Tag / Short Fiction

by Colette

The Wisps on the Moor

Written by Terrestris Veritas

She felt her foot snag in a root and lost control of her balance, falling forward to a jerking stop as the ground stayed where it was and a grip on her arm hauled her upright. The grip remained on her arm, firm but not without force. She looked up fearfully, seeing the gloved hand and crisp uniform, following along until she saw the stern, scarred face. He gazed at her with savage eyes that peeped out from underneath a shiny, leather cap.

He addressed her curtly, “Why were you running child?”

“I was chasing a rabbit,” she mumbled to her shoes.

“Speak up, and look me in the eye when you talk. There’s a good girl. Now, repeat what you just said.”

“I was chasing a rabbit.”

“Well you shouldn’t do that,” he said shortly. “Many people have important jobs to do around here and you wouldn’t want to get in their way now, would you?”

“No,” she said dejectedly, making sure to look him in the eye.

“Good. Now,” he continued talking as he led her back to the house. “I’m sure your mother would like you inside before it gets dark. No matter what, you must stay inside at night. The men here are on watch and could mistake you for someone else. And they do nasty things to people they don’t know in the dark.” He chuckled to himself as he opened the side door, still gripping her arm.

**

Samantha woke to the sound of someone calling her. Blinking rapidly, she looked around, straining to hear the voice again. The house creaked eerily. She gripped her bed sheets tightly. It was never quiet in this old, draughty house. And the noise made her skin crawl. Usually, Samantha slept in her mother’s room, but currently she was unwell with the baby and needed to rest alone. Having laid down again to sleep, she thought of her little brother. Samantha thought to herself: Why was he making mother so unwell? I hope she gets better soon. Her mother was the only nice person here, apart from the old maid who had made her bed for her. But no-one seemed to understand that her mother’s husband, the sergeant, was not her father.

“Samantha.”

She sat bolt upright. The voice had come from her left, near the window. Swinging her legs out of bed, she slipped on her shoes and stood up, smoothing down her nightdress.

“Samantha,” the voice whispered.

The house creaked loudly, and she jumped from the noise, almost knocking her stack of unpacked books. She walked to the window, pressing her hand against it to look out, shivering from the cold.

A small ball of orange light hovered just outside the window. “Samantha, follow us.” The voice was insistent.

“You want me to come with you? But come where?” Samantha was curious, but still cold.

“Outside Samantha. Come and play.”

Outside was warmer somehow, Samantha thought, turning away from the soft mist. Tucking her hair behind her ear, she looked around for the light. It bobbed into view, pulsing slightly. She chased after it, as it led her away from the house and up a slight hill. She kept a close eye on the ground so as to not fall over once more. Sometimes she’d think she had lost the ball of light but it would always reappear, whispering her name softly. It was just like one of her stories, she thought.

She didn’t know how long she followed that light, but eventually she came to a clearing of sorts. She heard a strange noise that sounded like water, and the air smelt funny too. But all that was driven away when she saw what she had been led to. Some distance away from her, she saw lots of balls of light – more like wisps in the mist. They were many colours including purple, yellow, blue, green and red. They zoomed overhead, chasing each other and laughing softly. And then they directed their attention to her.

“Come and play with us Samantha,” they chorused. “Come play with us.” They almost sounded like they were begging, again pulsing softly.

Samantha smiled. “Okay.”

**

“Sergeant, the girl has not yet been found.” The corporal stood stiffly, cap in hand and eyes front. Years of discipline could not disguise the slight tremble.

The Sergeant took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out in rings and considered the man in front of him. “How long has the little one been missing now?” he said slowly, dragging out the sentence as if he found the topic distasteful.

“Since… since your wife went to wake her sir. About five hours ago.” The corporal tried his best to hide his stutter.

He waved a hand in a mild gesture. “In my childhood, my sister would disappear for days on end, especially when she was around Samantha’s age. Indeed, I used to do the same. My parents never thought anything of it – they were guilty of the same thing. Sadly, my wife does not share my reasoning that this behaviour is simply a part of growing up. She worked herself up so much that she had to be sedated. She is not able to cope, and I do not want my child or wife at risk of further ill-health. That is why the brat must be found. Understand?” He raised an eyebrow at the shivering man.

The corporal saluted. “Yes-sir!”

“Of course corporal,” the Sergeant added with a wry smile, “I wouldn’t worry unduly if she were to not be found for some time. You say there was a slight incident yesterday with a guard?”

