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Scavengers

(2024) Flash fiction. TW: body horror

Tear off a chunk of putrid sausage from an old pizza like the scab off a grazed knee and shove it hungrily into your mouth. Chew the meaty morsel as you stare hard through the door into the gloomy, panicked city, and know that you have no choice but to go.

Take your hand and spin the deadbolt. Feel the panic, sudden and dreadful, rise within you. Know that they’re out there, countless in number, starving and impatient. Fear the familiar clank of the heavy lock and the first delicate step of your unwilling feet on the cold concrete they so selfishly claim as their own.

Know that when they see you, they will flock together, the immeasurable swarm, humming furiously. Know their small, efficient, almost perfect design, gathering in their thousands, millions, waiting to tear you apart.

Feel them in your nightmares, crawling up your legs. They bury themselves in the folds of your skin, climb over your face, burrow into your nostrils. They gnaw at your brain, probing and searching for a place to nest. And in your terror, drag your nails across your skin, tearing off long, bloody strips as you hopelessly beg them to stop.

Shut out the thought now. Spit out the sour flesh and bolt the door shut.

Better to starve than be food for the ants.

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Skeleton rocking chair , Carved wood. Russia, 19th century.

Odd, weird, strange, and unusual

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Ten inessential worldbuilding features for local communities in your fantasy RPG:

A grievance or conflict of interest with a neighbouring community which the community's members feel much more strongly about than the issue's magnitude really warrants

A substance or commodity important to everyday life with no local source, and the complicated and inconvenient arrangement the community has made to obtain it from outside sources

A local practice or custom whose original motivation has been rendered obsolete by changing circumstances, and which is now carried forward out of tradition

Something that's technically illegal, but everyone does it on the sly anyway, with enforcement of its illegality being reserved for people the community's leaders want to mess with for unrelated reasons

An obscure piece of trivia or local history which the community's members regard as obvious and widely known, to the extent of treating outsiders with contempt for revealing their ignorance of it

Some undertaking or realm of achievement in which the community isn't particularly exceptional, but which the community's members believe they're the best around at as a point of civic pride

A mostly harmless thing that nobody talks about because its existence or some facet of its historical context is regarded as an embarrassment to the community

A particular prank that's become traditional to play on visitors to the community, and which occasionally gets taken further than is strictly appropriate

A specific area of the setting's history where what the community's members insist really happened is wildly at odds with the accepted version of events

A genuinely dangerous circumstance that everyone treats with casual disregard because it's always been there, and only a damn fool would actually get hurt by it anyway

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@flashfictionfridayofficial

18+ Trigger warnings: horror, language, violence.

Submission for "#FFF207 Can we kiss?" 728 words.

Possessed

Thumping fists and wretched screams tear me from my sleep and thrust me into the nebulous dark. I exit my dream with dizzying haste, rolling off the sofa and crashing to the floor. 

I look up and see my old friend, Paul, pale-faced, half-drunk and now paralysed in fear. He cowers in the corner, his eyes fixed fearfully upon the front door. It's the only thing between us and the vengeful creature outside that demands it be let in.

That creature, of course, is Simon. But this time it's not just Simon. The curse has taken him and brought him here. I've eluded the curse for months in isolation, and now he's brought it to my fucking door.

I am too afraid to move, until I hear the muffled jangling of keys. Paul looks at me, stricken. I grip the rug and lurch my body forward clear of the coffee table, leaping to my feet. The key turns and the door begins to open. As a swirling darkness outside threatens to drift inside, I throw my full weight against the door and feel then the rush of all-consuming hatred; I knew he never threw away his key, the goddamned liar. 

I scream at Simon to go away with what little ferocity I can muster. But Simon doesn't listen. Simon never listened, least of all to me. My hatred for my ex-lover seething, I scream again for him to just go the fuck home. I know I need to stay calm. I know I can't give the curse anything to latch on to. But before I can think to control my anger, the door bursts open, throwing me back onto the floor.

