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

Posted on March 20, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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If I Could Go Back and Do It All Again… I Wouldn’t
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

I missed my hair.  I missed how soft and thick it was, how easy it was to put it into two little buns on my head.  And my lips.  I forgot how perfect and pink they were, my skin flawless, scarless.  The only difference were my eyes.  Did my irises always glow an amber brown?

I felt like a little girl going to school for the first time, but this was high school.  I remembered not having too many friends, but I was happy with those that I hung out with.  And I liked to be stylish, so I chose a simple gray top with ripped blue jeans, pink sneakers and gold and silver earrings.  Yes, I looked good, but my smile faded.  Was she still there?

“No, you didn’t kill yourself,” I said.

“What?”  My mother popped her head into the bedroom.

I forgot how good my mother looked.  She was so old now, letting herself go and becoming such a fragile creature.  Was she okay?

“You okay?”  My mother asked.  “You look nervous.”

She never missed a thing.  “I’m okay,” I said.  “I’m just rambling.”

“Well, don’t ramble too long.  The bus is coming, and your eggs are getting cold.”  She stepped back into the hallway but paused.  “Your father’s still here, if you want to say good morning to him, if you’re back to talking to him.”

A sob rose up into my throat.  Should I tell him?  What year was it?  High School, but when?  I was never specific about the date, but maybe, there was still time.  And yes, at this point in time, I was a real bitch to him, but I didn’t know what was coming.  None of us did.

“Dad!”

My father jumped as I gave him a big hug.  “Good morning,” he said, unsure of being surprised or annoyed.  “You’re still grounded, so don’t think this changes my mind.”  He was surprised by my kiss on his cheek.

“I don’t care.”  I tried to hold the tears back as I looked at him.

“You okay?”  My father stepped back and finished his coffee.

“Fine.”  I heard the bus screech outside.  They never did fix those damn brakes.  “Got to go.  Bye,” but I gave him one last look before running out the door.

Once on the school bus, I remembered how much I hated this ride.  The boys were busy bullying this girl nearby.  The joke would be on them later on because she would become a millionaire.  There was so much other noise, and it was absolute nonsense.  Didn’t anyone realize that the world was going to drastically change, and it wasn’t down the road.  It would be after I graduated.

I wanted to come back, I thought, and it was a one-way ride.

High School.  Sometimes, it was fun.  Sometimes, it was a prison sentence.  What would today be like?  I saw my friends and screeched with happiness, surprising them.  After I graduated, most of us went our separate ways.  I gave each of them a big hug especially Phil.  He would end his life right before graduation.  I didn’t know.  None of us did, but maybe, I could change that now.  And if I could change that, then maybe, I could even save my dad.

“What is with you today?”  Bethany asked.

I shrugged.  “Nothing.”

Bethany threw her arm around my shoulders.  “Uh huh, you’re off.  Different.  Did you get laid?”

“Jesus, Bethany,” Phil said.  “Why don’t you say that louder?”

“No, I didn’t get laid.”  I glanced at Jill.  “Why are you quiet?”

“I got into a fight with my boyfriend,” Jill said.

Oh, that’s right.  You’re pregnant or will be, and you won’t graduate with us.

“Earth to Joy?  Hello Joy,” Bethany said.  “You gone to the moon or something?”

I was about to answer her when a boy walked our way.  He was overweight, sweaty with black and red hair.  Fuck, I forgot about him, I thought.  We thought he was a creep then?  Wait until he becomes president and starts World War III.

“Creep,” Bethany chirped.

“Creep,” Phil repeated.

“Creep,” Jill snapped a little too vehemently.

“Knock it off,” I said as he pushed past us, giving me the stink eye.  “He’s dangerous.  Don’t any of you realize that?”

“Why?  What did he do?”  Phil asked.

“Yeah, did he attack you or something?”  Bethany asked.

“Joy, you okay?”  Jill asked.

No, Jill, I’m not okay, I thought.  I was told coming back here would come with a price.  Now, I know what that price is.  I have to kill him.  If I don’t, then we all die.

