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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The Sound of Music 
by Marge Simon 

On a sandy Sahara shore skirting the Mediterranean, a mother is suspended just above her shadow. Her children rise from her shadow. They know forever, for they have come and gone times over. Listen, say the children, there’s music everywhere.  Her babies are new, but already they know their mother needs sustenance. They scatter to find what they hear and return bringing the music where they find it: the thrumming of drums deep in the jungle, the squawk of brightly colored birds; butterfly wings beating in a field, the gentle notes of goldfish in a pond, the drone of bees, the beating of human hearts. Her children go out and return many times to feed her, until all African lifeforms are sucked dead of sound. Continuing their mission, the children spread to all corners of the earth until all the music has been gathered and sounds of life have ceased. When their mother’s needs are satisfied, they disperse into the stars to begin their cycle on other worlds of blue and green.

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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 Kendra Smart @DevourAllWords @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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I’m Your Baby Tonight   
by Kendra Smart 
 

You could smell the room long before entering it. Lilac, Lavender, Myrrh, individual and yet merged, growing thicker and more potent the closer one got to the chamber. It crept into the body, with each inhale, the ratio of the air changed. 

The room was dark and yet illuminated enough to see. The exchange was not so harsh a transition on the eyes but they certainly would widen taken in the sparsely furnished yet heavily, elegantly decorated ceremonial chamber. Chains, held bolted to the smooth rock ceiling, swayed softly and slowly. Their internal flames illuminating the molten gold that had been used to fill the chain link armor so that the chinks would not lose the precious oils within the vessels. 

The low flame ebbed and flowed gently, shadows dancing along the cavern walls. The Goddess waited patiently, setting the ambiance for her nourishing worship. She was made up in her most amorous finery, the colors that offset her skin. She awaited the chosen one from her most wholly devoted brethren. 

The light flickered and sent its shadows to play along her toasted almond skin, which looked all the more inviting against the royal purple bedding. She had worked hard to create the most welcoming environment for her devotee. 

There had been many willing to provide her nourishment this year. Her loyal brethren had noticed her power weakening and knew she had overextended her part of harvest. But her people deserved the best for what their deal was. They had never let her down in over a thousand years. 

Her selection had won her over with the genuine wonderment and love she had shown in her eyes. With that raw emotion, it was hard to hide her truth. 

The Goddess had been enchanted instantly. 

The woman arrived, walking eagerly to her clad only in the barest whisper of cloth. Her smile was received with one echoing the eagerness. The Goddess would show this devotee her more honest side. The gift she so earnestly gave deserved nothing less. 

Her sacrifice would bring decades of prosperity. 

Of Peace. 

Culture. 

Her people would know calm and would want for nothing. 

Genuine love would provide genuine good. 

This sacrifice would know ultimate pleasure before the dawn. The Goddess would provide. 

Equivalent Exchange. 

A most nourishing feast. 

Her fangs ached with longing as the fragranced air became enhanced with their scents…individual and mingled. 

Copper tinged the air but the devotee knew no pain as the blood poured freely. 

Only warmth. Enveloped in differing layers of wonderful, soothing, comforting warmth. 

The Goddess was fulfilled. 

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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 Asena Lourenco @ElaLourenco @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Loving or Lying 
by Asena Lourenco 

Two pearlescent, fluorescent emerald globes,

Entrance suitors from overseas,

Hypnotic, mesmeric sounds escape

Perfectly pink lips as soft melodies,

Gems and jewels adorn her diamond skin,

Glowing equally as bright,

Yet behind the wealth and riches there lays

The darkest creature of the night.

Her longing looks, and illusions of love 

Carefully mask elaborate lies,

For in the place of love and humanity,

A deep hunger is found in her eyes.

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

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More about Asena Lourenco:

AsenaLourenco_2024

Asena Lourenco is sixteen years old. She loves playing hockey, singing, and playing piano.

She began writing short stories and poetry at a very early age, and has been writing with The Ladies of Horror Picture-prompt Challenge since she was ten!

As the youngest member of The Ladies of Horror troupe, Asena has an uncanny command of language and has handled each challenge with grace, enthusiasm, and an aptitude far beyond her years.

 

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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!

A Seeing Night
by Nina D’Arcangela

As she watches, the assailant approaches his target in the dark abandoned lot. A struggle ensues, but ends in a mere blink; the violence feeds her hunger, holds her in its thrall. She misjudges; allows the corridor to widen, permits him to see her watching. For a brief moment, the portal opens on both sides. She sits stunned as he jabs the narrow pig sticker through the wavering glow and into her left eye.