I barely get a glimpse of Simon's gaunt face through the shadow of the wretched curse that envelops him. It slides off him, dancing through the air like smoke as I claw my way up the armchair to my feet. It rushes me, hitting me like a brick in the chest. For a moment I feel that suffocating sickness, but then... 

I slip away. Not all the way, but far enough. My vision becomes narrow, cylindrical, like looking up from the bottom of a well. I am helpless now and can only watch as the image shifts, darting back and forth, the shadow trying to orient itself inside its new host. The world through these eyes is red and black and chrome, and smells of rust and decaying flesh. I can't even be sure they're my eyes anymore.

But they are definitely my hands that twist and curl around Simon's throat. They are my fingers that grow long, like the wiry roots of a tree, encircling his neck. 

I start to squeeze. There is resistance at first. And a sound like choking, far away, as Simon struggles to pry my long, spindle-shanked fingers free of his neck. 

And I begin to wonder... how could I ever forget this, the way all the others did? How could I ever forget something this wonderful? 

I relish in his suffering, for within it there is a warmness, like the embrace of one's most beloved, now twisted and deformed. This is what he felt for me all these years; love, and the need to punish me for it.

This time, I get to have the last word. I bring my face close to his and whisper, "Can we kiss?"

The resistance gives way. The bones crumple, and the sharp snaps like breaking twigs echo down the darkness of the well and into my brain. Suddenly, I feel sick and I want to scream, but I can't. I am not in control.

We rise into the air, my back pressing against the ceiling. My vision tilts forward and I stare at Simon's corpse, dangling lifeless below me. 

I am anointed. I am reverent. I've wanted him to die for the longest time, and now he's gone. He has been destroyed by my own hand. It's over. There's no more light in his eyes.

My fingers uncoil from Simon's neck and he falls like a doll, limply to the floor. I catch a brief glimpse of Paul, crouched in the corner, hands over his face. I want to call out to him. I want to tell him he isn't in danger. But I am not in control.

And I’m not sure it's even true.

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Taster

(2023) Flash Fiction

Once, I was a rich man. Born to wealth, and indentured to no one.

But I have learned much since arriving in this new world. I have learned that on an expedition such as this, one must have a purpose. I have learned that the fortune I sacrificed to drift dreamlessly across a thousand years of space was not enough to fulfil this purpose. And most of all, I have learned swiftly what I had never known before: the agony of servitude.

The ocean accounts for 97.3 percent of this planet. And for each new species they find, there must be someone to determine its viability as a food source. Someone, as it turns out, with a palate as sophisticated as mine, who can understand the culinary desires of those who occupy a far higher station than my own.

The marine scientists, in their excruciating self-importance, will tell me everything there is to know about each new creature they find. Everything they determine relevant, that is. Calorie count, protein levels, salt content, they know it all. Everything... except how it tastes. That's where I come in. It's a lousy job, but someone's gotta do it.

Their latest discovery lies before me now, a batch of slimy, oyster-like shells piled carelessly on a polished silver serving tray. The creature has some thirty tendrils swirling around a plump, opalescent body. Its many black eyes, spotted across its body, blink randomly as if each one operates independently. As we stare at each other, its top shell slowly closes slowly, and it peeks out at me in what I can only assume is fear.

Later, the chefs will prepare them, broiled, steamed and fried, in sweet and savoury sauces. I will try every variation they can dream up. But first, I must fulfil my purpose: a live tasting. 

As I perform this duty, I will curse my luck to have been born one station lower than richer men who, in their opulent dining halls, will dine fiendishly upon their alien delicacies. I will stare the chefs down and wish upon them nothing but their worst demise for all the horrors I have been made to ingest. And my eyes will impart to all of them what I have come to truly believe: we do not deserve the pleasures of their flesh.

