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Saturday. Today in horror month feel free to show us
your best horror and thriller skills. Fright us and delight us with all your
creepy flash fiction stories. (between 400-999 words)
Post your stories
directly to the event page https://www.facebook.com/groups/237765852965957/521097171299489/?ref=notif¬if_t=group_activity#!/events/151001158431798/?fref=ts
and make sure to read everyone
elses. Here I've printed some of my very favourite ones. I hope that you enjoy
Are You Listening?
By: A. Rosa
“Are you paying attention, Cecilia?”
My father’s voice was icy and stern. He was not messing around. He made it clear with just his tone that each moment mattered, and there was no time to waste.
This was made especially clear after witnessing his body convulse ever so slightly. I noticed that was the third time in the last ten minutes.
They’re getting closer together. It’s like thunder and lightening, counting each second between each boom.
My mouth feels sticky and dry. I can’t remember the last time I was so terrified. I didn’t want to listen, but I know I have to.
“I’m listening, Dad.”
He licks his chapped lips trying his damndest to be strong. I will never be as strong as him. How does he expect me to do this?
With the uncanny ability to read my mind, he speaks, “You can do this, Cecelia—you have to. This rifle is a bit heavy, but you’re a big girl now. You can handle it.”
Forcefully he hands the gun to me and immediately the heavy object scares me almost more than the darkness outside, when I know I should really cherish it.
This cannot be happening. I think again to myself.
My lips involuntarily quiver and I squint my eyes in the flickering light of the kerosene lantern, trying to make out the scratched and worn details of the lethal object in my hands.
I watch as my Dad slowly lifts his arm up to me, dragging his dingy fingers over the long barrel of the gun, stopping at the tip.
“When aiming, make sure that this pointer here matches up with the back one.” He quickly points to the other closest to me, and then wastes no time placing his finger right below the barrel near the trigger. ”Just remember that right here is where you load the ammo. Sometimes it can be a bit tricky, but if you take a deep breath and focus, you should be able to do it just fine. I am pretty sure we have about three boxes left.”
I gulp at the mention of bullets, reflecting back to a memory that happened just days ago. We used a lot of what we had left then, but it wasn’t good enough to save Mom.
With that thought my eyes reflexively water in unison with my trembling hands knowing exactly what my future holds.
“Cecilia! Baby girl, I know this is hard, but it is so important for you to listen, do you understand?” he repeats.
Without my permission my body lets out a sob I didn’t know it was fighting back. I begin to shake my head while letting my eyes commit to memory my Dad’s serious chocolate brown stare that could always see through every one of my childish lies, but could also make me laugh during the worst of times. “Dad, I don’t want to do this!”
He bites back a sob too, which only makes this bizarre scene more terrifyingly real. He tries to disguise his cries with equalizing gasps of breath while rubbing at his soot-smudged face, finding some sense of calm, and I swear I think I notice another convulsion.
“I am so sorry, Baby Girl, but this is what has to happen. You need to do this. There isn’t another way. I know it’s awful, but you’re really being the hero, do you hear me?”
My body becomes wracked with sobs now as I wipe at my eyes, trying my hardest to stop the tears from falling. I heave in a deep breath, and nod through a restrained snivel, knowing that he’s right. I’ve seen what happens when people don’t take action. “I understand.”
Surprising me, my father takes his left hand and brushes my tangled hair out of my face, and tugs at my chin. “I know you can do it. You’re a fighter. Always have been. I’m so proud of you.”
I clench my eyes shut at hearing his words that only have me remembering happier times. Those words were always used at my soccer practices or when I got A’s on a test, making me feel happy and loved. Now the endearing statement scared me to death. “I love you, Dad.” I say it because now I could never say it enough.
“I love you too.” He takes in a deep breath as I witness his body writhe yet again, except this time it is blatantly obvious, causing his body to jolt into the chest of drawers behind him.
“I’m fine. We are running out of time.”
I nod as my shoulders tense, and I can’t help but take a look around at my childhood home now in shambles. Furniture lay on its side, and the door still barricaded with what once was my bed.
As if regaining focus he continues his speech from before. “Baby girl, this right here.” He points at the end of the gun closest to me now. “This is the recoil pad. You’ve seen me countless times shoot deer. When you take a shot be sure that that part is firm against your shoulder. This gun has quite a bang, so keep it steady and still. You never want a reason for wasting bullets, so make sure each shot counts, okay?”
I’m no longer sobbing, but I have given up fighting back my tears as the silent droplets continue to fall down my cheeks leaving clean streaks of skin in their wake. I take a moment to quickly eye my fathers wound on his now useless right arm, finding it difficult not to cringe. The flesh around it is already rotting away as it begins to give off the sickening smell of death. By its coloration and stench, it is only too obvious what is coming.
