Category / Short story

by Colette

For Loved Ones

Written by Terrestris Veritas

“I’ve never taken on a job like this before,” Sandy said as she stepped over the threshold. “Are you sure I’ll be able to handle it?”

Igor smiled, closed the front door after her and gestured down the hallway. “I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” he assured her, eyes twinkling. “The kids are quite good and excited to see you. I’ve barely been able to contain them.”

Sandy smiled back, the worry fading from her mind. “They must be a delight to have around the place.” She pushed open the kitchen door. “This is quite a nice house as well. What did you say your job was again?” She turned to face him but before she could she heard a muffled thud and collapsed without a sound.

**

Igor opened the door to his kids’ room. “Lucy, Chase!” he called as he entered.

The twins were sitting on their beds on opposite sides of the room. Both were slight of stature and dressed in casual clothes. They were sitting cross-legged facing each other, staring the opposing twin down, as if they were opponents. Lucy was dark of eye with straight, black hair to match, while Chase had bright, blonde hair with piercing, electric-blue eyes. Both snapped their gazes to Igor.

In an instant, Lucy was by his side, hugging him fiercely. Chase came slower, he always was slower than his sister, but hugged his father with just as much warmth. Lucy let go and took a step back. “Daddy, you were gone for ages!” she rallied, stamping her foot in fake anger.
Igor tousled her hair, “I’m sorry darling. I was getting some work done. But I’m here now.” He smiled as she did.

Chase spoke. “Daddy, can we go back to Mensington? I miss our old home.”

Igor shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry son, but you and your sister burnt the town down, remember. There’s nothing left.”

“But you can build it again, can’t you Daddy?”

“Of course it can be built again. But it takes time. Now my children,” he said, taking their hands, “there is someone I want you to meet.”

Lucy started jumping up and down, her hair blurring from the motion. “You brought us someone to play with?” she squealed.

Chase smiled widely, ever the calm one. “Did you really Daddy?”

Igor nodded. “I did. Her name’s Sandy. She’s in the box room, waiting for you. She’s your new playmate. Why don’t you go play with her?”

Both the twins hugged him again. “Thank you Daddy!” they chorused in unison. Lucy’s eyes had grown darker, gaining a red tint, while Chase’s had grown all the more brighter with excitement. They rushed from the room, eager to meet their new friend.

Igor sat on Chase’s bed, hunched over, elbows on knees and head in hands. He was dreading the time when the children came back. He would have to bathe them, bed them and wash their clothes. He knew then he’d have to clean the box room from top to bottom, removing all the blood and get rid of what remained of dear Sandy. And in a few days he’d show someone new into the house, a new friend, a new playmate. The twins just wanted to play with people, so he made sure they had someone to play with. If he didn’t, they would get angry. But the other reason was far simpler – they were his children, and a good father wants his children to be happy. In whatever way he must and at whatever the cost.

Terribly dark and creepy, with just a touch sweetness – a perfect summary for Terrestris Veritas’s fictional work. Written on behalf of February’s HHC, Fanning the Flames, this is indescribably tense and twisted. Lucy and Chase seem so innocent until Igor’s thoughts in the last paragraph, and then it truly dawns on us what these children have done. Jeepers creepers? Just about. If you enjoyed Terra’s HHC here, be sure to view his other work, including “Diaries of the Gods” and “Race“. 

Featured Image CC // Song Zhen

 

by Colette

Thorn Amidst Joy

Written by Miss Smiley

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

I zone out, feeling Heath’s eyes on the back of my neck. Why is he here? I sigh inwardly and wish I was anywhere but standing where I am.

I told him not to come. I begged him not to come. He begged me not to come. But by God, I promised. I took David’s ring and I gave him my hand and my word. I love him. I know I love him, just as I know I could never love anyone else more. He is my whole world and I adore him.

But for that one week…

I block out the little voice in my head that keeps telling me it’s not too late. Because it is. It was too late the moment David proposed and I said yes. It was too late the moment I fell into bed with him and gave him everything. And it is far, far too late for Heath to come swaggering in and sweep me away, no matter how much I ache for his touch. For God’s sake, is my word worth nothing? I promised. I swore.

And I ache.

“If any man should have just cause against this union, let him speak now.”

My stomach latches onto my ribs and I hope against hope that Heath will and won’t say anything. I am torn. I am a mess. If he speaks, I know I will fall. If I crumble, I know he will speak. If I turn, we will both fall.