Under their steady gaze, I take the creature and press my lips gently to the slight gap in the shell, as if to kiss it. I inhale viciously. The slimy thing is torn from its shell and slides across my tongue to the back of my throat. Its tendrils grip my teeth suddenly, and for a moment my airway is blocked. There is a soft whimper as I close my lips and swallow hard, and the helpless critter disappears down my gullet, but not before it ejects an eerily slimy discharge that I assume is some weakly evolved defensive response.

A slight panic grips me, fearing that the excretion will burn my oesophagus or paralyse my mind as it is absorbed into my flesh. My fear, however, abates quickly as I take a breath. The slime oxidises, tingling on my soft palate like vinegar, and carries with it the sweetness of bone marrow. The sourness softens slowly and gives way to a gorgeous, buttery aftertaste.

It is, quite literally, otherworldly. I close my eyes and I am transported, as the dreams of another are absorbed into my brain. The darkness behind my eyes is replaced with a swirling delirium of pale ivory and indigo. I am falling toward an abyss, to the bottom of an ocean where none have yet ventured. In that beautiful, crushing darkness I see the creatures in their thousands, swarming together in hatred, hearing the tortured cry of their kin. I see a vengeful hive mind united in seething hatred, twisting together, accelerating to form a furious whirlpool that arches and rises through the darkness towards the ocean's surface.

The vision fades. I peel open my weeping eyes and am met with the hard and hopeful stare of the head chef.

"Will they like it?" he asks. 

I gently nod. "They’ll adore it."

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Dear Rusty Quill. Listen. I've been at this for just under two years (22 months to be exact) and I've not even finished four seasons' worth of hoops. I can't do another whole show. Mercy. I'm only human. But these have raised 10k dollars to charity, so that's awesome at least.

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The Fifth Wednesday of the Month

(2022) Microfiction

I sit up in bed, the alarm rattling my teeth, and I know as I am dragged away from my uneasy sleep that it is not to be a reasonable day. My throat begs for water, and perhaps a cigarette. The sky looms over me like a grim, white-haired, croaky-voiced harbinger. It is a Wednesday, but not like other Wednesdays. It is the fifth Wednesday of the month.

Nothing happens quite like it should on the fifth Wednesday of the month. The trains run sideways along the tracks. The rain falls upwards towards the sky. And in all the places where my rambling imagination goes, my purpose, my goals and my hopes of fulfilment are placed perfectly in perspective. Sadly, such clarity is fleeting.

I scuttle down the empty streets, purposefully ignoring the suspiciously placed balloons, and arrive at work. The chairs of my coworkers are empty, their computer screens as dark and hollow as their souls. I wonder if perhaps today is a work holiday I’ve forgotten. And then I remind myself that it is the fifth Wednesday of the month. Of course, they’re not here. They’re not here because I am. On the fifth Wednesday of the month, for as long as I can recall, I am alone in this world. Lost in a pocket of time and space that is as dreary as it is inexplicable.

I am looking forward to tomorrow.

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Recurring

(2023) Short story

My boyfriend, Isaac, is allergic to cats. Well, he was, but I can’t be sure he’s even alive anymore.

I knew he was allergic when I adopted Biscuit from the local shelter. I called her Bizzy for short. She was four years old, black as night, and unbearably sweet. I adopted her because my boyfriend and I had been having another fight, this time a particularly petty one, and in my frustration, I sought an equally petty response.

Isaac came down to the lounge after hearing me arrive home, already restarting our argument as he trod heavily down the stairs. He stopped when he saw me with Bizzy in my lap. He stared at me, outraged. His anger quickly turned to resentment, then to sadness. It was clear that he saw it as I did; the final act in our long, tortured relationship. He knew, as I knew, there's no going back.

He said nothing more, and turned to make his way to the kitchen, when Bizzy jumped off me and ran towards him. She stopped in front of him to brush at his legs and meow softly at him. He looked down at her. He wouldn’t forgive me, but he couldn’t help but pardon her for her innocence.

I began to feel guilty. But then, Isaac sneezed.

