Tag / Short Fiction

by Colette

Gabe The Dreamwalker

Written by Lilith

Heart in his throat, he ran. The pounding of his increased pulse thumped through his frame, tightening at his chest like the start of a heart attack; his breath was ragged and painful and his legs ached, but he was hardly aware of any of these sensations second to the fear that gripped him. Never looking back, he plunged through the darkened streets in a direction that he hoped was homewards. Somewhere off in the distance, four paws skittered towards him.

His sprint faded to a stagger as he reached the crest of a hill. The roads were lined with streetlights, but all were extinguished and the only light he had to guide him was that of a low moon, almost full, and a few twinkling stars clinging to the heavens. The road ahead forked and he had a split second to choose a direction, but the right felt more familiar. He plunged down the street, his momentum increasing as gravity picked up the slack.

The breeze tasted of salt and the chill of the sea. To his right, trees whispered in the wind – a park, perhaps? Home was nearby, he knew it, and after a few more panicked paces he veered left. The quiet back street before him was barely any more than an alleyway, and he stared at the faded doors lining the way with confusion. They all seemed the same; peeling paint and rusted hinges, and the numbers engraved nailed just above the door knockers meant nothing to him.

He shoved his hands into his pockets, searching frantically until his thumb scraped across something sharp. A key! He grabbed it and stared at it in the near darkness, trying to make out the number scratched onto the surface. Was that a 10? A 20?

At the end of the street, the paws scrabbled to a stop, and something in the darkness snarled.

The key fell from his hands as he turned to run. Home was forgotten. What he needed was to get away, anywhere that was away from that monster. The burn returned to his lungs within seconds, and his legs screamed in pain, but he didn’t care so long as he could stay at least a few steps ahead.

The thing was on his heels already, he could hear its ragged breathing close behind him. He didn’t dare look, instead keeping his eyes on the street ahead of him, tasting the sea air and wondering if maybe, just maybe, he could make it to the cliffs before it got to him.

Up ahead, a dark figure stepped out onto the street.

He could barely see it in the pale moonlight, but he could see enough to know that it was human, and before he knew he’d opened his mouth he was yelling at it, screaming for help.

“Please! Help me! It’s going to-“

A streetlight flickered on. The woman stepped into its light and smiled gently.

“Gabe, it’s OK. It’s just a dream.”

“Help me! I can’t run any-“

“Shush…”

The breathing behind him had stopped, but he ran on towards her.

“You’ll be OK, honey. Come on, come back to me. Wake up.”

Her face was almost glowing under the streetlight. She was somehow familiar, and so, so beautiful…

He woke in a cold sweat, with Rosa stroking his hair and shushing him, and for a moment he really believed that everything would be alright, until he remembered the truth – that the same thing would happen again tomorrow night.

Perfectly suited to our theme of Beginnings, Lilith’s prologue for Gabe the Dreamwalker is an intriguing start. A recurring nightmare, of being chased, of fearing the unknown. It’s scary but familiar since we all feel it, we all encounter it at some point in our lives. Sometimes the dream world is safe, but sometimes it’s the root of our deepest fears. If you enjoyed Lilith’s introduction here, feel free to check out her other shorts such as, ‘A Hedgehog Named Barry‘ and ‘Rain Men‘. 

Featured Image CC // Clement127

by Colette

Little Red

Written by Bandit Queen

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Run, Little Red. Faster and faster until you can’t anymore. Image // GettysGirl

Run, little girl, run.

The forest is not your friend now. Where are the little flowers you picked, their sweet scent similar to yours and their pastel colours dappling the dark grass in the wood? Where are your sun beams you danced between, that streaked through the darkness of the thick branches up above? They are all gone. Nettles sting your dancing feet and the summer sun has set. There is only the Hunter’s moon; a cool, silver stare cutting down upon your face, as tears stream down your cheek.

You should have listened to your mother. Words do well to the wise, not to the brave. What can words do for you now? You think to bargain with me? Prey do not bargain with their predators.

Run, girl, run.

Your ragged breaths twitch my ears. Your saccharine smell waters my mouth. Your watery eyes widen mine. You are divine.
A branch snaps. I falter. You turn.