I will be strong. I promised. My word is my troth.

I glance over at David. He glances at me. We both smile, hanging in the balance. My gaze falls on the little twist that his lip forms when he’s just about to laugh and it makes my heart ache. I want to be married to him already. These moments are too long and too short all at once.

Someone clears their throat behind me, breaking in on our peace and I pray, for the first time in years, that it isn’t Heath. Let it pass. Let it be.

The moment passes. All is well. And all is ruined. The ring slips onto my finger easily and I smile at David. Something swells in my chest, grabbing at my heart. Is it joy? Is it grief?

No matter. I will be faithful. I will be true.

We sign the paper. I am married. We are married.

All is joy.

All is loss.

This Half Hour Challenge piece was written on behalf of February’s theme, Fanning the Flames. And we believe Miss Smiley has pitched it just right. As a sore reminder of a past lover at a wedding ceremony, those fleeting moments where all appears to be lost, and then the wild blow never hits. It was no movie moment here, perhaps the narrator of the story is Cathy from Wuthering Heights, torn between the feisty, wayward Heathcliff and the English gentleman, Edgar. Either way, we love it. If you enjoyed reading Miss Smiley’s HHC, you can view some of her other works such as, “There will be Tea” and “The Bells of Campden”.  

Featured Image CC // Cristi Sebastien Photography

 

by Colette

Fractured Identity

Written by R. P. Brown

I’m a man about to crumble. A man unable to stagger forward. A man who thrives on others’ reassurances.

The aroma of failure constantly invades my nostrils, makes me sick to my stomach. I miss what I was with her: confident; free from my own judgement; myself.

These are my reflections.

The other night I had a dream I was on a flight to Northern Athens, that dead city where our future fell into histories that never were. It was time to confront you but I wasn’t ready. The bricks were not set and I knew one breath from those delicate lips would cause everything to tumble and fall.  I read as I normally do. A detective novel, with the tension building towards a disturbing conclusion. As my eyes followed the words, taking meaning from the sentences and absorbing the connotations; I could feel my anxiety rise to a panic.

I was not sure if the emotions I felt were channelled by the book or created by them. Do the words give rise to the feelings or do the feelings latch themselves to familiar words? This is the problem of literature. I can never tell if it’s a healthy pursuit of knowledge, or a self-destructive enlightenment. Everything leads to this singular ending, and when the pages end, I am left there. I continue. Life’s narrative doesn’t have a conclusion; just completely unrelated sequels.

The detective was a man who was driven by his curiosity and, perhaps, all good detectives are. Another man had shaken something within our protagonist and he had to find out what it was. He had become the other man’s shadow. Yet, as he did, his inner self fought against him, warning him not to shirk his identity in order to solve this stranger. The detective had taken on the greatest mystery of all, the nature of being. He could not resist even if he’d wanted to do so.

As I read, in order to give myself some relief, I would glance out of the window and thus step back into my own reality.  Both were equally as stressful, however, and relief was not to be found. The plane was shaking violently as though it were greatly unsettled.  Not far off I could see lightning. From where I was sitting, the red flashing lights on the wing looked as though the plane had caught alight.

The detective had followed his nemesis to the man’s apartment door. He went in beside him, still unnoticed. A great fear rose within the detective and, conversely, in me. We were seated. Our knuckles were white as we held on tightly, the words were shaking as the plane trembled. The object of our mutual turmoil sat in an armchair.

“Who are you?” we screamed.

“You should not ask what you are not ready to face.”

Escape was impossible. The door was locked, we were strapped to our seat and outside the world was battering against the windows.

So we persisted.

“Tell me. I need to know.”

“Look as long as you want but you cannot look me in the eyes. You cannot admit to yourself what you don’t want to know.”

A great strain was felt in our stomach. Our back was drenched in sweat. We both knew who this man was and yet we could not turn back. We needed to ask again, though we both knew that curiosity could kill.

“Who are you?”

There was another jolt. The sense of dread was almost incapacitating.

“I am you. The part you don’t wish to see.”

I managed to sever myself from the character at this moment and willed the plane into the ocean. Give up, plunge, plunge. How I longed for those lights to be all-consuming fires. As I looked to them, there was a flash of lightning. I caught my reflection in the window and with a jump I awakened.

The bed was mine but I felt no ownership of it. It did not hold any safety, just a sense of loneliness.