“I’m fine, Jill,” I said.  “Let’s go to class.”

.

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 called, This Will Remain With Us published by Wild Ink Publishing.  Her short story collections, Better Off Here, Stories Written Along COVID Walls, 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 Elaine Pascale @DocLaney @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on March 20, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Whimsy is a Woman 
by Elaine Pascale 

“A pretty little thing like you shouldn’t worry about diet,” her date from the app chided after he had asked Mei about the panda tattoo on her left arm. She had told him that pandas were her favorite animal. That was not entirely a lie. She told him they fascinated her because their diet was completely inefficient and yet they grew fat. She couldn’t tell him that she had her tattoo because children loved it. It made them less fearful when she approached their cages.

He had said the tattoo looked new and she had told him she had it for “decades.” This was not entirely a lie. The truth was she had to have the same tattoo reapplied as her flesh continuously healed over it.

He had suggested dinner. Mei would have proposed a walk in the park at night. She made it a habit to never eat in front of others. They would be sickened by how inefficient her diet was. But she was on a mission, so she would have to find a way through a charade of a meal.

The fairy lights made Mei’s eyes look brown instead of red. They also made her witch’s teat difficult to detect. She and her date would not discuss the stigma diabolicum on her wrist which was visible and never healed over; the panda was safe conversation.

“A pretty little thing like you must go on a lot of dates. What made you use the app?”

Mei told him that she was new in town and working remotely, so had no way of meeting people. This was not entirely a lie. She was working for her coven. They had sent her to a new city, to find fresh samples they could use. Their fetus harvest had failed due to a lack of “crop rotation.” They required genetic variety.

He noticed she was ignoring the menu. “Do you want an appetizer? A drink?”

She was hungry; she hadn’t consumed an infant or child in weeks. If only she had the digestive enzymes to stuff down hors d’oeuvres and crepes and tapas and dumplings. If only she could swallow grilled filet mignon with garlic confit cloves and red wine reduction sauce. If only she could bring herself to put her mouth on some sun-dried tomato tilapia stuffed with rock lobster and asparagus.

But only flesh would do. And only youthful, tender offerings that were raised like veal.

She waved the waiter away when he approached. “A little more time,” she requested, sheepishly.

“Should I order for you? It’s something I like to do,” her date suggested.

She shook her head. She was about to make the fairy lights explode as an excuse to end the date when he reached across the table and put his warm hand on her cold one. “Women are made of whimsy,” he said, “Just try anything.”

Her eyes widened. Dare she deviate from her inefficient diet?

“You won’t know you like it until you try it.” He stroked her wrist, his fingers arousing her brand, making it tingle. His hands were soft and without callouses. She remembered that his profile on the app had mentioned private school, a position in the family business, and luxury vacations. He was sheltered; he was pampered.

“A pretty little thing like you, can have whatever you’d like,” he murmured in a low tone. He leaned toward her, his scent reaching her. He smelled sweet and salty. He smelled as if he had been marinated in indulgences. He smelled…young.

Her stomach rumbled.

He was right, she decided. She reached beneath the table and squeezed his thigh. She suggested they skip dinner.

In her home, as she feasted on him, she was pleased to discover that he made for a much more efficient diet.

.

Fiction © Copyright Elaine Pascale
Image courtesy of Pixaby.com

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More from Elaine Pascale:

The Blood Lights

They victimize all…

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

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

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

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheri White @sheriw1965 @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on February 29, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Cold Cold Change
by Sheri White 

I stepped out of my tent and saw that the snow was closer. I could feel the icy winds licking at the parts of me that weren’t bundled up.

It was time to move on.

Winter is taking over. I don’t know if it’s global, but in my little corner of the world, so many people have frozen to death or starved.

My wife was one of them.

I wanted to lay down and join her, but when this started, we promised each other we’d keep trying to find a place with our kids. There must be a warm, sunny place somewhere.

