Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Posts tagged ‘horror’

Free writing + Too much Zombie fic = Da hell?

Be still my heart.

I always thought the apocalypse would start with a bang. Brought on by some trigger-happy politician too long mired in a corrupt office to see the world as it could be.  The signs were all there; our historical decent into madness. The world wars, the horrors of the atom bomb; the desire for bigger, better weapons of mass destruction that hinted humankind had learn nothing. Then there’s recent war against ‘terror’ that seemed to fight terror with terror… But my point evades me. Let’s just say, if the planet turned to a thermonuclear wasteland over night I would not be the least bit surprised.  Instead we have… drum roll please… Zombies. Rambling hordes of the undead with an insatiable desire for flesh. A geeks paradise. And my, Susan McCloud, that’s me, personal hell.

So, there we have it, it’s hell on earth. And what am I doing at this very moment? Helping the panicked gits whom brought this doom upon us by being a lab-rat for the ‘cure’. Admirable, right? I wish. Truth is I’m because I have to be.  Found a lump on my breast half a year back, and well you can guess from there.  By the time I had started chemo it was already wrecking my organs. So what’s a girl to do when she’s dying and desperate? Sign up for medical experimentation, apparently.  Ended up on the ‘Fountain’ project with the aforementioned gits too busy playing god to recognise potential disaster staring them in the face.  How were they playing god? Haha… The fountain As in the Fountain of Youth. I know, right? Trying to cure death… Experiments which my wrecked body was perfect for. If it worked, it showed the value of such a product, and if it failed… Well, I wouldn’t be a liability for very long.

Of course, it all went horribly wrong.  There was an accident with one of the early serums.  It had been injected into a chimpanzee, Z, whom promptly became a rabid terror. Didn’t die though, oddly enough.  Something in the small margin of DNA difference protected the shit-flinging bastard from the biggest side effect of the scrapped drug.  Then Some radical animal rights activist, with delusions of grandeur, broke in with the intent of sabotaging the project in a publicly humiliating fashion by releasing all test subjects into the streets. Insert some Z face-munching and a impromptu escape into the night and you have the idea.  Authorities had Z and the others test subjects rounded up by the following day; but by that point the damage was done.  The real panic started when the activist’s shambling corpse was found in an abandoned warehouse downtown. It hit the news like a flash bang and then the arse-covering began… as did the human trials for a cure.  Bringing us full circle to me, egomaniac extraordinaire, the crash-test dummy.

I was not eager, to put it mildly.  There I was, hooked up to medical equipment getting the run down on procedures from the one man on the premises I could remotely stand by that point, (infecting the local population did nothing for my level of trust in their competency) trying not to ponder the irony of trading one horrible death for another.  Matt must have caught on to it too, because his final words were, “Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.” Said with that care-free smile too. Sweet, adorable, nerdy liar. We both knew he was mucking about in uncharted waters, but I swallowed my inner cynic.  Matt had been a great source of support during my time with the project; I would allow him some trust.  Putting on an air of false perkiness, I replied “How could I be worried when I’m in such capable hands,” then swung my legs in the sterile, medical bed. I proceeded to make myself comfortable, (because I was going to die comfy, god damn it), only to be startled by his warm hand on my shoulder.  My gaze met his, and I’d like to say it was electric but Matt’s smile was only there for professional necessity.  Those beautiful green eye spoke volumes of gratitude and… regret? Sorrow?  With my face straining under the first genuine smile I had managed since the C-word, I said, “I’m a tough cookie. Besides how could I have been go could I put anything but smile on such a handsome face.” Smooth, real smooth. Flirting on my death bed.  One thing about the shadow of death, it removes your inhibitions and at least I was flirting and not downing, snorting or injecting illicit substances; well medical ‘miracle’ serums excluded.  Of course, my ill-timed flirting failed.  It was in his eyes.  Whatever else he was feeling had only been reinforced by my words.  I swiftly placed my hand over his, filled with sudden determination to live in spite of everything.  Matt was always good at reading my posture, I noted a spark of hope in his expression as a response.  Then, because death waits for no one we were interrupted by one his colleagues via the intercom.  “If you’re just about done, perhaps we could be getting this procedure under way.”  I rolled my eyes at the reproach in the feminine voice. God, of all people to oversee this, they had to pick her. In better times I would have called her my rival but with the differences in out position she more like a callous boss whom is intent on quashing me like a bug.  Today she might well succeed.  Matt removed his hand to activate his mic.  “Hold your horses, Louise, must I remind on the particulars on human dignity that we must maintain?” Ah-ha, there’s another reason I liked him. Matt put the humane in human experimentation. Strict moral compass, god-complex aside. Louise’s response was venomous, “I’m fairly certain the codes of conduct outline the difference between humane treatment of subjects and unprofessional relationships.” I repressed a snicker, I knew the shrew was just jealous, but the slightly embarrassed look on Matt face was priceless. And interesting. And worrying. All at the same time. Had I had more of an affect with my mostly harmless flirting then I realised? If so, this was a bugger of a time to find out. The expression was gone before I could ponder it. “I’m starting now. Start quantine lockdown on this room. Set to my access code,” Matt stated in an eerily cold tone.  I’d never seen him look so… hard.  The intercom crackled, the pause ominous.  “… Are you certain? If something goes wrong only you will be able to get in or out.”  I froze, as the awareness of the danger Matt was putting himself in hit me.  Before I could protest Matt commanded, “Do it.  If something goes wrong follow quarantine procedures. I recommend the same for other subjects. This thing is too dangerous to allow to spread any further.”