Now, when it is a seeing night, she seeks only the most remorseful; souls in need of comfort and caring, not the heart-pounding excitement of an outcome unknown. Now, when it is a seeing night, she sees with only one eye – the other forever clouded and dead to the world. Having learned her lesson well, the wasps’ sting will forever be with her – but always more so on a seeing night…

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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 Suzie Lockhart @SuzieNBruce2 @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Forest Phantom 
by Suzie Lockhart 

Everything in my young life had led to this moment…

I still recall the day the Okaasan of the most prestigious Okiya in the area grabbed my hand, pulled me to my feet, and simply said, “Come.”

I’d been a nine-year-old street urchin and wasn’t about to deny a potential opportunity for food. As she half-dragged me through the streets, my stomach rumbled with the sizzling food from street vendors. Colors blurred from peddlers offering their wares.

My own mother had abandoned me in a market nearly two years prior. Most likely she was tired of the stigma; my presence in her life was a thorn in her side. Half-white children of soldiers were treated somewhat better, but the brown skin inherited from my father stood out. Not to mention eyes the color of the sea—a pale gray blue. Some in our culture even believed eyes with blue marked the presence of evil.

The events of that day stood with me forever. I had not gotten the meal I had hoped for, but the sticky white rice filled my belly. I had to clean up after geisha’s entertaining; Okaasan allowed me to drink any leftover tea, and I did. I had a decent tatami mat to sleep on.

A year later I began training for the day I would be sent off to the highest bidder. At that time, I was unaware I was working in a brothel instead of an Okiya. My skin and eyes were not sought after by gentleman. Instead, the man who had won, bought my virginity.

He took me by train, and it was exciting at the time because I was too young to understand that once we arrived at his elaborate minka, he’d planned to rape me. He was a very rich man, but quite unattractive. He wore pungent cologne that made my nose wrinkle.

He wasted no time. He immediately cut a section of my elaborately wound hair to put in a ‘trophy case’. He tore off my lovely kimono.

I was a strong girl, and fast. I kicked him in a manner I’d once seen a woman on the street use to debilitate a man making unwanted advances, and I ran.

It was snowing, and the fabric strips and hadajuban I wore froze around me as I shivered, until all at once spirits of other women surrounded me, warming me as they penetrated me, changing me. I glimpsed my transformation in a window; I was crystallized. Made of frost but not cold, and as that horrible man finally recovered and chased me, I discovered I could change form, haunting him, appearing as women he’d killed.

I somehow knew they’d been waiting for a girl to escape his clutches, and transform into an apparition that would be known as Yuki-onna, the phantom of the forest.

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Fiction © Copyright Suzie Lockhart
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Suzie Lockhart:

Morbid Metamorphosis:
Terrifying Tales of Transformation

Metamorphosis occurs every day as caterpillars become sweet fluttering butterflies, tadpoles become gorgeous frog princes and chameleons become one with the beauty of nature – but you won’t find any of that here.

The transformations you’re about to witness are unnatural, sometimes gruesome and deeply psychological. They will make you question reality and take your mind places it was never meant to go.

Terrifying Tales of Transformation from Greg Chapman * Roy C. Booth & R. Thomas Riley * Terri DelCampo * Dave Gammon * Nancy Kilpatrick * Rod Marsden * Jo-Anne Russell * M.J. Preston * Stacey Turner * Tina Piney * Suzanne Robb * Franklin E. Wales * Donna Marie West * Suzie Lockhart * Cameron Trost * Daniel I. Russell * Simon Dewar * Amanda J. Spedding * Ken MacGregor * Erin Shaw * Gregory L. Norris * Nickolas Furr

Available on Amazon!

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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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Wretched Times 
by M.L. Roos 

Ingrid poured over the manual with a concentration so deep, she did not hear the door open. She needed to find the schematic that showed how the door was contained within the structure. It was the only chance they had for survival. Pre-Wretched Times, she had been an engineer with a passion for the creation, rather than the process. What saved her time and time again was her ingenuity, her sharpness and always pulling together a project far more detailed and intricate that had been asked for, and under budget. But only if allowed to get into the thick of things with a welder’s torch. Rumours abound, as they always tend to do with bright, strong women, that she slept her way to the top (she hadn’t) that her daddy paid off the board of directors of MIT, and she slept with all of them in order to gain her entrance (he hadn’t and neither did she) or that she was Lesbian Witch that sold her soul to gain a man’s brain (she was and she could be, but she would never tell).

“Ingrid” came the voice, entering the room before the woman. Leigh was tall, thin, athletic and strong. Her black hair and kohl rimmed eyes gave the warning. If it was not heeded, then came the blades. “Ingrid” she stated louder.

Ingrid glanced up quickly and back down to the manual.

“Ingrid, it’s over.”

Ingrid’s eyes rose slowly letting the statement sink in, however not quite grasping its meaning.

“What do you mean? Did someone else find the plans? Can we get keep it safe?”

