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.

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“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.”

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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

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“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

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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.

Friday Fiction: Sweets from a Stranger

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

Topic: Sweets from a Stranger, genre: Crime.

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The car tottered over gravel on a quiet October afternoon. A quick glance in the rear-view mirror revealed glossy cerulean eyes below thin furrowed brows. An upturned nose blew out every few seconds while silver tape around the lower half of the face crinkled against barely perceptible lips. The man grinned through the mirror,
“You still okay back there?”
The boy turned towards the window in reply. A dimmed sky cascaded sunlight through, dulled by the tint to ensure no one could see in.
“Well you better be. And don’t bother memorizing the road.”
Silence. It was exactly how the man preferred it. The radio had been turned off and only the low hum and crunch of gravel permeated the vehicle. Another glance back and it seemed the boy had fallen asleep, eyes shut and chest rising gently under the Manchester City jersey he wore. Perfect.
*
The silence felt heavy. Outside the sun had deepened, vermillion against the tinted windows. The man took a glance at the rear view mirror and felt his body gradually chill as bright hazel eyes stared back at him unblinkingly. He was sure the boy had blue eyes.
“You still okay in the front there?” The boy asked. The man’s eyes widened, mouthing drooping agape as duct tape around the boy’s lips fell away completely. Sharpened teeth revealed in malevolent grin.
“Well you better be. And don’t bother getting off the road, we’re going exactly where we should be.”
*
The detective stared at the file before him then up at the tall man who had shucked off his lab coat,
“You’re saying he looks like a boy but is actually a full grown man?”
“And takes sweets from a stranger before letting them think they’ve lured him away. Only the assailant becomes the victim. Always.”

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You know how I like to add a horror spin to everything I write. Muhahaha!

Spring Death Week 4 – Phobias

Hey all, welcome to week 4 of Spring Death month (Wait… week 4? And next week is… week 5? Of one month. Right….. Well less deadline pressure so I’ll take it!) and although I haven’t posted any short stories or excerpts, I’m still writing. There’s just a lot happening all around and I’m not getting enough sleep. I’m not complaining or giving excuses, just informing you that the writing is going despite challenges. Also, I’ve written the 5th of 10 stories so in the next 8 days I’ll have to write 5 more.

Theme

This week’s theme (I know it’s Thursday, this week is practically over haha) is Phobias. Things you’re afraid of… or rather things I’m afraid of. Not that I’m afraid of red roses but did you know that Anthophobia is the fear of flowers. Imagine with me the poem Seeping Scarlet Screams from my Tuesday Poetry thing.

You’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling because you can hear the quiet shuffle of vines against your wall. You’re sure they are moving but everyone insists it’s just the wind. Just the wind. Eventually fatigue drags you into the silent depths of sleep, dreamless quiet that encompasses your entire being. It blocks out the constant scratching sounds outside your window, the rasping of wood that seems to be coming from the inside. Until you awake to the shrill sound of crockery smashing onto the floor from beyond your shut door. Staring wide eyed at the ceiling, you wonder what has happened. Your mind tries to both persuade and dissuade you from investigating the sound.

Inner You 1: “It’s nothing. Just the wind.”

Inner You 2: “The wind inside the house? And can you hear that?”

Inner You 1: “It’s outside. Against the wall. That’s it. Just. Outside. We can go check. Open the door and check.”

Inner You 2: “It sounds closer. Outside the door. We should grab the tennis racquet? Maybe a pair of scissors too.”

Inner You 1: “Rubbish. It’s. Nothing. It’s nothing okay. Let’s just sleep until…”

The scratching noise is undoubtedly outside the door, then against the door, then past the door. You can hear the slithering scraping sounds. You imagine the thorns on the twisting emerald vines weaving their way to the bed. The riiiip of cloth you imagine to be your clothes strewn over the floor. You hope they hinder whatever it is. The sheet under you begins to shift slowly. The tearing sound rises from below the bed as more of the sheet slides out from you. By now you’re aware of what is climbing the side of the bed. You’re aware of the sound of your heart beating just below the ominous grating drawing closer. And then you feel the first set of pricks wrapping around your ankle like tiny teeth.

Dun dun dun *Cue music end ending credits

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What phobias do you have? Have you ever had to battle against your particular phobia? How did you do it? How did you feel? What brought you to that situation? I would love to hear it.

Spring Death Week 3 – Updates

Sooooo it’s the third week and I have written 4 of my ten stories. Falling behind, I know, but worry not! 6 stories in 11 days is totally possible guys. Trust me.

