Tag Archives: flash fiction

Halloween Update

Hello!

So … a tiny little update to some exciting stuff I mentioned on Twitter a few weeks ago, plus some more recent news.

A little while ago, this became my pinned tweet:

two-contracts

So this was kind of exciting for me for a few reasons. One of the contracts is for a story already written, scheduled originally for publication in an anthology on Halloween this year, but scheduling of one sort or another has pushed that back to early 2017. The theme of the anthology is top-secret but brilliant, and I can’t wait to see the other authors’ spins on such a delicious idea.

The second contract … well, this one is scary, at least to me. It’s scary because it’s for five (yes, FIVE!) stories that haven’t been written yet (though the ideas are percolating), so it’s a different (and thrilling!) type of creative pressure for me. Another reason that it’s scary is that the other authors involved are all these incredible creative powerhouses of whom I’m a little in awe, so yes, I feel like I’ll have to raise my game to earn my place in those pages beside them.

It’s maybe a little too soon to reveal the theme of the anthology *Trademarked Cheeky Geeky Northern Boy Teasing Wink* but … Just. You. Wait.

The more recent stuff I mentioned was this:

booth

This was really exciting, especially given the wonderfully high standard of the competition entries published on the Storgy site over the last week, in the run-up to Halloween. The story in First Place is being announced on the 31st October itself, and I can’t wait to be utterly terrified by the winning entry.

Should you wish to read my story, the link is here, but even if you give mine a miss, I really hope you read the other, excellent tales. They’re perfect Halloween reading!

Anyway, if you made it this far, thanks for reading and Happy Halloween! I’ll be spending it in a bloodstained hockey mask and wielding a machete … nothing to do with Halloween, just what I do on a Monday πŸ˜‰

 

 

 

 

 

 


#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


OOPS! We Did It Again!

Hello! Here’s another little shudder of micro fiction inspired by the delightful @ReeDwithaBee and her ear! No, that sounds weird, let me try that again. This one’s inspired by the delightful Ree and her ear for the conversations surrounding her on her commute, as well as her unerring instinct for making an excellent story out of these random prompts. She and I have done this dance before, and the first of her own eavesdropping-inspired stories (as well as a more coherent explanation of what we’re doing) can be found here. My own take on those initial prompts is elsewhere on this blog.

And now, wonderfully, we have a new set of prompt words, and Ree has come up with a acronym for our endeavours, namely OOPS (Occasional Overheard Prompts for Stories). Ree’s newest piece is now on her blog, and excitingly, another player has joined the game, the splendid @whithernow, and you can enjoy her story here.

So … the prompts for our latest 99 word tales (the default length for stories) are, in no particular order:

dead end
cheese
bell
perks
passion

And here we go …

I SCREAM

Selling ice creams at the beach might have been a dead end job, but it had its perks. Pretty girls in bikinis ran to his van as soon as they heard the bell in the summer air. The girl now awaiting her passion fruit swirl idly plucked at a sunburnt shoulder while she waited, and he imagined what he’d do to her when the sedative in the sprinkles took effect, and his blowtorch would tan that skin into something like melted cheese. He watched her walk back to the beach, then sat and waited for the night to come.

Thanks for reading!


Flash! Part One

princess-aura-flash-gordon-1980-_129986-fli_1363015036

“Flash! Ah-aaah! Saviour of the Universe!”

If you’re not familiar with the 1980 Flash Gordon movie or indeed the Queen soundtrack that graces it, then that opening line may make me sound like a lunatic. Hell, even if you are familiar with the movie and music you may think I’ve lost it. The DVD occupies a proud place in my collection of movies based on comic books, and if you haven’t yet seen it, I ABSOLUTELY INSIST that you enrich your life with it as soon as possible. Max Von Sydow portrays Ming the Merciless, and he played chess with Death, for goodness’ sake! Flash and James Bond (sort of) duel with whips on a tilting disc that randomly sprouts deadly blades from its surface, in a floating city where Brian Blessed is Prince of the Birdmen! Beat that, Citizen Kane! For UK readers, it’s got Peter Duncan from Blue Peter in it! Peter Bloody Duncan! And then there’s the rocket cycle, and Prince Vultan’s joyous cry of “GORDON’S ALIVE!”, and the exquisitely wicked beauty of Ornella Muti’s Princess Aura, and … and …

I’m so sorry. I’m afraid I seem to have wandered off my point, somewhat.