Hairs rise on your skin as mine bristles in glee. I can see you fleeing from the pine where we met. You are running. A monstrous grin grows on my face. Can you see my teeth that will tear you apart? Can you see my body heave forward, while I begin my chase for you?

Red is a dangerous colour to wear, my love. Your cloak ripples like a scarlet river through the silver trees, and you weave in and out to try to lose me. Why do you run? I see blood on your nimble feet. The forest is no longer the refuge you loved, is it? You will paint the trees crimson and the flowers will turn pale like the moon. The forest will mourn until your body lurches and your throat turns raw from your screams.

Then you can run through the forest, past the mountains to the river, you can dance in the moonlight, and howl to the stars. Give your family, your love and guard, your elder in the wood. Leave your petty village behind: the resentment, the marriage, the hatred. You are brave. Why do you fear me when the monsters share your bed?

You stop. You do not run. There are no more tears.

The chase is over, my love.

Genuinely, we feel a little terrified for Little Red, here. This incredibly tense piece of short fiction was written by Bandit Queen on behalf of the July HHC under the theme ‘Chase’. As a predator hunting its prey, you can smell the fear within this piece. Inspired by the Brothers Grim story, Bandit Queen’s piece serves as a truly dark tale. The masquerade of fairytale slips into a stalker and a vulnerable young woman, fleeing for her life. It’s serious, and it’s horrifying. If you enjoyed Bandit Queen’s first published piece here on Inkblots, please leave her a like, or comment in the section below.  

by Colette

There Will Be Tea

Written by Miss Smiley

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High tea anyone? With a slice of lemon or death…? Image // Blake Bentley

The woman breathed raggedly, hurling a terrified look behind her as she ran down the alley. A shot of adrenaline hit her breastbone as she spotted her pursuer, no more than ten metres back, shrouded in the darkness, strolling along like they had all the time in the world.

Miss Herrington, however, didn’t. Too panicked even to scream, she bolted as fast as she could in her flailing skirts. The hobble skirt bashed painfully against her shins with each frantic step, almost tripping her. A thought flitted through her head –

What on Earth has fashion got against physical activity?

– too slippery and quick to follow. She threw her hands up to stop herself crashing into the brick wall. Wheeling around the corner, she scrambled against the cobblestones, wishing she had not been quite so vain that morning – without the hobble skirt and extra petticoats, she would have been much quicker on her feet.

She stopped short as she spotted the wall, mere inches from her face.

A dead-end. No escape.

“No…” she whimpered. She let out a little moan of despair and pushed against the wall with a palm, willing it to move, hoping for a miracle. “Please…”

Footsteps clicked on the cobblestones behind her. She wheeled around to face her attacker.

“Wh-what…what do you want?” It came out ragged, whimpering and terrified. Madeline Herrington cursed herself for not sounding more confident.

Her pursuer smiled from beneath a hat. “You know what I want.” A woman’s voice, refined and silky. On her hands, she wore white gloves. Madeline wondered how the woman would ever get her blood out of the fabric.

“Don’t you dare touch me!” she screamed as her attacker neared, those gloved hands outstretched to her.

“Why not?” The gloves curled around her arm, jerking her forward to the eyes of their owner. Her attacker smirked confidently. “It’s nothing personal. Curiosity killed the cat, Miss Herrington. We’re just putting that practice into play.”

“I’ll never publish it, I swear!” Madeline was weeping now, her make-up smeared with grime and tears. Her heart thumped frantically in agreement. “No one knows, I swear it!”

“Too bad. You still know.”

She looked into the eyes and recoiled. The reports hadn’t lied. The woman’s eyes were dead – lifeless, like a doll’s. “I swear I’ll take your secret to my grave.”

“Yes. Yes, you will.” The woman smiled from beneath the hat, a smile that never reached her lifeless eyes. Her gloved hand made its way up her arm to her neck, cold to the touch.

Madeline shuddered, too terrified to say a word.

The woman surveyed her for a moment with those blue eyes and then smiled again. “Goodbye, Miss Herrington. Nothing personal. Just orders.”

Madeline felt cold metal against her skin and swallowed. And then…

Nothing.

She hadn’t even had time to scream.

