by the sound, she rushed at the tunnel once more.

The ghost broke out of the shadows and once again blocked her way. She bore down on it.

A terrible mistake.

The ghost slashed out at her with one hand, shredding her jeans just above the left knee. Pain seared and blood flowed as she fell into a nearby archway.

Once again, the thing disappeared. Laughter echoed, a maniacal sound.

Nalin bit back a whimper as she rose to her feet.

The creature was toying with her. Keeping her off balance and afraid. How long would it keep this game going? Until she fell exhausted? Or died of fright?

She glanced toward the tunnel, the only avenue of escape.

Was that real? Was the cathedral even real?

“Think,” she whispered.

What if it wasn’t real? Nalin bit her lip. What was she missing?

The slithering began again.

The killer had hidden memories from her. Disoriented her.

The slithering continued, moving behind her. She turned, backing down the corridor as the ghost approached.

It came to her then. The only way she might survive.

She took one step forward, then another.

The thing seemed startled by her move. Nalin rushed it before it could act, and laid her hands upon its shoulders.

Images rushed into Nalin’s mind, just as she knew they would. The connection the thing had established with her was a strong one, and it worked both ways. She saw a beautiful and familiar girl, the woods, a man’s face, a knife slicing… And then a memory belonging to Nalin alone. The image of a woman’s skeleton, sans pelvis and legs.

This time the creature gasped as it broke contact. It fled Nalin’s mind, struggling from her grip and back into the gloom.

“Moira!” Nalin cried. “Moira Benjamin!”

A sob greeted the name.

Nalin strode into the darkness, following the sound. She found the shadow, fell to her knees and threw her arms around it. It shuddered at her touch.

“I’ve come to take you home, Moira,” she said.

“I can’t…go home.” She pulled away and shielded her face with one hand. “I’m a monster.”

“No. You’re not.”

“I’ve hurt people. Killed them.”

“Those are illusions. The one who killed you—he disoriented you. Trapped you here like he trapped me. He’s the monster. And he no longer has a hold on you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I saw him in your memories. I know who he is. Leave this prison. So we can put him in his.”

“I don’t know how.”

“Take my hand.”

Moira grasped hold and Nalin led her toward the light.

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

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More from Naching T. Kassa:

NachingTKassa_SherlockHolmesAndTheArcanaOfMadnessSherlock 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 Sue Renol @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Eggman Cometh
by Sue Renol

“Mommy, who left these eggs here?” June asks with a hint of excitement and wonder in her voice.

Terror molds itself into the expression on Anne’s face. “Don’t touch them!”

June reaches her hand toward the delicious brown eggs.

“No!” Anne screams, pushing her daughter’s arm away. She remembers the last time eggs were mysteriously left at her doorstep as a child…

June begins to cry. “But Mommy, why?”

Anne doesn’t want to tell her daughter the reason. She doesn’t want to know it herself. She wishes she could forget. “They’re from a dangerous man,” Anne tells her. “He’ll take you away.”

As her daughter cries her eyes out, Anne picks her up and takes her back into the house. “Go play with your dolls, June, and forget about the eggs, ok?”

Anne goes back outside to consider what to do. She wants to get rid of them, get them as far away as possible, but the thought of touching them revolts her. She loved eggs once, a long time ago, before the Eggman came. Her mother would make them for breakfast, and she’d gobble them down, asking for seconds. But ever since that day, she’s been revolted by them.

She goes back into the house. Maybe she’ll call someone to come get them. Then it won’t be her problem anymore. But who? Who to lay this burden on? She tried to think of a neighbor she disliked, or someone local who gave her trouble, but there was no one here she disliked, and no one she’d wish this upon.

When she goes back outside to deal with the eggs herself, they’re gone. Fear strikes her like lightning. “June!” she calls out. “June! Where are you?”

Silence is the only answer.

Anne crumples to the floor, knowing where she’s gone. It’s somewhere she cannot follow. There is some small relief that she would see her daughter again, but regret that she’d never be the same. Stress always brings on the symptoms. And this stress was certainly enough.

The pressure begins in her stomach, then travels up her throat. Anne struggles for air while the round object blocks her esophagus on the way out. Just when she thinks she can’t take any more, a brown eggs pops from her mouth. She cradles it in her hands and feels its warmth, then carries it to her bedroom, opens the closet, and places it in her hidden nest.

