To enter, submit your spookiest, creepiest, most thrilling and bone-chilling 500 words. They can be made up just for the contest as a short story, or can be an excerpt from a longer piece (cliffhangers are okay!). Heck, Natalie says you can even do a super spooky query letter!
Natalie will choose a winner to receive a critique of a query and first 10 pages. Leave your entries below in the comments. Contest ends on Monday, October 31. Good luck!
Check out Natalie's bio below:
Natalie M. Lakosil* is an Assistant Agent at the Bradford Literary Agency. An honors graduate of the University of San Diego, California, Natalie holds a B.A. in Literature/Writing. She started as an intern at the Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency in 2007, after which time she left to write author profiles and book reviews for the San Diego Union Tribune. Finding that journalism was just not for her, she returned to work full-time at the Dijkstra Agency in April 2009, and started building her own client list in September of that same year. She made her move to the Bradford Agency in February of 2011.Natalie's interests include talented, hard-working new authors with a fresh, unique voice and hook. Her specialty is commercial fiction, with an emphasis in children’s literature (from picture book-YA/Teen), romance (contemporary and historical), historical fiction, multi-cultural fiction, paranormal, sci-fi/fantasy in YA or romance only, fairy-tale/legend spin-offs, and “beautiful dark” novels. She will also consider select nonfiction (has to have a fantastic hook and an even more fantastic author platform) and that amazing project she never even knew she was looking for! She is always drawn to an open and positive attitude in an author, good grammar, and fantastical, engaging and sexy plots.
The Bradford Literary Agency is a boutique agency located in sunny San Diego, California. Founded in 2001, it is an editorial-focused agency that prefers to work closely with its authors in helping to build strong, sustainable careers.
Natalie blogs at adventuresinagentland.blogspot.com, and follow Natalie on Twitter @Natalie_Lakosil!
*Formerly Natalie Fischer
The County Line
ReplyDelete“The end is near!” Sarah called out, reading the homemade billboard in front of them. Dani rolled her eyes. Ever since the casino had advertised “BJs”, her friends were cheering every absurd or clever billboard. They passed by a green county line sign and Dani checked the fuel gauge. Three-fourths of a tank, they wouldn’t have to stop for a while still.
“How can you go the speed limit?” Chaz asked from the back seat.
“You remember why you’re not driving?” Sarah turned from the front seat and stared down her brother. “Remember how many speeding tickets it takes for your insurance to skyrocket? Remember how Mom and Dad flipped? So don’t make fun of Dani’s driving.”
“It’s getting hot in here,” the fourth passenger, Adam, piped in.
“The air conditioner’s on,” Dani said after double-checking her dashboard. She held up her hand to the vent, and hot air blew back at her.
“It must have stopped working,” she said, frowning. She’d had the Freon checked two months before.
“This sucks,” Chaz said, and leaned back against the vinyl car seat. Dani was already sweating.
“Deal with it,” Sarah said, fanning herself. Dani rolled down the windows even though she hated the noise it made.
Dani looked in the rearview mirror, and jumped. “What?” Sarah asked, and then looked behind them. She laughed and the boys turned and looked too.
The black semi behind them had a grill designed to look like an angry mouth with giant, sharp teeth. The headlights looked like glowering red eyes. Her passengers laughed and chanted, “Demon truck! Demon truck!” but Dani felt a feeling of dread spread through her stomach, turning it to brick.
The truck pulled up behind them, closer than the regulation two seconds. Dani slowed down slightly, encouraging the truck to pass her. Instead he got closer to her bumper, and she slammed on the gas pedal, the car suddenly hurtling forward like a frightened rabbit. The red eyes of the semi seemed to laugh as he followed in pursuit.
“Can we stop and get the air conditioner fixed?” Chaz asked as they passed by the sign for Arcadia.
“You going to pay for it?” Sarah asked.
“It’s Dani’s car. She should keep it in running,” Chaz said.
Dani ignored them, her eyes flicking between the road in front of them and the truck behind.
Suddenly the truck behind them slowed down, and used a police path to turn left onto the other side of the divided highway. As they passed the sign telling them they’d entered the next county, the air conditioner sprung back to life with a whoosh of cold air.
New follower! This sounds like fun. I'll give it a go. Thanks for hosting this contest! :)
ReplyDeleteThe Undead Road
When Dad handed me his .45 for the first time, I didn’t know I’d use it ten minutes later.
Her name was Cassidy Mill, the gorgeous heartthrob—and heartbreaker—of Sands West Middle School. Blonde Hair. Amber eyes. Perfect skin. She had the makings of a cheerleading captain who made all the guys jealous with each new boyfriend. I was never one of them. I’d be lying if I said I never imagined it once or twice, but we never talked. She never even looked.
When she finally did, Cassidy trudged toward me without hesitation. Torn hair. Red eyes. Pealed skin. It was a shame to put her down, but better her than me. To this day, I can’t decide what hurt more: landing a headshot between her eyes or the recoil that landed me on my butt.
I never had a shot that clean since. Beginner’s luck, I guess.
“What do you think Dad will find for me?”
I looked at Jewel, my little sis. Her almost eleven-year-old green eyes brimmed with excitement. “Not sure. You’re smaller than I was. Maybe a .40 to start.”
Jewel snorted. “If it’s loaded, I’ll be happy.”
I smiled. She was good. Scare-the-crap-out-of-me good. I usually wait to see how these monsters move before I pull the trigger. Not her. Good thing she missed that live one in the middle of Nebraska. This old guy with a 12 gauge had boarded up a lone gas station just off highway 80. He charged us an arm and a leg for a few gallons of gas and a safe place to sleep.
I mean that figuratively. Arms and legs are easy to come by.
Well. He lunged for my jugular the next morning. Jewel didn’t miss then.
She glanced at her pink Barbie watch, the one she got after collecting cereal coupons when she was six. Amazing how long the batteries last in those things. “It’s been ten minutes,” she said impatiently. “Does it really take that long to look inside an armoire?”
“Armory,” I corrected.
She flashed a reproving look at me. Her jaw-length brown hair whipped at her cheeks. I knew what she meant, but she was tongue-tied. What kind of big brother would I be if I didn’t give her a hard time about it? “Don’t correct me. You’re the one standing outside the car!”
“Don’t worry. Mom and Dad will be back before they reach us.”
By they, I meant the Crawlers. Stage Three Vectors. Nine of them - crawling, clawing, and rolling their way toward us over the dying grass of the town square. Their skinny arms and legs mindlessly moved in desperation to reach us. A sad sight, really. Without a fresh victim to munch on after so many weeks, the virus had all but consumed their fat cells and soft inner tissues, leaving mummy-like drones lying all about, now inching along like dehydrated slugs.
I couldn’t hear them. Yet. Or smell them. I pulled out my .45 anyway.
@David If that isn't an excerpt from a novel I'd be amazed. Very good.
