As part of the February Femmes Fatales showcase, And Then appeared last week, a short story that takes no prisoners and doesn't let go of our emotions. Deep down, death fascinates all of us, and the darker aspects of the human condition will always inspire me.
And Then doesn't pretend to be anything other than true horror. It's not about monsters or ghosts, but rather the horror of finality, and what it must be like to face it. True fear and horror comes from the stuff we don't understand, and can never truly understand. But putting yourself in their shoes, at that final moment...now that is scary.
And Then
Minutes. His life ticked away.
Sounds echoed around his head - muted, strange and tinny, and somehow detached - they lapsed into his conscience like the colours of a long forgotten sunset.
Sounds of the crash echoed around him like a residual tear in the fabric of space and time; he remembered the deceptive lull of speed and the stinging flash of chrome. He remembered hearing the grinding shriek of metal against metal, followed by the eerie hissing of air from a tyre.
And then... a strange lingering silence enveloped him; cold, tight and full with dread.
Cool air fingered his skin. The stench of gasoline clung low, poisoned the back of his throat.
He had been returning home along the country lanes as the evening shadows descended across the inky horizon. It had rained earlier in the day, but he remembered the skies had cleared and he recalled looking up at the stars that glimmered against a thick indigo blackness punctured by the arctic glaze of the moon.
He didn’t know what caused him to lose control of the motorcycle. All he knew at that moment was the shifting umbra which pressed against him.
He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there – it seemed such a long while, even though outside of his slanted sense of reality, it had been only a minute - and for a moment, he couldn’t move; his body and senses had numbed and become compacted by the impact. But then, gradually nerve endings trembled and feeling returned. Skin tingled. His veins swelled and his muscles contracted. He was able to clench his fingers and move an arm.
He reached up, lifted the visor from his helmet.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his neck felt wet; something dribbled down his jaw and around the bottom of his earlobe. He couldn’t move his head, not at first. A strange feeling spiralled across his shoulders and down his spine like a wave of needles pricking his skin. His vision appeared skewed; he lay staring at the glittering glass fragments close to his face, saw his bike lying in the road just ahead, wrecked.
Legs moved, and arms and hands. But his head felt so heavy.
The minutes evaporated.
And then that strange sensation rushed through him again when he tried to move – his head remained skewed.
Something trickled into his stomach, flooded his abdomen and he winced against the sickly eddy, tried hard not to vomit.
He remained still again, swollen heartbeat pumping furiously beneath his clammy skin, deep burnished breaths filling his lungs. The contents of his stomach swilled and frothed, yet somehow he refrained from retching.
He removed his glove, lifted his arm and touched his neck. It felt strange and wet, just as he had guessed. He tried movement once more, slowly sat up; ignored the dull ache around his shoulders. He didn’t feel any pain, but he felt a peculiar dragging sensation around his neck.
His vision blurred momentarily. Light and colour blended into one before the world around him came back into view. His vision refocused, but he found it hard to blink and his eyes shuttered in response.
Cold air laboured in his lungs. The corridors in his mind sank into a dismal mire of heavy confusion - his vision still seemed strangely lopsided, as though he was staring across his chest, and yet he was sitting upright.
He reached up, felt across his shoulders and sensed the tight, twisted flesh. He tentatively put his hand against what he thought was his neck, felt something soft, sticky and warm. He knew it was blood. The steady stream from the serrated gash soaked through his clothes and stained his flesh. It dribbled down the inside of his leather jacket and soaked through his shirt now that he was upright. He felt the roundness of the crash helmet resting against his chest.
The thought tore through him that he should feel immense pain; his body should have reacted to the crash, yet his entire body remained insensate and it confused and distressed his brittle senses.
He realised then; in the silent minutes that remained, that his head had become partially detached from his body and now hung around his chest, held by wrenched slivers of muscle, bone and sinew.
His stomach contracted and forced adrenaline into every open pore. Vomit lodged in his gullet, as though afraid to expel.
He wanted to scream, but his vocal chords didn’t work.
Minutes to seconds. The darkness crowded him.
He wanted to cry like a lost child, but the tears wouldn’t come.
His life - counting down to a blackness he didn’t want to enter - made him so frightened of approaching finality, so raw in his fear, that he couldn’t shriek in the face of a truth, and the help he so desperately wanted he knew would never come. He could barely grasp any of it and his thoughts rattled inside his skull; a dreadful, terrifying cacophony that drowned out the inevitable.
