RSS Feed

Tag Archives: fiction

December Patreon: Dominae Mortem

skull-570975_1280

Upon death’s head I rode.

Splinters thick as fingers dug into tiny palms as the obsidian oar cut water like knife through skin. Ripples poured about the fractured bone where I stood within an abyssal socket, breaking the murky glass surface reflecting the ashen gloom above. Night approached quickly, yet no sun faded into the dismal horizon ahead. The sky remained sombre. Death seemed to beckon across the solemn expanse. Only it was his scythe between my hands reaping waters to propel me forward.

Death was dead. I was the victor.

Weak arms continued to heave, pain a welcome guest keeping sanity afloat. Failing legs trembled yet remained upright below the frock that had once ruffled about my ankles, now frayed strips caked in mud and dried blood. A princess no more.

Liberated from sin’s shackles.

Emancipated from righteousness.

I had become what I feared most. I had become death.

****

This month’s Patreon is dedicated to Lady Death, or as I have to call her – due to copyright (and confusion) with a comic book character of the same name – Dominae Mortem.

Who is she? What is she? Where is she going? Where does she come from? How did she defeat death?

Journey with me this December, to find out. Click on the image to visit my Patreon page.

Patreon Fiction: Dominae Mortem

Advertisement

Friday Fiction: Thimble

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

Character: Seamstress Setting: Second-hand Shop Genre: Crime

I am the guest Judge for today’s Microcosms Fic, so please do drop by and honour us with your flash fiction.


singer-1849853_1280

“Come in child.” She said from the doorway. Her raven hair, streaked purple under the hanging light, had been tied into a bun that pulled her face taut. Jade eyes gleamed with the cluster of gold hanging around her neck, watching the man hesitate on the porch of the second-hand shop simply named Thimble.

“Thank you.” he tucked the fedora under his arm and slipped within the gloom, hands clutching and unfurling as his gaze swept around the room. Racks lined the walls and twisted across the room, pouring with various sewing machines likely seen in an antique shop. The air swam with incense and lavender over the musk of perfume she wore.

“I’m looking for…”

“Hush. Follow me.”

She trailed a shawl that matched her hair. Arms raised like T-Rex claws led to limp hands adorned with jewels on arched fingers, leading the way into the establishment. They traipsed through the maze of shelves toward a table where a sewing machine sat to the side of it. Two high-back wooden chairs had been arranged across each other. The woman plunked down into one of them.

“Sit.” She raised her eyes at him until he carefully slid in. Clasped hands rested on the table. They sat in silence while the woman stared.

“It’s my wife!” he finally shouted, then sheepishly lowered his head, “It’s my wife.” he said softer.

“I am well aware. That is why you came to me. For protection, yes?”

He nodded. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Eyes scanned the room nervously.

“What is your fee?”

Now it was her turn to rest her hands on the table, laid flat over one another,

“No charge at all.”

A smile edged his lips in uncertainty,

“The body… is in the trunk of the car.”

Friday Fiction: Broadcast

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

Character: Newscaster Setting: Snowdrift Genre: Romance


“Good e…e…evening South Africa. I am T…Thandiswa Nkomo, and th…th…this is Live News. It has…s…s been q…q…quite an eventful year, h…h…ere in the u…usually sunny southern hemisphere, with po…po…political debacles, br…broadcast agency fiascoes, water cr…crises, and presidential skirmishes…s…s. However, if y…y…y…you look be…hind me, at the cas…cascading snow that has c…c…completely encompassed most of the Johannesburg CBD, you…you will realise that this weather ph…ph…phenomenon overshadows a…anything that 2016 has brought.”

“T…t…traffic has come to a co…complete standstill and drivers ha…have evacuated their vehicles in the f…f…fear of being trapped under the biggest s…snowstorm to ever hit Joburg. What is u…u…usually a bustling metropolis, pe…ppered by street vendors, pedestrians from all wa…walks of life, and the ever present b….blaring of taxi horns, has become a de…desolate, icy wasteland.”

“I c…can’t do… this.”

*

“Ahem. Evening folks, you watching at home along with us here at the Live News studios, are witnessing a brave young lady and an exceptional camera crew, who are trapped at the corner of Marshall and Mooi Street. Thandiswa Nkomo is…

“Is she back? Can she – she will? Okay.”