ReplyDeleteI'll post my short story later, hopefully today if I have time.
Her spirit moved easily through the fall air.
ReplyDeleteNever before had Rosanne felt this light, felt this much like running and dancing and twirling her arms in circles. The sun graced her cheeks and chestnut colored hair with a brilliance that surpassed her physical presence. She was warmth and music and movement sublime. She danced and ran and played across the grass covered fields and in the glades spotted with trees. Set free from her body, she became like a kite cut loose from its string, floating here and there, bandied about by the wind.
While back in the hollow, secluded from sight of passers by, flies began to gather on her face. Her open eyelids framed lifeless orbs tinted gray with the passing of time. Her clothes were stained with evidence of decomposition and the waste trails of small creatures that investigated and digested her remains.
A hiker looked down on the scene from above. Repulsed by the sight he turned away and reached for his phone to call the police. While struggling to dial, he caught the scent of death provided by a shift in the breeze. It reminded him of what he no longer looked at, the stringy haired, half clothed, decaying body of a young woman, barely concealed by weeds left lifeless by autumn's caress.
Next to the hiker stood Rosanne's spirit. Not saddened by her new freedom granted, nor the wretched sight of the remains of her earthly vessel, she placed her arm on his shoulder and hugged him from behind. Her killer was back. The hiker was about to join her. She wanted to be there to comfort him when it happened.
As the knife entered his ribcage, she placed her cheek on his shoulder and drew him close, whispering, "It's okay my love."
This is great! I'll throw my entry into the hat.
ReplyDeleteThis is from a novel I'm working on:
INDUCTION
Gnarled branches sway and undergrowth snaps as a shadow makes its way through the dark forest. Did Grandmother and Mother escape too or will something more sinister emerge from the woods? I draw a painful breath and strain to see through the storm darkened, moonless night.
Please, let them have made it, I pray to anything that might hear me.
Though they told me to run, guilt gnaws at me for leaving my family behind. I should have at least tried to save them. Pelting raindrops batter me through the thick fabric of my dress as though Nature herself punishes my cowardice.
Lightning flashes, but the brief illumination isn't enough to identify the shadow. A mixture of exhaustion and hope that it could be Mother or Grandmother keeps me from running east to the next village. The shadow moves closer. Uncontrollable tremors shake me. I'm not sure whether my shivers are more from cold or fear.
Run, my brain tells me, but I can't leave until I know who or what the shadow might be. Shoving wet strands of hair out of my face, I strain my eyes and watch the shadow struggle through the storm drenched undergrowth. Finally, it emerges from the forest. Using every ounce of willpower in my cowardly body, I manage not to bolt.
A series of violent lightning strikes light up the night, giving me fleeting glimpses of the shadow's identity.
"Grandmother," I call. "It's me, Brianna."
Without thinking, I run and throw my arms around her neck, sobbing my relief into her shoulder. She doesn't hug me back.
The cold blade of terror stabs me. I draw back and notice the "x" shaped wounds on her pale cheeks. I stagger back. "You've been infected," I say.
"It's not an infection, but an honor." She grabs my arm in a vise-like grip. "You must be inducted too." She smiles, but it doesn't warm her cold black eyes.
I struggle but her fingers dig painfully into my flesh, holding fast as hundreds of Them close a tight circle around me. Cool rain mingles with my warm tears. I stare at the marked faces of villagers I knew and loved—who once loved me.
Then I see her.
"Don't cry, darling, I'll share the honor with you," Mother says, stepping to me. The "x" marks on her face are still fresh and bleeding. Instead of being completely black, her eyes still have a hint of blue.
I should have saved her. A bitter laugh escapes me. I couldn't even save myself.
Arms of former loved ones grab me, dooming me to join Their fate. Mother cuts the marks into my cheeks. The fiery sting of the deceitful blade rips a scream from my throat. Drop by drop, Mother trickles the infected blood to my cuts. I cling desperately to my last moments of humanity, enjoying the time before I become one of Them—Hel's half-dead children.
Thanks Liz & Natalie!
ReplyDeleteExcerpt from my YA paranormal:
“On nights like this, the signal fires burn,” Patrick said. “It’s a time when boundaries thin, when souls move at will, free to come and go between the living and the dead.” He looked at Emma. “You feel it, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” Emma said, toying with her necklace.
He caught the movement and reached for it. “This belonged to Lily,” he said. She startled. “Don’t be afraid.”
“I am afraid.” She glanced at the other kids gathered around the bonfire, but no one noticed them.
“I knew someone like you once,” he said. “I can make the ghosts go away, Emma.”
“How?”
He smiled. “Trust me.” The sibilant lilt of his voice had a hypnotic quality.
The bonfire began to blur and Emma clutched at the overturned log under her to fight the dizzy feeling in her head.
Patrick’s cold fingers brushed her clavicle as he examined the two charms, one Lily had given to her and one Lily had worn around her own neck.
His eyes bored into hers, reaching into her soul. The crowd and the fire faded. She felt a tug deep within her and her stomach twisted.
Whatever Patrick was doing was wrong, invasive.
“I... I should go,” she said. She felt no fear or panic, though her rational mind told her she should. Instead, she felt nothing. She felt empty.
“Not yet,” he said. He drew her to her feet and led her away from the fire.
The wood closed around them, sealing them off from the other kids still gathered around the bonfire. Patrick’s grip tightened on her hand.
She swallowed, but her throat felt dry and tight. “Where are you taking me?”
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Patrick said, his voice smooth and seductive. “Trust me.” He slid a finger across her jaw line, drawing her closer. His eyes flashed with deep-seated hunger and frustration.
“Trust?” Emma dropped her eyes, painfully aware of his body pressed against hers.
“I can make it stop hurting.” He caught her chin and forced her to face him.
Emma sucked in her breath. In the anemic light of the moon breaking through the trees, his clear blue eyes swirled and turned black. Not like his pupils were too large or even as if his irises were black. The entire surface glistened, jet-black and deathly cold. She backed away and stumbled. He caught her wrist and pulled her tight against his body again.
A shudder of fear and loathing ran through her. “Let me go,” she said. “Please.”
Patrick’s perfect face contorted, turning ashen and desiccated. Shadows gathered in the sunken hollows of his eyes and the skin stretched across his high cheekbones creased like old leather. He snarled and his lips peeled back from his teeth like some horrific skeleton.
She gasped. “What are you?”
“Ask your boyfriend,” he said, staring over her shoulder into the heart of the woods. “What are you doing here? She came willingly. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
This sounds like fun. :) This is an excerpt from the YA Sci-Fi I'm currently writing:
ReplyDeleteWe step into the pitch blackness of the dome. My heart’s pounding. The door slides shut behind us, locking us in. Can’t turn back now.
There’s a flash and giant red letters type their way onto a screen high overhead. A voice reads them aloud: “Mission Objective: Destroy Unstables. Mission Time: Ten Minutes.”
“What?” Oliver protests, somewhere to my right.
