The Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lee Mitchell @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Fade to White 
by Lee Mitchell  

I thought I’d thought the decision all the way through. It had made perfect sense at the time. My thoughts had been rushed and overwhelmed, though; I was so caught up in so many cumulative little things, and I’d become so tired. That alone had been enough to skew my perspective, so nothing else mattered—not even any of the things that should have.

The frozen wilderness felt fitting. Lonely. Empty. Tears turned to ice.

I’d considered the pilgrimage many times before, romanticized my trek through the pristine snow, the flocked pines my only witness as I wandered off to my final resting spot. Long beyond my abandoned car on the roadside, gas tank empty, I walked. I continued until my frost-bitten feet could no longer move me forward, and then I collapsed into the cold bed before me, turned to my back, and considered all the heaviness I planned to leave behind as darkness crept over the ridge and stars filled the night sky.

But as the reality of my decision sank in, my body no longer able to rush back to safety, all I could think about was what had already fallen so far away: my soft, warm bed; my beautiful home that I had worked so hard for; the pleasure of a hot bath; an exceptional meal; a good cup of coffee; the handful of people who would truly mourn my absence.

I had felt so invisible that disappearing for real seemed the only option. But now, as the snow falls and my body fades to white, I realize how wrong I was. My life wasn’t a show dependent on others’ ratings or contingent upon my acceptance or popularity in this world; it was a gift, a fleeting ride that I’d sought to control and had mistakenly assumed was supposed to be fair.

Heart heavier than ever, my soul aching with regret and remorse, I scream desperately into the cold, empty darkness for help. But my body burns and the snow falls and I slowly become one with the ice.

And the darkness laughs back.

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Fiction © Copyright Lee Mitchell.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Author Lee Mitchell:

LeeMitchell_TheDivineDarknessAlisha Brown led a mundane life until the day monsters started trying to kill her and random strangers began to shy away from her in awe.

All hell broke loose, quite literally, after Randy Thomas turned right on Main for Honey’s instead of making a left for home and then murdered his beloved wife in an unusually gruesome way. Escaping police and stopping traffic in New York City with a gas-spewing tentacle erupting from his mouth, his fears are confirmed: That one small backslide would serve as the final tipping point for all mankind, inviting in a timeless destructive force that would lead him to the frontlines of the war to end all wars.

A growing population has succumbed to their worst fears, some transforming into dreaded fictional monsters—leaving the streets flooded with vampires, werewolves, spontaneously combusting humans, and other horrors—while others have become angels and demons determined to fight in the holy war they believe is upon them.

Questions soon arise as Randy’s and Alisha’s roles in this bizarre apocalypse become uncertain. One is a professed sinner, the other an asexual virgin. Each has been touched by the hand of fate, and each believes they are humanity’s last hope. But belief can be a funny thing…

The Divine Darkness is the first installment of The Divine Darkness apocalyptic horror trilogy.

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author K.R. Morrison @KRMorrison2 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Lord Wadd 
by K.R. Morrison 

Lord Walter Wadd cut a dashing figure. He was the host of fabulous parties, generous and kind to those who worked his land, and was popular among the townsfolk. His hunting skills rivaled anyone’s in the land. Everywhere he went, men fought to be in his company. Women swooned in his presence, and even little children rushed out to offer him presents as he strode about town and country.

At least, this is what his ego told him.

And his ego was so big, it had to ride in a separate carriage.

The last time he decided to expand his mansion, no one objected at all as he mowed down a huge swathe of forest to make room for it. Even the woodcutters, who made their living off that land, had no complaint. Especially after a few of them were given some of his care for their protests.

Bits of them still hung from poles at the edge of the remaining forest. They had been unhappy, so sending them to eternity had been a mercy.

After that, no one complained. Apparently, everyone else was happier with those few gone.

If you asked anyone over whom he had any authority, they would tell you (in hushed tones, away from any listening ears) that Walter Wadd was a despot. His parties were peopled with lackeys who were paid generously to keep him company, and he took advantage of the peasants who labored to bring in a profitable yield (never enough, of course).

Townsfolk crossed to the opposite side of the street when they saw him coming, and the children’s “presents” were whatever they could find to throw at him.

And his hunting skills were not skills as such, for who could call a decimation of dozens of animals at a time a “skill?”

But that ego made sure he saw things through Wadd-colored glasses only.