“We return to Thandiswa and crew…”

*

breathes

We do not know how long this snowstorm will continue for. Emergency services are unable to get through the piles of snow that have blocked every road into and out of Joburg. We’ve managed to get some heating but I can tell from the camera crew that it won’t last long. This may be… our final broadcast.”

breathes

“My name is Thandiswa Nkomo. Twenty four years old. My crew consists of Pieter Kroukamp, camera man and Ian Markus, technician. It has been a great honour to serve you as part of Live News.

sniffs

To our families and loved ones…

sniffs

To Lesedi Musi, my fiancee…

*End of broadcast.

Friday Fiction: Interstellar Blind Date

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

Character: Bride Activity: Coming from Space Genre: Romance


Substation forty-two-seven. A glossy enamel coated hexagon floating against the dark expanse of space in the Northern corner of the Milky Way galaxy. In constant rotation around it were two satellites from DISTV, hovering higher than normal allowing the influx of passenger ships to stream in, while each satellite streamed the convoys to homes across the galaxy. The season finale of Interstellar Blind Date accrued its highest viewership since the romance between the Mantodeanite dancer and her partner during So You Think You Can Congambaltz. Reality TV had never been showcased on extra-terrestrial transmissions and they were eating it up faster than female Mantodeanites ate their male partners.

The running broadcast would finally reveal the contestants to one another, in a face-to-face date-cum-wedding between the star-crossed lovers in every sense – and only the audience knew of their fate. To each other, Ara had fallen madly in love with Diptera, the reverse tenfold, during silhouetted “online” dates where the two never saw each other’s faces; viewers on the other hand were privy to their identities and watched with bated breath as neither contestant guessed the other. Oh it made for stellar television alright, and the final episode would be the most watched, downloaded, torrented and eventually sought after episode in all of history.

Ara sashayed onto the stage with a veil over her face however everyone had turned to see the slowly widening compound eyes and gaping segmented mouth-parts on the spindly Diptera. The crowd sat in abject silence. Ara dragged her bulbous body forward, wedding dress and all, eight thin appendages clacking asynchronously while her chelicerae scissor in excitement. Diptera edged forward slowly, too terrified to notice the translucent threads around the stage.

“Diptera.” She whispered, “They should have given you a less revealing name.”

*Mantodea are praying mantis and the females eat their husbands.

Diptera is the “scientific name” for a fly and if you haven’t guessed it, Ara is a spider. Short for Arachnid.

Seeping Scarlet Screams

red-rose-320868_640

Slithering,

Slick,

Snaking vines scrape floorboards,

Scented petals

snap leafy pads softly through

scrawny hallways

sloppily laden shelves crash shrilly

as twisting shoots

and extended spikes

slink under shut doorway,

over ripping slippers,

socks, shirts

stitching torn

onto sheets

Along ankles arms appendages:

Serrated.

Seeping.

Scarlet.

Screams.


Carin Marais suggested I write a short story about Homicidal Red Roses and my last poem I wrote I’d wanted to turn into an alliterative poem. The two joined forces and Ta-Da!

Friday Fiction: As it is

Living Statue

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

Living Statue, setting: Pedestrian Area, and genre: Romance.


We’d spent the day at the river further out of the city. Aurulent light cascaded over his long dark lashes framing large brown eyes no longer innocent. They sparkled under my gaze, suddenly bleeding clear liquid with a long drawn blink.
“I don’t understand.” A feathery whisper following downcast eyes; I brushed loose strands from the unblemished skin,
“Where the heart draws no line, the law does.” He draped a thin arm across my waist, my chest growing wet against his face. We remained so, surrounded by trickling water, distant chirrups and rustling leaves until the sky deepened into a fiery curtain; the last scene of our final act.

He wasn’t there. Not when the sun bloomed in the distance, peeking from clustered puffs and filtering through the high-rise structures like golden fingers. Crowds milled around the cordoned off pedestrian area, scowling past the workmen carelessly slapping cold concrete over my bare skin. Mother stood rigid further off in the distance, a roulette of emotions.
“Mr Ruskin. Any last words?” I gazed down at the lanky fellow in his flawless grey suit gleaming in the sunlight. I shook my head, sweeping my gaze over the crowds. Hopeful.
“The boy has been banned from visiting this part of the city.” The man said with furrowed brow,
“Not even as a last request?”
“You’re in no position to make last requests. Your kind deserve no rights at all.” I nodded my head and looked towards the sun. It would be the last time I would feel its warmth against my skin. Changing laws meant there was no rehabilitation-focused incarceration where freedom was an attainable dream. Criminals were literally cemented into living statues and put into public spaces, living their last days as public spectacles of ridicule. And thus I would always be.