Her eyes had cheated me. They’d looked upon me with pity and fear, seeing only madness. Anxious, cornered as I was, I lashed out with my tongue. She tried to get in, pushed hard against me without love, just duty. I could not let her in.  She could not stay.

I left it and moved to the bathroom. In the cabinet mirror I saw the haggard face of myself in a dream, the one tortured by memories and reflections of a time gone by. I picked up my razor.

I cannot blame her. Who can love a façade? But I cannot love myself and so I can never let her in.

The blade moved across my beard and the coarse, rough feeling was pleasurable. Each cut was a welcome distraction, but the goatee I’d crafted was not satisfying enough and so I moved to my long, grease-ridden hair. Bit by bit I watched it fall to the floor and drip by drip, dark red rivers ran down the sides of my face. Then I was bald. I studied this new me in the mirror and I did not recognise myself, such a stark change had occurred. This man would not stammer and stutter.  I smiled lovingly and his blood-stained face smiled back.  I ran the razor in front of my lips and wondered if I could mould my soft smile into a sneer, embittered and mean. If I cut myself deeper, would the scars look strong and menacing? I wondered what I could become. Could I knock others to the ground and viciously stamp on their resolve?

No, I reflected. I didn’t have it in me. The weaknesses I loathed were different and could be seen all too clearly through the hole she left.  I’ll have to hide my insecurities, behind this mask I’ve created, the one in the mirror. I’ll hide them away from others and hopefully, in time, from myself again.

For now, I can create a character. But with a little scrutiny, a glance through the magnifying glass, and you’ll see what’s really me.

Taking his inspiration from Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy, new contributor R. P. Brown was fascinated by the exploration of one’s identity, penning this short story following a plane trip to Scotland. We love the tension he manages to create in this postmodern work, along with the superbly fluid trio of identities showcased. If you enjoyed R. P. Brown’s Fractured Identity, feel free to leave a “like” or comment below, detailing your thoughts. You can also view his other published work directly on his blog at ryebreadcreative.com. 

Featured Image CC // Christopher Blackburn

by Colette

Together We Sleep

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

There’s a lot they don’t tell you about sleeping with someone. Not sex (although I’m sure there is plenty they don’t tell you about that, too) and not snuggling – just sleeping. Sleeping next to someone, with their arms wrapped around you and their body pressed against yours. They tell you all the good stuff – how intimate it is, how it feels like you belong there. And how safe and warm it makes you feel. They even tell you some of the bad stuff – the fights for blankets, the lack of bed space. But there’s a lot they don’t tell you.

They don’t tell you about those moments when your head is trapped in the crook of their elbow, which is sweaty, and you feel sticky and warm and a bit uncomfortable. They don’t tell you about elbows pressing into your back, or the rough scratch of stubble on your neck. Or how when they cough, you will feel it – warm and tickling – on your ear.

They don’t tell you how warm and damp and sweaty you will feel, with hot naked flesh pressed up against you and pressure in all the wrong places. They don’t tell you how your hips will ache from lying at an unnatural angle, that every time you shift your weight you will hear them sigh as you disturb them. They don’t tell you about limbs trapped beneath you, hands roaming awkwardly in search of a resting place, or arms that have nowhere to go. They don’t tell you about the vague sense of unease that comes from sharing all of this with another human being.

And yet, as I lay there – blankets awry, joints aching, limbs tangled, warm and uncomfortable, he whispered “I love you” into my ear. And I fell asleep smiling.

Together We Sleep was written as part of a sleepless night for Rivers of Tarmac, whilst lying next to her partner. In a stream-of-consciousness setting, these were the thoughts that ran through her head that night, rather than sheep counting. And we couldn’t agree more with her opinion. A dead arm, a dead shoulder, the sticky sweat. Yet despite all the bad points, the comfort of having that special someone next to you is just worth it. If you enjoyed Rivers of Tarmac’s work, you can view more short stories such as, ‘This is not an Eloquent Post‘ and ‘A Boy Who Fell In Love‘.

Featured Image CC // Art Brom

by Colette

Ending at the Start

Written by Rob

It seems a day like any other but there is something nagging me; something out of reach, out of sight. I’m uneasy but I can’t tell you why. My room is bright and airy; my bed is warm and comfortable. I’m fully awake, though still feeling tired.

That aroma: what’s that? I know I recognise it. Ah yes, it’s the smell of a hospital; mystery solved. I’m starting to nod off again when a thought assaults me: why does my room smell like a hospital? I prop myself up on my elbows and look around. Now I’m confused – this isn’t my room; this is a hospital. I take in the row of beds, the curtains, the tubes and cables, medical paraphernalia, clip-boards and charts. There’s a nurse looking at me, walking my way.