As many of our regular readers will know, Miss Smiley is a dab hand when it comes to creating suspension in short stories. This is only a mere snippet of more to come, but we hope it’s just as deadly as this piece. We’re also perplexed as to when tea will be served and if it’s laced with poison. Maybe someday we’ll have the pleasure of finding out. If you enjoyed reading Miss Smiley’s short horror, you may just find her other work just as charming in ‘The Bells of Campden‘ and ‘The Laurel‘. 

by Colette

Last Breath

Written by Rob

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Christopher Lee stars as Dracula. Last breath? I don’t think so. Image // Warner Bros, Dracula Risen from the Grave

I don’t find this easy to talk about. People say that it is good to get things out in the open; a problem shared is a problem halved; talking is good; other such platitudes. I say “people” weren’t there; they didn’t go through what I went through; they probably have never felt that degree of blind terror. Even as I write, I find I’m crying and trembling again. I feel like I’ve been branded; that moment will forever be burnt into my very being, like an ugly scar.

I wanted to run but I couldn’t move. I wanted to cry out but my lungs were paralysed. I wanted to look away but no part of me would respond to instruction. I wanted the earth to swallow me. I wanted anything but to be there and then.

There is no shortage of clever dicks who tell me I was in no danger; there was nothing to fear; the whole incident was entirely harmless. And there is a corresponding supply of those who like to take the scientific tack; telling me about natural processes of decay and ferment; biochemistry of gas production in a dead body; rigor mortis and the like. None of this helps.

I was alone in the front parlour, with Uncle Ernie, laid out in his coffin, paying my last respects. I had only been stood beside him for a few moments. Then Ernie spoke to me.

The proverbial king of short fiction, Rob’s HHC – written on behalf of last month’s theme “sigh” is one to leave a lasting impression. So, a dead man talking rather than walking. That there is a real fear – a subconscious one. Of course, Ernie didn’t really speak, though maybe he spoke to the narrator in a different way. If you enjoyed Rob’s short entry, you can view some of his other work such as ‘Shot Blast‘ and ‘Mirror, Mirror‘. 

by Colette

Not The One Who Knocks

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

Part of the Grimsley Chronicles

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Can you hear that howling? Image // Bill Dickinson

‘S’nice place,Grimsley thought to himself.Breaking in hadn’t been all that much trouble. Duct tape placed on one of the small windows in the back door and a sharp jab with his elbow had allowed him to enter the premises without much hassle. He had found himself in a kitchen, cleaned well but small and rather bare. Running a gloved hand over the crockery, he put a little thought into what he would use to end the owner’s life.Skillet? No. Frying pan? Been done, and recently.His eyes slid their way over to the selection of knives in a wooden block and he pulled one free, examining the blade. Yes… this should do the trick.Seeing a tall glass on the draining board, Grimsley casually nudged it off. It fell to the floor and smashed into a dozen pieces.

He moved further into the house with practiced ease, his footfalls not making a sound on the floor as he inspected the place. He was no interior decorator, but you could tell a lot about a person by the way they kept their personal space.

No pictures anywhere – could be that she didn’t have any family alive, or was estranged from any that were. But Grimsley doubted that. There were more than a few pieces of furniture about. That implied that the occupier had company often; friends, family, partner. Or partners. He wasn’t old-fashioned; each to their own. No pictures but she had visitors often? Not a sentimental type, perhaps.

Working his way around, Grimsley continued his observations. Everything looked neat, nothing out of place or flung about randomly. A tidy person, then? But a quick inspection of her cupboards and drawers revealed things simply stuffed in haphazardly. She made a show of being put together, but under the surface was chaos. Out of sight, out of mind…

Grimsley sighed to himself. Were it so easy to put that into practice.

A sudden creak brought the thug back to his purpose. His target was finally awake and was investigating the noise he had made. It had taken her long enough.

Slipping silently out of sight, Grimsley waited for the woman to show herself. He didn’t have to wait long, the figure of a small but compact person was moving past him in the dark. She was shorter than him, he noted. A pleasant change, he thought to himself.

Well, time to get on with it. He approached her from behind, thrusting the knife upwards between her ribs and into her heart.