Spring Death Week 3 theme – Surreal

In the first week I addressed Serial Killers. In the second week I took on Supernatural/Paranormals. This week we look at the surreal, or as it has been so perfectly worded: having the disorienting, hallucinatory quality of a dream.

This means I’ve got free roam not limited to anything really because it’s plausible in a surreal sense without needing it to be explained in intricate detail *breathes*. I’m expecting really bizarre stories to flow out of this one.

Patreon Final Story Poll

In the last week of September, I will be running a week long poll to decide which of the ten short stories will be given a spiffy looking cover. So please drop by Monday 26 September to begin voting. It’s open to the public too which means if your story vote wins, you will get a copy of that particular story. Shiny cover and all. *ooooh. aaaaah.

August Dark Fantasy Reward (*Patreons only)

My artist just finished the August rendition of my short story. You will be getting that reward at the end of this month. Keep an eye out for that, I think you’ll definitely love it!

Thank you so much for your support!

Supernatural Paranormals Week

It’s week 2 of Spring Death on the blog and it’s all about the supernatural and the paranormal. As a transitional short from last week’s Serial Killer week, here’s an excerpt on a supernatural serial killers:

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“Weh ma! Baba!” he exclaimed as the aged bodies of his reanimated parents stared blankly at nothing before them. He hadn’t noticed how cold the room had become until his breath escaped in an ephemeral plume. But it was a passing notion. His heart seemed to be beating in his ears, a light elation filling his lungs, crawling across his face into a grin that spread to his eyes. The two bodies on the bed turned sagging pale faces towards him, milky eyes unseeing, mouths drooped to reveal toothless gums and dry grey tongues.

“Ma?” he said to the closest body. The woman on the bed seemed to be more skin than anything else hanging down her skeletal frame. She raised stick-thin arms out towards him,

“My child.” A feathery murmur escaped from chapped lips, “Come.”

Excited, Siyabonga rushed to the woman and wrapped his arms around the cold, bare body.
“Oh ma! Ma!” he cried into the icy flabs. An earthy aroma rose from the body. He was barely aware of the strength in the arms as they clutched him tighter and tighter and tighter. The spell had worked. Traditional medicine had done what modern science never could – it brought his parents back from the dead. The sangoma was the real doctor not him. His thoughts were broken by a sharp pain in his side. He gasped for breath,

“Ma!” he choked as his arms pressed against his sides, his back folding in on itself as ribs crackled under the grip. He tried to scream but only a gurgled whisper escaped. He hadn’t even heard or noticed his father until a second embrace wrapped around them and clutched harder. The crackling bones sounded like splintering wood, the unyielding pain perforating his arms, twisting along his back, grinding into his chest. A guttural groan clawed out of his throat.

“My child. Thank you.” The voiced snaked into his mind. It was not his mother’s voice. It wasn’t even female. He tried to speak but the pain was too intense, black spots peppered his vision as his breath shortened into painful hics.

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What happens next? Are they really his parents? Who has he brought back from the dead and what will they do next? *Cue music and final credits*

Patreon

To read the behind-the-scenes draft of my stories, you can become a Patreon from $1. As a Patreon, you are also able to send suggestions and ideas for your own personal creation; it doesn’t have to be related to my Spring Death theme.

Friday Fiction: As it is

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.

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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.

Mother Always Said – Update

For the month of September I will be writing ten 3000 word short stories for my Spring Death theme. That is about 2.5 stories a week. I wrote my first short story yesterday – Mother Always Said.

It is a tale of a religious mother who endures hardships at home with an abusive husband, and at church with a questionable congregation. Her son becomes part and parcel of her deterioration, and sets the stage for the rest of his life.

So the above image is the first rough cover draft, first idea that came to mind which I quickly put together before it escaped me. Carin Marais, a friend, writer and fellow Patreon, also sent through an amazing suggestion using the following image:

 

If you have any ideas, suggestions, comments, links or anything helpful, please let me know. If I use your idea, you will get recognition, as well as a PDF version of the final cover and short story (a reward usually reserved for Patreons). Thank you in advance! You can use the contact form if your idea is complex – I’m on my emails almost all the time (except weekends.)

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Earlier today I wrote a poem “Darker than Black” inspired by this tale, exploring the boy who is now a man. If you haven’t read it, please give it a look see. 🙂

 

 

September Goals: Spring Death

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.