“Ah, you’re awake again Mr Daniels. How are you feeling this afternoon?” In a moment she’s at my side and rearranging my pillows in an authoritative manner. “Just lie back and take it easy.” She finishes with the pillows, picks up a clip-board, plucks a pen from her breast pocket and sits back beside my bed. “Now then Mr Daniels, what can you tell me about our conversation this morning?”

“Who are you?” I regret it as soon as I’ve said it. To be fair, it sounded rather rude. The nurse has a very friendly, if not jolly, face. I think she has confused me with someone else, though obviously she has my name right. Maybe there’s another Mr Daniels in another ward; it’s not an uncommon name after all.

“I’m Carrie Templeton. I am the consultant neurologist on your case. Do you remember speaking with me this morning?” Consultant neurologist is a phrase that jolts. I’m struggling to make sense of what she’s saying. Case? What case? I’m not a case! I was playing golf this morning, or was that yesterday? If it’s afternoon, why am I in bed?

Carrie continues, “Don’t worry. Everything is OK. We had the same conversation this morning, and yesterday, and every day last week. You suffered a small thrombotic stroke but it has caused damage to a region of your brain called the Hippocampus. You have a condition we call severe anterograde amnesia which means you are unable to create new memories. So every time you wake up, your memory carries on from where it was when you suffered the stroke at your golf club.”

“Yes, I remember playing golf. Is that good?” I ask, more in hope than conviction.

“Yes, that’s very good. Your long-term memory is working well. We’re going to try stem cell therapy to prompt repair to your Hippocampus. But in the interim, alas, we will have many conversations like this one. My colleagues or I have to tell you about your stroke three or four times each day. It is always news to you.”

“Is there an end in sight?”

“The prognosis is favourable. We’ve had some remarkable results with stem cells. I can’t make you any promises of course.”

“Oh, I think you could. I wouldn’t remember, would I?”

Carrie smiles. “Yes, very funny Mr. Daniels. That’s the third time you’ve cracked that one! Now try to get some rest and we’ll begin again in a few hours.”

Rob’s Half Hour Challenge was written on behalf of January’s theme, Beginnings, but we feel it fits perfectly in our themed content for March. It’s a little like Memento, without the ink and tattoos, but much more light-hearted with the wisecrack from Mr Daniels. We wouldn’t mind reading it again and again! If you enjoyed Rob’s piece, why not check out some of his other work, including ‘Coach‘ and ‘Last Breath‘.

Featured Image CC // Kiuko

by Colette

Lift Girl – Part 2

Written by Fantasy Girl

She must have left work slightly earlier than usual as I didn’t see her in the lift. But our cars were the only two left in the car park as I stepped from the double glass doors of reception – her red MR2 parked next to my silver Nissan just like every day. She was struggling to start the car as I approached, so I stuck my head through the open passenger window.

“Need a hand?” I asked with a slight smile on my face.

“My stupid bloody car won’t start!” she growled back through gritted teeth as she tried again.

“Which way are you heading? I could give you a lift home, get a mechanic to look over it tomorrow morning?”

“I’m heading back to Colchester, if you know the area, just off Tufnell way?” she seemed hopeful.

I lived about a ten minute walk away from the street she mentioned. “Jump in,” I said. “Let’s get you home.”

The journey home was quiet, pleasurable rather than awkward. We both enjoyed the peaceful silence after a stressful day at work.

“Which road is it?” I asked as we turned on to Tufnell way.

“This one just here,” she pointed to the road sign that said ‘Axel Way’. “But I’ll get out here. Thanks for the lift, I really appreciate it!” And before I could protest, she was out of the car and jogging down the road.

I had to go down the road to turn around anyway, so I drove down, and sped back up the street to the house she was approaching.

“Who the hell is he?” shouted the man who was waiting at the door for her – a partner, I presume. She didn’t answer. Was he on about me? “Who is he? You stupid slut!” He back-handed her across the face, and dragged her into the house by a handful of her hair. He slammed the door behind him, but it bounced back open.

I scrambled out of the car, not knowing quite what I was planning on doing, but knowing I should be doing something. I heard screaming as I approached the door, she was begging him to stop. He didn’t. I crouched down by the door for what seemed like a lifetime, listening to his rhythmic grunts, and her constant pleas for him to stop.