The three of us sleep together in a sleeping bag in our tent to keep warm at night. Once we hear the wind start to whip up and shake the tent, we pack up and head out.

***

We trudged on for several days, the icy wind at our backs pushing us forward. Trying to keep ahead of the eternal winter. And then we stopped short.

I dropped to my knees and wept.

Snow. Mounds of it covering bushes, cars, everything. Including people. I turned my kids around so they wouldn’t see hands sticking out of the snow as if they were reaching for help.

I set up the tent and we laid together inside. I usually zip the tent closed to keep out any encroaching snow and to keep us as warm as possible.

This time I left it open.

.

Fiction © Copyright Sheri White
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Author Sheri White:

sw`Don’t Turn Out the Lights: A Tribute to Alvin Schwartz’s Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark

Featuring stories from R.L. Stine and Madeleine Roux, this middle grade horror anthology, curated by New York Times bestselling author and master of macabre Jonathan Maberry, is a chilling tribute to Alvin Schwartz’s Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark.

Flesh-hungry ogres? Brains full of spiders? Haunted houses you can’t escape? This collection of 35 terrifying stories from the Horror Writers Association has it all, including ghastly illustrations from Iris Compiet that will absolutely chill readers to the bone.

So turn off your lamps, click on your flashlights, and prepare—if you dare—to be utterly spooked!

The complete list of writers: Linda D. Addison, Courtney Alameda, Jonathan Auxier, Gary A. Braunbeck, Z Brewer, Aric Cushing, John Dixon, Tananarive Due, Jamie Ford, Kami Garcia, Christopher Golden, Tonya Hurley, Catherine Jordan, Sherrilyn Kenyon, Alethea Kontis, N.R. Lambert, Laurent Linn, Amy Lukavics, Barry Lyga, D.J. MacHale, Josh Malerman, James A. Moore, Michael Northrop, Micol Ostow, Joanna Parypinksi, Brendan Reichs, Madeleine Roux, R.L. Stine, Margaret Stohl, Gaby Triana, Luis Alberto Urrea, Rosario Urrea, Kim Ventrella, Sheri White, T.J. Wooldridge, Brenna Yovanoff

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on February 28, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Here It’s December, Everyday  
by Kendra Smart  

There is a story spread through the hallways of schools, the gossip of the employee break room, the hallowed pews in silent churches. It tells of a horrible accident, shattered glass and screams. Of knocking three times, of a call to the tormented and the damned, one that is always answered. With delight and dismay…

Joseph Kenny had never put much stock into Campfire tales. They had never given him chills, thills, or goosebumps. For him, they left a scowl or a smirk. An unrepentant disdain for those who held any belief in the afterlife and those who go bump in the night. Some might refer to it as pride but Joseph knew that there was no fearsome creature waiting in the dark shadows, blood on its teeth and maw, waiting to rend and tear him to pieces.

So when his friend Bastien called him up with an opportunity to help him film a debunk of a local legend, he said yes. Why not? It was a way to network, gain new followers, all he saw were dollar signs.

Money.

He had known Bastien for years and had never backed down from a challenge yet. So he agreed, and in doing so sealed his fate.

The weather had called for a clear night, but the wind whipping around him and the sheets of rain spoke different intentions for the evening. There was almost regret as he thought of the sickness that might take him down for a few days after this kind of night. His ears bare to the cold, he could barely hear his friend rolling on his opener.

But something in the wind caught his ear, just a strong whisper, but it clearly called his name.

“Who’s there?” he asked.

His voice was lost amidst the torrential downpour illuminated by the stop lights and the buzzing sound that hummed in the air. He felt the jolts of that electricity in his bones. He spun around but there was no one there, just himself and Bastien. There weren’t even cars out at this time on the intersection. None he could make out through the steady sheets of rain.

Joseph had less than a few breaths before he heard it again. That crackling, gravely voice calling his name. So much closer this time, it seemed to be right at the cusp of his ear, invading the canal and echoing. He had never hated his name before now. But in these milliseconds he would have given anything for a different name, to not be a part of this surreal world.

