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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Self-Care 
by Elaine Pascale 

“Can you make cookies for the troop meeting tomorrow?” Katheryn had called after dinner putting Miranda on the spot. Miranda knew she couldn’t say no to a troop mother: she would be blackballed. Her life was one of constantly trying to stay on the good side of the “Mommy Community.”

Miranda looked at her hands. The last two fingers of her left hand were missing, and her palm ached. “Uh, that’s fourteen girls, right? And a few for the parents?”

“I was thinking of bagging them for the girls to each take some home.” Katheryn’s voice was as sweet as the cookies she was soliciting. “With a holiday note from you of course. So more like seven dozen.”

Miranda hung up, facing another sleepless night. This holiday season alone, she had baked for the church bazaar, for carolers, and for the school orchestra concert. She had supplied treats for Saturday morning football and for the skating rink. Each time, she had lost a piece of herself: toes, fingers, an ear.

When she slid the first pan of cookies into the oven, Miranda’s nose fell off onto the already heated bake element. The scent of burning flesh mingled with the sugary smell of the confections, but Miranda was oblivious as it was her nose that was cooking.

Her lips came loose with the next batch, but she baked until she had no appendages remaining to roll out cookie dough.

When she failed to show up to the troop meeting the following day, Katheryn came to Miranda’s house.

“I thought we had agreed on seven dozen,” Katheryn remarked, as she daintily stepped over the piles of flesh on the floor. She paused and bent close the pulp that still resembled a face. “We will make note of this failure,” she whispered.

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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 Naching T. Kassa @NachingKassa @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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The Legacy of Toadstool House 
by Naching T. Kassa 

The room smelled of antiseptic and the fluorescents tortured my eyes. I stared at the figure on the hospital bed, squeezed his good hand, and bit my lip to hold back the tears. I could barely recognize him.

Chris’ left eye had swollen shut. The right looked as though it were swimming in blood. He’d lost all of his front teeth and his face appeared red and raw. Most of his bones were broken. They said Chris had been attacked the moment he walked into his house. That the intent had been to kill him, and the assailant had succeeded. He had moments to live.

Somehow, he’d hung on long enough for Jack and me to arrive.

Jack, Chris’ brother, sat on the other side of the bed. He stared at Chris, then whispered, “Who would do this? Why would they do this?”

“The crown,” Chris said. The words came out in a frog-like croak. “He…wanted…the crown.”

Jack and I looked up at one another. As children, the three of us had discovered another world, a place full of magic and wondrous creatures. We had reached it through a bridge in the woods, one which led us to the toadstool house and the single inhabitant inside, the Troll King. Chris had defeated the Troll King in battle, and they had become good friends. When Chris returned to our world, the Troll King had given him the crown and named him successor. He was the chosen one, the future King.

Chris gripped my hand and pulled me closer. He stared at me with his blood-red eye.

“Lisa,” he gasped. “The darker…part of me. It’s…waiting in…Toadstool House. You…I name you…Quee—”

Though his lips continued to move, his words ceased. Death crept in, robbing him of the last message he so needed to impart. The heart monitor whined.

Hospital personnel forced us out of the room as they struggled to resurrect him. Jack pulled me into the hall and onto a bench. I sat there in a state of detachment until the doctor pronounced him dead. Then, the dam broke within me. Jack held me as I sobbed.

Memories assailed me. I remembered how Chris had been before our trip into the woods, the troubled child with the will to burn. How Jack and I had feared him, and how the battle with the Troll King had changed him. The king had separated him from the darker side of his self and trapped it in the house.

“His dark half killed him,” I cried. “He said as much himself. Somehow, it escaped Toadstool House and came back here. It took the crown. It wants to be king.”

“It’s probably headed there now,” Jack said.

I jumped to my feet. “Then we have to stop it.”

“How do we do that?”

“We go to Toadstool House and confront it before the Troll King.”

***

We arrived at Chris’ home a half hour later. The house stood silent before us. We hurried into the woods, avoiding the scent of blood and the sight of spatter.

The bridge, once so short, seemed to go on forever. At last, I glimpsed the red light beside the door, and moments later, Toadstool House stood before us. The place seemed in disrepair. Abandoned. As we approached, a horrid stench rose like a wall before us. Flies buzzed over the corpse of the Troll King.

“He’s been dead three days—at the most,” Jack said, his tone grim.

Grief overwhelmed me as I fell to my knees before the body. “Then…it must’ve killed him before it came to our world. Before it killed Chris for the crown.”