One day, as he made his way to the remnants of the forest to take down another fifty or so creatures, he was accosted by a handful of little boys, who lobbed a number of rotten apples at him. He smiled, thanked them, and then shot one of them in the arm.

“Oops!” He laughed and went on, leaving the shocked boys to clean up their companion.

As he strode through the leafy glade, he chomped on one of the apples. A little mealy, but it still had its good bits. He would have to talk to those boys about apple quality when he got back.

It gradually dawned on him that there was a lack of sound. No birdsong, no rustle of leaves. He stopped and looked around, puzzled.

He looked back the way he had come and was startled to see that the path had disappeared. The only way to go was forward. This annoyed him, so he started in the opposite direction. His ego approved.

The forest, however, didn’t. A wall of briars rose up in front of him.

“Fine.” He started forward where the path still existed, and as he walked the path continued to disappear behind him.

He came out into a clearing. To his wonder, there in front of him were scores of woodland creatures.

“Well, that makes it easy.” He nocked an arrow and sighted toward a large deer.

That’s as far as he got. The animals rushed on him as one, and by the time they were finished he and his ego had been obliterated.

The forest opened up, the news was made known…

…and the peasants rejoiced.

.
 
Fiction © Copyright K.R. Morrison
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from K.R. Morrison:

Enoch’s Return: Pride’s Downfall Book 4

All hell broke loose, as demon fought saint, and undead fought mortal. Fangs and swords, fire and light, mingled in a cacophony of noise that would have awakened the dead — if they hadn’t already been in the pitch of battle.

Toby was looking forward to celebrating his 21st birthday with family and friends. However, the day is shattered by the arrival of his sister, Erica, fresh out of the juvenile detention center, where she has lived in isolation most of her life. There is something very wrong with her still; witness her biting the ear of her taxi driver and licking the blood from her lips, and the way she antagonizes everyone around her. The other thing that is very off-putting about the day is a gift he receives – a musty tent and a few iron spikes that have been lying in the ground for years. Toby faints at the sight of the “treasure,” while Erica reacts violently and runs off to who-knows-where.
While he is unconscious, Toby learns who he truly is, and of his mission.

Available on Amazon!

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Patterns  
by Alex Grehy

Everyone knows about

fairy rings,

how you should

never step

inside a perfect circle.

But near perfect?

Is an oval still a portal?

The cunning fae know the way

to entice human souls, know, 

the fascinating lure of chaos.

Slight imperfections draw

your eye, broken patterns

distract, attract your judgment.

They know how your eyes seek the

heart of the mandala, ignoring the 

swirling maelstrom all around. 

They know how little attention you pay

to what lurks inside the tunnel 

when a light shines like hope at the far end.

You run, carefree, the path is so straight,

the twisted, non-fractal landscape, safe.

Above, trees bow to the faery queen,

branches lace into a flawless dome,

below, roots cup, complete the circle,

a perfect circle, a perfect trap.

.

Fiction © Copyright Alex Grehy
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from author Alex Grehy:

Spread: Tales of Deadly Flora

Green Thumbs Beware!

Plants are beautiful, peaceful, abundant, and life-sustaining…

But what if something sinister took root in the soil, awakening to unleash slashing thorns, squeezing vines, or haunting greenery that lured you in? Perhaps blooms on distant planets could claim your heart, hitch a ride to Earth on a meteor, or simply poison you with their essence. Imagine a world where scientists produced our own demise in a lab, set spores free to infect, even bred ferns to be our friends only to witness the privilege perverted. When faced with botanical terror, will humanity fight to survive, or will they curl and wither like leaves in the fall?

Read ten speculative tales ripe with dangerous flora to find out.

Available on Amazon!  

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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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On The Inside
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

My grandfather did fifteen years in prison.  My father never told me what crime he committed.  When I asked my grandfather about it, he pressed his lips together, his eyes narrowed, and his hands twitched.  Only years later when he was an old man, and he was an older man when he got out, he began to spill a little here and a little there, enough for me to figure out why my father was the way that he was.  But I was more like my grandfather.

The green steps stretched out before me.  I wanted to turn around and go back up, but my body would not respond.  Instead, I chased an invisible white rabbit down its hole, descending further and further into darkness.  My hand wrapped around the metal railing, and again, I tried to pull myself back.  It was no use.  Down I go.