I grimace. It's not enough time.
The letters disappear and the blackness warps as the simulation comes to life around us. It’s a meadow full of flowers stretching far in all directions, surrounded by forest. Crickets sing beneath my feet, and a butterfly near my right shoulder. A tangy scent of pollen fills my nose. My throat tightens. If there are silver asters in here, I’m dead.
“Bet you anything they’re hiding in the trees,” one of Sam’s friends says.
“Spread out,” Sam shouts, taking long strides toward the brambles.
“When does the timer start?” Ariadne asks. Her voice is shaky.
“As soon as they appear.”
I clutch the copper gun to my chest. Swallow.
There is silence.
A soft, hollow choking sound reaches my ears. A gasp. It’s coming from down in the meadow grass.
I stumble backward, pressing a knob on my gun so it’s ready to fire. Overhead, red numbers appear in the sky: 10:00:00. The clock’s started.
“P—please.” The word’s so low I almost don’t catch it. A broken, strangled voice. Knobby fingers stretch upward, out of the tall grass. “H—h—help me.”
I freeze with my finger on the trigger.
Her face appears. The bags under her eyes are dark, even darker than mine looked in the hall of mirrors. The skin’s taught and pale. Her limbs shake as she digs her nails into the ground and pulls herself toward me, her bony chest heaving.
“Kill her!” Sam orders.
I touch my finger to the trigger and grit my teeth.
“P—please…” Her voice chokes again, and an awful realization hits me. She sounds just like Laila did before she died.
I lower my copper.
I can’t do it. I can’t shoot her.
“Clementine.” Sam snarls, striding at us from the trees, hitching his gun up to his eye.
“She needs help.”
“You can’t do anything for her.”
I stare at her knobby fingers as they stretch and grasp my ankle. Her eyes are bloodshot when she lifts them to me. Her teeth are black and sharp, inching toward my leg—
Sam’s shot goes off as I stumble backward, horrified. The Unstable crumples in the grass.
“H—help me.” Another’s coming out of the trees, unsteady on his feet. Blood splatters from his mouth with every breath.
Twisted branches claw at her nightgown, hair, and skin, leaving stinging slashes that drip warmth. A year ago, before she met the prince, she would have seen the welling strips of scarlet and recognized her own blood. Now it's the combination of pain and wet-warmth that tells her she’s bleeding, not her eyes.
ReplyDeleteAnd that’s why she wants to run, but also the reason she can’t.
She can’t run at full speed, not through a forest.
Not blind.
Rhythmic thuds pound in the distance, accompanied by the crack of wood.
He’s coming.
She runs as fast as she can, stumbling and jerking her nightgown free when it catches, uncaring as it shreds to tatters. Who could see her here? Not even herself. Warmth leaks from beneath her eyelids. Not blood this time, tears.
Last night, she tried to touch the prince, desperate to know what he looked like. He fled, locking himself in the library to drink and destroy. Then she found him passed out in the hallway outside her room--and learned what he was so desperate to hide.
This morning, she danced with nervous excitement, waiting for him to wake so she could tell him that she knew and she didn’t care. That she loved him anyway, and now they could be together. Finally she couldn’t wait any longer, and she entered his secret domain, the forbidden wing.
She rushed through his rooms, eager to tell him she knew his secret.
But the prince kept another secret.
The thuds pound louder. She breaks into a mad dash with her hands outstretched, not caring as more pain stripes her skin. He is close; he can probably see her now. It’s futile and she wants to scream, to break something.
But she already had. This morning.
Unfamiliar with the layout of his rooms, she stumbled into a pedestal. Shattering glass echoed off marble and she jerked around, expecting him to come. She was horrified to have broken something of his. Not that he would be angry. He was always so considerate of her disability.
Now she wants to break him.
She knelt down, using her fingers to see what broke. Splintered shards in a pool of liquid. A vase, maybe.
The thudding is upon her now. The prince overtakes her, cutting her off. She jerks to a stop before they touch. Other than last night, when he was unconscious, this is as close as they have ever been. Close enough for her to smell his spicy scent, to hear him breathe, to feel the radiating warmth, but that is all.
And that’s all there will ever be. Because it wasn't a vase she broke.
No, not a vase. A jar.
And in the jar--
“My eyes,” she accuses in a strangled whisper.
“I...” he trails off, as if choked. “You wouldn’t have fallen in love with me if you could see I’m a beast.” His voice is a gravelly shudder. “Belle, please....” He begs her to understand, begs her to see. But she can't.
He made her blind.
First and foremost, I want to thank you both for hosting the contest.
ReplyDeleteYou rock Liz and Natalie!!
Down below is an excerpt, from my YA paranormal novel, which I'm currently writing; based in a city known for its chilling ghost stories.
AMBIENCE
I’d been regarding the ceiling in wonderment when I felt the elevator come to a rest. When I looked down, I noticed that it had stopped on the fourth floor; which was forbidden to all students. Before the doors could open, I quickly pressed the close button and gazed at the numbers; the fifth floor was still lite up and I wondered why I had been taken to the one below it.
A chill ran up my spin as the elevator doors swung open on my floor and I hesitated stepping out into the air-condition hallway. When the golden doors threaten to shut me in, I slowly emerged from the elevator and what I saw down the hallway made goose bumps cover my arms.
The partially dark hallway, which started just after my dorm room, made me remember all the ghost stories I’d read about the college. Those stories seemed to be coming to life as I reluctantly made my way down the hall, but halted to a stop when I noticed a small green ball on the floor.
“Do you want to play with me?” The voice of a little boy questioned shyly in the vacant hallway. “Let’s go outside and play.”
“Who the hell is there?” I asked and looked around my vicinity for where the voice could have come from, but saw no one. “Breanne is that you?”
“Mommy says it’s not good to talk with strangers.” He told me and then the little green ball started to roll away towards the darkness. “But you seem like a nice lady.”
When the ball wasn’t in my sight anymore, I blinked my eyes madly and backed up towards the elevator. As rapidly as I backed up, the lights sprung back to life and standing there was a little boy in early period clothing; the small green ball sat near his small leather-bounded feet.
“Dear lord, you can see me, can’t you?” He said and disappeared when a door swung open.
“There you are, Jennifer.” Lorraine said when she pecked out of our room. “You okay?”
“Never been better.” I told her, but I was still shaken up.
I’d just seen a ghost, a GHOST. Not just any, but a little boy who looked more shocked at the fact that I could see him rather than begging me to explain why he’d died. Everyone knows the college is haunted; one of the reasons most students come here. I just didn’t expect to run into one so soon and exactly see it nonetheless.
“You’re coming in or not?” She asked and stepped out into the hallway. “What happened, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“You’ve got that right.”
“Seriously?”
“I just saw someone in the hallway.” I told her and entered our room. “You’ve ever heard of the little boy with the green ball?”
“Sure I have.”
“Well I just meet little ball wonder.”