The reason I chose to employ that particular lyric as a rather clumsy opening gambit is because I wanted to talk a little about Flash Fiction, and how, while it may not be the Saviour of the Universe, it certainly is jolly good fun, both to read and to write. I wasn’t really aware of it until a couple of years ago, and while I certainly didn’t dismiss the form, it never occurred to me that it was something I might want to try, or if I’m honest something that I might want to read. A hundred or so words? What could anyone do with that? How could anyone fit a plot, mood, character etc in such a small space, and tie it all up with the shiny bow of a satisfying ending? At best, I probably thought that a writer might be able to fit one of those things in the piece, make it a snapshot of atmosphere or an illuminating character moment, nothing more than a breath of story, the merest taste.

I was, of course, an idiot.

I still may be an idiot, but not in terms of my hesitancy around flash fiction. My first step towards falling in love with the form was @FridayPhrases of course, where I found a community of exceptional writers of microfiction (which is just getting better and better by the way – many is the #FP that takes my breath away with its skill and beauty) and soon after that I began reading the flash posted on Twitter via the wonderful Storybandit. That led me to the blogs of other writers where I enjoyed, and still enjoy, an abundance of microfiction that happily makes me massively jealous with its genius. Alas, Storybandit is no more, but once upon a time it offered varying prompts – or Writing Dares – for flash fiction (a setting, five or six words to include in the piece, maybe an opening or closing line, a word count to work towards etc) and then it’s up, up and away.

I’d worked with prompts before, mostly for competitions and the like, where the word counts were bigger and the theme was maybe more general than the sometimes challengingly surgical prompts from Storybandit (my vocabulary has expanded thanks to having to Google some of El Bandito’s word choices!) but even so, the strain showed in those earlier efforts of mine – many was the story that cracked at the seams thanks to my ham-fisted crowbarring of a prompt that didn’t belong. So, I thought that prompts and I were perhaps something of an ill-fit, but along with #FP, the lure of Storybandit proved enticing, and everyone’s work was so brilliant, and I never could resist a dare, and so I dipped my toe into those creative waters, and absolutely loved it.

Adhering to the parameters of the Writing Dares led me to thinking in directions that I might not otherwise have gone in – A blossoming relationship where I might have written about the break-up, something joyous where I might have gone for tears, a (hopefully) amusing aside instead of a scare. It’s been fun.

Storybandit has gone, but there are many other prompt pages out there, and the most recent of which I’ve become aware is @200WordTuesdays, curated by the always-inspiring @ReeDwithaBee – the format is a little different to Storybandit, in that #200WT offers two prompts per month, the submission period running flexibly from the first day to the last, with a collection posted every Tuesday. Every prompt so far has been amazing, and again, stand by to have your breath stolen if and when you visit the site.

Below are some of my own flash fiction pieces – a few I owe to Storybandit, a couple inspired by the @200WordTuesdays prompts, and a handful of other sources. Where possible, I’ve prefixed the piece with the prompts that helped create them (not the ones in bold text), and hopefully, if you’ve never visited the sites or pages I’ve mentioned, you’ll take a look. Read some magnificent flash fiction and maybe write your own. I’d heartily recommend it, so drop in on them, grab yourself a prompt, get creative and get flashing!

She’d been uncomfortable with the price tag of the 3D printer, but her anger outweighed the cost. She already had the books, bequeathed by her grandmother, and with a sweet irony the lighter had been one that John had abandoned in the house when he left. She wasn’t sure the spell had worked until she saw the black clouds around his face, heard the noise of screaming onlookers sickened by her former boyfriend bursting into flames.

She walked away, tossing the lighter and the smouldering paper doll into the gutter.

Voodoo in the 21st century. Her grandmother would be proud.