I saw it then. The single word scrawled in the Troll King’s own blood. My eyes shifted to the key around his neck, then the small door nearby. The door stood shut tight, the padlock unused and dust covered. I reached out to cover the key with my hand.

“Shit,” Jack said behind me. I turned to face him. He’d gone pale, his gaze riveted to the single word written on the floor.

JACK.

“Why?” I cried. “For the crown? To be king?”

“Why not?” he said, sullen as a petulant child. “Chris didn’t even want to be king. He just didn’t want me to have it. He didn’t want me to have anything. Even on his deathbed, he didn’t name me successor. He named you. You are all that stands between me and the crown.”

Rage glittered in his eyes. I could almost feel his hatred.

I snatched the key from the Troll King’s throat and scrambled over the bloated body. I slipped the key into the small door’s lock and turned.

The door flew open.

The beast leaped from within, quicker than any creature I had ever seen. The wolf-like features darkled shadow black, while its teeth gleamed white. Until, that is, they were covered in Jack’s blood.

He screamed and thrashed beneath the onslaught, then lay still.

The crown had slipped from a pocket within Jack’s coat. It lay on the floor between the beast and me. He seized the crown from off the floor.

Chris’ eyes stared at me from the thing’s face.

He placed the crown atop my head.

.

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

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More from Naching T. Kassa:

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Arterial Bloom

Lush. Brutal.

Beautiful. Visceral.

Crystal Lake Publishing proudly presents Arterial Bloom, an artful juxtaposition of the magnificence and macabre that exist within mankind. Each tale in this collection is resplendent with beauty, teeth, and heart.

Edited by the Bram Stoker Award-winning writer Mercedes M. Yardley, Arterial Bloom is a literary experience featuring sixteen stories from some of the most compelling dark authors writing today.

With a foreword by HWA Lifetime Achievement Award Recipient Linda D. Addison, you are invited to step inside and let the grim flowers wind themselves comfortably around your bones.

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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The Island   
by Kathleen McCluskey 

Maria stood as she brushed the sand off of her legs. She lifted her hand to shield her eyes against the sun’s bright rays. She squinted into the distance. “John! Come here, quick!” There was an audible groan as John lifted himself out of the hammock.

“What now? You seem to think everything on this island is extraordinary!” He sighed as he slowly walked towards Maria.

She looked at John over her shoulder, “I’m serious, there is something going on in the sky; the color is off.” She stepped into the water. It splashed playfully on her ankles. “The water even feels warmer. There is something going on here.”

John looked up toward the horizon; the auburn colors of dusk were overtaking the pale blue daytime sky. “You’re nuts. There is nothing there but a beautiful sunset. C’mon let’s get ready for dinner.” Maria cupped her hand in John’s as they strolled up the beach toward their hotel. She looked back as she could see the fiery clouds overtake the wooly puffs of white.

She began to panic, “John! Look at that!” John turned and was astonished to see the heavens appearing to look like they were ablaze.

John kept his composure, “C’mon, let’s get off of this beach!” As Maria began to run the earth started to quake and vibrate. She screamed as she fell over into a sand dune. The earth opened up and John was swallowed by the cascading sand. Maria could only watch in shock as the crevice widened. She climbed up onto a rocky outcropping and looked up.

Crimson and apricot colors were blending as a luminous craft began to push through. The earth rumbled even harder. The wind was stagnant but an ear shattering reverberation made Maria cup her hands over her ears. She could only look on as the alien craft came closer. The sea was churning and bubbling; a whirlpool began to appear. The bright craft hovered over the churning water. The coast started to disappear as the water rose higher and higher. The earth was quaking at a ferocious rate. Maria was knocked into the surf and swept out to sea by the vicious, turbulent water.

All over the planet, the space crafts appeared; burning cities to ash while eradicating all life that once resided there. The aliens offered no explanation. The governments of each country tried their best with human weapons but to no avail.

The alien overlords had returned to reclaim their planet.

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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 Melissa R. Mendelson @melissmendelson @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Emotional Damage 
by Melissa R. Mendelson 

Henry was an emotional boy, or at least, that was what his mother kept telling him.  Any little thing made him cry.  A bird singing outside his window would even bring him to tears.  He didn’t know what was so wrong with crying, but his mother acted like he was doing something wrong.  Even the kids at school nicknamed him, Cry Baby.

On the weekends, his mother would leave him in the house.  She would spend hours by herself doing errands.  She couldn’t risk bringing him with her, she would say, adding that it would make her look bad.  She wasn’t a bad parent, so he wouldn’t argue with her.  He was almost eleven, almost a big boy, and he did not mind crying.  Yet, the neighborhood kids would ride by on their bikes, shouting at the top of their lungs, “Cry Baby.  Cry Baby.  Waaaaaaah.”