“Yes, and no. Yes, someone found the plans, but we were too late. It escaped. And on it’s way out it took a group with it…to snack on. Someone said it did not get out completely but is contained in the airlock.

“No. He wouldn’t do that.”

“It, and yes it did. Ingrid, you knew it was feral, a holdover from before. It was only a matter of time before it tried to assert dominance. That is its only purpose. It can’t help it. The endocrine system of a foreign species has no control. It is little more than a sea cucumber with hormones and anger than a human being. I know you thought you had control, but love, you never did.”

Shouting reached a crescendo outside their door, which lead to an obscene pounding that broke and increased the tension like a twisted dichotomy of feather and weight.

Ingrid raced to the door and threw it open. “What’s happened? Has he been contained?”

The last person stopped, stared at Ingrid and continued on their way chasing the others. Ingrid and Leigh chased after. They all ended up outside one of the numerous airlocks in the chamber, a safety valve from this world to the next. The group stood quiet, barely breathing, listening to the plaintive cry from within. It did not have a voice, or at least words. It simply did not have the prefrontal cortex large enough to learn speech. It was pure emotion and it only had sound; pitiful bleating and whining to indicate the semblance of a normal human emotion. Was it pity? Anger? Who knew?

Ingrid placed her hand on the airlock and her forehead against the door. The bleating turned to sniffing. It knew she was there. The cries grew more heart wrenching, but only to Ingrid. To the rest, it was a caterwauling of an old idea, an organism that simply outlived its usefulness and should be destroyed. They all knew that once males reached the age of ten plus five, they needed to be destroyed. This one was ten plus seven due to the clever hiding places Ingrid had discovered. Without Ingrid, it would have died off like all the others, but she refused to let him live out his intended days. Instead, she clothed, fed and tried to nurture him, to teach him and love him. Others had tried before her. Others will again, determined to cling to to a past with hopes of redemption.

“Mo-th-er”.

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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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The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Suzanne Madron @suzannemadron @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Breathless
by Suzanne Madron 

Beauty was fading. Once she had been able to glitter without applying any, her looks shone so bright.

Now, she applied a second coat to her dull and aging skin. No one had told her that her looks were only skin deep.

More shadow, more contours, more and longer lashes until her eyes sagged under their lids’ added weight. She couldn’t see a damned thing that night she stepped onto the stage for the last time, but the show must go on as the saying goes.

She ignored the painful crackling of her brittling bones as she felt her way along the boards in too-high heels. Her costume was heavy – too heavy. The headdress alone weighed more than all the other dancers’ combined and her neck protested. The feathers tickled her nose and stuck to the glued gems covering her face. She continued to smile, blind and barely able to move without pain in every step. She looked out over the audience and felt the thrill of being on stage, the footlights gleaming across her costume. How nice it would be to die on stage, she thought and stepped forward to greet the crowd.

Beauty took a breath – a shallow breath so as not to bust from the confines of her too-tight corset – and began to sing. The cheers of the audience turned to confusion and then dismay. She struggled to open her eyes a little wider to see what was happening.

The other dancers were screaming. Why were they screaming? Part of the audience was running for the doors and leaving during her performance!

Outrage filled her, but she didn’t dare move her head to look around, not that the lashes would allow her to see much anyway. The stage was too hot and she could feel the spirit gum holding the gems to her face beginning to loosen its hold. One by one the gems fell to the stage like sparkling rain.

It hurt to breathe, she realized. Every breath stung and the footlights were far too bright. Her lashes wept onto her cheeks and the glue ran into her eyes in a river of makeup and tears.

Beauty sank to the stage as each breath became shallower and shallower. She was tired. Had she slept a full night since she became an actress?

Why was the stage so hot? Beauty didn’t care anymore. Beauty closed her eyes and slept.

When the fire was finally put out, the stagehands were reprimanded for leaving the gas jets too high in the footlights. The dancers had swooned, and poor Beauty was gone in a blaze so magnificent and colorful that no one had realized it wasn’t part of the show until it was far too late to save her.

To this very day, there is a human-shaped, glittering scar on the stage boards where Beauty died.

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Fiction © Copyright Suzanne Madron
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Suzanne Madron:

For Sale or Rent

The house across the street seems to go on the market every few months, but this time nothing about the sale is normal, including the new owners. No sooner has the for sale sign come down and the neighborhood is thrown into a Lovecraftian nightmare and the only way to find out is to attend the house warming party.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi @ErinAlMehairi @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Nights at the Red Dragon 
by Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi 