Thanks for the opportunity.
ReplyDeleteA snippet from a completed manuscript. YA Horror.
No one answered. Angel decided to use her larceny skills and break in. Jake couldn’t help but smirk at her when she turned to him and waved him in. “Nice. A record is what I need to start my college life,” he muttered to her.
“Join the club. I already got one.” Her smile forced a smile on his own lips.
She turned on the lights to an unexpected sight that sent icy chills down his back. Covered, on every inch of space were the written words…_she is the second sign_ in blood red letters. The smell that assaulted him was grueling. Jake had to cover his nose and mouth to keep from squealing.
“No. No. This is not good,” Angel muttered, her wide eyes looking at every inch of space. She curled her hands into fists and hid them under her armpit as if she didn’t want to risk touching anything.
“Let’s get out of here before I puke on _your_ shoes.” He whipped around and found the rain much more pleasant. Angel stood back for a few seconds before bolting out the door, her hair plastered to her head, her clothes drenched.
“What’s going on?” He took her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him. Fear rippled through her body, seeping into him by mere distance.
“The Crossroads. We gotta get to the Crossroads.” Angel ran to the bike and Jake followed.
They made it to a narrow dirt road leading deeper into the woods. Jake hesitated, deciding the slippery road too dangerous. “We gotta go in by foot. I’m not chancing a spill.” He had to yell over the drumming thunder that rolled overhead.
Angel nodded. Taking her hand, they ran into the narrow dirt road that was now a mudfest. About a few yards from the main road stood a dilapidated frame two story house, long abandoned by the looks of it. Jake stopped and Angel slipped from his grasp, running inside the house. He looked up into the windowpane on the second floor. Between wooden planks that covered the window, a woman stared back at him, a broad smile on her bloodied face revealed jagged rows of teeth.
Angel’s scream snapped him back to reality and he ran towards the house, bounding up the porch steps and rammed into the front door hard just as it slammed shut, forcing him to fall back down on his butt. A searing pain zipped up his spine. Gritting his teeth, he bolted up again and tried the knob. Locked. He pounded on the door. “Angel! Open the door!”
Another echo of a scream bounced back and fear melded inside him. He jumped down the steps and went around the back. He rammed the door with his good shoulder and it exploded open, sending wood and splinters inside with him. He lost his footing and tumbled over something on the floor. He reached out his hand toward the countertop in an effort to catch his balance, but came across a thick slippery substance and went sprawling to the hard floor.
Gigantic thanks, Liz and Natalie!
ReplyDeletePhobic
I shut off my light and scampered across my darkened bedroom, tucked my toes into the cool bed sheets and waited for my body heat to do its thing. My dad was gone on business, and connected to my house or not, I didn’t like to be alone. Especially at night.
I wasn’t scared of my house, exactly. People always said it was haunted, but they didn’t understand that a house could have characteristics. Could communicate with its inhabitants, or heal itself, like the way we’d never had to replace or repair anything. That freaked people out, I guess.
Noises scraped along the outside wall. My body clenched, my heart drummed against my sternum. What was happening? Was the house angry? Fighting my inclination to stay put, I dipped my toes to the floor, pressing my tongue to the top of my mouth to keep from screaming at the mere thought of something attacking from below the bed.
I forced my steps, heart pulsing like the repeated shots of a gun. Fingers trembling, I parted the curtain and peered into the darkness outside.
The pounding in my veins faded, and I became enraged. Jason and Sierra, punk kids going for couple of the year, were climbing a ladder leaning against my house. A ladder leading directly to the floating door.
I cranked open my window, getting a breeze of cool air. Sierra swore, and Jason stepped on her hand, nearly dropping the axe in his.
“What are you doing?” I asked, though it was obvious.
Jason grinned. Grinned! “Out for a stroll,” he said.
“I told you that door doesn’t open. Get out of here or—”
“Or what? You’ll sick your freaky house on us?”
“I’ll call the cops!”
He kept climbing. “How do you know it doesn’t open? You’re too scared to try it.” Then his voice lowered, and I heard him mumble, “Keep climbing, Sierra.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore, Jason,” she muttered, her eyes darting to me.
“It’s all a hoax. The freakiest thing about her house is her!”
Glaring, he climbed until he reached the door. At the exact moment his hand touched it, something brushed my side. The hairs on my arms rose, like a feather trickled over them.
Eyes open in panic, I stared behind me. But I was alone in my room.
“We’ll see if nothing is in it,” Jason said, lifting the axe. My stomach leapt in my throat.
“Don’t!” I shouted. But it was too late. The blade hacked into the side of my house with a chunk. And I gagged, slamming into the wall. Pain screamed at my side, and I goggled at the warm, dark wetness on my hands. My stomach slick with blood, I blanked out and barreled over the window ledge.
Thanks for the opportunity!
ReplyDeleteYA Romance
Byronic
Sea Islands, S.C. 1893
Tommy’s mama shook her head. “No, boy. You’re not tying me to no tree! Let’s go back in the house. We’re not safe out here!” She grabbed Tommy’s arm.
Taller than his mother, but not as strong, Tommy twisted away before she could get a better hold on him. His throat burned from yelling, but still he tried to reason with her. “You know we can’t. The storm took the roof already!”
She scanned the empty street, her gaze following a straw basket as it flew past, ricocheting off the wall of their beaten house. “Oh, Lord Jesus!” She closed her eyes and raised folded hands in the air. Her lips moved in prayer, but the rising wind stole her words.
In the heart of the storm, the skinny pines around them doubled over in submission to the elements, while his siblings bawled helplessly, clinging to the wide oak.
The torrent snapped at his mama’s skirt, and he was struck with an idea. While her eyes were shut, he moved quickly to untie her rope belt. Though his fingers were icy and numb, he managed to remove it, and then his own. He knotted the two together quickly.
“I got it, Mama.” He grabbed her arm, needing to break her spell.
“No,” she moaned, face gray with fear. This time, she pulled away from him.
Her movements were mechanical as she ambled to the middle of the road. Tommy watched in horror as the most important person in his life lay down in the driving wind and rain to die. He begged her to get up, “Please, Mama! Think of your girls.”
When she refused, he swallowed painfully and turned back to his little sisters. They were his responsibility now.
The wind pushed him away with every step, sand flying with such force it stung his flesh, until he reached the girls at last. He cinched the belts with their bindings, making sure the knots would hold.
“Are we gonna die, Tommy?” Ruthie yelled. Her soft cheek pressed against the rough bark.
“No, girl. We are not,” he lied. “Close your eyes and let the hurricane pass over.”
Laura slid her fingers in his, and he squeezed them, cold little sticks in the palm of his bigger hand. Both girls obeyed, bracing against the rampage.
Knowing it would only break his heart, he glanced back at his mama one last time. The curtain of rain obscured his vision, but he made out her prone form, lying on the sandy ground where she hoped to meet her maker.
