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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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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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

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

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.

.

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 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.

.

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 Suzie Lockhart @SuzieNBruce2 @Sotet_Angyal #LoH #fiction

Posted on February 24, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Inside the Matrix 
by Suzie Lockhart 

Ice melting away
I see it shimmering
Surely a diamond’s matrix
For I spot it!
Glimmering
.
Beckoning me
The rock within dwelling
A collector’s dream
I wade into frigid waters
Considering
.
How precious this stone
How little to refine
The edges already perfect
Ignore the cold for something
Divine
.
Unaware… I go deeper
Desiring what I see
The water pulls me under
The sparkling gemstone has
Me.

.
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!

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

Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Alyson Faye @AlysonFaye2 @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

Posted on February 23, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!


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Blood Beach
by Alyson Faye 

“They call it ‘blood beach’,” Emmet said with a nervous giggle, as he helped Kelly pull the rowing boat onto land and moor it to the nearest emaciated tree.

Kelly spat out her gum. “Yeah, right, whatevs.”

No way was her shield of cool indifference, years in the making, going to crack ‘cos of some creepy stories and red sand. “You know, idiot, it’s the iron content that turns it red.”

She sashayed her way up the beach, hair spiky, skinny-ribbed and to Emmet, totally desirable. He’d never have dared come here without Kelly. This was His big chance.

Do NOT blow this, man. He told himself, for the tenth time. He scurried after her, carrying the rucksack stocked with weed, booze and food.

He tasted copper in the air, the day was supernaturally still and blazing hot. He thought he caught a movement in the tree-line.

“Er, Kelly? Did you see that?” He pointed.

Kelly up ahead, was laying out her beach mat and didn’t reply.

Emmet blinked hard, tried to focus but sun-dazzled, saw nothing. “Could there be anyone else here?”

Kelly shrugged. “Doubt it. Gimme the rucksack, time to get high.” She winked at him and his spirits lifted.

He tried to relax, stretched out, with Kelly’s thigh next to his own, but the sense of being watched bugged him. He kept turning round and scanning the trees, but the contrast between the bright sunny beach and the shady recesses of the trees defeated him.

“Gotta go pee,” Kelly announced, standing up.

Emmett grabbed her ankle. “Maybe go in the ocean, Kells. Not into the trees.”

“No way.” She walked away from him, cross and determined; she vanished behind the first tree.

Emmett waited. The silence hung heavy. There’s no bird sounds. So weird. He tasted copper in the air, and wrinkled his nose.

The minutes ticked by. Kelly didn’t return. Emmett’s gut churned, his nerves shrieked at him. “Kells?” he called, or whispered. Pathetic. He tried again. No reply.

He caught a flash of red in the trees, moving fast. Very fast. It freaked him out. Was that Kelly? The silence pressed down. The sand burned his bare soles.

She’s been gone too long. Something’s happened. Maybe she’s hurt, twisted her ankle. Why doesn’t she answer?

He rummaged through the rucksack, searching for a weapon, but only came up with matches and bottle opener. Armed with these, he walked away from the safety of the shoreline. Sweat trickled down his neck, spine and face.

“Kelly?” he croaked, lips cracking. He paused on the boundary line of trees and blood-red sand. He heard a rustle, a whisper and saw a flash of movement. “Stop playing this stupid game, Kells. Just c’mon out and let’s leave.”

He heard a whimper, it was enough to draw him in.

***

 It watched the prey, clumsy, slow and bi-pedal, clump its way into its domain. Prey always came, though lately less often. So its hunger had grown. Along with its desire. Its tongue erupted from its jaws, tasting the coppery air. Now the hunt began.

 ***

Emmet walked on, deeper into the trees, which he noticed were sickly-looking, green, gooey sap leaking from the bark, and the shrubs all bore savage prickles as though in defence against . . . whatever’s here, he thought.

The air was fetid, swollen with decay.

He glimpsed movement several meters away, fast, a flicker of substance amongst the shade. He swallowed. He knew it wasn’t Kelly. Too fast, too low to the ground. He prayed it was a wild dog, or even a wolf.

“Kells?” he whispered, afraid to speak louder.

Another whimper drew him on, though he sensed eyes, an intelligence watching.

He found Kelly in the next minute. He wished he hadn’t. He wished he’d never come looking and just got in the boat and left.

She was hanging by her ankles, from a low branch, dripping blood from several deep gashes. The stench was toxic. Clearly she was dead, and something had bitten chunks from her.

So who or what’s whimpering?

A rustle behind him, and Emmett’s latent feral senses went into overload. His fingers nudged the match box open, sweat made his fingers slippery.

One strike, one chance.

He turned, struck the match and prayed for fire, as his ancestors had done. It landing on the creature’s bony spine, where tufts of black fur sprouted. It ignited, a fireball of burning flesh, howling its agony.