In the darkened Red Dragon filled with twinkling tea lights, she met
him, she became obsessed with him, she carved herself out to and for
him, while the red lanterns glowed.
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Eating overflowing bowls of warm, oily, filling ramen served in the
Red Dragon, she listened to the sounds of the wok from the kitchen,
the hurried voices, in a place she wanted to belong but didn’t, wanted
to know, wanted to learn.
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The Red Dragon was gold mist to her eyes,
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comforting bubble tea on hot, summer nights, their conversations
ebbing into how she should be more, do better; she’s not good enough.
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She clapped it down, inside her head, but never noisily to him, never
outward. She ate her favorite sweet rice pudding, and settled.
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He was always late, each time they met, where had he been always
strolling in with tailored suit and shiny shoes and acting as if he
owned everything… including her.
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What was her story? Did the Red Dragon care? She fell to the floor and
sifted through the gold dust shaken free from all the suited men. She
ate it with her hands, trying to be the golden child, the blessed
wearer of red, a lucky one.
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The Red Dragon consumed her – her grief, her ambition, her passion,
her love. Her voice.
.
And he laughed above her, looking down.
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She melted into a shiny pool of red lava, forever ensconced in flames.
Her essence
.
remaining in sadness, in regret, in resignation.

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Fiction © Copyright Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi
Fiction Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More about Erin Sweet Al-Mehairi:

ErinSweetAlMehairiErin Sweet Al-Mehairi is an author, editor, journalist, and publicist with thirty years of experience in communication fields and Bachelor of Arts degrees in English, Journalism, and History.

Breathe. Breathe. was her debut collection of dark poetry and short stories in 2017. She has poetry and short stories published in several anthologies and online, and was co-editor of a half-fiction, half-poetry Gothic anthology. She’s currently compiling and writing several poetry collections, an essay collection, a short story collection, and a novel.

She is a chronic pain warrior, the mother of three humans and several spoiled rescue cats, and while born in England, now lives in a forest in Ohio while managing her editing, writing, and PR business.

Find Erin at her website Hook of a Book or on most social media platforms.

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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!

She Turns, or How Dangerous Lies Make Dangerous Women
by Angela Yuriko Smith

She turns away, the dethroned Queen, sidestepping the blame with a grace reminiscent of the lioness pre-pounce, robes adorned with patterns of weeping, blood and ash. Braided in her hair are the bones of displaced kings, warriors and other corpses that dared to claim her. She walks and the forests shudder beneath her feet; the sacred, thirsty groves tremble with delight at her approach. The wind carries her keening song, a memory melody of loss, the feminine blood taken in childbirth and violence and sacrifice and for pleasure and as scapegoat and a thousand other atrocities piled as high as her throne of bones. She is vengeance…

… she is death, under the neon light of the full moon, she dances, hypnotizing with pulsating rhythm. Beneath her feet, a floor littered in false promises, pretense and decay. She has been lied to so many times she becomes the stories men whisper to keep her in her place. Witch, succubus, harlot, she rises on their fear and appears in their restless dreams, confounding them with a longing, lust and loathing. She is what they have claimed her to be, an unbridled woman, untamable, untouchable and returning regrets. Hell hath no fury and…

…she becomes the lies
the embodiment of fear:
what you said she was.

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Welding Realities 
by Alex Grehy

.Learn to weld in virtual reality, build muscle memory through repetition

Dad, veteran welder, scoffed at the advert, “VR? Where’s the heat, weight, and stink?”

He didn’t know that welding realities was a different mission.

I signed up for the course, with thousands of others, our shared ambition

to learn a trade, build giant structures, leave a legacy, make a living,

Learn to weld in virtual reality, build muscle memory through repetition

We started in a virtual classroom, learning the basics, traditional tuition,

bored, we yearned to burn, see the light of the arc, bright, otherworldly

We didn’t know that welding realities was a different mission.

Dad approved, old school, for nothing can stand without a foundation.

But our core curriculum? Welding dark matter to close rifts between realities.

Learn to weld in virtual reality, build muscle memory through repetition

Our first session in the workshop with the VR rigs was a day of attrition,

bad welds burst, spewed blue fire on inept trainees. They died. Survivors learned.  

They didn’t know that welding realities was a different mission.

“Dear Dad, if you read this, I love you. Welding is dangerous, by your own admission,

I hope you’ll be proud that I saved our reality, our universe, sealed it tight, kept you safe.

Learn to weld in virtual reality, build muscle memory through repetition

I always knew that welding realities was a different mission.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Alex Grehy:

Last Species Standing

Last Species Standing: Poems on the edge of nature and technology by Alex Grehy is a captivating exploration of the intricate relationship between humanity, nature, and the ever-evolving realm of technology. Through a collection of thought-provoking poems, Grehy takes readers on a poignant journey that delves deep into the complexities of our modern existence and the consequences of our actions on the world around us.

Grehy’s use of vivid imagery and evocative language creates a rich tapestry of emotions that resonates long after the final page is turned. A poetic prowess that shines brightly in this captivating work, making it a must-read for anyone seeking to better understand our place in the world.

Available on Amazon!  

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