Above her, a female specter in a flowing bloody gown hovered.
Tommy blinked, but the abhorrence remained.
The wraith’s skinless body, oozing red and pulsing with veins the blue color of the indigo bird, sagged against his mama’s body, grasping her soggy clothing.
Tommy yelled at her to get off, but this only drew the hag’s attention to him. Vomit eddied in his mouth. She watched him through eyes of empty white, and then returned to her purpose.
Stealing his mama’s soul.
Thanks Elizabeth and Natalie! And good luck everyone!
ReplyDeleteHistorical Fiction: SHIVER OF BLUE
There was a thud, and Mommy’s head hit the floor right next to the cup. I couldn’t see her eyes behind it, but something red leaked out from her mouth.
Someone leaned over her. It was that girl who lived in our house with us. I didn’t know her name. I thought she was just like a shadow because she never played with me or even spoke to me. She never came outside into the sunlight. But whenever I looked into a dark corner, she was there. She didn’t speak to anyone except Father and sometimes she kissed him on the mouth, which I thought was strange. But nobody ever wanted to know what I thought about anything.
The shadow girl leaned real close to Mommy and tapped the edge of the cup. “Drink it.”
“No.”
“It will make you feel better.” The shadow whisper twisted downward, slithering across the room and into my ears.
There was a crunch. There were lots of little pops. Mommy screamed and writhed.
The shadow pressed the cup against Mommy’s cheek. “Don’t you want to feel better?”
Mommy shoved the cup with her forehead. She shoved it so hard that it slid to her chin, away from her eyes, so that I saw them. She stopped and stared at me peeking through the crack in the door. Her eyes filled with tears. Her throat gurgled, bubbling red through her teeth. Then she screamed long and loud and her voice came at me, away from the shadow, past the cup, across the blue-tinted air, and into my head.
She pulled at the cup with her teeth and drank and drank until she flopped against the floor, staring at nothing. The shadow tied up Mommy’s hands with a long, black rope. She didn’t see me and I didn’t think to hide.
She turned Mommy over and I saw how big Mommy’s tummy was, like she had a ball hidden under there. I wondered why she would have a ball under her dress. Maybe she was playing hide and seek with it.
The shadow didn’t seem to want to play. She moved to the other side of the room and came back with a big stick. She whacked that ball, over and over, but the ball never came out. And Mommy never played. She just lay there like a limp calf, not even bothering about it. Even when something happened and there was a puddle of red and it looked like another doll, except that one wasn’t pretty, it was all goopy and yuck.
That’s when I dropped my china doll.
The shadow girl looked at me with two bad eyes. She tossed the goopy doll into a bucket, wiped her hands, and came over to me, sidling toward me, kind of like a cat. Her hands reached out and snatched my shoulders. I shouted and tried to run, but the shadow had me.
There are some very creepy stories here!
ReplyDeleteThis is mine, from a short story that could be the first chapter of a novel if I ever get around to writing it. The concept is "the anti-magician." The MC is the son of the Witch Queen. It's a good thing he's immune to magic.
Helen smiled even more smugly. “I knew you would come when you saw the clouds over the city. And I knew you would take the talisman. That’s why I chose mandrake root. It’s poisonous, even to you,” said Helen. “But it’s not the source of my power. And now, you’ve cut your life-string even shorter, sacrificied years—for nothing.”
“Matt slumped and looked up at his mother from under his eyebrows. “Not for nothing, mother. For your knife.” In one movement, he pushed her to her knees and grabbed a fistful of her hair in one hand, then began hacking at it with Helen’s wooden knife. Lock piled on the floor and writhed like dying worms.
Helen screamed so loudly that the French windows shattered. The coven shrieked along with her until the air vibrated against Matt’s ears. The witches tried to pull Matt away, but if Matt did not want a witch to touch him, she did not touch him.
They did distract him, however. Even Matt could not simultaneously concentrate on repelling coven, hacking off his mother’s store of magical power and dispelling her earlier spells. As he roughly shaved her head and endured Sarita weakly pounding on his back, the air became still and thick and the clouds darkened. Matt snarled and dug the edge of the blade into his mother’s scalp, peeling it away to the bone, ignoring her writhing and screaming beneath him. He only stopped when a six-inch strip of hair and bloody skin ripped off her skull and Helen collapsed, flat, onto the floor.
Sarita tried to pick her up. Matt ignited the hank of hair in his hands with his lighter, then smeared it onto the floor, drawing a bloody, sooty circle around himself to keep the witches away. Then he lit the rest of the dying hair and watched it disappear into smoke.
Helen’s face was bloody and horrible, he head naked without its mane. “Matt, how could you?” Matt ignored her until all her hair had burned and blown away in the breeze. The light was steadily getting better as the clouds dissipated.
Helen was actually crying. Those were real tears running down her cheeks, Matt realized.
Sarita was crying, too. “You have stopped my plans, but you are paying the price now, aren’t you?” Helen’s voice was a horrifying croak. “Oh son, you miscalculated. No one survives mandrake.”
Matt fell to his knees. “You’re finished. You have about a minute to get out of here before these people wake up. You don’t have to worry—you know as well as I do that they won’t remember any of this.”
Hello, Liz. I found you through the Twitterverse. Thanks to both you and Natalie for hosting such a fun contest!
ReplyDelete--
The Heart Hunter
Hearts, Stephanie mused. Why do they have to be so tough? She paused to wipe her brow with the back of her hand. The movement left a streak of fresh blood on her skin. Blowing a strand of hair out of her face, she continued cutting away the thick arteries holding the heart in place. “Finished,” she said at last.
Mitch sat beside her, prepping the storage container. He’d been muttering and staring at her the entire time, but Steph ignored him. It was just her luck to be stuck with him as a partner. But the Institute was shorthanded, and interns were hard to come by. He helped her transfer the heart to the container. “What is this, like, ten this week?” he sighed.
“Part of the glamorous Heart Hunter lifestyle,” she replied. Mitch continued muttering as they doused the body in gasoline and set it on fire.
“Um, hey, listen,” he said as they stepped back from the blaze. “I was wondering if you want to, you know…”
“Please don’t,” Stephanie warned.
“Why not?” He frowned, stepping towards her. “I’ve seen the way you look at me. Stephanie, you’re the only one who, you know, really listens to me.”
Stephanie held up a bloody hand. “Don’t do this. You don’t want this to happen.”
“I can’t help it.” He rubbed his chest, grimacing. “I can’t help it! I love you, Stephanie. I’ve loved you ever since I saw you.” He reached out and grabbed her arms. “You love me, too, I know it!”
“Mitch, no!” she cried, struggling.
Mitch’s chest began to bulge and his body contorted. His face twisted, the features becoming grotesque as the virus flooded his veins, pumped by his young, strong heart. His teeth elongated and snapped inches from her face. His fingers sprouted claws that dug into her flesh.