He turned to Bastien and saw that he appeared frozen in time and space. But the look on his face turned Joseph’s blood to below freezing. A distorted and torn grin plastered his face, grotesque and painful. The fear painted clearly on the gloss of Bastien’s eyes.

“Who’s there?” Joseph was able to choke out as he desperately tried to locate the source of the voice.

His mind tried to calm him. These things were real, remember? You are freaking yourself out.

That was all good on paper but here in the moment logic had run away because what was happening defied logic.

One last time his name was screamed, this time though it was as though inside his mind, the voice reverberating inside of him. Joseph screamed, hoarse and forced as he tried one last time before he steadied himself.

“Who’s there?”

The sound of a revving, out of control vehicle hit Joseph’s ear, squealing tires and manic lights heading their way. He watched as a car ran into and through his friend.

Glass shattered and a horrible scream rang through the air.

Joseph watched in horror as his friend’s torso lifted itself and turned to him. He cringed as the squelching sound of flesh and blood moving on dead weight mixed with the grinding of glass against asphalt became all that his ears could hear. Deafening until blissful warmth filled his ears and he could hear no more.

But he could see… and the grin was still plastered on Bastien’s face…even with the slough of dead flesh sagging. Joseph may not have been able to hear but he knew the words Bastien spoke before death claimed its curious soul.

“It’s Me. Hi.”

.

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

Posted on February 27, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Godzilla in Therapy 
by Marge Simon 

My memoir majestic,

Standing tall in the distance,

have they forgotten already?

.

I’m single now.

I want sex all the time.

Sometimes I steal things,

little things.

.

They say it’s a social phobia.

I open my mouth to roar,

but nothing happens.

.

Oh, the pain

of an obsessive-compulsive!

Always guess a cliche,

you won’t be disappointed.

.

I see my face in multiples

of fifty second floor windows

where humans hunch behind

walls of clean black glass.

.

There were four neurotics

in our group when we started.

I tried so hard to be good.

.

Our shrink is dead.

I hold the rest of us in my hand.

Ever so gently, I squeeze.

.

Now we are one.

.

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

Posted on February 26, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Out of Gas 
by Rie Sheridan Rose 

There’s a subtle beauty to this desolation, though it takes a jaded soul to see it. This used to be a thriving waypoint on the road to somewhere. Now, it’s empty bays and empty pumps on the last road to nowhere. 

I remember the day I arrived here. The sky had much the same look—clouds gradating from blinding white edges to black as coal masses hulking over the town just waiting to throw a tantrum. But doors covered the service bays of Johnny’s Service Center, and the gas pumps out front wore a coat of cheery cherry red. 

Johnny mirrored the pumps, being cheery red himself. Flaming red hair, sunburnt red cheeks, and a red corduroy overall zipped to his waist, letting the Yankees T-shirt underneath peek out when he moved. Ah, Johnny. He was a delight. 

“What can I do you for?” he asked as my car rolled to a stop beside one of the gas pumps. 

I had feared it would stop miles before and had made it to the station by sheer willpower. “Out of gas,” I replied.

“Good thing I got some, then.” He flashed me a grin, and my heart was his.

And so it began.

At first, this was a vibrant little town. Maisie’s Diner down the way made a mean pecan pie, and you could always find a decent night’s sleep in a clean bed at Betty’s B&B. But at the next full moon, things changed.

About three weeks after I arrived, the first full moon rose behind the station like a golden coin tossed by a god. I had decided to stay awhile, here in this haven. 

Johnny had proven good with his hands in more ways than one, and I hadn’t felt a man’s touch in far too long. He had a cozy setup in the furthest service bay, and I moved from Betty’s to his bed by night three.

Three…a telling number.

Most everything in this story relied on threes. If I had stopped for gas three miles earlier at the big chain station in the next town over, I would never have landed here, out of gas. If I had been three months older—or three years—I might have had better control of myself. If this, if that… 

The moon rose, and I shifted. Not into something as tawdry as a wolf. My curse is dragon blood. I soared into the sky—and Betty’s went up in flames.