I was in hysterics by the time it finally ended. I had let him do that to her, and I could do nothing about it… I let him rape her, this girl that I barely knew, and it was because of… it was because of me!

I heard her sobs as he moved around the room. Then a gunshot, footsteps. The door swung open and he spat in my direction.

“Enjoy the show did you? She’s a screamer!”, he said, with a sadistic smile on his face. “Well,” he continued after a minute of silence, “you’re welcome to the slut now. A right lot of good she’s going to do you though.” And he walked off, without looking back.

I couldn’t bring myself to move until he was out of sight – I was frozen to the spot like a statue, but then I rushed in, and followed where I thought the commotion had come from. All I could see was blood, a lot of it, akin to a horror film I’d watched the other week.

Lamps, paper, and other household items were scattered all over the floor. There was smashed glass on the kitchen floor tiles and the curtains had been pulled down. And her naked body laid there, in a pool of blood on her cream carpet. The body of the girl I had seen every morning for the last three years, so helpless, so vulnerable. Until today, we had never truly spoken, just a polite ‘hello’ in the lift or a meek wave, on my part.

It was a gunshot to the heart that killed her. Her body was covered in bruises, some old, greening as they faded; some new, purples and blues blossoming like flowers on her ivory skin.

She didn’t even know my name, I thought as I fell to my knees and cradled her head in my lap. I’m the only person here, and it’s because of me that this happened. I should have invited her for coffee, I should have taken her to my place to look over finance plans for the company. She wouldn’t be here – she wouldn’t be like this if I had… – this would never have happened, and it’s all my fault.

“I’m sorry!” I cried, stroking her dark hair away from her beautiful face. “Shiv, I’m so sorry!” And then was when I felt a very faint pulse through her neck.

“Dan,” she whispered as her eyes fluttered open. “Thank you.” And she went limp – her breathing stopped.

I checked for her neck pulse again and confirmed what I already knew.

She was dead.

Fantasy Girl’s second and final part concludes Siobhan and Dan’s tragic story. It’s heartbreaking, and we can’t help but feel a little stab of pain when she mentions his name at the end. Oh dear, better pass us some tissues! If you enjoyed the finale of Lift Girl, make sure you check out the first part which we published last month for the complete package. 

Featured Image CC // Peter Almay

by Colette

The Game – Part 2

Written by Dice

The Game is never really won. The man may think he has succeeded if he and the woman are currently ‘dating’, or ‘going out.’ This is when the opponents are together in such a way that, traditionally, the battle is now concentrated to the two players. Opponents may also be ‘going steady’, ‘engaged’, or even ‘married’, these occur later in the battle; it is a time when the quiet moments are the most numbing, but the battles are fought even harder.

When opponents are together, other opposition is generally silenced when they are informed of the player’s situation with another. There are, however, times when an outside opponent does enter the ring. This is considered as bad form and bad gamesmanship but – in actuality – gives the Game a whole new level. And it’s also becoming an increasing trend in the modern Game.

Battles become more complex during the ‘together’ period, usually more so for the man. The man must now be on guard for a ‘question move.’ As such, this can be a cruel move but is very common. It’s the woman’s way of twisting words so that the man must think on his feet to avoid defeat. Delaying tactics are available but they do not buy a lot of time.

An example of when a question move can occur is when the woman is trying on clothes and inquiring the man’s opinion. Generally the questions can be innocent and calm, such as ‘What do you think of this dress?’ This example is a relatively easy answer, where the man must, in all cases, give positive yet constructive feedback. These are also opportunities for the man to gain bonus points, with comments such as: ‘This one [ie: the dress] goes with your beautiful eyes.’ A comment that would sound ‘cheesy’ to the man, of course, but one that women will love and may concede points in the Game further down the line. This move can also end the question move before it becomes too dangerous.

A question move that turns dangerous can have serious consequences on the man, particularly if he is not alert. If the couple have spent a long day shopping together, for example, the man may become mentally tired which could cause him to be caught off guard. Variations of the question: ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ must always be answered with a firm ‘No.’ A reply that can in any way be linked to: ‘Yes’ is a textbook error on the man’s behalf.