The mail truck drove up the road.  He waited a beat as the man reached into the mailbox, leaving letters behind, and he pretended to wipe his tears away.  Yeah, it was really funny.  He was just a joke to them, including his mother, but he should still get the mail.

“I could help you with your crying.”

He noticed how people avoided the lady down the street.  Her house was overgrown with vines and weeds.  Her lawn a short green.  Even the kids in the neighborhood would cross the street, avoiding her, and now, she was standing behind him.  “I could help you with your crying,” she repeated, a bent, gray creature looking at him with pale eyes.

“No thanks.”  He moved away from her, tucking the mail under his arm.

“They won’t stop.  Even your mother has given up.”

The sun slipped out from a gray cloud and cast its light over him.  The warmth made him smile.  Then, the tears came.  Come on, even the sun made him cry?

“Up to you.”  She crawled away.

“Wait.”  He returned the mail to the mailbox, then turned toward her.  “Will it hurt?”

“Maybe, for a minute, but then, the crying will stop.”

“Okay.”  He followed her to the house that everyone avoided, and his skin crawled as he stepped onto her lawn.  Maybe, this was a bad idea, but he couldn’t turn back now.  He had to stop crying, and he couldn’t do it on his own.  I don’t know what to do with you, his mother would say, adding to go to his room, if he couldn’t stop crying.

The woman led him into the house and opened the basement door.  Maybe, he should turn back, and he burst into tears.  He was so tired of crying.  He wiped his tears away and went down the stairs, expecting her to follow him.  She closed and locked the door.

He was surprised that the basement did not seem like a prison.  It wasn’t cold or gray.  Instead, there were beautiful flowers everywhere, and he stopped crying.  He noticed a large plant toward the back of the room.  This one seemed sad, its head resting on its pot.

As he stepped closer, the plant’s head rose up, a smile playing across its green lips.  Its leaves gestured toward him, and he reached out to touch them.  The plant’s mouth opened, revealing rows of little teeth, and its leaves wrapped around him, pulling him closer.  And he screamed, but a vine twisted around his throat, forcing his mouth open.  The plant leaned in, opened its mouth and breathed in the boy’s breath, every gasp, then dropped him to the floor.

He sat up on the floor and stared at the plant, who seemed satisfied with its reward.  The plant pulled back into its pot, lowering its head down like before.  He rose to his feet and touched the plant, but it had no more use for him.  And the woman walked down the basement stairs.

“Dead cat,” she said.

“What?”

“Someone ran over a cat in the street.  It didn’t die but was left there, struggling to live.  No one helped it.  The poor creature suffered and suffered until it was dead.”

That should have made him cry.  Something that horrible would have brought the tears he couldn’t stop for hours, but nothing happened.  No tears.  Not even a sense of sadness.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

She smiled.  “You will, but for right now, you’re cured.  No more crying.”

“No more crying?”

“That’s right.  Now, you better get home.  I think I saw your mother driving down the street.”

“Did she run over the cat?”

The woman shrugged.  “Feel free to visit anytime.”  She watched him move away and touched her plant.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll find another for you soon,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” he said from the top of the stairs before hurrying away.

“They won’t make fun of you now,” she said.  “They’ll be too afraid to even say, Cry Baby.”

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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 a Poet and Horror, Science-Fiction, and Dystopian Short Story Author.  Publications featuring her writing can be found here: https://linktr.ee/melissarmendelson

 

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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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The Birthday Boy 
by Marge Simon 

My days have been numbered ever since that horrid book, IT, was such a success. The little brats are either hostile or afraid of my costume. Still, I need to make a living, however meager. I must face them again today for little Johnny’s birthday. He opens the door. I cringe, awaiting his scream, surely to be joined by the other little bastards. But something is wrong. Johnny is smiling. He hands me a fistful of fancy lollypops. “Come in, Mr. Pennywise,” and then, “Okay, Mom, Dad! He’s here!”  Mom arrives with a kitchen knife. Dad grabs me and ties me up. “Okay, kids, line up. Everyone gets a chance, but try not to damage him too much the first time around,” says Mom. She hands the knife to Johnny first, since he’s the birthday boy.