“Yes-sir. The guard on watch took exception to the girl’s game. He caught her as she tripped and escorted her back indoors. It was heard that he believed the child was distracting him and warned her, yet again as it is, not to go out after dark. He also hinted that he may have intimidated the girl.”

“Let him be. If he did truly scare her, she’ll come back when she gets hungry. ‘Tis the way with children, corporal.” The Sergeant took another long drag and murmured, “Had she been raised with my strict hand, such a thing would not occur, for she would know the punishment. And punished she shall be.” He declared to the corporal, “All should know, understand and receive the consequences of their actions.” He winked at the suddenly pale man. “Not a bad way to live, eh?”

The corporal was saved in answering by another uniformed man rushing in. Heaving for breath he saluted and removed his cap. “Sir!”

“Private.” The Sergeant acknowledged him. “Your report?” There was a moment of silence apart from the private’s heavy breathing. “Come on man, spit it out!”

The private flinched. He seemed to be steeling himself. “Sir. Not ten minutes ago the patrol boats from along the coast radioed the barracks. They were attempting to trail the runaways from two days ago. But they spotted something else…” At this, the private hesitated.

The Sergeant stubbed out his cigarette with a hiss and stood up from behind his desk. “Private, tell me what you have come to tell me or there will be consequences.” There was another pause as the private and corporal exchanged looks. “Out with it, private!”

The private blanched. Gathering himself together hurriedly, he garbled through the words. “They saw something on the rocks, at the base of the cliffs. Riding closer, it was clearly a body. They thought it was one of the fugitives at first, sir, but then they saw the night-gown…” He trailed off, not daring to say more.

The Sergeant remained staring at the private, mouth open in disbelief. Slowly he sank back into his chair and for a moment stared at his papers, as if at a loss. With a weak wave of his hand he dismissed the other men. They left the room as quickly as possible. It was quiet in the corridor beyond, so silent that they easily heard the clink of a bottle against a glass from the Sergeant’s room.

The haunting image of a girl driven to her death on the rocks is saddening, to say the least. But Terrestris Veritas’ words dig deep in his short fiction. We love how he’s created such a wonderful setting with Samantha and the ghostly spirits of the house. Perhaps she’s not dead though, and merely wandered into Wonderland as Alice’s doppelgänger. We can only hope. If you enjoyed Terra’s work, please feel free to leave a like or comment, or perhaps read some of his other work including, “For Loved Ones” and “Diaries of the Gods”.

Featured Image CC // Derek Bruff

by Colette

The Ascension of the Pilgrim

Written by Dice

The gong rang through the old temple.

“Almighty Orlin from the Great Ringed World of Phorlin, you look over us.” Chanted an old priest in practiced rhythm and certainty from his position on a high dais, as he looked over the gathering crowds filling the large main chamber of the temple.

“Blessing to the almighty Orlin,” came the replying chant from a kneeling man dressed in a simple white cloak.

Upon finishing his reply, the man named Damus returned and bowed low, placing his forehead on the holy floor. He knelt in the middle of the six pronged star, each point of equal distance from him. At the tip of each point there stood a thin, three-foot high pedestal. Behind these pedestals, at least from Damus‘s view point, stood a high priest or priestess dressed in the vibrant colours of the Divine One they served.

According to religious teachings, the seven Divine Ones were demi-gods. Once mortal, they had been hand chosen by the Great God Orlin to rule and protect each of the seven Shift Worlds; six moons that orbited the large gas planet named Phorlin. The Divine Ones were Orlin’s representatives in the mortal realm and they lived in their temples on their respective worlds, which they shaped and changed as they saw fit.

Damus risked a glance forward. The pedestal directly in front of him had no priest stood behind. Instead, about five yards back, upon an ornate golden throne sat Alynne, the greatest of the Divine Ones. This was his temple, his moon, his world.

Above Alynne the old priest, his High Priest continued the ceremony.
“O’ Pilgrim, you have travelled to each of the six worlds and have received the favour of each of the Divine Ones.”

The gong sounded again and the priest standing behind the first pedestal, and left to the one directly in front of Damus, lifted a small – perhaps fist-sized – shining green orb above his head. The High Priest of Alynne continued.

“Endu, The Young, lover of life and children.”

The gong followed and the next priest to Damus’s left raised a similar orb, but her orb was yellow and slightly larger than the last.

“Sudale, Protector of the Weak, lover of re-balance.”

The High Priest named each of the Divine Ones, Ilture, Galaine and Ninsune, and each respective priest raised their orb. When the High Priest named ‘Alynne, Orlin’s Second and Lord of All’, Alynne himself stood. Raising one empty hand, he breathed into his open palm and an orange orb formed.