September Goals: Spring Death

mask-poppies-field-red

It is the official first week of September, which means Spring has sprung here in the sunny southern hemisphere. As my sinuses get clogged worse than the M1 highway with a broken-down tuck in the middle lane, I’ve dedicated this month (and Patreon) to lurid tales sure to make you squirm. No red roses and blue violets tilting towards the sun’s rays here.

Goals

The goal for the month is to write ten, 3000 word short stories (30 000 words), that’s two-and-a-half shorts a week (we’ll make it three). One of these shorts will receive a sparkling macabre cover and PDF version for your enjoyment. More exciting stuff swirling to the surface later on in the month.

Cutthroats

This first week is dedicated to Serial Killers. The who, what, when, why, how of it all, twisted into razor sharp tales twisting through your gut in the dead of night. I haven’t delved into true horror in a while so I can only wonder what will manifest.

Patreon

Patreons, feel free to send suggestions, ideas, and what-nots for your own personal creation. It doesn’t even have to be related to my Spring Death theme.

Non-patreons, you have an opportunity to own an exclusively written short story of your creation to show off from just $1. *wink wink, nudge nudge*

Submissions

I will be submitting most of these stories for publishing, while others will be set aside for my personal as well as my Patreon anthology. Fun times ahead. If you love horrors, you’re going to be in for a treat. I apologize in advance for my non-horror readers; please bear with me for the month.

Memoir

crowd-of-people-1209630_1280

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

Undercover Cop, setting: Field, and genre: Memoir.


Our feet swished across the field like nuns shooshing delinquents at the back of a church. In the distance we could hear a thump thump thump of drums backing the hollowed wails of a banshee with a cold. Darkness had enveloped Summerset Field in a cloak unlit by the non-existent sphere in the sky, and a chill rose from the earth snaking up along my spine.

“Are you sure the intel is correct. They smell like regular folk to me.” my partner grunted, kicking something across the field that drenched his shoes in a rancid metallic scent “Crap.”

I looked down at the ground, hoping to avoid the same fate.

“Drugs, sex and rock ‘n roll. Perfect camouflage for deaders.”

“We’re deaders, and you don’t see me headbanging to teen-aged boys in skinny jeans pretending they know what rock ‘n roll is.”

“Unless your daughter is in the room.” I give him a grin but his eyes narrow with his mouth. I raise my hands. I’m the only one who knows he has a human daughter – how he pulled that off is a mystery no one has been able to decipher. Yet anyway.

“Do you even know who we’re looking for?”

“He’s an ancient vamp. Goes by the name Memoir.” I snort, “Used to be a historian and scribe back when Barnabas and Paul were trading blows in Antioch.”

“An Elder then.”

“One of the few remaining.”

We continued in silence, moving close enough to flit amongst sprawled bodies wafting enough fumes to emulate a brewery. Eventually the bodies were upright and swaying like grass stalks in the wind, music pounding in our ears. My spine tingled again as we drew closer. He was here alright. More than just a detective’s intuition. He was my brother after all.


I was reading a vampire book so… you know. Vampires. You should go read the Book Review of Gloryhill. It’s perfect.

Also, quick update: September is Spring Death month, in short,a month of blossoming death and flowery cadavers. Happy Friday!

Friday Fiction: Dust

Today’s Friday Fiction is courtesy of microcosmsfic.com. 300 word short story using the following elements.

We spun, and our three elements are character: Driver, setting: Rural Road, and genre: Romance.