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Fiction © Copyright Marge Simon
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com 

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More from Marge Simon:

Victims_MargeSimon

Victims
by Marge Simon and‎ Mary Turzillo

The title of this collection sets you up for the surprise of lyrical stories of victimizations with unexpected endings for the villains. Be ready to have your heart opened and cheer for perceived victims, human (made and unmade) and other life forms, victorious in the hands of these two award-winning poets. —Linda D. Addison, award-winning author, HWA Lifetime Achievement Award recipient and SFPA Grand Master.

Across histories and cultures and from Auschwitz to Babylon this book leaves you questioning who are the victims, and regardless of your conclusion you’re likely to get throat-punched. This is horror where everyone has a knife, and is ready to deliver this message: “Remember, you are always guilty. —Herb Kauderer, author of Fragments from the Book of the After-Dead.

Simon and Turzillo have only gone and startled me again. What a collection! Brutal. Beautiful. This quiver of poems strikes with the unflinching truth of persecution and oppression as seen through the lens of feminism. Prepare to come away bruised and yet strangely bolstered by Victims, a symphony of sadness orchestrated by two masters of dark poetry. —Lee Murray, Bram Stoker and Shirley Jackson Award-winner.

This is one of the braver dark poetry collections I’ve seen in a while. Horror poets generally employ victims in their work, but the focus is generally on the Evil. Turning the camera the other way is unusual, unsettling, emotionally risky, and surprisingly effective. From their stark opening take on Pygmalion, to the ending poem about the wasted life of Stateira of Persia, this powerful collection teases apart an impressive number of the threads of victimhood. Some are the usual cases, but quite a few are surprises, or reversals, or cases with unexpected layers. There is nothing repetitive about this collection. —Timons Esaias, winner of the Asimov’s Readers’ Award and the Winter Anthology Contest

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Amy Zoellers @breakfastpoet @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Hallucination House 
by Amy Zoellers 

Hallucination House

(tripping near)

(gripping fear)

(passing by)

(shrieking cry)

(wish to die)

Through the trees, the monsters fly.

Safe inside

witches hide,

sweep the floor

and charm the door.

Corpses shake

with hair blown wild.

Cookies bake

for the devil’s child.

Pass this way

cold and gray

You’ll never see another day.

.

Fiction © Copyright Amy Zoellers
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.
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More from Amy Zoellers:

OrdealInFrenchLipstick

Ordeal in French Lipstick

 
 

Art! Fun!! Poetry and song! Portraits, dolls, prints, jewelry… and so much more! Find Amy on Instagram:  Hipness and Outrage 

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Sheikha A. @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

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Layla
by Sheikha A. 

to giving Venus a mercy of jasmines
.
‘The jasmines bloomed (a mercy) and withered’ 
– Rizwan Saleem
.
The scripture on her hand is blood-ink –
emboss-pattern of rivulet-veins. Dragon-
.
star hovering like a paper mountain;
the peak of a hummingbird’s perch
.
on her shield of solitude. Sea horses
have flown to fairies of the winds –
.
all beings with wings migrating to land;
she awaits her messengers, their stems
.
sleek. Her body is a ground of youth,
fertile like salt in the sea – haloclines
.
of progeny – frozen in age. She grows
nettles on fungal barks; hangs thorns
.
like slender ivy on curves of a dense night.
She has killed many moons to get this far;
.
their debris-glimmer attracting creatures
from the other world she wants to reach.
.
There was one: hide taut ripples,
his guile debilitated to her allure;
.
she tied a noose of spells around his neck,
called them heal-stones and set him free.
.
Dragon-star has risen, pointing light
to his land. It hasn’t taken long – turn
.
of one century – for him to find his way;
her stones gleaming from under his skin –
.
spell lodged. He will be carrier of light
and wings; hide taut ripples of virility.
.
He will be moon to her endless night –
what she may kill – what she won’t do –
.
the hummingbird is perched. Sleek
stems emanate soporific scents;
.
she is tired of watering illusions –
her trees growing thick and heavy.
.
Perhaps, this moon will be eternal.
Fairies watch from behind her mercy.
.
.
Fiction © Copyright Sheikha A.
Image courtesy of Pixabay.com.

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More from author Sheikha A.:

Screen Shot 2019-12-17 at 10.57.17 AM.pngNyctophiliac Confessions:
Poems by Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee

“The night is cold enough to inspire poetry,” says Sheikha A. in her poem, “Reading My Bones.” This is the basis of Nyctophiliac Confessions – poems that are introspective and luminal, poems that require a certain amount of silence and space to be fully formed and appreciated. Reading these poems, I imagined that they were the kind of poems that assert themselves unbidden during a bout of insomnia. (A nyctophiliac being someone who loves the night or loves darkness).