“Now, the Johnson’s are held up in their house still. I saw a light on over there a couple of nights ago. I want you to run straight there, but not until dawn. Hopefully they’ll let you in,” he pauses and I think it’s to contain another oncoming jolt. “I love you, Baby Girl. Never forget that.”
My response comes out as a desperate squeal. “I love you too, Dad.”
I wish I had time to say it over and over again.
Shocking me, his body begins to convulse longer than the other times, like a body wracking seizure, but he comes out of it …crying.
He grabs for my face and kisses me hard on the forehead, and brings me into a vice like hug. “You have to do it now, Baby Girl.”
I cry into his shoulder, but now being so close to him, I can feel his body clench once more.
He pushes me away, and grabs for the barrel of the gun. “I don’t want to end up like your mother did. This is the only way.”
Causing me to lean back on my knees he brings the tip of the gun to his head, tucking it under his chin.
My breathing is shallow as I try to remember everything he as ever taught me in the past few weeks, let alone my life.
With another twisting and tensing of his body that rattles the gun pressed up against him, and also rattling my state of mind. I want to scream so badly--This can’t be happening.
Grabbing the barrel of the gun more tightly, he presses it forcefully and roughly against him, holding it there as he tries to keep the transition at bay. “There’s no time, Cecilia! You have to pull the trigger!”
“Pull it! I love—“
His words get choked up as his body begins its last prolonged gasp. I watch the horrifyingly familiar fogging of his iris’s, watching the caramel brown fade into a cloudy blue.
I have no choice, and there is no more time.
I pull the trigger before my Dad turns into a zombie and eats me alive.
For more information on Alex and her work, feel free to contact her on either of the following places.
By Wulf Francu Godgluck
The infection. That’s what they called it, and it was nothing like what they predicted it to be.
Jessy Lindy recalled well what the reporter on the news had said. “Every human on earth is infected. We all have it. It’s just a matter of time now,” the reporter cried before she took out a gun, and blew her own head off.
Jessy couldn’t do it, kill herself that is. Not even after her parents succumbed to the infection. She kept staring at her face, focusing on the mole on her cheek, it was the only part of her that still reminded her she was human once. Her eyes had long ago gone gray and milky.
Her skin—well there wasn’t a color to describe it. Gray, leathery, and dehydrated, some patches appeared purple. Her eyes were drawn back, deep in their sockets. Her lips had quickly rotted away and her gums had turned black. She pushed her tongue around in her mouth, and spat out a couple of teeth that had decayed out of their roots. The maggot’s that had hatched on her cheek and nose, still feasted on her flesh. She could hear them in her ear, scratching burrowing deep into the back of her scalp.
She turned around, hearing as well as feeling her putrid organs in her body swish and swash as she moved. The sound like that of a washing machine. She thought of a movie she saw once, it depicted zombies as mindless goons. But she had a conciseness, she could still remember the girl she was. She walked out of the bathroom clumsy in her motion, and hit her foot against a cabinet. She would have hissed, cursed or scream from the pain, but she felt nothing. She looked down at the gashing wound on her big toe, the nail half hanging off. Like thick sap from a tree, blood oozed out instead of flowed. As she stared some of the maggots fell from her face and one landed on the wound, it immediately started gorging itself on the opened flesh. Burrowing deeper into her rotting meat. She bent down and tore the nail off, along with a piece of skin. Her eyes caught the open gash on her arm. She wondered what she must smell like, the world had a new odour in the air she had gotten use to.
Then it came from deep down, the acid in her stomach that burned through her stomach wall, eating the surrounding organs, came rushing up her throat and the black sludge spilled from her mouth. It had pieces of flesh in it, maggots too. She guessed, the ones from her face, she must have swallowed them or perhaps they had burrowed that far. Standing back up and stepping in the vile fluid she moved down the hallway.
Photographs hanging on the walls had a thick layer of dust on them. She didn’t bother looking at them, she didn’t want to be reminded of what was.
They had said that the infection was air-borne, the CDC never even bothered to explain or find a cure.
In the weeks that followed the headlines, many people committed suicide, some were successful some were not. The unsuccessful ones had succumbed quicker to the infection than the living people. At one point they had stopped burying the dead. The corpses just laid where they fell.
She passed her parents bathroom, and stopped looking at the body that was her mother. Her skin clung to her bones, and Jessy could clearly see some parts of the flesh move, worms borrowing under her mother’s skin. She turned to the dresser, and sat at the chair picking up the brush her mother used to comb her hair with. She ran it down her own hair in slow motion that each stroke pulled hair and pieces of her scalp with it didn’t faze her any more. Placing the brush down, she reached for the right drawer and pulled it open. Took out the music box and placed it on the dresser. It took a long time to wind the box up, but when it finally started playing she took her mothers wedding dress and danced with it.