Why couldn’t I have dreamt of a beach or a hotel room?  It was like my mind knew that I was being punished, and all I saw was a sea of green steps stretching out and downward.  What is at the bottom?  Death, my mind answered.

There were times, at least I think there were times, when I was just able to sit on a sharp metal green step and not move.  My feet rested on the step below me, itching to continue.  Why the urge to go down when all I was doing was going down?  I don’t want to reach the bottom, I thought.  I just want to sit here and not move.

Sometimes, not too often, but sometimes, I would hear a voice.  Someone was talking to me.  I couldn’t make out all that they were saying.  Their words were like coins dropping on each step and falling into the abyss below.  Sorry.  Love.  Deserved.  Punished.  Crime.  These were only but a few words that I was able to catch before they disappeared into nothing.

I’m headed back down again, my feet slamming on each and every step.  I thought of my grandfather.  I would rather be in a cell like his with a cot and bars on the window, walks in the yard with other inmates, watch the drama and fights unfold, and listen to the guards.  In here, it was only me.

Fifteen years.  That’s how long my grandfather served.  I did not commit a crime such as his, but mine still carried weight, one that led to this sentence, but how much time would I lose?  I don’t remember.  Would I come out like my grandfather did as an older man, or would I wander endlessly around and around and down?

I was all for the end of the prison system and the jails that took my grandfather’s time, my grandfather’s life away, but they found an alternative, a more cost-effective way.  Make them comfortable, they said.  They’ll stay in their homes.  They just won’t live there.

Why did I have to kill someone?

“Let me out,” I screamed.  “Please, I’m sorry!  Please, get me out of my head!”

But it was just me in here, and no one would hear me scream.

.

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

Melissa R. Mendelson is the author of the Sci-Fi Novella, Waken.  She also has a prose poetry collection calledThis Will Remain With Us published by Wild Ink Publishing.  Her short story collections, Better Off Here and Name’s Keeper can be found on Amazon/Amazon Kindle.

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 Angela Yuriko Smith @AngelaYSmith @darc_nina #LoH

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Perpetual Snow Days, or While We Were Doomscolling
by Angela Yuriko Smith

When Hell freezes over, as my grandad used to say, and as a kid in the sweltering, bone melting hotpot of inferno left to us by my grandad, and those of his generation, I frequently wished it would. I’d never seen snow, I couldn’t imagine anything but the baking pavement that left tar burns on the soles of our feet when we dared to run across the road. The corporations turned us to corpses, sold us out, led us to believe the next gadget would save us, not from anything that mattered, like war, warming and wrath, but from boredom. We sold ourselves out for entertainment, clicked the checkbox, said yes to the cookies and gave full permissions to turn our world into an Easy Bake Oven, and when they suggested the next greatest thing to solve all our problems you’d think we’d have learned but shooting silver dust into clouds seemed so exciting at the time…

…and then Hell did freeze over. The silver linings tarnished to dust, blocking the sun, thankfully, the heat dropped and we cheered the plunging mercury as it kept plunging. When the first snow fell it was a miracle, chilly manna from on high and we made snow cones, not minding how the silver dust turned our tongues gray, then our skin. We only cared that the sky was gray, global warming was trending down, and our thoughts turned back to letting someone else run the show until everything went off air and we looked up and out the windows to see we were on permanent holiday, every day a snow day, and like a string of old Christmas lights we started going dark, one by one by one.

Leave it to humans.
We always fix what we break.
Humans, leave it be.

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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 Elaine Pascale @DocLaney @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Path of Least Resistance 
by Elaine Pascale 

The day she saw her name written in the cobweb was the day she learned she had chosen the wrong path.

The cobweb with her name hung at the juncture of two trails. One was smooth and flat. The sun peaked through lush leaves; there were no visible obstacles. The scent of honeysuckle beckoned. The other trail was tangled with vines, littered with rocks and stumps, and it reeked of mold and decay.

She, as always, chose the path of least resistance.

Her journey began with pleasing sights and sounds. Exotic flowers peered between sturdy trees. Brightly colored birds perched on branches, serenading her with wondrous songs.

I could follow this path forever, she thought. It’s effortless; it almost carries me along.

She continued forward, relinquishing thought to the unobtrusive path. She continued in this somnambulistic state until she reached a bend and saw what awaited her around the corner.