He couldn’t be saved. He was going to die. In the middle of the road, in the middle of somewhere, next to bristling leaves and whispering fields of wheat, beneath the bleak, nonchalant glare of the moon.
Then the minutes stopped.
Amid the suffocating inner silence, his final moments vanished into the encroaching darkness and his vision instantly turned into an infinite blackness.
He slumped back against the cold tarmac.
And then...
Nothing.
Runner up Poetry
As a form of expression, poetry can be quite liberating. It focuses words to a fine needle point, it's a way of saying so much in so few words. Last month the Writer's Talkback one word challenge allowed me to indulge in my fascination with the classical past. I've harboured an obsession with Greek literature, mythology and geography since childhood, and the more I learn, the more I want to know. I've travelled around Greece to follow this obsession...I now have a growing collection of classical art and Greek statues of the great and good.
'Beloved' feeds from such fascination. Walking in the footsteps of the ancients is no mean feat. Take a spoonful of truth and add a pinch of literary licence, and you have something that might be wonderful. This poem is one of my favourites and was runner up in the competition.
Beloved
On fairest ground, the golden wheat,
Danced like breezy Nymphs,
Drunk on sweet smelling dew,
Lithe shadows beneath Malian hills,
They shifted.
Across the sky, a darkened scar,
Belied a stillness; fires still lingered,
The sinewy tendrils pointed,
To forge a path inked by blood,
They resisted.
Delicate whispers laced the air,
Spoken soft and childlike in my ear,
But echoes remained like stains,
The hissy tussle of men and bronze,
They persisted.
Scattered grains of dirt, ground down,
Made heavy through clammy tumult,
A river of men clasped and clawed,
Against parched, hardened skin,
They pressed.
On fairest ground, the morning sunlight,
Marched across cold, hilly flesh,
Torn, twisted and tattered trails,
Sheathed in glorious red,
They lost.
A subtle rumble; the shift of power,
An endless breath filled the plains,
Etched in wind blasted stones,
And sun dried tears,
They remained.
“Stranger, announce to the Spartans,
That here we lie,
Having fulfilled their orders”,
These beloved, of Kings and men,
We remembered.
'Beloved' feeds from such fascination. Walking in the footsteps of the ancients is no mean feat. Take a spoonful of truth and add a pinch of literary licence, and you have something that might be wonderful. This poem is one of my favourites and was runner up in the competition.
Beloved
On fairest ground, the golden wheat,
Danced like breezy Nymphs,
Drunk on sweet smelling dew,
Lithe shadows beneath Malian hills,
They shifted.
Across the sky, a darkened scar,
Belied a stillness; fires still lingered,
The sinewy tendrils pointed,
To forge a path inked by blood,
They resisted.
Delicate whispers laced the air,
Spoken soft and childlike in my ear,
But echoes remained like stains,
The hissy tussle of men and bronze,
They persisted.
Scattered grains of dirt, ground down,
Made heavy through clammy tumult,
A river of men clasped and clawed,
Against parched, hardened skin,
They pressed.
On fairest ground, the morning sunlight,
Marched across cold, hilly flesh,
Torn, twisted and tattered trails,
Sheathed in glorious red,
They lost.
A subtle rumble; the shift of power,
An endless breath filled the plains,
Etched in wind blasted stones,
And sun dried tears,
They remained.
“Stranger, announce to the Spartans,
That here we lie,
Having fulfilled their orders”,
These beloved, of Kings and men,
We remembered.
February Femmes Fatales
It's coming up to that time of year for the fabulous February Femmes Fatales showcase for female writers over at Lily Child's Feardom. (Click on Link).
There are some amazing writers on board, all with their own unique voice, from all walks of life, and from different countries.
There is a gamut of dark and delicious stories starting 1st February, with four short stories of my own - And Then on the 4th, The Firewood Collector on the 11th, Sliver on the 21st, Under a Veil of Red on the 23rd, and a poem, The Hunger on the 27th.
If you like your stories dark, then this is the place for you and the good thing about this is that you can leave feedback and comments for each author, which is always a bonus.
February Femmes Fatales starts 1st February. Don't miss out!
There are some amazing writers on board, all with their own unique voice, from all walks of life, and from different countries.
There is a gamut of dark and delicious stories starting 1st February, with four short stories of my own - And Then on the 4th, The Firewood Collector on the 11th, Sliver on the 21st, Under a Veil of Red on the 23rd, and a poem, The Hunger on the 27th.
If you like your stories dark, then this is the place for you and the good thing about this is that you can leave feedback and comments for each author, which is always a bonus.
