Let’s do this! 🙂 For context, the first FP presented here is VERY much based on the marvellous @clraven – Welsh, Gothic, Red Bull charged twins who write exceptional Horror Fiction and cast caution to the wind with their ghosthunting exploits. You can probably guess how many fanboy boxes that ticks with me, and if you’re not already following them on Twitter and reading their excellent blog, I’d absolutely recommend that you take a look at their genius 🙂
“I watched your video,” he sneered. “The haunted asylum one. I didn’t see any ghosts.”
The twins simply smiled. “Didn’t you?”
She walked thru a door that wasn’t there, wearing only her scars and the satin stream in her hair.
He knew kids thought it a lame trick, poking a thumb between fingers and saying “Gotcha nose!”
Lame, until the day of the sharp scissors.
He pointed at my breakfast. “You’re meant to peel that before you eat it.”
“I like the skin.” My mouth was already wet. “And the eyes.”
People ate the chocolate eggs with the sweet, sticky filling, unaware of a factory full of dragons that wept for their stolen offspring.
Unable to find a pair of sufficiently stretchable trousers, Hulk discarded his pants and ran into battle.
“HULK … FLASH!!!”
He smiled at her thru the glass as he cleaned the windows, singing.
“If you could see what I could see … when I dream of killing …”
“Any regrets?” he asked after the ceremony.
She smiled at the horned faces rising in the flames. “Only that the sacrifice didn’t scream.”
Born in a hospital fire, she thought herself a child of chaos for 80 years, until another hospital, another fire, and she was gone.
The moment before I pressed the blade to my hot, wet wrists, I saw my reflection in the steel.
I didn’t recognise myself at all.
The wind caught the kite and he watched it soar. Once in flight, no-one could see that its taut breadth was covered in tattoos and scars.
He left, and the house stopped feeling like a home, ’til she recalled an old proverb and cut out his heart to keep in the bed beside her.
She felt as if she were trying to scrub his soul from her dirty hands, as if Lady MacBeth was whispering to her, “Keep washing …”
Before he got into the escape pod, Threepio saw the One Direction CD sliding into Artoo’s middle.
“I’m going to regret this.” he said.
She’s dusk and burlesque, an hourglass in moonlit silk. Eyes the colour of risk. A rosebud pout with thorns, a kiss that stings.
A year after the accident, his memory returned. He tracked down his children, only to find that they’d forgotten everything of him.
“Yes, she was a fine artist.” he said. “I have several of her pieces hanging on my walls. This is her heart, here are her kidneys …”
He drew his cold, numbed palm from the wall and saw from the imprint of his dirty hand that, unexpectedly, he was missing three fingers.
“Out, devil!” the priest shouted. “Begone!”
The demon smirked. “It’s a No from me.”
Regrettably, the priest lacked the X-orcist Factor.
“Hey, man.” The long-hair flicked soil from his Woodstock tee. “You can’t just shoot me, you dig?”
I levelled the gun. “No. You dig.”
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