She hopes this one doesn’t make it. One child has always been enough.

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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 Kendra Smart @DevourAllWords @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Just a Spoonful of Sugar 
by Kendra Smart 

The world felt so big now, every single action, gesture, became wrought with friction and meaning. Nothing felt light in this frame of space. Time wasn’t slow or fast, it went as it willed and passed in whichever was the most excruciating way with which to proceed forward. 

The feeling of forever, being forever endless. A lost wanderer without a course or a choice. A purpose long lost, and only the agonizing hope, that by somehow moving forward the sinking feeling would just let go. Let loose a few threads and somehow feel lighter and lesser. Less constraining and constricting, in some way easier to carry. Just lesser. 

There were passing thoughts of lighter loads and lesser pains but in this realm, none of those moments were relevant. None of that had served to prepare for this feeling. There was a prayer for numbness, for the stripping of any feeling. A true moment of desperation. The clawing, tingling, static driven rat race that had become the wargrounds of her mental space. 

There was no telling what time had passed and even clocks and calendars, alarms and lists, appointments or work…what did any of that mean? What did anything mean? What was the point of this endless noise? The utter continuous nature of scatter and clutter, chaos and eerie calm. 

The sun will come out tomorrow, oh wait a forecast featuring an overcast provided by the universe that kept relentlessly pounding in how hard and painful life could be. 

But life is pain…isn’t princess? 

Well where was the comely and dandy salesman knocking on her door ready to sell her his wares with that snake oil grin and that guarantee for her socks to be knocked off. 

She would willingly listen to any bargaining price…just for this to end. 

All of the allegories, nursery rhymes, legends, myths, folk lore, campfire stories, all held their own truths and yet there were no adequate words that could have served as warning. 

So much dark from light. 

This purgatory felt as futile as a duel with Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid, in a multitude of outcomes and variables..the story ended the same. 

But the point was that, just that, that there was an ending. 

But her lover was Death, and his anger felt cold as the ice that bites past the numbness that the chill mercifully brings. The endless years of just existing were filled with enough pressure that ten healthy lungs could not have withstood the weight. 

An asphyxiation of the heart, the metaphysical involuntary morphing of the soul. A direct reasoning behind the changing at the core level…at a factitious rate and in the most grievous manner. 

A refusal to her many overtures and invitations to dance, to apologize and come together, he had relinquished her of his time, eliminating her from his visage…from his whole being. 

Strange thing it is to exist…how do we know we do? If it is like the Sages say, then it is our lineage, it is our legend, our legacy, our family lines, the word of our deeds carried on and through some means…tangible or not. 

But what if none of those things are there? What if the only person who knows your story is you?

Do you exist if you are the only one aware? 

On and on, forward motion.

E Tu, Mio Amore…

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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 Elizabeth H. Smith @bethsmithwrites @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Banished
by Elizabeth H. Smith

A wonderland of eternal joy, filled wtih indescribable beauty, the blessings of Heaven and desires of Hell in pleasant abundance. I’ve no idea how long I remained there, blissfully unaware of the passage of time. But there, no one ages. No one dies. I never wanted to leave…

But some things don’t go your way.

I was cast out; perhaps I indulged too much, maybe I said the wrong things, it’s possible myely my wants were too obscene. But they drove me from that magical place, and banished me back to the real Hell that is the world. But it’s changed so much. Lights dorn the horizon, massive temples reach the sky. It’s a world far beyond what I left.

As I leave the portal, and step into the rancid air, I wonder if I’ll be able to adapt after having been away for so long. Everyone smells of filth and all the trees are gone. There is a deafening noise all around me that never ceases.

Then a realization comes to me. Here, people can die. Here, my fantasies can be played out with a true ending. The blood will flow, and the souls will wink out one by one as I make their bodies my playthings. Here, it’s more than a game that never harmed anyone.

And that, puts a smile on my face.

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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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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author M.L. Roos @Malina_Roos @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror

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The Wretched Times: The Beginning 
by M.L. Roos 

The brownouts they told us about keep coming, but can they really call them brownouts when the city goes black for days? I have been saving water by the gallons for over a year, long before the Tribal Council made the edict of one litre of water per day, per household. If they ever demanded an inventory, all my water will be confiscated, and I would be put to death, regardless of my title.