Calling to its pack.

.
Fiction © Copyright Alyson Faye
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com

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More from Alyson Faye:

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The Lost Girl & Spindleshanks

The Lost Girl
A nailed-up door. An inheritance which comes with a ghost. A missing girl. A fifty-year-old mystery. Parapsychologist Berkley Osgood is hired to investigate. What he uncovers reveals secrets the living want to hide and the dead will never forgive.

Spindleshanks
Adam is having nightmares about a skeletal shadow figure, who he calls Spindleshanks. Soon his whole class are sharing the same nightmare. Adam’s dad, Rob, knows that Spindleshanks can’t be real. But is he? One terrible night Rob has to face his son’s nightmare creature and fight for his son’s life. What would you sacrifice to have your child back safe?

“A decent two-for-one. Alyson Faye brings the engaging and eerie in equal measure.” CC Adams – horror / dark fiction author

Available on Amazon!

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

Posted on February 23, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Red 
by K.R. Morrison 

We are ancient – much older than whatever we inhabit.

It is the restlessness that got us imprisoned, but we had gotten to that point slowly. After all, we are eternal; time is meaningless to us.

The last time we dwelt in a Host of any use was a very long time ago. He was a disappointment to us – he didn’t last long. The others of his species destroyed him because of us and buried him where he would no longer bother them.

We were also trapped, until a tree took root over the burial and grew large enough for us to absorb its energy and rise from the soil.

The tree was not our first choice as a Host, but its sap was sufficient for our use.

Then one day someone chopped our tree down. We watched, impassive, as it was milled and ground down into a soppy mess. One thing led to another, and the wood became the substance in which we now live.

Our surroundings look like a human city, but much smaller. There is a full-sized human that comes to the city, where he arranges the buildings to his liking and sometimes makes humming noises as he pushes toy cars through the streets.

There is a building made of the “carboard” in which we dwell, with a very sharp point. We never gave it much thought, until a few days ago…

 .

The cityscape was a wreck. He had been so very careful building it, and now wondered if he could ever repair the scattered buildings.

He had bandaged the palm of his hand, but it was still seeping. The point on the Empire State Building model had been a lot sharper than he had realized; his hand had come down on it and the thing had gone straight in.

There had been blood, more than he would have thought possible. And now he had to go clean it up before it was absorbed into the cardboard and ruined the project.

But when, rag in hand, he had gone to take care of the mess, he was astonished to see that the cityscape was clear of any spatters.

“Weird…”

.

The Red had fallen on us, and we had quickly taken it in. It had been far too long.

We knew that our compatriots, who had been in the spire of that building, were now occupying the man’s hand. And they had an idea as to how to get the rest of us into what we knew would be our new Host.

 .

A wave of dizziness hit him, and he swayed. When his vision cleared, he blinked…

The cityscape had not changed, but to him it now held a new attraction.

He pulled a building off the board and quickly stuffed it into his mouth. And then another. He was suddenly frantic for the taste of carboard, and couldn’t stop himself.

Another wave of dizziness hit, and he fell, unconscious, onto the floor.

.

We are free! With a little work on those teeth, we can now move about once again.

And we are very, very hungry.

.
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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Posted in Authors, Dark Fiction, flash fiction, FREE, Horror, Ladies of Horror, Women in Horror Month, Writing Project | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

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

Posted on February 22, 2024 by Ladies of Horror

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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On the Road Again 
by Marge Simon 

Author’s note: I set this in an apocolyptic future, rather than a deserted past, as the prompt indicates.

We drive for miles, but all’s the same on either side of the road: destruction in one form or another. Some remains of chimney stacks. Here and there, an upright pipe; things improperly buried, a funereal sort of detritus. It’s depressing to find no life, other than roaches and the occasional rat. We know the costly pets – the ones bought and paid for – are likely still alive and well in the big cities. But at this time, they are more trouble than they’re worth to us.

A distance outside of Laramie, we’re not surprised to find an abandoned truck stop. We’ve no need for the fuel, but we smell life inside. Looters, our favorite prey. They don’t even bother to use any protection. In a few days, there’ll be some poor guy in line to get his Haz-mat stuff before he’s allowed to search remains of his property. Sorry mister, those maggots will have beat you to anything left in the till, if it’s still there.

 

Sam T and Krista have lots of time to kill,

he’s got a Ford truck and she loves the thrill

when out on the county back roads they roam,

trolling for treasure in partly burned homes.

A washer and dryer, a flat screen tv,

a rifle with shells, and a pistol for free,

not bad for a Thursday, they’ll try it again,

so stupid, so sure that their god is with them.

 

We move in quietly. Their exposed necks look so tempting as they peer into the cash box. There’s no need to rush lunch. Our little expedition here has given us quite a thirst.

.

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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