She had imagined one day wearing this very dress at her own wedding, the man she would marry, would be handsome tall and proud. The music box stopped playing, but Jessy kept dancing, groaning and gargling noises coming from her throat. Only in her own mind it was a hum of the tune of the box. The maggots fell from her face on to the wedding dress and to the floor around her when she twirled.
She would have had three children; she didn’t care if they were all boys or all girls or mixed. She would have raised them with the same love her mother and father had raised her. Now it would never happen.
Soon some or one of the maggots would burrow to her brain and nest there until they had eaten away enough of the tissue and she would drop dead like it should be. Maybe they already have had done so and it was just a matter of time.
The maggots are our friends
The maggots are our redeemers
Jessy still kept humming and she still kept dancing.
For more information on Wulf, contact him at his author page.
By Claire C Riley
There are times when I wish for the old days. For bills, and jobs, and too much TV. For fast food, sports cars, and thoughts about the ozone layer and how we can repair it.
Now we know that there was never any way to repair it. That it didn’t matter how high your cholesterol was in the end, because you would die a slow and agonizing death anyway. So what would I say if I could go back in time
and speak to the old me? Or even the old you? I’d say this. Get fat. Eat the food that you love, because soon enough it will be gone. Love freely, and hate with regret. Drive fast, but be mindful of others on the road, because one day
in the not so distant future it could be them that you need to save you.
I would tell you not to waste too much of your time pondering what to do with your life, and just enjoy the here and now as much as you can. Because before you know it, it will be too late. Doctor, lawyer, farmer, computer technician, police officer, delivery driver. In this world, that I live in now, none of that matters. Who you were isn’t important anymore. It’s who you
are now that is significant.
I look out across the ocean. The waves gently caressing the beach, with a sigh.
I turn to look at Lilly through the window screen of the car, her little hands clasping her teddy with all their might. Her wide brown eyes stare back at me with confusion. Recognition finally crosses her face, and satisfied with who I am and that I am not far from her side, she closes her eyes again and snuggles back down into her car seat. I am never far from her side. She is mine, and I am hers. It has been this way since we found each other.
I slide off the bonnet of my car, take one last drag of my cigarette, and stub it out into the ground with a shake of my head. I swore I’d never smoke again. That’s another thing to add to the list. If you want to smoke, do it. But be aware that when they run out—the cigarettes, it’s a real bitch, and there’s no nipping to the shop to get more.
I walk to the edge of the cliff to get a better view of down below. The sun is just setting over the ocean, creating a myriad of colourful beauty before my eyes. It’s easy to believe that everything is okay when I am up here. I can pretend that there’s nothing to be afraid of. No Bogie man hiding under the bed, no evil in the world. Just me, Lilly and the ocean.
I jump when Lilly’s hand clasps mine. Looking down into her sad face, I try to force a smile.
“You should be sleeping my little, Honey-Bee.”
She continues to stare blankly at me, and I reach down and pull her up into my arms. She doesn’t resist, but clings to me like a little koala bear. That thought makes me sadder still. She will never know what a koala bear is. Her hand tips my chin down so that I am looking at her again.
“Where are they?”she asks.
“Down there, Honey-Bee,”I say, pointing to down below.
She peers over as much as she dares, watching the abominations below. I feel her little body shiver and tense in my
“It is okay. We are up here, and they are down there. We are safe,” I reassure her.
“For now.” Her words cut into my heart, and I nod.
“Yes. For now, for tonight. And that it was matters. Tonight we can dance under the stars, Honey-Bee.” I smile and twirl her around in circles, and she giggles. It is the sweetest sound that I have heard in a long time. Much better than the time we found the little kitten crying out for its mother. And even better than the sound of the breeze moving through the long
grass in the field that I found Lilly hiding in. Though that is a very close second. My little Honey-Bee, hiding in the sunflower field. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, until I saw her little face peering up at me.
Lilly and I dance until the sky darkens and the stars come out to sparkle upon us, though she does not ever let me put her down. Lilly grows heavy in my arms, and her eyelids begin to flutter closed. I take her back to the car and place her in the little seat. Clipping her in place, and being careful not to wake her up.
I light up another cigarette, and stand at the edge again, looking down at them.
They gurgle, and hiss, their red eyes staring back up at me. The sounds of their jagged nails scrambling for placement on the side of the cliff worries me, but they cannot climb.
We are safe. For tonight at least. Me and my little Honey-Bee.
For more information on Claire C Riley (me!) conatct me either here or https://www.facebook.com/ClaireCRileyAuthor
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