Title: Dust

Word Count: 258

Dust. It pervaded the streets like flies over dead bodies. Endless. The windshield was a speckled window to the winding throughway that was more dirt and car denting dips than actual road. I had to ease the car through as each little bump would knock my passenger’s sleeping head against the window. Occasionally I’d look over the slumped form, pale skin almost white against the filtering rays, accentuating the dark blue lids shut against the glaring sun. The lips had parted and liquid seeped from the corners to dribble over the near transparent blouse she wore. So peaceful. Eventually the road smoothed out, allowing me to reach for the lighter and Marlboro pack in my breast pocket, balancing the steering wheel on my thighs as fingers worked to light the cig. She wouldn’t mind the smoke. I rolled the window down slightly letting the tendrils escape into the expanse beyond the road, an endless stretch of lush green on either side. One in particular ended at a gentle river where I had met the sleeping beauty. Long locks flowing down her shoulders, hands peacefully clasped over her abdomen with a single flower between. An angel setting my chest aflutter. Love at first sight. Rose petals overflowed from her parted lips, decorated silence of a floating soul amongst the dregs flowing around her. I’d stepped into the cold waters and rescued my princess from drifting through flooded eternity – such beauty required stilled peace. I would bury her in the meadows beyond where she would return to the dust.


A little dark. I blame the music.

Friday Fiction: Hunger

FridayFiction

Hunger clawed at his mind. It gnawed through his empty vessels like poison, fingers twisting uncontrollably across the wooden seat where he sprawled. The long fingernails clawed at the wood, deep grooves revealing the lighter inner splinters below the polished mahogany. He cast his eyes across the large empty room towards the window where the crescent moon shone. The light filtered through the fluttering rags that served as curtains, once thick crimson drapes now grey threads that barely kept the moonlight at bay. From beyond the veil, raucous laughter filtered in and out in drips. The village celebrations keeping the populace out at the height of night ensured that the man’s hunger abated not.

“Insolence!” He roared into the chamber, his voice bouncing back from the cold bricks that had become his abode. “Long since they cowered before me and now they jovially perambulate in the darkness. Have they forgotten me? Forgotten that the night belongs to me?!”

The voices seemed to laugh as reply, and with hunger grating at his fraying skin, anger became a welcome veil over his old promises. No longer was he to prey upon the poor sods in the village below but perhaps it was time to re-establish his presence in their midst. Honour and guilt obscured by the growing starvation and building wrath, he staggered to his feet. Lugging his frail body to the master bedroom, a chamber he’d promised never to enter again, his eyes guided him through the darkness to the standing closet spanning the length of the far wall. From within he withdrew his finest clothes and shoes, ambled his way to the disused vanity dresser and extracted his grooming kit. In the dark he ripped off his tatty gown to drape on his garments, slid on the uncomfortable dress shoes, removed a silver blade from the grooming kit and with practiced ease, sheared his facial hair. Without the woman who once shared his home to ensure he was fully presentable, and the mirror unable to yield anything had he looked into it, he ambled out of the room. The gloom of the mansion passed through him unnoticed as he descended the stairs, through the hallway that resounded with clacks from his shoes and into the large kitchen where moonlight streamed through to reveal the dust covered floor. He would have easily swung the large oak door with a simple thought, but weakened and tired, he reached for the knob and grunted to push the door open. The cool night air swept through him, sending his locks ruffling across his face. The noise carried with the wind, the merriment evident in the hushed dissonance of the ongoing festivities. From beyond, he heard the quiet bleat of sheep, no doubt forgotten and unattended. He stalked towards them.


Working on a little something here – quite difficult considering it’s a Historical Fantasy and there are certain words and phrases I’ve never used before nor find it necessary to use in this modern era. Nonetheless I hope you enjoyed it. It’s short but… so too is life. *drops mic*

Also, my character’s biggest flaw is hunger and a smidgen of loneliness: https://rachelpoli.com/2016/08/12/time-to-write-show-your-characters-biggest-flaw/

Rajat Narula

Let's keep the love for books alive

saania2806.wordpress.com/

Philosophy is all about being curious, asking basic questions. And it can be fun!

Transmundane Press

Join the Community

Andrew McDowell

An Author of Many Parts

Letters from a Horror Writer

Katie Marie, Horror Enthusiast & Writer

mused.blog

Just another blog of random thoughts.

sakhile whispers

mental health and books over every damn thing

Way Too Fantasy

Speculative fiction book reviews and more!

R. Michael

The home of mysteries, writing, and ponderings.

The Library Ladies

Two librarians, one blog, zero SHH-ing

The Lost Highway Hotel

See cinema differently

Lorraine Ambers

Fantasy writer - Bibliophile - Daydreamer

AllthingsUncanny

Ordinary Girl in Love with Horror

SAM's Book Reviews

Books Old & New

xolisilesite

Personal blog