The move and counter sounds trivial to avoid, but a woman can be craftier in applying this move. Continuing on the same theme, a man must be at the top of his form if faced with the ‘Does my bum look bigger in this dress, or the last dress?’ Note the negative state this question takes. The obvious reply would be ‘the last dress’ but this move is a mistake. In fact, it implies that her bum looks big in the current dress and even bigger in the previous dress. No, a man has to be smart and chose his words wisely; his reply must ensure the woman that her bum looks big in neither dress and that he has given an opinion on the current dress. A very well constructed move will result in both the woman being satisfied in the answer, and the woman choosing the dress that the man preferred.

As Valentine’s Day is now well and truly over, Dice’s second part of The Game might just make men question what women really want. No, not the Mel Gibson film, or the one with Colin Firth and Amanda Bynes, either, but one of the man’s own choosing. That niggle of a question, “Does my bum look big in this?” is probably one that only women can answer themselves. Besides, us women prefer to go shopping either alone or with our girl friends, we only drag men along when we don’t want to pay! If you enjoyed Dice’s piece, why not check out the first part of The Game, which we published last month. 

Featured Image CC // Charles Rodstrom

by Colette

Differences in Love

Written by Hope75

With a relentless assault, the rain poured as it had done for most of that day. The crowd huddled uncomfortably in the tiny, dry space of the bus shelter as the passing traffic heaved by. Those unlucky enough to be at the front were soaked from the spray of the numerous puddles, shimmering from time to time with the light from the moon.

Nestled at the back, as he was at the same time most evenings, Dennis tried in vain to read the trashy fiction he had grown to love on these dreary commutes home. He glanced at his watch, noting that the bus was now over twenty minutes late. The hustle of the irascible crowd against him was beginning to wear his patience.

The growl of an engine followed by the screech of brakes caused Dennis to look up from his book. Turning the corner he spotted the 145 that would finally get him home and back to Amy. Boarding the bus, he flashed his travel card quickly at the uninterested driver before taking the nearest available seat. Resting his briefcase on his lap he returned to his trashy tale of the pauper who fights for the love of the fair maiden, hoping this would block out the chatter of those seated around him.

It was after ten when he stepped off the bus into the cold and biting, damp air. The smell of the nearby slaughterhouse invaded his nostrils as he made his way across the deserted small road that led to his home.

Dennis shivered. Soaked through, he unlocked the door of his shabby bungalow and stepped inside, just relieved to be out of the rain more than anything. Making his way down the hallway, he stopped at the bedroom and quietly opened the door. Amy lay with her back to him, her raven-coloured curls resting on the porcelain of her exposed shoulders. He pulled the fallen bedclothes back over her shoulders and went out to the kitchen to fix his supper.

He ate in silence, flicking through the files he had brought from the office. The McMahon report had to be finished within the next few days, but it could wait for the moment. There were more pressing matters to attend to.

Dennis moved through the house for his safety check stint – making sure the front door was bolted and the back door was locked. Happy that all was in order, he dried his thinning auburn hair in the bathroom and returned to the bedroom.

Amy felt cold on his skin as he spooned next to her naked body. He could smell the faintest hint of coconut still lingering in her hair. He ran his hand over her right breast, causing him to stiffen against her buttocks. Pulling her curls back he began to softly kiss her neck and upper back. Moving himself into position he guided himself into her. Her vagina felt dry and tight but continued, penetrating her deeper. He pushed harder, quivering, readying his orgasm. It didn’t take long. Satisfied, Dennis lay on his back and began to snore.

The shrill, electronic shriek from his phone abruptly stirred him from sleep the following morning. Focusing his tired eyes, he picked his phone up from the locker beside his bed. It was work.

“Hello”, he answered.

“Morning Dennis, Mr Boyce would like you to come in early today. Urgent meeting,” the tinny voice of his boss’s secretary replied.

“Oh, okay, sure. What time does he need me?” Dennis asked, scratching his eyes.

“If you could get here in the next hour, that would be great.”

“Yeah, sure. I have a few things to sort out at home but will try to make it in as soon as I can,” he agreed, before Mr Boyce’s secretary rudely hung up.

Dennis staggered across to the bathroom, turning on the shower. It was going to be a long day. He sighed and stood in front of the mirror, observing his sagging middle-aged body before turning away, almost in disgust.

In the kitchen, he once again ate in silence, organising the McMahon files for his upcoming meeting as the toast crunched in his mouth. Permeating through the smell of burnt toast, a pungent – yet familiar – odour drifted through the air of the small bungalow.

He dashed down the hall to the bedroom, gagging a little. Getting down on his knees, he lifted the bed covers and grabbed some air freshener from beneath the bed. Dennis put the box to his nose, no lime breeze smell. He pulled out another, followed by another and found they were all beginning to lose their freshness.