I saw what happened next, but I still don’t believe it. Bizzy, alarmed by the sudden noise, jumped away, as startled cats do. But when Bizzy jumped away, she also remained where she was. Isaac and I both stared for a moment at the cat who remained. Then, our eyes slowly shifted to where the other slightly bemused black cat now stood.

We stared at the pair of furry creatures, then to each other, both unable to believe that this sweet creature had just… doubled.

Panic gripped Isaac. Then his nose twitched. And though ridiculous, I knew what would happen next.

He sneezed again. Two cats jumped away and two remained.

Neither of us had a moment to grasp the situation before Isaac sneezed again. Four cats jumped away and four remained. He screamed, blocked his nose, and stumbled back. His elbow drove through the display case, shattering the glass and tearing his arm open. The noise startled the eight black cats, and in an instant there were sixteen. Isaac hit the floor, grabbed his bleeding arm with his other hand, and he gasped for a breath of the now toxic air.

He sneezed again.

Thirty-two cats were more than I could handle. I leapt from the couch and ran for the door, tearing it open and running toward the street. The door swung back and slammed shut behind me, and the sound of restless meowing faded as I reached the curb.

I stood, frantically clutching my head trying desperately to reason with myself that I must be mad. I swore to myself that there was no way such a thing could be happening. And after some time, I willed myself into some delusional clarity, turned and headed back to the house.

It was quiet. I tried the door. I opened it a crack, and peered inside. Within all that darkness I felt a suffocating crowding, and as I focused on the dark I saw countless sets of yellow eyes staring back at me from the gloom. In the thin sliver of light, tufts of dark fur wafted through the air. 

Gently, I spoke Isaac’s name, and there came only a quiet sob and a gentle sniffle. And I knew exactly what would happen next.

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A horrifying mushroom

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Drew a thing.

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The Washington Post, May 19, 1912

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Dread

(2022) Microfiction

Every day, when the sun sits low and is poised to slip below the horizon, a man comes to my door, pounding his fists and demanding entry. I ignore him each time, but he forces his way inside, ranting and raving as madmen do. I beg him to explain himself, and so he expurgates his fear that, come nightfall, he will cease to exist.

What brought forth this absurd notion? He explains that while out walking, a great chasm opened unprompted before him as reality was torn asunder. Staring in perplexity at this great void he glimpsed the inevitability of the universe, his own mortality, and for the first time realised the utterly incomprehensible dread of non-existence.

Each day he arrives at my door at the same time and, shortly thereafter, vanishes. Where briefly there sat a man in my living room, suddenly there is nothing. All that remains is a thin tendril of a memory that is mine alone, to be lost upon my own demise.

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The Gods of the Sun

(2019) Horror fiction

The sun touched the weathered and weary town with a sharp curiosity. Like a child with a torch in a dark place, the light sprang suddenly onto the surface of the earth, as if hoping to expose the evil that lurked there.

But evil did not scurry from the light. Rather, it turned its bound and tortured face towards the horizon and shrieked at the blinding sun. In an instant, it was turned to ashes.

Before they could un-cup their tiny hands from their fragile ears, the remains of the beast were scattered to the winds. Rotting flesh made dust. In absence, as it happened, there was peace. Sudden. Silent. Breathless.

Chains that bound the nightmare creature fell into the dirt, the rusted iron links drawing a tumbled path back to the concrete slab to which they were entrusted. The wisest of the children considered the weight now lifted from them.

Their tired minds loosened, finally free of the torment of endless nights spent running from the monster that dwelled in their dreams. Under the canopy of night, they had roamed this once haunted town, delirious with insomnia. By lantern light, they passed hours, scheming and plotting.

It was the oldest, Paul, who laid plans to trap the beast. He lured it from his room, tempted it from beneath the bed with a blend of blood and seed, spent both in rage. His finger sketched a bloody line from house to field, all the way to the well of eternity. The beast followed, lapping at the ground, wretched with foolish hunger.