* * *

(Prompt: 199 w. Include the words unsullied, bluebonnet, immigrant, action figure, peach)

I’d never seen the girl before tonight, but I imagined that she had never looked more beautiful. She craned her neck to look up at me, her breath a stutter of frosty, wordless speech bubbles, her wide eyes the same vibrant hue as the fields of bluebonnet in which I’d played as a boy. Her pale, peach soft skin looked perfect in the white dazzling glare of the headlights, unsullied by years or toil or heartbreak. The sight of her, of her stifled beauty, filled me with a kind of awed dread, as if everything she’d seen in those last moments was bleeding through the cracks in my eyes, as if everything she’d felt was stealing into my heart like a strange immigrant emotion that was here to stay. A heartbeat and a lifetime ago, she had appeared from nowhere it seemed, growing suddenly huge through the windscreen, but she looked so small now, her hand tiny in mine, like she was some action figure that a child her age might have dropped in the road where she lay and I sat waiting for her to die.
My tears fell into her eyes as the ambulance crested the hill.

* * *

(Prompt: 99w. Use the opening line, “These blueprints are wrong,” she said.)

“These blueprints are wrong,” she said.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. It had been a long night. “How so?”
She pointed at the unrolled parchment. Everywhere, the clamour of the workshop went on. They were running out of time.
“There’s a broken circuit, here.” She said. “That’s why we have the flickering red light.”
He peered at the plans, frowning. He loved her, but hated it when she spotted his mistakes.
“I’ll fix it tomorrow,” he muttered, shrugging on his scarlet overcoat. Behind him, the robo-reindeer stamped impatient hooves.
“Rudolph can live with it for one night.”

* * *

(Prompt: 199w. Use the opening line, “Oh! You scared me. I didn’t hear you. Did you sneak up on me?”)

“Oh! You scared me. I didn’t hear you. Did you sneak up on me?”
I laughed gently at her surprised eyes. “Sorry.” I glanced at the TV, a screen full of police cars in the rain. “What are you watching?”
“They think they’ve got him,” she said. “The Actor. I thought you’d be interested, seeing how you’re his biggest fan.”
“Serial killers don’t have fans.” I raised the volume. “I’m just intrigued.”
The news report recounted the case. He’d gained the nickname of The Actor because each of his strangled victims had been the leading lady in on play or another, athough tonight it seemed as though his luck had run out. One of his leading ladies had blown his brains out.
I started towards my room.
“You’re not watching it?” she said. “I thought -”
“I’ll catch it later,” I said. “I have to go to work.”
Alone, I flicked through the scrapbook of newspaper cuttings, the glowing reviews of his many murders. The Actor wouldn’t be on stage tonight, but that was okay, I thought as I removed the rope from beneath my bed.
I knew the script by heart, and was more than ready to understudy.

* * *

(Prompt: 99w. Include the words peter, custom, incense, abdication, malicious)

She watched the tiny flame of the incense peter out, inhaling the curl of aromatic smoke as it smouldered. He’d be here soon. She’d open the door and they’d kiss, something that had become more of a custom than a pleasure of late. It wasn’t his fault. He’d always treated her like a Queen, and tonight would be no malicious abdication. She would be kind.
The doorbell rang. She didn’t hurry, in case he should misinterpret her eagerness to see him, but when she opened the door and saw the two solemn faced policemen, she wished she’d moved faster.

* * *

They said it was an accident, and I believed them, although that wasn’t going to help me unravel my poor dog from beneath the wheels of their car.
‘We haven’t been drinking, I swear!’ the girl kept saying, her words floating towards me on a tide of stale beer. The driver said nothing for a few minutes. He just stood with his face slack in the headlights, his glassy gaze flicking between the bloody, dented grille of his vehicle and the tangle of black fur and exposed meat hugging the road beneath it.
‘I tried to brake,’ he said finally. ‘But I just … froze. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He turned his bloodshot eyes to me. ‘What was that thing?’
‘My dog.’ I told him, reaching inside my jacket for the knife tucked into my belt. ‘You broke him, and now you have to help fix him.’
I remember how their eyes widened when they saw the blade.
My dog is on the mend now, even though I had to amputate some of him to get him out from under the wheels. The man and the girl helped to fix him up, though. He’s kind of clumsy with the hand instead of his paw, and he’s only got one of his own heads left, but I can see him getting used to seeing through their eyes, and barking through their mouths.
‘Good boy, Cerberus,’ I like to say to him. ‘Good dog.’