Leaning in closer to Amy he realised then what was happening. Dennis would have to get rid of his latest girlfriend. It was a shame he thought, he had loved Amy more than any of the previous ones. Danielle, Pauline, Sarah, he remembered the names he liked to give them.

The heavy rain of the last few days had made the soil in his secluded back garden soft and easy to dig. Dennis carefully laid the body, now draped in the sheet, into the newly dug hole beside his other girlfriends. They were all there, lined up in a row, his dear possessions. All lined up with pretty little flowers where their beautiful heads lay. What flowers would he grow on top of Amy? Yes, definitely lilies.

Terribly dark and yet somehow quite beautiful is Hope75’s short fiction. We love the fantastic twist at the end, though obviously don’t approve of Dennis’s actions. However, we know it’s almost Valentine’s so if you prefer to keep a bin by your bed when reading this, we understand! If you enjoyed Hope75’s writing, why not check out her other less gruesome but just as enthralling fictional piece, “Anna“. 

Featured Image CC // Kaz Kuro

by Colette

Jenny of the Road

Written by Alex McCarron

It was late and dim when I saw her coming up the road. An old path, absent of passers-by save for a wandering peddler and his wares. Waving a crooked finger at me, he said, “Robbers down that way, or used to be.”

“There are robbers down every road,” I said, in a hurry. With nought worth stealing, I had nothing to fear.

It was then that I saw a girl approaching in the distance behind me, a pretty thing – slim and pale. The low sun caught my eye, blinding me for a moment, and I lost sight of her. A cuckoo called in a copse of trees. I’d been traveling long and hard, but a devil got into me – it always does when I spot a pretty girl – and I thought, I’ll just scare her a bit, make her jump. So I slipped off the road and into the copse, crouching behind the trees until I heard footsteps. They passed right by and I leaped out, roaring, my arms spread to grab her.

There was nobody there.

While I stood gaping like a fool, a wind sprang up in the trees. Their branches whipped together, chattering in low whispers. “Jenny,” it whispered. “Jenny, Jenny.”

The only footprints in the dust were my own. I squared my shoulders. “You have nothing to fear,” I reminded myself, and kept walking.

As I went the trees thickened, growing taller and more grotesque. The wind followed me, sometimes in hard gusts, sometimes as soft as a pattering pair of feet. More than once I looked back. Were the footsteps following me, too?

After a mile or so, I passed a house crouched far back in the trees. Its windows were broken and its roof stooped. The sky had darkened to a burnt orange, but I didn’t think of stopping.

“That was the robber’s house,” the wind hissed much like a person walking by my side. “She was a robber’s daughter, wasn’t she? Sweet Jenny.”

The trees sighed, “Sweet Jenny.”

“Keep going.” I told myself. “There’s nothing to fear.”

The wind nipped and pinched me. “Sweet Jenny with her sweetheart; that sweet boy with hair as black as coal.”

The house gaped at me, eyeless and empty. I hurried past, and the wind and the footsteps followed. It was no more than half a mile from the house when I came to a tree taller and darker than all the rest. Its branches whipped together in haste of the setting sun, urging the darkness on.

“You have nothing to fear,” I whispered.

The tall branches groaned, speaking from the heart of the tree itself. “Her father killed him here. Killed her sweet boy, but Jenny took his knife, she slipped his own knife into his back. And Jenny took his knife. Jenny ran.”

The road grew harder, thinner. It reared up with rocks and roots. I walked faster. My breath cut across my ribs like a cold knife. “It’s just the wind,” I whispered. “You fool, it’s only the wind.”

Finally, when the sky was black, I reached a small bridge over a large river. The water frothed under it like a hungry mouth, but a bridge meant new roads and people near. I started to cross. The bridge creaked as I stepped on it; it creaked and the waters spoke. “Jenny stabbed herself. Jenny put the knife in her pretty white throat.”

My toe caught a knot, and I stumbled. The river laughed, licking the boards beneath me.

“Jenny bled out.”

And didn’t I feel a cold hand in mine, pulling me to my feet? Didn’t I feel thin, cold lips pressed to my forehead?

“Jenny flowed into me.”

A tree has no voice, and the wind has no voice, and the water has no voice. And none of these things speaks with the voice of a girl. I ran.