It was the youngest, Peter, who sat by the well and wept into the darkness. Spells of shadow magic bade the weak be sacrificed, and so it was to be. Chained to the slab, his torment drew the creature near. His desperation, the agony of fear, at once enthralled the ravenous being. Paul stood feebly between brother and beast, as incantations spilled awkwardly from trembling lips.

And when the boys fell, lost to fear, it was Mary who struck the final blow. She proudly stood, a bold and desperate vision in the fire’s light. Her resolve turned stone as fists closed over lengths of razor wire. She took from the beast on that dark night only what she sacrificed of herself. Pound for pound. Flesh for flesh. Terror for terror.

They had fulfilled the pact made with the gods of the sun, who lay their gifts at the feet of the triumphant trio. They returned to each the sleep that had been stolen from them all the years now passed. The days and months repaid, a trade in blood rewarded in kind.

They lay then, in their quiet house, in beds now cold and strangely unfamiliar. There were no noises in the dark to wake them, but it mattered not. For there was no sleep to be had. The time they had won from the gods of the sun could only be spent in the light of day. The dreadful night crowded their dreams as it always had, whispering again and again that it owed them nothing.

Nothing at all.

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*… everything is overgrown, everything is swallowed up like it was just a dream. Vines, moss. Trees big as the skyscrapers downtown from the Academy that had to have grown in a day. I think sometimes I can hear them warbling. Like music..*

*—- can’t find my way back. The path forks. Over and over. Sometimes it feels like I’m in a tunnel, or maybe an egg. Everything bends up over me, and I can look down at myself, surrounded by so much green. Little lights dancing. I don’t remember the last time it was night, but I know there is no daylight here*

*I tripped and stumbled into a pool that glittered and crackled. It burned. It tasted like the sea on my lips, and now I feel it, layered over my bones, crashing waves to the pulse of my heart. I can feel the warbling. A Pattern—*

*I see so much in my vision. I see this place, all burnt and ragged rock, stretching off into the horizon broken by so many blazing mountains. I see this place as the Traveler sings to it, weaves life up from sulfur and hell and death, makes hazard into haven. I see this place, a seed tucked away in possibility, thinking. Unfolding. It looks back at me. Standing on so many cracks, marooned across so much potential. It has a single, blaring red eye*

*A saw a man in the forest. I saw a dragon that spoke to him. Fireflies danced around and between them like so many stars in the night, beautiful amber motes. The man looks like me, and I know I am him, but he is not— me. He has traded his memories for something so much more. I can feel what radiates out. It is so powerful willows around him groan faintly as they grow, white tendrils sprouting vermillion and violet flowers. Secrets are traded. Fates are sealed*

*A shadow crosses the ground and speaks so many lost names, smothering brass in rot, drowning glass in night, and I am falling, falling, falling*

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Not Mine. Thought to share.

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Landscapes

(2022) Horror fiction. TW: body horror

A man once asked me if I truly loved my face. But before I had time to even contemplate the question, he began to explain the nature of his profession.

"We take the face", he said with genuine enthusiasm. "And we teach them to love the faceless self. Then, when they are cured, we give the face back. That is, of course, if they want it back."

"Cured?" I asked. "Cured", he replied.

"What do you do with the faces of those who don’t want it back?" I asked.

"Some are beyond saving", he said. "So, we give them a face that another could not learn to love, or had no desire to keep."

"How do you take their face?" I enquired, not particularly in want of an answer.

He smiled then, and with long, thin fingers, dug into the flesh behind his ear. With ease, and while holding a steady, blissful grin, pulled the skin away. Beneath it was another world. Not flesh or muscle as I’d feared, but a landscape and an endless sky, glistening with the light of morning, as far as I could see.

The image began to drip down from where his chin should have been, over his neck and down his clothes. I should have been afraid, but all I could do was wonder; who would take this face of mine should I have no desire to keep it?