Or that had been his intent anyway. She surprised him by turning sharply and kicking the weapon out of his hand.

Huh. That’s odd.

Grimsley blocked a punch aimed at his jaw and locked the arm in place at his side. He thrust forwards with the palm of his hand and struck her nose, but she moved into the attack and it bounced off her forehead. A knee jabbed into his stomach, making him let go of her arm.

His head was beginning to ache again. Not now. Gotta end this now.

She aimed another kick at him and he caught her leg, taking the blow to his side but grasping firmly onto the appendage. She was well muscled, but Grimsley was much stronger. She discovered this herself when he shoved all his weight into her, knocking her straight to the ground. She tried to struggle free but the stocky thug had his forearm pressing down on her neck and his whole body was crushing down onto hers.

Grimsley looked down onto the slowly purpling face of the woman as he slowly cut off her air and suddenly realised something. She was… normal. She wasn’t changing. Her face was… human.

A sudden, blinding light filled his head and he felt… renewed. Refreshed.

Reborn.

“It’s your lucky day, miss,” muttered Grimsley, more to himself than to her. His fist cracked into her face and she stopped struggling.

He made sure she was still breathing before he left. Placed her in the recovery position too, just to be on the safe side. Concussion was a tricky thing.

Walking back to his flat, Grimsley reveled. Everyone was a monster. Makepeace had been the first. Others had come; people he was forced to work with, those that passed down his orders, those that drank in the same pub as him. But the woman he had been sent to kill was not. The pain in his head had come, but she had not changed.

He knew what the others thought about him. He was the organisation’s pet wolf. Everyone was afraid of him, of who the bosses would unleash him on next. He remembered someone saying that even angels would cross the street out of fear from him. Knowing that they were scared of him did not diminish him; on the contrary, it invigorated him, as if he fed off of their fear.

Striding into his flat, the thug made straight for his couch, lifting the seat and revealing the hollowed out innards. He reached in, rummaging inside it until he found what he was looking for. Things have changed now. The monsters had struck fear into his heart before, but he would exorcise that fear by becoming fear itself. Becoming the Wolf that even angels feared to tread near.

Running his hand along the blade of the machete, Grimsley smiled to himself.

Yes… this should do the trick.

Blue-Eyed Devil’s Grimsley shorts began with a simple Half Hour Challenge idea, from then the Grimsley Chronicles were born. Now, our Haiku creator writes interesting scenarios for his character to get into, and most of the time it’s tense in action. There’s definitely a big sense of fear in ‘Not the One who Knocks’, which is exactly what we’re aiming for with this month’s content. If you enjoyed Blue-Eyed Devil’s short HHC, you can check out some of his other work, including Haiku Selections One and Two. 

by Colette

Fiction Frenzy Winning Entry – Rabid

Written by Magnificent Mayhem

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Sometimes there’s just no way out. Image // The Walking Dead AMC

It’s almost funny. You could almost say I’d been preparing for this my whole life. I had seen every movie.  Read every book, every comic. I had video games. I even recorded mini-series. My costume was a staple at every Halloween party and Comic Con event. People expected to see me in my best gaping wounds and shuffle step, they talked about it afterwards. Who could blame them?  I really committed when I was in character. So when I came home to find one in my kitchen, I suppose I wasn’t entirely surprised, not really. I suppose I’d been waiting for it for a long time.

What did shock me was to see my wife sprawled on the floor, hands pushing feebly against its back, mouth gaping noiselessly as it ate at her. Her eyes met mine for a moment and there I saw the fear, the panic. The floor was wet, sticky, slick. The smell was grotesque. I found her eyes again. Silent, pleading, tears streaming.

I never questioned my next move. Most days I still don’t.

I reached for a knife from the counter and lurched unsteadily towards the grotesque pair. I could not take my eyes from her. She made a sound then, I think she was trying to scream, maybe call out to me. But fear caught the noise in her throat and it trailed off helplessly. It – whatever that thing was – never even noticed me. It just kept eating at her, its teeth and jaws working away as she struggled to push it from her. My arm seemed to move on its own accord, plunging again and again into the base of its skull. And for the first time, it turned its attention on me, arms flailing as I hacked indiscriminately. My wife screamed then, harsh and hard in my ear as I brought myself close to finish it.