Stephanie turned her face from the now fully formed Heartbroken. The flames from the body caught her eye. With a yell she bulled into the monster. It stumbled backward, knees buckling as it toppled into the fire. Stephanie screamed as the heat scorched her. She rolled clear of the flames, staggering to her feet.
The monster wasn’t so lucky. It shrieked as it tried to crawl away, the greedy flames consuming its flesh. It didn’t make it far.
Dizzy, Stephanie dug in her kit for a knife. She finished off the creature with strikes to the throat, trying not to retch from the smell. Gritting her teeth, she carved the heart out and threw it onto the street. The work was sloppy, and she had no containment jars left. She shakily used her phone to call headquarters. “Mitch broke,” she managed, blinking her smoke-filled eyes. “I, I had to—“ She stopped when the operator told her assistance was being dispatched. Sighing, she hung up and looked at the heart lying at her feet.
Hearts, she thought, as she lowered herself to sit. Why can’t they be tougher?
Thank you, Liz and Natalie! Here's my excerpt from my YA dark fantasy, The Grave Winner:
ReplyDeleteDad, Darby, and I stood rooted in place long after Mom’s funeral. The weight in my chest threatened to suffocate me if I looked at the lid of her gleaming casket any longer. Instead, I focused on the black birds cutting across the sky in a sharp V formation. They pressed on until the clouds took them from me.
A different flutter in the corner of my eye pulled me back to earth. The movement took a few seconds to penetrate my numb brain. It was a girl. She crept in and out of the crumbling headstones, her body thick with mud and grime. Torn scraps of what looked like a prom dress hung from her scrawny frame. Her mouth sagged open like she was about to scream.
A shudder raced across my shoulder blades. I shook my head, afraid I might be dreaming. Darby stood next to me, and I reached out to touch her. She was real. Her ache was real. I felt it in the quiver of her bony body. But beyond her and the heaviness pinching my lungs, I couldn’t be sure of anything.
Inky black footprints tracked behind the dangling hem of the girl’s dress like a trail of burnt breadcrumbs. She stopped beside a tree and leaned her back against it. More darkness pooled at her feet and crept up the trunk behind her.
Sweat trickled down the back of my dress. What was this girl doing? And what was all the black stuff dripping underneath her? A sudden breeze brushed spring air over my arms and sent a faint smell of rotten hamburger past my nose. My stomach rolled, but the breeze and stink faded to nothing as quickly as it had come.
The girl turned her head and looked at us. Her open mouth held the same black gloom that fell at her feet. The whites of her eyes blazed behind the mud covering her face. A grimy tiara perched on the side of her head.
My muscles stiffened. I gasped as recognition hit me.
I knew the girl. Or knew of her. Her social circle was my social nightmare. Her name was Sarah, a popular cheerleader who committed suicide a week ago. Poor Sarah, everyone said. She couldn’t handle the pressure of popularity and performing kicks and splits in front of everyone anymore. So she sliced her wrists open.
But how could she be here when she should be in the ground? I had to be hallucinating. My grief, the unbearable weight in my chest, was climbing up to press on my brain.
I glanced at Darby and Dad. Dad studied his shoes while tears slipped down his cheeks. Darby was somehow able to look at Mom’s casket while smothering her sniffles with a tissue.
But if Sarah really was standing over there by the tree, I couldn’t let Darby see her. That would be too much to handle in one day. I wanted to fold her into me or flip the glasses off her face.
Thanks for this opportunity, Liz and Natalie. Here is a 500 word excerpt from something I'm working on:
ReplyDeleteHOPE IN HELL
When people first began getting sick, my mother, as usual, had a lot to say about it. She announced that Judgment day was on the horizon and that this was simply God's Will; that this cleansing was long overdue, and only those who had accepted JC as their personal savior would see the dawning of the new world. But when we lost my father, and soon after, Aunt Helen and cousin Jessie, my mother stopped ranting. When they took Annie, she stopped talking altogether.
She wouldn’t come with me when I left. She just sat in the corner of my sister’s bedroom in the rocker. Waiting. That’s how I left her. That was the last time I saw her.
***
Common sense isn't that common around here. If it was, I'd still have some live batteries in the toolbox, right next to the jam jar full of screw eyes where they oughta be. But on rounds tonight all I find are a couple of goddam triple A's. Useless.
When I ask the others about it, no one says anything but they all look at Keith. I learn that Keith needs a flashlight when he takes a piss, which makes me think he can't locate his necessary parts without the aid of a little light. Wouldn't be surprised. Big talkers are usually hiding something and the fact that he’s always bragging about his sexual exploits – even now - suggests to he comes up short in the family jewels department. I can't help it. I just don’t like the guy. I don’t trust him.
“Jack! Over here!” Hope's voice breaks my train of thought.
She stands to one side of the picture window in the front room even though you can barely see through the dirt and blood-smeared glass. She points outside.
“What?”
“Out there. Don't you see it?”
“See what?”
“Jesus, Jack. Just look. Wait for a second.”
I stand still on the other side of the window. I don't like waiting at the best of times. And now, during the worst of times, I hate it even more. Out here, you wait? You die.
And then I see it: movement that sweeps from what’s left of the barn to the overturned pickup.
“See that?” Hope hisses.
“Yeah, that I saw.” Instinctively, I reach in the dark for my gun.
Whatever is out there moves again, this time higher up off the ground. From truck to fence post where it stops and does not move again.
“Too fast,” I say, loosening my grip on the rifle.
“But...some of them are fast.” Her voice is shaking.
“They don't jump, Hope.”
I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay. I want to tell her that one-day we will look back and remember sitting here together under this bloody window. That this is it: the darkest moment before it begins to get light again.
But I don’t say anything, because this isn’t what I believe. Not by a long shot.
I will feel silly if this posts twice (the first time I tried I got an error page). Anyway. I found this through YA Highway :) It's nice to have another blog to add to my Google Reader.
ReplyDeleteThis is from a YA novel that's still mostly in the planning stages. Though the first paragraph is what set off the rest of my ideas.
---
There’s another house in my house, just to the left. The people who live there took my sister, and I haven’t seen her in six months.
The voices, I could deal with. Everyone thinks they hear voices sometimes. Just because I know I’m actually hearing them doesn’t make it that much different. I could even deal with losing things to the other house. Put a book down on the wrong shelf, and it shifts somewhere you can’t get to it anymore. Okay. No big deal.
My friends used to complain they lived in their houses for years and still walked into the furniture. I try to walk into our furniture, but end up at an umbrella stand we’ve never owned or looking out the window at rose bushes that died years ago, in our yard. I could deal with that. All I had to do was shut my eyes for a moment and everything would be back to normal.
But now Adelaide is gone.
I never paid attention when she was trying to talk to Them. I never asked what she wrote in the notes she left around the house. I never asked if she ever felt like she was actually in the other bedroom when she laid under her bed and concentrated on being in Their house.