Something had to burn.

I never got caught. No accelerant turned up. No footprints led to the crime scene. No clue what happened.

Johnny suspected I had something to do with it, I think. I know I returned to his bed smelling of brimstone and ash. But he never mentioned it in all our time together.

One by one, the buildings burned. Always at the full moon. Maisie moved away before the diner went. Others opted out of town too. 

Soon, all that remained was the station. Johnny sold the service equipment to buy us food. He never complained.

I flew further and further afield on the full moon—should have done that from the start. One night, I returned home to find a sign on the front door of the station. OUT OF GAS.

Johnny lay inside—what remained of him. Shotguns give a messy death.

Next full moon, the station will burn. And I, with it. I am also out of gas…

.

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 Angela Yuriko Smith @AngelaYSmith @darc_nina #LoH

Posted on February 26, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Back After this Short Break
by Angela Yuriko Smith

I did all the things you told me to

I paid in gold for digital glamor.

You consumed my joy and left me empty

Until my heart was broke and frozen.

.

I paid in gold for digital glamor.

I scrolled. I clicked. I shared.

You consumed my joy and left me empty…

a recycled algorithm, a targeted demographic.

.

I scrolled. I clicked. I shared.

buried beneath all the things I’m not…

a recycled algorithm, a targeted demographic.

I sacrificed my joy to your bottom line.

.

buried beneath all the things I’m not.

I sacrificed my joy to your bottom line.

I paid in gold for digital glamor.

I did all the things you told me to.

.

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More from Angela Yuriko Smith:

Angela Yuriko Smith is an American poet, author and co-publisher of Space and Time magazine, a publication that has been printing speculative fiction, art and poetry since 1966. Together we build a poem as a community each month. Visit “Exquisite Corpse” at SpaceandTime.net to submit.

Catch up with Angela here!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Amanda Worthington @AmandaW58679588 @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on February 25, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Apocalyptic Designs
by Amanda Worthington

The sky is old violence

The varicose cloudbank speaks of trapped blood

And ugly futility.

And giving up.

Still, she expects the thunder to come

Beat the world into submission

Like it isn’t already on its knees

Fear in its eyes and a prayer on its lips

(One to a better God)

Pleading

Making promises it can’t keep

.

She gets the silence instead

So loud it could wake the dead

(The praying has all but stopped.)

.

Her roots reach deep into the creeping poison

Extracting holy salt from the demon sea

It hurts. Burns like pitch. Leaves every atom twitching

As she consecrates the ground on which he works

.

The last of his kind.

Planter of trees

He whose grove will shield the dead he raises

Until they are ready to find their way to her sacred dunes

And the sea beyond.

.

The Seekers of Salt are his last design

The final iteration

The last defense

.

Crafting them among the cries of their failed predecessors

Is the hardest part

But he knows everything depends on it

On the Making

And the Guarding by the strange Were-tree

That Father put by the water’s edge

To keep the Wretched out

Or the Blessed in.

.

When he returns, surely Father will be proud of his progress

He only hopes it will be enough to secure his love.

He will be rewarded or hit

Lauded or acquit

Absolved from his sin or forced

To begin again

With some heartier crop

Something capable of stopping the onslaught

.

It does not strike him that his father

Might be the sea

Architect

Of his misery

Bored maker who ultimately came

To favor a better design

.

So he goes on refining

As somewhere closeby an exhausted tree succumbs to the waves

Welcoming with open limbs

Her unavoidable fate

.

.

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

Posted on February 25, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Red Current
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

When did I dream in black and white?  Maybe, it was after everything, everything that went wrong.  Every night, I would return to the intersection of East 40th Street, staring up at the buildings.  Then, the screams began, drowning out the traffic.