“Kissing Jenny,” the man behind the bar laughed as if he didn’t believe me. “Everyone who comes up that way has a story to tell.”

I’d ran until the trees parted and spat me back up on the main road, ran until I saw the lighted windows of the inn. It was so loud, so full of warmth and light that I slammed through the door like a madman, shrugging off the cold draft that followed me in. I shouted for a drink, something strong. I didn’t speak again until I’d downed two pints of beer.

The man rattled my coins in his palm. “Only one room left,” he told me. “Right at the top.”

It was ready for me when I climbed up, with a candle on the windowsill and a fire in the hearth. “There now,” I told myself, warmed to the bone with drink, “you have nothing to fear.”

I locked my door. I shrugged off my coat and turned down my bed sheets. I climbed in and blew out my candle.

“Well then,” she said, “it’s just the two of us tonight, my dear.”

This short horror story by new contributor Alex McCarron chills us to the very bone – nevermind the narrator! Though we won’t need any alcohol to settle our fears, we may just reach out for a warm cup of tea or hot chocolate to send us off to sleep instead. Inspired by her love of old ghost stories and tales of the supernatural, Alex penned this piece in order to bring back the classic horror narrative. If you enjoyed her piece, make sure you let us know by leaving a like or a comment below. 

Featured Image CC // Nathan O’Nions

by Colette

Lift Girl – Part 1

Written by Fantasy Girl

My white shirt was stained crimson as I held her dying body in my arms. I didn’t know her – not directly anyway. She worked in the same office block as me. We would pull up in our cars at 8.45 every morning. We would park our cars next to each other every morning. We would walk in and get the lift together every morning; I was on the third floor, she was on the fifth. We would see each other in the lift down as we left at 17.05 every evening, and so on.

Her name was Shiv, short for Siobhan, or whatever variation of the spelling she used. I didn’t know this because I’d spoken to her, I’d never spoken to her apart from a polite ‘hello’ on a morning other than today, I knew it because I saw it on the front of one of her birthday cards one Monday morning a few months after I started working there. Did she know my name? I guess not. How would she? It’d never come up in our ‘hello’s’ on a morning.

She doesn’t even know my name, and I sat there, cradling her head in my lap as she lay dying on the floor before me.

The day stated as any other did: my alarm went off at six am (I snoozed until half past) and dragged my arse out of bed. I brushed my teeth and stumbled downstairs to the back door to have a cigarette. I ironed my shirt and trousers, got changed, wolfed a bowl of Rice Crispies down, and strode out of the door at 8.15.

Chris Moyles was doing his last breakfast show on Radio 1 as I climbed into the car, and ‘Star-boy’ was playing – the remake of the McFly song ‘Star-girl’ that the band did to say bye to Chris. And by the end of it, both Chris and the boys from McFly were in tears. It was a painful half hour drive; just listening to the goodbyes, the celebrities’ goodbyes, as well as the fans. I was sick of the whole charade by the time I pulled up to work. Yeah, I get it, he was a good DJ, but he didn’t deserve that much of a send-off.

I wondered where Shiv was as I walked into the office reception, but heard her shout, “Hold the lift!” as I stepped inside. As she slid in beside me, I noticed her dark hair, usually pulled back into a neat bun, was falling elegantly about her shoulders. And I soon saw why; as she pulled the sleeve of her shirt up to scratch her shoulder, I saw a bruise blossoming on her collar-bone – the purples and the blues of hurt and anguish.

Thinking back on it, I could have stopped this from happening – maybe I should have invited her out for coffee, asked her to come over to my place and look over some of the finance stuff I’ve been working on for the company, or something. It’s my fault it happened. I’d seen the signs. Most of all, I’d seen the bruises and the low self-esteem. Her seemingly irrational fear of most of the men we worked with. I should have stopped it. I could have stopped it. I could have stopped her going home… but hindsight is a wonderful thing. How was I supposed to know how that night was going to end? But somehow, I can still only blame myself.

Written on behalf of the Fiction Frenzy with the theme ‘Just One Day’, Fantasy Girl’s short story fits perfectly into the theme of beginnings. Starting at the end and gradually hooking us with a dark tale, reeling in all the raw emotion from a sudden death. It’s gut-wrenching but, still, a wonderfully told story – and this is just the first part! If you enjoyed Fantasy Girl’s short fiction, why not consider reading some of her other fine pieces including, ‘Commune‘ and ‘I’m a Slug, Get Over It‘. 

Featured Image CC / Chris Chabot