The trees at this end of the path were remarkably different. Gone were the birds and lush leaves. Nailed to each tree were body parts: brains, hearts, and eyes. Blood ran in rivulets down the maze-like pattern of cells in the outer bark, and pooled in between raised and gnarled roots.

As she moved closer, it appeared the dismembered eyes were watching her.

This is not at all what I expected, she confessed, I thought the path would continue as it had, forever.

Beyond the organ strewn trees there was another web, larger than before. She could make out the words “The End” spun into the threads. A large spider nestled above the letters.

While the spider could not speak, its voice filled her head. “These are the terminal trees because they mark the end of the path. When travelers arrive here, they make an offering of three things. They offer their brains because they never had much use for them.”

The spider crawled further on the web, viewing the trees with its eight ruby eyes. “They offer their hearts because they never heeded them. And their eyes because they only sought shadows, viewing each counterfeit convention as real.”

“They experience being scrambled, forever.” The spider shook its cephalothorax. “What a terrible outcome, to be unendingly trying to reunite your parts.”  The spider fixed its eyes on her. “You, traveler, the path you didn’t choose…once you get past the strife, it leads to eternity.”

She asked, anticipating the answer would be horrific. “And this path, what is my conclusion here?”

The spider pointed a leg toward bare bark. “To your tree.”

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Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com

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More from Elaine Pascale:

The Blood Lights

They victimize all…

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

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

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

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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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Latch, Lock & Chain 
by Marge Simon 

I follow the stream into the greenwood,

Old Dozer knows the way, I smile as he

veers off, going deeper into the foliage, where

a last burst of sunset falls on the brick hut,

.

the same I’d built alone decades ago,

crumbling now, the whitewash almost gone.

How pleased I’d been that day to add that sign,

 “KEEP OUT”, now buried in a pile of leaves.

.

I should complete my mission before dark,

for the bastard’s sake, as he’ll be waiting.

At first at odds, I determine to convey

the truth, not guise it all in falsehoods.

.

“There’s been enough bad blood between us.

I’ll set you free, if you promise to forgive.”

From inside I hear a croak of assent.

But Dozer growls, looks at me. Whines.

.

“Mother hated you, she believed my lies.

The mine we co-owned is worthless,

I sold the deed to our land years ago,

and I killed that whore you fancied.”

.

The latch is rusted, but the lock still holds.

My key won’t work, I smash it with my torch.

With trembling hands, I free the chain.

Impossibly thin fingers claw around the door,

pushing it open a crack at a time …

.

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 Rie Sheridan Rose @RieSheridanRose @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Way Down Deep 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

The old lighthouse had always been there—at least as long as any of the kids remembered. Brenda stood with her fists on her hips. Arms akimbo, they called it—she just liked the way it made her feel. Powerful. Important.

Eyes narrowed, she glowered at Billy Preston. Her heart was pounding. “Take it back!”

Billy shrugged, a smirk on his rugged face. “Why? It’s true.”

Brenda shoved the bigger boy, making him stagger back a step. “It is NOT! I’m not scared of that place.” She thrust a hand behind her, pointing in the general direction of the lighthouse.

The other kids stood in a loose ring around the pair, shuffling nervous feet at the thought of the lighthouse. Brenda saw several surreptitious glances at the towering building. It looked ominous in the waning sunlight, hulking like a giant on the top of the cliff.

“Prove it,” Billy growled. “If you’re so tough.”

“Fine!”

Before she could think better of it, Brenda stalked up the steps and grabbed the handle of the door, praying that it wouldn’t open.

But it did. Why was it unlocked? Weren’t the adults worried there would be vandalism?

Steeling herself with a deep breath and squared shoulders, Brenda took one look back, lifted her chin, and stepped through the door.

The interior was brighter than Brenda expected, lit by staggered windows spiraling up the exterior wall. Sundown was still an hour or two away, so she had time to look around a little before it got too dark to see.

One hand atop the handrail, she started up the staircase. It curled around three stories past bare interior landings to end at a trapdoor. She pushed it open with care, peeking into another empty room containing only the copper reflectors of the decommissioned light.

“That’s disappointing,” she murmured aloud.

Letting the trapdoor close, she started back down the staircase. She continued past the landing with the door to the exterior, frowning as she did so. Why was there a staircase down?

Lighthouses didn’t usually delve underground, did they? Why would they? Maybe a storm shelter, or a root cellar?