I never saw a dead body before.  I only saw it on television, but there she was in a pale flowered dress, her eyes wide open.  Her face blank, and more shadows fell around her.  The bullets missed me.

Now, I see her every night.  She waited for me to look at the street signs and then up at the buildings.  She would never smile.  She never blinked.  She just stared, almost as if she were angry that I was the one that was still alive.

Tonight, in this dream, she held a shovel and grabbed me by the hand.  You would think that the dead were cold, but I felt nothing, not even a breeze.  Her stare was fixated to the ground, and I stared with her.  As we moved, the cement softened, turned green with some pale flowers rising up to greet me.  But she would not even let me touch one.

“Dig.”  Her voice was a click.  “Dig.”

“Dig what?  Where?”

She pointed at the mound of dirt nearby.  It was a strange sight because the city was metal and concrete.  Well, actually now, it was burnt and demolished.

“Dig,” she clicked.

Who am I to argue with the dead, and when would I wake up from this dream?  I dug, the shovel disappeared into a pile of dirt and mud.  I dug more, wondering if I was digging my own grave.  Could you die in your dream, and if you did, were you really dead?

Red water flowed from underneath the dirt and mud and came crashing around me.  It reminded me of a summer’s day, where my friends and I broke open a fire hydrant, and the water rushed out at us.  This was similar, but unlike that water, the red waves kept coming.

When I turned to look at her, red droplets poured from her head, down her skin, across her pale flowered dress and onto her shoes.  She opened her mouth but not to say anything.  She let the red water out, and it sprayed all over me.

I awoke, drenched with sweat.  I listened for their footsteps outside, but they haven’t found me yet.  What if I screamed?  I hoped not, but then I coughed.  My hand felt wet.  When I looked down at it, my skin was soaked in red.

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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 called, This Will Remain With Us published by Wild Ink Publishing.  Her short story collections, Better Off Here, Stories Written Along COVID Walls, 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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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

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

Posted on February 24, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Haunting of Midnight Fuel 
by Kathleen McCluskey 

In the heart of nowhere, where the road stretched endlessly, stood an abandoned gas station. Its once vibrant red and white paint had faded into a sickly gray and the rust had reclaimed the edges of its canopy. Tall grass, dry and yellowed swayed eerily in the whispering wind. The sky above was an oppressive deep black, heralding in a new wave of ferocious storms. It seemed as if the heavens themselves had abandoned the forsaken place. Yet despite the eerie silence that enveloped the area, there was a sense of something lingering, something unseen. Something forbidden yet palpable in the air.

As the clock struck midnight, a lone traveler stumbled upon the gas station, his car sputtering to a stop as if drawn by some unseen force. Ignoring the warning bells ringing in his mind, he stepped out onto the cracked concrete. His footsteps echoed in the stillness.

The interior of the gas station was one right out of a nightmare. Dust-covered shelves with long expired goods, shattered glass littered the floor and a thick layer of grime coated every surface. But it was the feeling of being watched that placed the traveler on edge. Unseen eyes bored into his soul and sent shivers down his spine. As he cautiously explored the abandoned building strange noises echoed from the shadows. Whispers carried on the wind that seemed to speak to long-forgotten secrets and untold horrors. Just as he reached the decrepit cashier’s booth, he saw it. A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, a shadowy figure lurking just beyond his edge of vision. His heart pounding he turned to flee, only to find himself face to face with the darkness itself. Eyes glowing with malevolent intent stared back at him from the depths, a chilling voice resonated in his head. Icy tendrils of fear ran their icy tips through his body.

At that moment the traveler knew he was not alone. He was trapped in a nightmare from which there was no escape. A twisted realm where the lines between the living and the dead were blurred into nothingness. As the darkness closed in on him, he knew that some secrets were never meant to be uncovered, some places never meant to be explored

For in the heart of nowhere, where the road stretches endlessly into the darkness, the abandoned gas station stands as a reminder of the horrors that lay in the shadows. They wait for unsuspecting souls to stumble upon their lair. Once you enter their domain, there is no turning back.

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