“… Understood. I relay that to other personnel.  But… No… Never mind, I’ll be here to run any tests you need.” Matt swirled back towards me, face unrecognizable under to grim mask of professionalism. This was a side of him I never liked; that part of him that made him exactly like git-clones he worked with; but, hey, it takes bees to make honey.  I refused to let my resolve waiver as he prepared his syringes. Kill or cure. 50/50. At least that’s what I told myself.  Pro: might live. Con: spend after life brain-munching. Pro: saviour of the know world. Con: death, deathy, death, death. Trepidation’s a bitch, but hey I have nothing to loose; I’m dying anyway.  “Susan, are you ready?” Matt asked, depositing his payload on the steel table next to the bed and leaned in to meet my gaze.  I resisted the urge to jump up right there, it would dishonest to ignore the fear coiling in my belly. I tilted my head, smart-arse, knee-jerk reaction ready, “Sure, darlin’, just don’t mistake the poison for the placebo. I’d hate to get all melodramatic for no reason.” My smirk threatened to injure my cheek muscles.  Then I noticed how watery Matt’s eye appeared. Crap.  You idiot, Susan.  Matt, you bigger idiot, you should have passed my case too someone else if it affected you this much.  Instinctively my hand found it’s way to his cheek.  “Matt… are you sure you want to be here?” Matt gently removed my hand, aware as I was of the cameras, and gave it a quick squeeze before releasing it. I pulled it back almost defensively, though god knows who I was defending. Him? My own pride? I was never good with displaying emotion and as necessary as his actions were, the slight rejection hurt.  Not that I’d let that show. The smirk was back, bigger then ever.  Matt looked away, slouching ever so slightly. “… No one should go through this alone… And I…. … Let’s begin. We covered the drug earlier, but first things first I’m going to give you a sedative, okay?”

“Hmmmmm, a sedative, I think I can li… deal with that.” I replied as he lined up the syringe with the drip connection and pushed the plunger.  I felt his hand on mine, “Really… Matt you are too kind for this… line of… work…” There was the brief sensation of pressure on my lips. What a nice last thought….

 

Author Notes: Sooo one hand I’m really pleased with how this turned out given it started as a free writing exercise.  But I have too say: What the hell is this?!  It starts out as a zombie fic, easily explained by the time I spend on the zombie genre, but then… Romance?  What in the world brought that on?  Is it a compatible mix?

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The white rose

Another trip into a morbid mind. But when I saw this photo prompt provided by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (original source of image is Pixibay.com) I couldn’t get past all the… red!

redgown

Graceful twirls caught the eye; leaping, pirouetting across the ice. Sweet fragrances further to further entice. Ruby leotard, coral blush, and a sweet conceit of tone to bring trophies home.

Upon her doorstep a scarlet Rose.

Sweet scent, finger prick.

Coppery taste of blood.

Unwary.

Taken into the dark.

Amongst Geraniums, Cardinals, in still repose.

Raven hair,

crimson lips,

sanguine streaks on pale…

lifeless…

skin…

Upon the glass the Dark Prince bestows

a single white Rose.

Typo

typewriter

Combo prompt today.  This one combines prompts from Monday’s Finish the Story and Sunday Photo Fiction.

The old typewriter had a mind of its own. The antique was part of Olivia’s inheritance. Originally, the possessed item belonged to a great-uncle. “Andy had talent,” Grandmother claimed, “With this it will seep into you.” Olivia ignored her; she was interested in its occult nature; keys that moved. The messages received – written by spirits. Olivia had to test it out in Casa rosa, whose unsolved homicides were infamous.

Casa Rosa was unoccupied; occupants didn’t last long. Sneaking in was effortless. Years of redecoration and the dwelling smelt of blood and rot. Olivia lit her candles and got to work. For once, the spirits came when called. The flash-light flickered while the temperature dropped in concert to the house Groaning. The keys clacked.

Get. Out.

Past the typewriter, the walls bled. Taking heed, she bolted.

sunsetCollapsed on the front lawn, she looked up a the sky awash with colours and laughed. Talent indeed.