February Femmes Fatales starts 1st February. Don't miss out!
A Character Evolves
I've been hanging out with one of my characters for a while; he's rapidly growing from a short story character to something a lot more meatier. He's popped up on several flash stories of late, and I think I need to invest some serious effort into making him a fully fledged character worthy of his dastardly deeds. He is, after all, a psycho, and his name is Hackett. He's evolving before my very eyes.
For those who like a little gristle in their horror, I've included two flash stories involving Hackett: Confluence and Palette.
Enjoy.
Confluence
A billowing violet flourish, a fanfare. The sound of the opera in the background transcended the stink of fear and drowned out the man’s screams.
The high-pitched wailing grated on Hackett’s nerves.
The first slice cut through the larynx and instantly silenced; followed by a deeper cut which carved through sinew and muscles and slowly, deliberately, separated head from the neck.
The eyes fascinated Hackett; the tongue had become slack, but the terror bloomed in the man’s expression. Pain, death. Last moments captured.
Nerves made the man’s mouth twitch madly in a silent scream.
It was time for dinner.
Palette
The soothing sound seeped through the hallway; ambient musical strings floated like granules of dust caught in a beam of light.
Pulsing.
Hackett eased back in his chair, smoked his cigarette. Cool cerulean tendrils stroked his face as he listened to Rachmaninov’s dulcet concerto No 2.
His finished artwork hypnotised him; deathly indulgent and deep velvety red. She was beautiful now he’d skinned her, peeled and pruned and...
Pulsing.
Weeping strange colours and glistening beneath the dull light, she was tremulous, drowning in her fear and pain.
Her palette fascinated him. He exhaled; carved a path through the smoke.
Smiled.
For those who like a little gristle in their horror, I've included two flash stories involving Hackett: Confluence and Palette.
Enjoy.
Confluence
A billowing violet flourish, a fanfare. The sound of the opera in the background transcended the stink of fear and drowned out the man’s screams.
The high-pitched wailing grated on Hackett’s nerves.
The first slice cut through the larynx and instantly silenced; followed by a deeper cut which carved through sinew and muscles and slowly, deliberately, separated head from the neck.
The eyes fascinated Hackett; the tongue had become slack, but the terror bloomed in the man’s expression. Pain, death. Last moments captured.
Nerves made the man’s mouth twitch madly in a silent scream.
It was time for dinner.
Palette
The soothing sound seeped through the hallway; ambient musical strings floated like granules of dust caught in a beam of light.
Pulsing.
Hackett eased back in his chair, smoked his cigarette. Cool cerulean tendrils stroked his face as he listened to Rachmaninov’s dulcet concerto No 2.
His finished artwork hypnotised him; deathly indulgent and deep velvety red. She was beautiful now he’d skinned her, peeled and pruned and...
Pulsing.
Weeping strange colours and glistening beneath the dull light, she was tremulous, drowning in her fear and pain.
Her palette fascinated him. He exhaled; carved a path through the smoke.
Smiled.
A matter of confidence
Confidence in writing comes with the territory. Being a writer is a bit like standing in the middle of a firing range - some bullets will miss, some will hit, some will hurt and some won't even cause a ripple. Confidence is so fragile - you think you're full of it, but the reality is that it only takes one tiny thing to break it.
Sometimes what we write works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes people get it, sometimes they don't. I wrote a recent piece for a competition, called Love Letter, and it didn't appeal to the judge. I don't like writing weak stories - I invest as much time in a poem or flash fiction as I can. Quality is important, not quantity, but also technical application matters too, so the old confidence went astray after my dalliance on the firing range. I couldn't dodge those bullets! Thankfully my writing mojo came back like a dog returning to its master.
There's a lot packed into these 200 words. See what you think.
Love Letter
A dusty remnant lay on the kitchen table. A fragment of her life, shadowed for a lifetime, found buried in the attic of a house somewhere in the lush green hills of northern England, it now gleaned the light.
Celine Pierremont glanced at the sturdy oak in the courtyard. A love heart and initials - carved into the bark almost seventy years ago - had darkened but had not diminished. Nor had her love for the salient figure that had vanished from her life so long ago, snatched from the street by German soldiers looking for English spies.
Their love had been secretive and clouded by war, yet unchained by the guilt that it brought, and she remembered the feeling of her love, like silk ribbons and velvet over softened, supple skin; lost like time itself.
She looked to the letter on the table. Her lover had died in a concentration camp in 1942, a year after they had met and fallen in love, just before the letter was written. Celine had never known the truth, believing that their love was doomed.