Once it lay still on the ground beside us, I took her hand in mine. I wiped tears, snot and blood from my face, in an effort to make myself a little more presentable. I even tried to smooth my hair down. I pulled her in close to me, so as to calm her harried breathing. Many of my haphazard strokes had cut her as well. Across her face, arms, hands, neck. But the damage had been done long before I arrived.

She blinked at me. She tried to speak but only managed to spill blood from her lips and mauled throat. Her hair was plastered to her skin, red and wet, clinging to her face. It hurt me more than it hurt her, I am sure of it.

I think I whispered something to her, there at the end, but all I could concentrate on was what had to be done. Continue reading →

by Colette

The Bells of Campden

Written by Miss Smiley

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Living, breathing bells? That’s horror, for sure. Image // Vladimer Shioshvili

Campden was a small province. It was peaceful. It was a sweet place – a place you’d want to raise your children. It was practically crime-free. A place you’d want to retire to and live out your life in. It was alive. It felt alive. There was none of this dead metal people tend to surround themselves in. The land breathed and danced. And then there were the bells.

To say that they rang would be an understatement. These bells didn’t just ring – they lived, they sang, each note a clear, precise, and weirdly organic sound. Their range spanned further than a normal church bell’s, their notes singing out whole provinces, calling them into church and court in the morning, ringing out long after they’d been struck.

If you believed the myths, the bells were alive. In back streets and behind closed doors, they whispered about them.

If a man was tried in court, he was tried before the bells. Mostly it was formality, they said. But every now and then, a bell would ring by itself during a trial. And that man was guilty – guilty as sin. The lawyers knew better than to speak for their client then. Once, a lawyer had protested and no one liked to talk about his story. That wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted your children to accidentally overhear, and who knew when they were listening?

It was worse to whisper about what happened to the guilty man, though. It was a story that each child heard, just once, when they were old enough. No one ever wanted to be told twice. No one ever needed to be told twice.

You see, the bells were alive. And everything that lives needs to eat.

Miss Smiley’s short story was submitted as part of a past HHC entry, with a Horror theme. It’s possibly more suited to October’s upcoming theme “fear”, but we liked it too much to consider leaving for too long. Besides the performance from the bells is particularly enthralling. If you liked Miss Smiley’s piece, and are utterly terrified of those bells, make sure you check out some of her other tales of sneaky horror, such as “Fetish” and “Rosebed“. 

by Colette

Race

Written by Terrestris Veritas

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The race is on! Image // Paolo Camera

“Here we are today at the Pulchetown Races, live on Red FM, 92 – 96. It’s a beautiful day here with the sun splitting the stones. There is hardly a cloud in the sky, and the fashion statements today are formidable.”

“Indeed, Jim, there has been a fascinating turnout today in terms of the extremities of hats but, no doubt, each and every one cost a pretty penny. Though, all in all, they do look fabulous.”

“Right you are there, Henry. And now here come the jockeys with their horses. The race will begin in five minutes, so to introduce the racehorses we hand you over to your commentator; James Roche.”

“Thank you, Jim, and yes the day is glorious. Here come the eight competitors for today and their striking steeds. First on the line-up we have Thundersprint. Indeed, Thundersprint has had a hard season but today many patrons are betting hugely on him. Secondly, we have General Speed, thirdly Huge-Hoof, Roaring Beauty, and then Prancing Dafy. The final three on the right are Headspin, Sparkling-Winner, and Golden-Mane. Some excellent and extravagant names by their owners, for sure.

“And they’re off! Roaring Beauty takes the lead in a strong sprint, lunging ahead of the pack with Sparkling-Winner coming some way behind, Thundersprint third, Huge-Hoof, then GeneralSpeed, Golden-Mane, Headspin and Prancing Dafy bringing up the rear. The horses are snorting vigorously from the whips of the jockeys and – oh my – Prancing Dafy seems to have tripped over his own hooves, slamming into the ground and sending his rider flying into the air. Either way, Prancing Dafy is out of the race now with the line-up of the others horses unchanged.