* * *

(Prompt: 99w. Use the opening line, “The baby was screaming again.”)

The baby was screaming again.
There had been clamour all around him, the rustle of scrubs, the clatter of slick instruments returned to metal trays. The voices of the medical staff, calm and reassuring to him and Sophie, low and urgent to each other. Sophie’s breath, frayed and wheezing, muffled by the misted plastic of the oxygen mask.
Yes, there had been clamour, but in all of that it was the missing sound that terrified them both. The cry that had stopped. Sophie’s damp, shaking hand squeezed his fingers into a bloodless bundle.
Then the baby was screaming again.

* * *

(Prompt: 200w. “Broken Worlds”)

The world felt broken without her, like he was experiencing everything through a television that, like his hopes, had seen better days. The images rolled, ghostly and forever flickering, the contrast dialled down so that everything in sight was bled of its colour, its vibrancy, its life.

The speakers were muted, crackling into activity only when there was a song he didn’t want to hear again, or a nearby voice that reminded him of hers. Even the static seemed to whisper her name.

Sometimes, he would try to think of other things, try to change the channel to something he liked, but the TV had a mind and a mission of its own, it seemed, and always sifted through the frequencies of his memory to show him something he didn’t want to see, a happy time that would make him sad. The pictures were blurred and lo-res, but the hurt was unquestionable High Definition, until one day, he came to a decision.

The pills spilled out onto the table in front of him, a boxful of brightly coloured Off buttons. He swallowed all of them one by one and closed his eyes, waiting for the screen to fade to black.

* * *

(Prompt: 200w. “Inky-Red”)

She knew the other kids wondered about the red pen she always kept with her, but she’d never tell. They wondered about the long sleeves in summer, but she’d never tell about them either. No-one had ever seen her write with it, and anyway, students weren’t allowed to use felt-pens in their notebooks, lest the ink bleed through to the other side of the page.

Because they’d never seen her use it, people presumed that it was the same pen throughout the term, and she’d never tell them that it was a different one maybe every two weeks. Her brother had bought them for her, or more accurately he’d bought as many packs of felt-pens as he could find and afford, and extracted all of the red ones to give to her. The other colours were left to gather dust beneath his bed.

A Distraction Technique, the counsellor called it. Sensory or visual input to drive away the urges to hurt herself. She’d never tell the other kids about how, beneath those long sleeves, red ink stained the places between old scars, and she’d never tell them about how, as secrets went, she thought it the best she’d ever had.

* * *

(Prompt: 99w. Use the ending, “We would need to burn that couch.”)

The screams died with the flames, but black smoke still curled from the lip of the metal trashcan.
It was all Bert’s fault, him and his terrible handwriting. But I’d misread the last word, and I’d poured the petrol and I’d lit the match, so of course he wouldn’t see it that way.
Yes, I’d screwed up, but Bert and I still had a job to do. The apartment was infested, and, Oscar’s incineration aside, we had to torch Big Bird’s furniture before the whole of Sesame Street was overrun with bugs.
We would need to burn that couch.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading!


Midnight Snack

A breath of fiction that evolved from a Twitter chat with the delighful @ReeDwithaBee and the splendid @dee_lancaster. The conversation began as a comparison of the commutes to work we all take, but took an unexpected turn when @ReeDwithaBee mentioned what a wonderful opportunity such journeys provide for eavesdropping, or, to use the term that writers insist upon when we’re accused of listening in, Research. @ReeDwithaBee offered a few of the random conversational threads that she’d heard, and came up with the brilliant observation that their very randomness reminded her of the prompts from @storybandit (if you’ve never seen @storybandit, then I thoroughly recommend taking a look – lots of great prompts and great microfiction to be found there). Anyway, ultimately we decided to challenge each other to write a 99-word story in the spirit of the @storybandit prompts, and the words that emerged from @ReeDwithaBee’s excellent eavesdropping skills were:

Cauliflower soup, golf, boot camp, the weather, reify

My fellow challenger’s marvellous take on the whole business can be found here, and my own effort is below. If nothing else, it at least forced me to Google what “Reify” means …

Midnight Snack

Diet or die, the doctor had said. Exercise or expire. An envisioned boot camp style future of cauliflower soup and golf tipped his emotional weather to overcast. Weights and gym equipment waited in his bedroom to be unpacked and assembled. His larder and fridge had been purged of treats. Tomorrow’s date was circled on the calendar, D-Day, Diet Day, Deprivation Day. But it wasn’t tomorrow yet, and so before bed, he allowed himself one last treat, something to reify his resolve that it had all been worthwhile. The girl screamed against her gag as he began to tuck in.

 

 


#jabeflash – The #FP 100: 20th December – 24th December

The final part of the FP Advent Calendar posts (sound of everybody cheering). There are more FPs to be archived on here, but now that a chunk of them are posted, I’m hoping to populate these pages with some new stuff for a little while. Anyway, thanks to all who read, starred and retweeted the 24 Twitter posts (25 if you count the double bill) throughout December. You’re all brilliant! Happy Holidays! πŸ™‚

December 20

December 21

December 22

December 23

wallpaper christmas series newdesk

#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 06

Another collection of Friday Phrases – In the interests of context, the first two presented here are from Halloween 2013, while the following three are from Valentine’s Day 2014. The rest follow my usual roll-of-the-dice approach to presentation πŸ™‚

The skulls and bats were festooned with spiderwebs, all for the visiting children. She’d thank the spiders later, after they had fed.

The plague killed almost everyone. She roamed Twitter, looking for survivors, and lost hope until the DM at Halloween: “Trick or Tweet?”

He finished breakfast then started to gather what he needed. In an hour, the world would have a new massacre to remember this day by.

He sat surrounded by crumpled pages of terrible poetry. He’d just have to hope his Twitter crush picked up on the subtweets.

She looked down at the crowd. The crossbow felt good in her hands and she had plenty of bolts. “Time to play Cupid.” she whispered.

“How about some scrambled embryos?”
She made the same awful joke every morning, but when I saw my plate, I knew she’d taken it too far.

A cold wind rose, teased her hair and blew litter around her feet. She looked up,Β and found herself in the shadow of vast, leathery wings.

In the dark, the pillowcase looked rumpled, like a mask of peeled skin. Nearer, I saw that my eyesight was better than I would’ve wished.

The swordsman’s blade whirled, a spinning blur of death. Unexpectedly, Indy shot him dead. Even more unexpectedly, the swordsman sat up.

She didn’t recognise the couple in the old photo, but thought that the groom looked like a younger version of the man brushing her hair.

The teacher slept, drugged. The girls poked her scalp with pens untilΒ one glistened red. She really DID have eyes in the back of her head.

“Sorcery!” they yelled. “Black magic!”
The clown’s cheap tricks littered the ground as he fled.
“It’s only a kid’s party!” he screamed.

Of course I washed my dirty hands before dinner. The ones attached to my wrists AND the ones on the plate.

She didn’t realise it was a tweet from the dead until she walked into the houseΒ and found him hanging from a ceiling beam, his eyes wide.

He tasted sweatΒ at her temples, yet her skin had prickled to gooseflesh. He read the texture like Braille, until he found her secret words.

Shaggy knew that things were getting weird when Fred traded in the Mystery Machine for a Pinto. Then Scooby got bitten by the bat …

12 rich kids abducted in 6 months. The cops let them take No.13. As the gang reached the remote hideout, the cops detonated the hostage.

“I killed a man and wrote it as a story on my blog. I was all set to leave it there, but when I saw the spike in the stats …”

The knight and the dragon strolled back into the village holding hands. They were smoking cigarettes and the dragon looked very content. The villagers were horrified. “We sent you to kill it!”
“You misheard,” the knight smiled. “I’m a Dragon’s Layer.”

(The above originally posted as two FPs)

Know that your stars and mine are the same.
Know that when your hands are cold, I’m on my way back, and I’m bringing a nova with me.

Thanks for reading! If you’re interested, here are a few more FP-centric posts πŸ™‚

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