Until now.
The letter brimmed with words of love, from the most beautiful women Celine had ever known.
Sometimes what we write works, sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes people get it, sometimes they don't. I wrote a recent piece for a competition, called Love Letter, and it didn't appeal to the judge. I don't like writing weak stories - I invest as much time in a poem or flash fiction as I can. Quality is important, not quantity, but also technical application matters too, so the old confidence went astray after my dalliance on the firing range. I couldn't dodge those bullets! Thankfully my writing mojo came back like a dog returning to its master.
There's a lot packed into these 200 words. See what you think.
Love Letter
A dusty remnant lay on the kitchen table. A fragment of her life, shadowed for a lifetime, found buried in the attic of a house somewhere in the lush green hills of northern England, it now gleaned the light.
Celine Pierremont glanced at the sturdy oak in the courtyard. A love heart and initials - carved into the bark almost seventy years ago - had darkened but had not diminished. Nor had her love for the salient figure that had vanished from her life so long ago, snatched from the street by German soldiers looking for English spies.
Their love had been secretive and clouded by war, yet unchained by the guilt that it brought, and she remembered the feeling of her love, like silk ribbons and velvet over softened, supple skin; lost like time itself.
She looked to the letter on the table. Her lover had died in a concentration camp in 1942, a year after they had met and fallen in love, just before the letter was written. Celine had never known the truth, believing that their love was doomed.
Until now.
The letter brimmed with words of love, from the most beautiful women Celine had ever known.
Holiday inspired poetry
I recently returned from the gorgeous south Aegean island of Kos, which inspired a some writing. I sat on the beach on a beautiful, cloudless hot day and looked across the ocean towards Rhodes and the clipped mountains of Turkey, and a poem, Sky Blue, popped into my head.
I am a sucker for Greek mythology, and since I was staying in the land of the greatest of mythological characters, I couldn't resist having a play.
Sky Blue
Indigo hue replete
She ripples and glistens
Reflecting her silvery charms
A Goddess, bathing beneath
The sultry breath of Helios.
Her shimmering emerald hints
Refract his light
And summon sapphire shards
That quicken across her supple surface
With a darkening, sensual allure.
She is sky blue in all her beauty
Sky blue beneath the waves
Voluptuous around Ionian Islands
Her subtle whispers in the surf;
Amphitrite, ascending.
I am a sucker for Greek mythology, and since I was staying in the land of the greatest of mythological characters, I couldn't resist having a play.
Sky Blue
Indigo hue replete
She ripples and glistens
Reflecting her silvery charms
A Goddess, bathing beneath
The sultry breath of Helios.
Her shimmering emerald hints
Refract his light
And summon sapphire shards
That quicken across her supple surface
With a darkening, sensual allure.
She is sky blue in all her beauty
Sky blue beneath the waves
Voluptuous around Ionian Islands
Her subtle whispers in the surf;
Amphitrite, ascending.
Runner Up...
Thanks to Lily Childs for picking my little flash piece, Just Another Echo, as runner up for the Friday Prediction challenge over at the Feardom.
It's reflection of something that happens on most streets in most major cities around the world, and the title reflects how society perceives those who find themselves coping on the streets, and how they are victims of our ignorance.
Just Another Echo
The wretch in her eyes shrank behind the shadows that swallowed her sullen flesh.
Shapes oozed into focus before vanishing into a dull blur, leaving her squinting.
Sounds...slipping in and out of her velvet-tinted haze with a slow coiling resonance, like a soft burr, an aching hum.
Muscle fibres tautened around her torso, rippled around her ribs. Vomit spilled down crumpled, soiled clothes but she barely noticed.
She looked up from her stooped position; people drifted by, unaware of her pain.
She was just another echo through the cold damp streets.
No matter. She lifted the bottle, took another sip.
It's reflection of something that happens on most streets in most major cities around the world, and the title reflects how society perceives those who find themselves coping on the streets, and how they are victims of our ignorance.
Just Another Echo
The wretch in her eyes shrank behind the shadows that swallowed her sullen flesh.
Shapes oozed into focus before vanishing into a dull blur, leaving her squinting.
Sounds...slipping in and out of her velvet-tinted haze with a slow coiling resonance, like a soft burr, an aching hum.
Muscle fibres tautened around her torso, rippled around her ribs. Vomit spilled down crumpled, soiled clothes but she barely noticed.
She looked up from her stooped position; people drifted by, unaware of her pain.
She was just another echo through the cold damp streets.
No matter. She lifted the bottle, took another sip.
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