Nyctophiliac Confessions is the 17th installment of Praxis’ chapbook series and contains twenty-six poems written by two poets, Sheikha A. and Suvojit Banerjee, interspersed with abstract paintings by Robert Rhodes.

Available Here!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Nina D’Arcangela @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

When the Silver Fell
by Nina D’Arcangela

As I sit on the bank shivering under a woolen blanket, I can still hear the metal screech of the bridge as it tore loose. I hear car horns blaring, people screaming, see holiday gifts tumbling on the rough current… Many say a large winged creature warned of it. My harbinger, miniature in scale, spoke of the collapse, the frigid water, the slab of asphalt angling to the silt below. What he didn’t tell me was that you would ruin me, you’d take everything, and in that taking, you’d try to take me too. I wish you had.

Forty-six people died that evening, the only two never to surface again brought me into this world, and you saw fit to never allow them the dignity they deserved.

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Mental Ward: EXPERIMENTS

A dank basement, shadow filled hallways, the deep echo of a metal latch being thrown while faint screams are heard… These are the things you might experience in a place where the unspeakable happens, where conscientious action and moral turpitude turn a blind eye in the interest of advancing one’s own personal pursuits in the most deranged and unjustifiable manner. The type of place where power corrupts, and depravity runs rampant among those imbued with it. A place where the unfortunate are abandoned to the devices of those who convince themselves their actions are in the best interest of science.

Mental Ward: Experiments is a collection of ten short stories that demonstrate the worst of humanity’s ambition in the interest of ‘civilized’ advancement. Step into a world where sanity is left behind, and horror is what the doctor ordered!

Available on Amazon!

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Lynn Ruzzo @darc_nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

Waiting for You
by Lynn Ruzzo

I waited so long, and still he didn’t show. He said he’d be there, just like always. Same time, same place. We’d never been apart very long. But those times lengthened as years went by. Less often, he’d come. I wondered if he were busy, or just unable to meet despite his want. Or maybe he no longer desired these short visits? Would he abandon me? Would I, him? I swallowed the urge to walk and never return. I had to. For him. For me. But eventually, I had to go. The world beyond called and I couldn’t resist. Before I faded back to the void, I saw his eyes on me, and I smiled before I vanished.

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Ladies of Horror Flash Project – #Horror #author Nina D’Arcangela @Darc_Nina #LoH #fiction

The Ladies of Horror
Picture-Prompt Writing Challenge!

The Slip
by Nina D’Arcangela

The texture of the brass dials a thing so fetching, feel them spin, with a tick and a click, tightening ever so slightly as the prize is nearing.

Nimble fingers twist knobs, first left, then right, and back yet again. Feeling for the slightest shift, as slowly they spin.

A tick, a click, the slip. The first dial is set. How these tired tips work at gaining entry, their art lost to time, man’s arrogance a false sentry.

These fingers you see, they are for hire, they spin, they click only for the most discriminate buyer. What lies beyond the beauty of this contraption of brass, these fingers care not – their job only to spin, to click, to find the slip.

Ah, the slipping of the final pin into place, pride to be had for a task well done. These fingers find no pride being named thief, only in the triumph of yet another breach.

Never touching the treasures concealed inside, the gift is in the spinning, the clicking and the glorious sound of the decisive slipping as the lock disengages, and the tomb readies to release.

The thrill done, the game complete, the mastery of infiltrating the impenetrable is what these tired digits did seek. Their desirous splendor being the one called to task, no other hand as capable on the brass.

These fingers, they are old, and worn with time, slowly they reach out and gentle the slide.

A slight pop, the pressure released, the door opens a mere chink, allowing for those who would have the briefest of peeks.

The thrill these old fingers have felt now past, gone on this final releasing of brass. This buyer untrue with intentions corrupt, these fingers have felt for the final time the tick, the click, the magnificent slip!

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More from Nina D’Arcangela:

Mental Ward: EXPERIMENTS

A dank basement, shadow filled hallways, the deep echo of a metal latch being thrown while faint screams are heard… These are the things you might experience in a place where the unspeakable happens, where conscientious action and moral turpitude turn a blind eye in the interest of advancing one’s own personal pursuits in the most deranged and unjustifiable manner. The type of place where power corrupts, and depravity runs rampant among those imbued with it. A place where the unfortunate are abandoned to the devices of those who convince themselves their actions are in the best interest of science.

Mental Ward: Experiments is a collection of ten short stories that demonstrate the worst of humanity’s ambition in the interest of ‘civilized’ advancement. Step into a world where sanity is left behind, and horror is what the doctor ordered!

Available on Amazon!

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