“Stand Pilgrim,” demanded the High Priest.

Damus stood, tall and proud, though with a slight shiver.

“Pilgrim, are you ready?” asked the old man in a powerful voice.

“Yes, High Priest,” answered Damus confidently.

“Do you accept the honour placed upon you?”

“I accept and thank the Great Orlin for the honour he has granted me.”

“Are you pure in heart, innocent in life and free from any bonds?”

“I am free to serve.”

“Do you welcome the blessing of the Divine ones?”

“I welcome and thank them for their Blessings.”

“And will you take up service to the Almighty Orlin, who has hand chosen you to serve by his side for one hundred years, after which you will bathe in the glory of his heaven?”

“I will gladly serve.”

“Then may you ascend to his side and serve him well.”

The gong sounded again and the five priests and Alynne stepped forward. In the order of their calling, they placed the orbs upon the pedestal before them. But when Alynne placed his orb, a coloured beam of light erupted from each orb. The beams then connected the orbs together and blended to create a perfect circular beam of white, intersecting each of the orbs.

Damus held his arms outstretched, as a symbol to welcome the light.

“I go to serve Orlin,” he chanted.

There was a great flash of white light from the orbs, which dazzled all in attendance for a brief moment before it vanished. And with it, Damus and the orbs had disappeared, too.

Written on behalf of our Hallowe’en Trick or Treat Fiction Frenzy, Dice’s short fantasy excerpt was originally planned for a NanoWriMo entry. Unfortunately, it didn’t turn out the way he had expected, but we did get a great entry for our Fiction Frenzy competition. If you enjoyed Dice’s piece, feel free to view his other published work on Inkblots, including “The Game Parts 1 & 2” and his most recently published Alexander short, “Summer 1943”. 

Featured Image CC // Zach Dischner

by Colette

Man’s Crisis

Written by Lost in a Dream

It was easy to become lost in a big city. Some days even he felt lost. It seemed that London’s perpetual grey sky and the constant buzz of noise was trying to dull his shine and muffle his wise words. A weak part of him wished he was not so important, then he could dissolve into the background like the lazy crowd around him.

He caught a glimpse of his reflection in train doors before they opened, the weak thought instantly dismissed. Damn, he looked good. His new glasses drew attention to his eyes. He had always known that his eyes were his best feature. He had posted a selfie of his new look on Instagram last night and everyone agreed too. 576 hearts and 215 complimentary comments. Slightly less interaction than Tuesday’s workout picture, but more than the picture of his new vintage watch. But that didn’t faze him too much. He was something of a watch connoisseur, he doubted that many of his followers fully appreciated the value of his new time piece.

He boarded the train and sat down next to a plainly dressed woman. He clunked his briefcase with purpose on the table in front of them. He was sure he could see her admiring him out the corner of his eye.

The woman had her make up bag on her lap and a compact mirror propped up in front of her. With haste she was applying concealer to a trail of fading acne along her jawline. He found it disgusting. Surely, if she ate well and worked out like he did, she wouldn’t have that mess all over her face. As he pulled out his laptop, he shuffled his wrist subtly so that the woman could see the light from the window bounce off his watch and cufflinks. A swift gesture to let her know she was out of his league.

He mused to himself as his laptop powered up. There was something ironic in the way that, by trying to conceal her blemishes, she actually drew attention to them. He smiled to himself, his intelligence and insightful nature surprised him at times. He would include this episode in his autobiography.

He opened up LinkedIn. Another publishing house wanted to help him publish is autobiography. He enjoyed LinkedIn, it gave him a chance to show his academic and professional prowess. He liked the way it stacked up qualifications in a quantitative manner, made it easy to compare.

He was looking forward to the autobiography. He wanted to give depth to himself as a businessman. Material wealth and good looks alone did not do his greatness justice. He was truly extraordinary.

Lost in a Dream’s short piece was written on behalf of March’s Half Hour Challenge theme, Reflection, inspired by her daily commutes in London. Given the main character’s vanity and materialistic nature, we thought it fitted in nicely with April’s theme and is a great closing piece to the month. While we should always take time out to love ourselves, make sure arrogance isn’t part of the deal. If you enjoyed Lost in a Dream’s work, check out some of her other pieces too, such as “Procrastination” and “Star Talk ii“.  

Featured Image CC // Otis Blank

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

Remembering War

Written by Rae-Chan

Bodies. There were bodies everywhere. They were strewn about the field like old, unwanted ragdolls. The gunfire was ringing in my ears, blending together with shouts in different languages and the screams filling my head, echoing endlessly.