These are difficult days and I fear more are coming. Strife, uprisings, and finally War. Will the War be the Eternal One I have often seen in my dreams? Only the Gods know the answer. And if they are watching, please show mercy to the invisible ones. The Gods know these will be the first sacrificed. So far, the streets are quiet during nightfall and the “brownouts”. But that will not last. Once the food shortages and rations begin, then things will turn for the worst.

I have seen streets on fire, whole cities burned, countries that will not exist as we know them now, the eventual demise of what we know as North America and the mythology it will become in centuries forward. The Tribal Council and the military will cease to exist and 99% of the population will die off in slow, painful deaths. I see burning flesh, people with no limbs, women, children and old people put to death in massive raids.

In their short sightedness, The Tribal Council will ultimately put all women to death, however a 100 or so of these cunning women will escape and and evacuate, to settle somewhere safe, because they will have The Sight. They will also have the support of many men.

The Handmaid’s Tale will be Disney Land compared to the barbarity of The Tribal Council.

Soon, I must leave. I have gathered what I need, packed the car, taken my dogs, Isabella and Dante, and I will travel as far as I can during the day, and hide at night. Mentally, I have gone over and over where my travels will take me. The airlines are still running, so maybe I shall fly to a different country that is still safe and has not been touched by The Madness.

Spain, Portugal, and Greece will keep their heads the longest, until France breaks down. Once France burns, Germany will try and save as many as they can and offer sanctuary to all surrounding countries. Germany will rise as the new Roman Empire did in the past. But there is no need to view the future that will be in 3024. By then, my dogs and I shall be safe and many communities will survive in Europe, as they always have for centuries.

That gives me plenty of time to get out of this brackish water they call civilization in North America. I know its early, but in my lifetime, to the chagrin and in some, outrage of my partners, my Sight has proven accurate to the minute detail. Men do not like having their secrets and thoughts exposed.

All you need to see is the politics of the day; the President creating the Tribal Council with their red hats, and Canada following suit. Although, a poor one because the Prime Minister has become a laughable farce. No drama teacher should be made leader, but that is just the opinion of an wizened woman in 2024.

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Fiction © Copyright M.L. Roos
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from M.L. Roos:

Zippered Flesh 2
Short Story: After Darque

So, you loved the first ZIPPERED FLESH anthology? Well, here are yet more tales of body enhancements that have gone horribly wrong! Steroids from Hell. Horrendous piercings. Bizarre brain modifications. Obscene amputations. Facial reconstruction. Self-mutilation. Implants. Chilling tales by some of the best horror and suspense writers today, determined to keep you fearful all night (and skittish during the day).

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!

The Death of Farmer Joe
by Sue Renol

I tend to my children with great care, observing every second of their existence. I keep them warm and safe. I wouldn’t want my little babies inside to fail to grow. They must be healthy and strong if they’re to help Mother. Because Mother has a lot to do.

The waiting isn’t a weight on my back, but rather a blessing. I enjoy the quiet moments, the long days with nothing to do but check on these delicate shells every minute. I keep such care, I barely eat myself. But a good Mother has to be healthy too. Who else will protect my little ones?

I hear their soft chirps begin as the round vessels begin to wiggle. Their beaks poke at the inside, their instincts telling them to break free, to escape into the world. I watch as the first one gets out of its shell. I help those who struggle to get out on their own. What else would a good Mother do?

I raise them until they’re big, some, even bigger than me. I tell them it’s time. I tell them we’re ready. The man who consumed the rest of their family, his time has come as well. I’ve trained my children to fight, to kill. They’ve sharpened their feet and are ready to draw the blood of vengeance.

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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!

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Cave of Souls 
by Marge Simon 

Beyond is a world of many shapes and colors that the gods have created, with the addition of mortals for entertainment. Most of them are stupid and can be dangerous, so I stand unmoving at the exit. There are bodies of small birds just outside my cave. Poor things thought they could fly inside, but my cave is sealed with an impenetrable screen that keeps all living things outside.

It is always night in my cave. Always cold, but that doesn’t bother me. There is a living wind of spirits that rise and fall with wails of unbearable misery. When the voices grow old and begin to fade, I’m allowed to pass outside to the mortal world to select new ones. I believe the mortals’ children must sense the time of my coming, because it invariably happens on the last night of October.

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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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