I never, ever told her about the boy. I never told anyone. It was enough losing things and seeing another family’s front yard. It was enough to need to walk down the exact middle of the hallway and only step on white tiles in the kitchen. Telling anyone about the boy I’ve seen from the corner of my eye, in the reflection on the stained glass in the kitchen, full-on in the mirror - that would be too much.
Things. Our house is attached to another house, and it’s the things that go weird, not people. We don’t talk about the other family.
Now Adelaide is gone and I don’t have any idea how to get her back. I can’t think that she’s not there to bring back, though. I have to keep believing she’s still there. Trying to break through the link, from the other side this time.
It’s lonely enough in this house already. I have to get my sister back.
Thanks so much Elizabeth & Natalie!
ReplyDeleteThis sounds like fun! I typically write for kids. Here my very first attempt at writing anything creepy (for the public)
Well, here it goes:
“So, tell me exactly what happens, don’t leave anything out,” Sabrina said in a comforting tone.
I want to give her that “yeah right” look, but don’t. She might actually have said that sincerely. Doesn't even matter. I begin by saying,
I was screaming at Scotty, “It won’t get off the table!” He grabbed my arm and yanked me under him. Scotty was trying to shield me from It. One minute she was enjoying her meal, then the next moment it happened. Her body opened up. Twisting and folding over itself, until it was a monster or something worse. I really don’t know what. It clawed at us. I could felt there was something it was afraid of. Maybe something I was wearing?
I remember bringing my hand to my neck protecting the ice cold pendent with the picture of my mother inside.
Scott got hit in the face. I could feel his warm blood on my hands. “Go get help,” he told me. Then, he stood up and pushed the table over, knocking It in the corner. I didn’t run. I couldn’t leave him with that thing.”
That’s when I wake up. I’ve been dreaming this nightmare since I could remember. Good thing it’s not every night. I’d go crazy.
Sabrina exhales a long sigh and says, “We have a lot to work with here. Come back to my office next week and we’ll continue the session.”
I’m not sure she’s helping me, but it’s nice to tell someone other then Mark. Mark has been with me for a little over a year now. He told me he’s going to marry me one day. He’s great and all, but I’m still trying to figure him out. I guess I need a more time, especially since my run in with my ex, Joseph Tanner. I must sound like a hussy with all this boy talk. Only if you knew what Joe and I had back in the day, you would understand. He was the one. That special one, that stupid me let go. It’s too complicated to go over why, but all that matters is he’s back in town again, turning my world upside down. I won’t tell a soul, but I sort of don’t mind seeing him again.
The next day, I help Aunt Mary clean out her attic. She’s wanted to show me something up there for months.
“Look at this dress, Ally,” she smiled bringing it up to her neckline. “It was your great grandmother’s.”
“It’s in amazing shape,” I say. Does Ally know something I don’t know? Is Mark about to propose soon? My mind races and then I notice something familiar in the hope chest. I’m shaking when I ask, “Have you ever opened this box for me before?”
“No, sweetie, I haven’t,” she said.
Chills ran down my arm. There in the box lay the same pendent I wore in my dreams. I’m shaking as I open it up to see the picture that I see almost every night.
“Is this a picture her?” I say pointing to the old photo in the pendant.
“Yes, your great grandmother was one gorgeous lady,” she said.
I freeze in place, trying to wrap my head around all this. I know anything is possible and that my grandmother died right before I was born, but this is ridiculous. Could I really have been my own grandmother?
Thanks for this spooky fun idea. I don't even like straight horror, so I had to go for tongue in cheek, hoping not to bite it off.
ReplyDeleteChristmas Passed
Christmas was over, past and passed. Center stage in an overstuffed chair, Santa slumped unmoving, cookie in hand. No one believed in something for nothing anymore, choking the life from the Spirit of Giving. And with the Christmas Spirit dead—Christmas belonged to the dead.
None of the present company held Santa’s lack of presence against him—they were ghosts too. Spirits packed the meeting hall to the rafters. Some hung from the rafters, cause of death evident in their dispirited forms. New arrivals mistook the gathering for a wake, celebrating in gory detail—until the party fell apart. Realizing their error, members pulled themselves together, piece by piece.
Onstage, Santa appeared a ghost of his former self, permanently past tense. A bevy of elves hung nearby, yet their gaseous forms hardly lent an uplifting air—or smell—to the funereal atmosphere. Raising both hands, one turned towards Santa and cried out, “Hel—.” Though transparent himself, his meaning lacked clarity.
More experienced spirits had learned to manipulate the air, hissing their speech. “What’ss he trying to ssay?” asked a headless horseman, astride his spectral mount.
“Raisse hell?” a long-haired, tattooed man suggested hopefully.
“No, raisse Chrisstmass, deadhead,” a pale teenage girl in Goth-black pointed out, or tried to. Her hand, slit through the wrist, fell off.
“No need for name calling,” a dropped-dead gorgeous model protested, striking a haughty pose.
The horseman’s jaw dropped—along with his head, eyes rolling in protest. “Grateful Dead. A band, Mss. Airhead.” His body climbed down and groped the ground and the ethereal poser. She dissipated, proving all beauty is ephemeral.
Clinging to Santa, the elf cried again, “Wa-a-a-a—.”
“Bad trip, crybaby? Got any more of that ssh—?” Deadhead asked.
“He ssaid way, not waah, moron,” Goth girl interrupted, reattaching her wrist.
The horseman stood head in hand. “Ssanta sshould have weighed himsself before. Too late to die-ett now.” Laughing insanely, he screwed on his head.
The girl sighed with transparent disappointment. “Not that weigh either.”
The elf tried to shake Santa, sank through and wailed, “Wa-a-a-a—.”
“Waa-ke! He’ss trying to wake Ssanta up!” Pointing with more spirit this time, the girl succeeded—as a whole. At least her hand didn’t fall off.
The horseman hissed, “We’re here to wake Ssanta, not for hiss wake!” Not thinking forward, he headed for the stage stairs backwards. Like Frankenstein’s monster, his head wasn’t screwed on straight.
“Let me,” said Deadhead, tripping up the steps. His head wasn’t on much straighter.
“Can’t you ssee? There’ss only one way,” Goth-girl said. Drifting up to Santa, she whispered, “I believe.”
Santa’s eyes fluttered open. “Give me a hand, please,” he said.
Some spirits clapped as the girl handed over her hand, a handy severance gift.
Shocked but pleased, Santa’s spirit revived. “Ho-ho-ho! A gift of self! With your handywork, you gave me the best Christmas presence of my afterlife!”
A spirited cheer arose. “May the Spirit of Christmas live forever!”
So he did.
Hello, thanks for doing this! Here is my attempt to get into the Halloween mood!
ReplyDelete“Those things creep me out,” Alex said as he sat up. I wasn’t hearing him, too distressed by the jarring halt to our intimacy and the loss of his warmth. He clicked on the bedside lamp as he pulled on his boxers.