The keys typed out a new message. I. Meant. Get ME Out.

Disputes with zombies

swords

I’ve borrowed this prompt from Red Lettering.  The artwork is by Laura Hollingsworth.  I think it’s pretty clear I’ve been watching ‘The Walking Dead’ entirely too much.

“See! I told you my sword collection was worth it!! And you said it was a waste of money,” Jake yelled, as he slashed through the skull of a zombie. Sam sunk her sword into the brains of another before her testy response. “That was before the bleedin’ ZOMBIE apocalypse. And do you really think this is the time to have a marital disagreement?!” Jake watched her dispatch three more zombies while arguing with him. Better not rile her up further. “No, you’re righ-Crap!” He narrowly avoided gnashing teeth by plunging his secondary weapon, a dagger, through the desiccated chin of a zombie that was entirely too close. Sam flicked him an irritated look as she helped him fend off the rest. “What did I tell you about talking in battle,” she nagged. Jake bite his tongue, and focused on skill-less sword work. “And why the hell did you never sharpen these things,” she continued. Jake channelled his rising tension into beating the crap out of the last of the zombies. He finally responded as they stood panting over the motionless corpses. “It was illegal to keep them sharpened!” Jake cleaned the gore off the blade with cleanest piece of zombie attire he could find. “That never stopped you pirating movies!” Jake bit his tongue. This was going to be a looong apocalypse.

Kaptured

jamboree

Here’s one for Monday’s finish the story.   I’m afraid I bent the rules a little today.  The original starting line is – “Little did they know when the photographer took their picture that they would find themselves trapped in a painting.”  I couldn’t keep the original wording and have it suit my piece.

Little did the victims know that when the photographer took their picture they would find themselves trapped forever in a 2-dimensional prison. They were the lucky ones.

Decades later and Professor Klein was still cleaning up after the serial killer Thomas ‘The evaporator’ Cline. His estranged grandson had earnt the moniker for the odd fashion in which he had made is victims ‘disappear’ – often from busy streets; without fuss or chaos. Thomas’s methods were sociopathic; he would send strange ransom demands along-side increasingly larger sections of the body to his victim’s families. No matter how his damned demands were met the lost souls never returned. The sadistic killer was eventually tracked down via postal routes but the method in which he made people vanish was never officially discovered. That knowledge belonged to the eccentric Prof. Klein alone. Once he finished freeing the poor souls from their photographic prison he would burn all his research, along with the cursed Kapture Kern* prototype and take the bitter secret to his impending grave.

*Kern is a camera of German design from the 1920’s

Mr. Right

mayhemmonday-captive_love

Yay. A Story! Today is officially productive.  (Nevermind the housework I did or job interview I had.)  The first prompt,  dictating the scenario, has been borrowed from Mayhem Monday. The second has been borrowed from Picture It and Write. This one’s gone to a dark, dark place again.  Feel free to comment/leave con-crit ect.

It had been a quick, competent snatch-and-run. Eleanor just wished she hadn’t been on the receiving end. The fabric restraints were rubbing her raw. The chair was becoming highly uncomfortable.  “Hel…lo?” Eleanor tried to peek from under her blindfold. All she could distinguish were faint ridges of concrete. There was an irritating scent that clung; much like the dankness of a damp basement. The chair creaked as she tested the joints. Hmmm, one collective tug and I can pull this to pieces. Thank you, God, for flat-pack furniture! “Please don’t wreck my furniture.” Eleanor started, uselessly turning her head towards the speaker. Damn, all she could see was barely lit stairs and nylon socks. “If you untie me, I won’t have too.” That’s it, keep calm. Figure out what he wants and look for an opportunity to escape. There was a soft chuckle as the mystery man flipped the lights on, followed by muffled footfalls as he circled her and tugged the blindfold loose. It fell limply around her neck; his hands still holding the ends. Eleanor could not repress the shudder that rippled through her shoulders. It would be too easy for the stranger to strangle her with the former blindfold.

“I will untie you. Once you’re calm, that is.”

“I am calm,” Eleanor replied, proud that her inflection hid the dread. She caught his eye as he came into view and held her gaze as he towered over her.suit “Are you?” He asked, caressing her cheek with a nicely toned hand. Eleanor’s dread grew with a sense of foreboding that traced through her, much like his hand had her cheek. She was immediately aware of his frame; beneath the moderately expensive suit she detected muscle tone. Oh, god, let me be faster! She thought as she took in surprisingly well-designed features. “Ye-es…” There was that chuckle again. It did nothing to sooth the rising dread. He knelt in front of Eleanor, elbows pressing into her thighs, cupping her cheeks with a firm grip. “I’ve always loved the confident way you carry yourself, but this look isn’t bad either.” Eleanor froze. She would remember such a face, if they had met. This was stalker talk. The panic began to needle her gut. “Flattery is more effective without restraints,” Eleanor replied, in a flat quip. A thumb now traced her features; her flesh burning in it’s wake. “Sorry. This was the only way to get your attention,” he replied; his expression an innocent contrast to his actions. Eleanor clamped down on an influx of bile. “With a face like that you only had to approach me. Preferably in public. You currently have me riveted; why am I here?” She replied, with a thinly veiled pretence towards composure.