Lost in her musing, she didn’t realize she had descended lower than the top of her head below the entryway. The stairs continued down with no ending in sight. The darkness surged in around her, deepening with every step down.

She scrunched up her face, straining to see beneath her. Soon, she had to feel her way down step by step as she clutched the handrail in a death-grip. After what seemed like hours, she almost stumbled as her questing foot found the ground was closer than she expected. She must have reached the bottom.

Wishing she had her phone with her—her mom had confiscated it because she got a C in Calculus last week—she stepped forward, feeling her way step by step. Putting her hands out in front of her, she gasped as she came in contact with a cold metal door. It seemed odd that a door would be this deep underground…

The door had a Camelot-style door handle, with a thumb lever on top of a vertical pull. She pressed down on the lever, and the door cracked open. She really shouldn’t go any further alone.

But she’d never been one to play it safe.

She jerked open the door and stepped into the revealed room lurking behind it.

“Ah, there you are,” purred a deep voice. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

Brenda’s eyes widened as she took in the scene before her. An enormous desk sat in front of her, backlit by a flickering reddish light. Sitting in a chair behind the desk was a bulky figure dressed in a dark suit and a pair of pince-nez perched atop a Roman nose.

“W-who are you?”

“We’ll go over everything in time, sweetie. For now, welcome to Hell.”

.

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

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519RiHK+1wL._SX331_BO1,204,203,200_

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Ashen Catastophe   
by Kathleen McCluskey 

In the heart of the desolate wilderness, where the trees stood like silent sentinels amidst a landscape of white ash, figures huddled within the dilapidated remains of a rundown cabin. Memories of the cataclysmic event that had shattered the world haunted their every waking moment. The memories danced like specters in the shadows of their minds.

As the wind whispered its mournful secrets through the remaining fir trees, the survivor’s thoughts drifted back to the day the nuclear facility collapsed. The blinding flash of light, the deafening roar of destruction and the suffocating cloud of ash that enveloped everything in its path. They remember the frantic scramble for safety, the desperate flight through a landscape torn asunder by chaos and devastation. The unmistakable stench of burning human flesh wafting through the air. All were grim reminders of the monstrous transformation inflicted by the nuclear fallout.

Now, alone in their sanctuary, the survivor’s fragile grip on sanity began to slip. His fellow survivors either fell victim to the radiation or to the monstrous creatures that lurked in the forest. Every creak of the cabin’s timbers, every rustling of leaves outside and the howling wind, sent shivers of dread down his spine. Beyond his fragile refuge lurked the mutated creatures that roamed the wasteland. Their grotesque forms twisted by the ravages of radiation.

As night descended like a shroud over the desolate landscape, the survivor huddled closer to the feeble warmth of their flickering fire. He sat and listened to the eerie symphony of the forest. In the darkness, unseen eyes watched and waited, hungering for the taste of human flesh. Twisted by radiation’s touch, the mutated creatures prowled the forest with a sickening grace. Their once recognizable forms contorted into nightmarish beings. Eyes glowed with an unnatural gleam amidst jagged claws and misshapen limbs. Their guttural growls echoed through the desolation like a song of despair and suffering.

The survivor knew that he was trapped in a world of perpetual darkness and dread, with no escape from the horrors that lurked beyond in the dusty thicket of trees. In the silence of the forest, amidst the whispering winds and the mournful cries of the mutated creature, he resigned himself to a life of solitude. An existence that was defined by the relentless march of time and the ever present specter of fear.

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

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Last Road to Salvation
by A.F. Stewart

Only the desperate walk the path, the ones where hope surrounds them in tatters and they cling to the small dissolving shreds. They grasp for the sugar-spun lies woven beneath the forest air and hidden spite, held together by the spectres and spread by gossiping tongues.

Belief is powerful, so they come.

Hesitation trails them as they walk the steps, trembling in dread and anticipation, fearing a fraud, but desiring their salvation. Soon, they see only the beauty, the swaying trees, inhale the fragrant pine scent on the breeze, and smile at the wafts of sunshine flitting through the forest canopy. They never heed the lengthening shadows or the narrowing path, do not hear the urgent whispers warning them to turn back.

Even when they stumble, they continue.

They only want a chance to save themselves, a chance to live.

Not once do they consider there are worse things than death.

.

 
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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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