I couldn’t see anymore, everything was a blur as the adrenaline took over and I ran. I ran as fast as I could. I didn’t feel the pain as a bullet grazed by leg. I didn’t see the bodies falling around me. I just ran.

My clothes were wet and cold as ice, clinging to my skin, caked with mud. I was shaking as I raised my gun. I couldn’t even tell who my enemies were anymore. I just shot at anything that moved. I saw one boy, barely a child, his eyes wide with fear. This wasn’t what war was supposed to be. This wasn’t a life of honour and respect; we were animals tearing at each others throats, and no one back home would give a damn how many of us came back in boxes.

The boy saw me. I watched his eyes grow wider as the bullet ripped through his body. He fell to the floor like all the others before him, not moving at all.

When I returned home, I could still see his face. It was etched into my mind; those terrified eyes, with large pupils, haunted my dreams. The scar from the bullet has long since healed but, even now in my old age, the screams echo in my head.

Remembering War was written on behalf of last summer’s Fiction Frenzy. While it didn’t win the coveted title, Rae-Chan’s haunting piece as fitted perfectly into our reflection theme for this month’s content. It may only be a short piece, but in that time she brings us in to the narrator’s terrifying dreams from PTSD. If you enjoyed Rae-Chan’s work, why not view her other works such as, ‘Ignite‘ and ‘Wings‘.  

Featured Image CC // Paul Gorbould

 

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

March Editorial – Upcoming Content finds Reflection is Good for the Soul

Hey Inkblotters!

I’m not sure if it’s the same for you, but each year March arrives I always feel a little swept off my feet. Generally, I put it down to upcoming events such as Mother’s Day (in Britain), Easter and how short February feels, even though it’s only two to three days shorter in comparison to other months. Maybe it’s the amount of birthdays I’m bombarded with from January to March, making me feel I’m buying countless purchases for a string of consecutive weeks. Adding Christmas, too, and it becomes a gift marathon. Perhaps that’s why March seems like the perfect month for a little reflection. We’re done with the New Year’s Resolutions – congratulations if you haven’t already broken them and, equally, if you’ve managed to actively complete them – and the long bout of wintry weather finally comes to an end.

So, with spring in the air, though it’s still quite chilly, March’s content falls under the theme of reflection through fictional characters, journals and poetry. Kicking off this month’s content, then, is HHC veteran writer Rob with “Ending at the Start” on the 5th. Later, we have some beautiful poetry from Ashcloud on the 10th, and tense short fiction from Rae-Chan on the 15th. There are, of course, more short tales and poetry to come on subsequent dates too, so keep an eye out for them.

But if you’re itching to find out March’s Half Hour Challenge theme, we hope you’ll be pleasantly surprised and inspired by Narcissism. In a world where selfie sticks can actually be purchased, society is addicted to its own self-obsession. Though the word “selfie” didn’t actually come into play until the last few years, our ancestors had already been taking self portraits as early as the late 1800s. To submit a HHC entry to us, simply send us an email to theinkwellwriting@gmail.com and follow the guidelines in our handy submissions page.

Enjoy the content, and have a great March.

– Colette, Inkblots Editor

Featured Image CC // Skipology

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

February Editorial – Acts of Love & Upcoming Content

Hey Inkblotters!

Welcome to February’s editorial from the Inkblots team. I hope you’ve had a lovely start to the year, much like our site which has gone from strength to strength over the past few months with an updated look and official domain name. But moving on from all the jibber-jabber, as it’s the month of love. While it screams tacky, Valentine’s Day is only a couple of weeks away, and if you’re not knee-deep in commercial disaster, good for you!

Our content this month falls under the theme “Of love and other drugs”, but we won’t be following the traditional route of love. So, kicking content off on the 5th is Hope75’s short fiction on a different type of love. It’s horror at its most grotesque, but told lovingly – we’ll let you figure that one out. Next up on the 10th is some intimate poetry from Magnificent Mayhem, while on the 15th Dice has got some great tips in part two of The Game. Concluding content for the month is a lovely selection of poetry, along with another short fiction piece.

And if that wasn’t enough, our new Half Hour Challenge theme is now live for February under: Fanning the Flames. Whether you’re looking to pen some poetry or short fiction, why not try to do it in half an hour? We never get tired of reading new submissions so feel free to send them our way.

Have a lovely February, and if you’ve got something special planned for Valentine’s Day, make sure you have a cracking time.

– Colette (Silver), Inkblots Editor

Featured Image CC // SweetPea0613

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