“Because I love you.” As her brain froze she felt the burning of hysteria bubble up beside the needles of panic and for a moment she was completely still. Pouncing, he took advantage of her moment of paralysis; pulling her into a deep kiss. There was bile in Eleanor’s mouth again. He shot back retching. The hysteria burnt through her shock and chair was pulled to pieces before he could react. Somehow a chair leg made it’s way into her hands. “Crazy bastard!” -Whap- “You’re good looking!” -Whap- “You clearly have money!” -Whap- “Why the HELL did you not just come up to me like a normal person?!” Eleanor returned to the present. Her kidnapper was now guarding his face with a very confused expression. Eleanor took her chance. She bolted up the stairs, slamming the door shut. Brilliant! He’s left the key in the lock! Eleanor turned the key and made a break to freedom. The last words she heard: “Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of a suit?!” Accompanied by violent thumping.

Where there’s smoke there’s fire

house

This time the prompt has been borrowed from Five sentence fiction.

Where there’s smoke there’s fire.

The house stood still, lines still beautiful despite the time it had stood abandoned; uncared for by time or man.

Disrepair was predominate; for the longest time no one dared set foot inside the place where tales of ghouls and ghost abound.

Abandoned and far from a watchful eye, it became a den; littered with scavenged furniture – chairs, rugs and a mattress that was spare.

The site was chaos – cans, wrappers and stains that shouted of the wild abandon that came with youth; complete with sounds that could wake the dead.

The owner stirred from his coffin; it was his turn to engage in unruly abandon now.

Beautiful nymph: Picture it and Write.

water-mask

This one’s for Picture it and Write hosted by Ermilia.  Beautiful photo owned by Grégoire A Meyer.

Travis was skipping stones in the rapidly fading afternoon light, relishing the peace of the deserted park. The interplay of ripples on the water surface was absorbing. In the approaching twilight crests and peaks formed on the water surface as a figure created of the rippling liquid rose from the pond. Travis stared in bemused wonder as the ethereal female held out a hand invitingly. Without hesitation he took the outstretched hand and walked the water’s surface with her. Enraptured and captured by the aquatic beauty’s embrace, he was unaware of the dissolution of his clothes or the rapidly rising water level. It was not until the icy water filled his lungs that Travis began to panic. He thrashed out, limbs met, not by the solidness of the nymph, but by the causal flow of water. As he blacked out, Travis was met by an icy, mocking smile. When the paramedics rolled up to rescue the skinny dipping teen, the creature was nowhere to be seen.

End.

Image

I’ve written this piece as part of Visdare 48.  Original photo source here.

The pair huddled together in the ruined remains of a once beautiful house. Evidence of the disaster that had rocked world was littered around them. The very foundations of the house had be rent by the turbulent upheavals; lives of privilege now reduced to refuse scavenging. The girl shuffled to draw the dirty duvet closer, pressing into her male companion. “Do you think they’ll find us?” She asked, trembling. In response he drew her closer, resting his chin in her greasy hair. She flinched at the icy chill of his dog tags. After awhile he said, “I know where to be. It’s classified, but state secrets are meaningless now.” Venturing a hand into the icy chill she reached up to stroke his cheek; sensing a need for comfort. Of course, he would never tell her they were never coming. Tomorrow he would simply take her to the launch site.

Envy’s a bitch – Flash Friday Vol. 2-9

ImageNew photo prompt challenge courtesy of Flash Friday.  This contains mild horror.  🙂

“You can’t escape, you know.” Sarah stroked the cold metal of the javelin that lay across her lap. She glowered at the grovelling woman at her feet. She was thin, petite and had a nice face under the make-up streaks. Sarah would kill for her functional legs. She prodded the snivelling figure with the javelin, “Hey, why did you appear, anyway? Aidan and I were happy.” She dug the sharp end into the woman’s side, receiving a whimper as a reward. “Hey, you should run,” she said, prodding the woman upright. “I can’t catch you; I’m stuck in this chair.” Another prod. A stumbling reward. “Run!” Finally the woman burst into a shaky run, tears pouring down her cheeks. “About time,” Sarah murmured, with a cold smile of feral pleasure. She turned her wheelchair around, drew back the javelin and aimed. The huntress downed her prey; after all Sarah was a para-olympian and envy was a bitch.

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