Monthly Archives: July 2015

Flash Fiction Horror Double Bill

Two pieces of Horror Flash Fiction inspired by a couple of my own #FPs …

DRIVEN

He couldn’t seem to let go of the wheel, as if the plastic skin of it and the flesh of his hands had melted and fused. He knew he was driving too fast, but one his feet felt like a lead weight upon the accelerator, while the other seemed to pass uselessly through the rubber pad of the brake pedal. The screen clipped to the dashboard shuddered as his car raced along the increasingly uneven ground, the electronic map flickering as it sought a satellite signal, tried to find him an alternative route.
He barely remembered taking this road. The last thing he remembered was that thick, heavy pressure in his chest as he’d lifted the girl’s corpse on to back seat of the car, the cold sweat that had sprung up on his brow as he’d buckled his pants and got into the driver’s seat. She’d struggled, a lot more than the others, and he guessed she must have winded him, because even before he started the engine he was finding it difficult to breathe, that pressure in his chest radiating outwards towards his arm.
And then he was on this unknown road, driving too fast, but seemingly unable to slow down. He guessed that he’d found himself somewhere remote, given the way the map was calibrating and how there didn’t seem to be a single streetlight to illuminate his way. There was no moonlight, just skies of endless black clouds. He thought there might be a storm soon, judging by the gusts of hot air that were blowing in through the half-open window.
There were sounds filtering into the car too, distant but growing louder as the vehicle hurtled forward, faster and faster. It sounded like a crowd of people, yelling and screaming as though they were at a rock concert. Maybe it was an event of some sort, because the further his car took him down this strange road, the more he saw the fireworks in among the clouds, a rain of sparks and embers, soaking the hot air of the car with sulphur.
The map on the screen spun crazily, the image dissolving into flickering bursts of static as the screaming voices intensified, as the black clouds thinned to show not the stars nor cold face of the moon, not even the electric signature of the expected storm. There was a storm, but it was a maelstrom of fire and sour ash, of smoke and burning, blasted rock.
The car finally stopped, the tyres squealing as if they were crushing souls beneath their tread.
The screen on the dashboard turned black. ‘You have reached your destination.’ said the Satan-nav.

VISITING HOURS

It was late, and the ward was quiet, and dark. She sat beside the child’s bed, holding the little boy’s hand, careful not to disturb the cannula implanted into the narrow thread of his vein. Her other hand caressed the curve of the child’s brow, finding it cool and dry. According to the casenotes on the clipboard at the end of the bed, the little one had suffered the most awful fever, terrifying his parents, but thankfully that had subsided in the last day or so. Everything in the casenotes indicated that he would be fine.
She moved her hand from his forehead to the watch pinned to the breast of her crisp white uniform. She stared at the tiny, ticking hand marking one second after another, then gave the boy’s hand a little squeeze, gently, careful not to wake him. She stood, picking up the broad, soft pillow that she’d taken from one of the other beds.
He stirred as she placed it across his face, and began to thrash as she pressed it down. His cries were short, and panicked, and muffled. His hands leapt upwards to claw at the pillow, the IV tube popping free of the cannula, and she made soft hushing sounds, soothing him until his struggles stopped, a lullaby for his final sleep.
Calmly, she moved from bed to bed. When the real nurse returned, she found a ward full of corpses.

Thanks for reading – below are links to more of my microfiction, should you feel so inclined … πŸ˜‰

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 1st December – 5th December

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 6th December – 12th December

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 13th December – 19th December

A Love Letter To Friday Phrases

Friday Phrases – I’m In Love

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 01

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 02

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 03

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 04

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 05

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 06

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 07


#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 07

Each one of the pieces of microfiction that follows is Horror, in its own way. They might not seem that way, not at first glance, but take a look at them again, out of the corner of your eye. In between their severed body parts and homicidal thoughts, the bread and butter of my genre, there are other horrors, the ones that perhaps aren’t as easy to outrun or outsmart as a Jason Vorhees or a Freddy Krueger. There’s cruelty, and grief, and loss. There’s loneliness and not enough hope.

Horror isn’t just about the blood and guts. I’ve written about this before, but it’s a point worth making again. Fictional Horror doesn’t just exist in the dissolution of the body or mind, it also thrives in the badlands of the commonplace, the unexpected phone call at 2am, or the loved one that doesn’t come home through Fate’s choice or theirs. It lurks in the white noise of the psyche, the knowledge that, physically or emotionally, these are the dying days. It’s there when you realise that every new beginning is an ending waiting to happen.

As an aside, many of these micro fiction pieces were first presented via Twitter’s Friday Phrases hashtag (#FP). Friday Phrases has an e-book in the works (closing date for submissions is 31 August 2015). VisitΒ friday-phrases.com to take a look at the guidelines for more details.

Anyway, on with the show …

The last call was a missed call, and left her with a voicemail more haunting than any ghost.
“Mum? Where are you? It’s getting dark.”

She loved the summer. The games. The lake. The picnics. The days she would torch the anthills and imagine she heard a thousand screams.

I thought the little redhead girl had a spray of freckles upon her nose, until I saw the empty crib & the fine blond hair in her teeth.

“I’ll make you pretty, alright” she said, pulling the barbed wire as tight as she could.

He was still in denial about her death, and as a loving smile began to pop the mortician’s stitches, he realised that so was she.

At night, the tiny lids were lifted & there was laughter & running footsteps between the gravestones. The children still wanted to play.

‘Lose a little weight.’ the director had said.
She traced her xylophone ribs, wondering how long she could eat nothing but thin air.

The man was very handsome, and the roses beautiful.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” she smiled.
His blade glinted within the flowers. “You are.”

She smiled in denial of the fracture in her heart and the tears that flooded from the break, and gave her daughter one last kiss.

The surface tension of his eyeball trembled beneath the razor. “Now,” she said. “Let’s open up those windows to your soul, shall we?”

His childhood was filled with games and stories, but every growing year stole an imaginary friend from him, until he was alone again.

“Oops, you’re coming undone,” he told her. “Let me fix that zip.” Her wide eyes were the last he saw of her as he re-sealed the bodybag.

It was too addictive, the next romance, the new love, the thrilling potential of being alone again. That’s why she kept killing them.

Watching the blade dive between his fingers, again & again, made the dare feel like a wrong decision even before his thumb was severed.

She cried as his hands tightened around her throat. He’d always thought her eyes the perfect pallet for a portrait of tears.

Parchment-thin skin crackled as tiny hands peeled aside withered muscle. The newborn crawled from the ancient wreckage and began to cry.

“The injuries are severe,” the surgeon said. “If the child lives, it’ll spend every day in agonising pain.”
She smiled. “Then save it.”

My pupils dilated first because of the dark, then in shock, and finally as eight spidery legs forced them wide from within.

There are only three things you need to know about me:

1. I’m a psychopath.
2. I’m invisible.
3. I’m behind you.

I took the clothes and the photos from the trash and buried them in the garden.
“Don’t cry, Dad,” I told him. “I’ll grow us a new Mum.”

Thanks for reading – below are links to more of my microfiction, should you feel so inclined … πŸ˜‰

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 1st December – 5th December

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 6th December – 12th December

#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 13th December – 19th December

A Love Letter To Friday Phrases

Friday Phrases – I’m In Love

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 01

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 02

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 03

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 04

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 05

#FP – An Archive Within An Ark Hive – Part 06