“But it does seem that Roaring Beauty is struggling to keep the lead as Sparkling-Winner gradually pulls ahead, inch by inch, getting closer with each gallop. And after getting the inside position of the bend he does so, with Roaring Beauty taking second place on the first lap, Thundersprint just behind. Yet out of nowhere, it seems Thundersprint has found a new lease on life – beginning to live up to his name – as he sprints with such determination to claim victory and earn many patrons new-found wealth.  Continue reading →

by Colette

This Is Not An Eloquent Post

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

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This isn’t eloquent either. Image // CC EVA Foam Numbers

This is not an eloquent post. This is not a grand speech. This is not an important issue. This is not huge. This is not special. But this is real.

This is me, more or less. Sometimes more, often less. I am living and I am breathing. My heart is beating my cells are dying. My hair is growing, my nails are growing. My wisdom teeth are coming through. I am a human being. I eat and sleep and blog, though not always in that order. I laugh and cry. I hide in dark rooms with the blankets over my head. I scream into pillows and scratch myself. I read books and draw pictures. I send long meaningful texts and get “k” in reply. I tell terrible jokes. I cheat at monopoly and argue with my siblings. I offer condolences and tea when things go wrong. I fail to use correct grammar. I make mistakes. I lose things. I lose people.

I quote song lyrics at everyone; all of the time. I make people cry.

I fall in love.

Numbers are important. The time, the date. The bus service. The number of sunsets I’ve seen. The number of years I’ve survived. The number of the scales and the number of kisses on a text. The number of friends and the number of miles. The number of scars. The number of mistakes. The difference between one and two. The difference between one and two million. The number of people on the planet. The number of people who can make my day with a glance. The number of times I’ve smiled.

This is me and I am you. You understand me and you understand numbers. You understand science and you understand maths. You understand poets and musicians, artists both. You understand scars. You understand rivers and mountains and trees. You understand beggars and you understand kings. You understand me. We understand each other. We do not understand love, or life, or the universe.

The universe is huge. Quasars are huge and numbers are huge and galaxies are huge. And love, laughter, fear, and tears are all huge. We are huge. We are stars. We are the stars and the smiles, the laughter and the regrets, and the pain and the kisses, the butterflies too. We are real.

This is not an eloquent post. This is nothing at all. This is an idea. This is you. This is us. This is me.

And I am, irrevocably, alive.

Rivers’ stream of consciousness writing is seen as a dedication to life. She makes use of a specific technique here and it’s incredibly poignant to bringing out the most in her words. In her narrative, she begins small and speaks of the insignificant things that won’t change the grand course of the universe. But then her thoughts get larger and they begin to encompass the entire world in one small chunk. Running out of built-up steam in the end and closing at the correct moment. We love it. If you enjoyed Rivers’ piece, make sure you check out ‘A Boy Who Fell In Love‘. 

by Colette

Fetish

Written by Miss Smiley


We don’t usually use videos in our ‘Blots posts but this one is far too cute not to share! All credit goes to Chuck Scott.

 

It’s not like I can really help it. There’s something about completing one of my sneaky little jobs with perfection that makes me shiver with pleasure. It ticks all the boxes.

I stand back, sweating, to admire my handiwork. A perfect job. I grin, satisfied. Look at that finish…

What makes it more satisfying is the silent nature of this particular job. All the bandsaws and the sander I would usually use had to be substituted for stealth mode tools, like files, sandpaper and manual saws. This was the first time I’d done it at night, when they were at home, sleeping.

The pre-dawn light of morning filtered through the windows of the upper floor. Time was now of the essence. In a matter of minutes, the wake-up alarm would go off. That meant it would be roughly half an hour before the owner would be up. Probably just enough time to move this all out of the surrounding areas.

Grinning, I opened the front door and negotiated the flight of stairs through the door.

What a night!

Written as part of the Half Hour Challenge theme ‘Taking Flight’, Miss Smiley’s flash fiction certainly makes us chuckle. Taking the theme in its literal sense, our lovely contributor is a sneaky writer, but that’s why we love her work. If you also enjoyed Miss Smiley’s HHC, you can check out some of her other pieces such as, ‘Inheritance‘ and ‘The Laurel‘.