I ogled his backside, I’d earned the right. We were newlyweds, married less than a month when Aunt Bess passed on. She’d left us the house, an old green and red victorian on Orange Grove Boulevard. It sounded nicer than it actually was. Aunt Bess was somewhere between a pack rat and a hoarder. We’d spent a solid week hauling away enough of her stuff to be able to move through the house without having to climb or trip over something.
It was our first night sleeping in the house. I couldn’t bring myself to sleep in Auntie’s room so we were in the least cluttered of the five guest bedrooms. It was the room Auntie used to keep her antique doll collection.
They were kind of creepy, I’d give Alex that. They had eyes that seemed to follow you around the room. And their expressions were so adult--no innocence in their faces. I kept the fact that most of the dolls had human hair and teeth to myself. Alex didn’t need to hear that. I laughed as I watched Alex turn all the dolls around so they wouldn’t bear witness to our lovemaking with their glass eyes.
“Ow!” Alex jumped.
“What?”
“This one-– it bit me!” He pointed to an exquisite blonde French Bebe doll in a red velvet dress.
“Don’t be silly,” I laughed, as I sat up.
“No seriously. Look.” He held out his hand for inspection. Sure enough, there were little teeth-like marks in a half circle pattern between his thumb and index finger.
“A rat?” I guessed, even though the pattern of the marks didn’t make sense. “Maybe you should get a tetanus shot.”
“For this?” Alex scoffed, his machismo making a reappearance. Still he grabbed the offending doll and put her outside the door before climbing back under the comforter. I huddled against him, my human hot water bottle, but his skin was unusually cool. Maybe he was coming down with something. I made a mental note to force him to the doctor in the morning.
A sliver of sunlight hit me directly in the face, forcing me awake. The alarm clock had failed to go off. I nudged an elbow into Alex’s shoulder blades before getting up, pulling open the heavy damask curtains.
“Alex?” He hadn’t moved. “You’re going to be late.” I went over and kissed his shoulder, gasping at the cold skin against my lips. He fell backwards, his face bluish-grey, his eyes unseeing. My eyes darted to the ring of small bruises around his neck; almost as if he’d been choked by a child’s hand.
That is when I saw her, the red velvet doll. She was back in the room and she was smiling.
Thanks for the contest! Is this still open (didn't know if you meant that the 31st was the last day)? If so, here's my query letter entry:
ReplyDeleteDear Ms. Lakosil:
By the time you read this, I’ll be in car trunk, heading for the shore. Most likely they’ll tie me with television cord and wrap duct tape around my eyes, the way they did with my fake parents, friends, and boyfriend. All of them were found that way, along with a transcript of their interviews with the magazine. The magazine that they set up to test us. None of us passed.
The paper was laminated and placed in a Ziplock bag, to ensure it stayed dry while their bodies slipped beneath the tide. It did. I wish their whole bodies had been encased that way. I can only hope that they were dead before the crabs got to them.
The press has it wrong. Those transcripts were not crazy, made-up rants from stalkers, and the deaths were not devastating result of a new serial killer. When you find a writer who can share my story, and a publisher brave enough to take it one, the public can rest. They can breathe again, knowing that there will be only one more gruesome death on those beaches.
Mine.
I was young and stupid. I thought it sounded fun. Like a game. I didn’t know how serious things were when I left Juilliard.
Now they’re after me. I don’t know where else to turn, and I’m scared.
I’m terrified.
I’m paralyzed.
All I can do now is wait for the pain. Wait for my murder. Watch the dying clock.
Tick-tock.
All my life I wanted to get ahead. To be first.
And now I now why.
The most horrible thing is to be the last to go.
My phone is tapped and I can’t go anywhere without being watched. They know that I can sense them. They’re playing with me now, like a cat batting around a mouse before the feast.
I hear whispers in my apartment and I don’t know if it’s the killers, the ghosts of my friends, or my own insanity creeping in.
I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I tried ordering in, but no matter if it’s Chinese, Mexican, or Italian take-out, the food always comes with…additions. Needles. Paper tattoos that match my fake boyfriend’s. Teeth that I can only guess belong to someone I will soon be joining.
They scratch at my windows at night. Change my towels in the bathroom. Anything to let me know that they can get to me any. Time. They. Want.
I will be put to death for my disloyalty. I know that now. The only thing that brings me out of this constant pulsing of fear is knowing that you’ll help me spread the truth.
The truth is that it’s all a complete scam. The tapings, the trash-talk, the tans...all a fabrication. The truth is, if anyone found out, television would lose millions of dollars. The truth is, Jersey Shore is a scam. I just…never knew.
I never knew reality televsion could be deadly.
~Nicole “Snooki” Polizzi
Nothing like waiting until the last possible minute to submit my story. I am a children’s author. My Halloween themed picture book is called THE KIT KAT CAPER. Here is the story from the witch’s perspective, tweaked to give it a little more edge for you adults out there.
ReplyDeleteI’m wearing a tall, black hat. My bat sits on the brim of my hat and my black cat trails behind me. I hold my broomstick in one hand and my glowing goblin head in the other.
No one notices me. I look like every other little kid trick-or-treating on this dark, spooky Halloween evening. But I’m not like every other kid. Oh, no. I’m not like them at all because I…only want Kit Kats.
Yes, you heard me. I just want Kit Kats! Keep your greasy gummy bears. Keep your pukey peanuts that give me hives. Just cough up the Kit Kats!
I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to treat-or-treat tonight. I had to get rid of the kid, her dad and her little dog (no, it’s not named Toto). Then I had to dress up in this stupid witch's costume. The cat and bird are dressed up too. Desperate times call for desperate measures.
I’m knocking on the first door. Mrs. Grizzle, that horrid old lady, comes thumping down the hall with her gnarled cane. Her door creaks open and I yell right in her wrinkled face:
Trick-or-treat,
Chocolate is sweet,
I need some to eat,
RIGHT NOW!
She is not amused. She says I look familiar. I tell her I’m new in the neighbourhood and she doesn’t know me. (Ya, right.) I look her straight in the eye when I say it too. She gives me those gross gummy bears. I hate those. My cat pukes on her doorstep. Good girl.
On to Officer Johnson’s house who, by the way, is a very nice guy. I can’t let on I know him though. He opens his door and looms in the doorway. The cat’s black hair stands on end as Officer Johnson’s German Sheppard lumbers onto the porch. I chant:
Trick-or-treat,
Chocolate is sweet,
I need some to eat,
RIGHT NOW!
Officer Johnson stands there stone-faced. Then he says I look very familiar. I give him the same story I gave the old bag. He gives me putrid peanuts! I’m allergic to peanuts! The bat snatches them out of my hand and gobbles them up. I am not a happy camper.
Then it’s off to Mrs. Bookner’s house. She answers the door dressed as the tooth fairy. She is hysterical. I don’t laugh though. But she laughs at me. She says I look familiar. Yup, she gets the same nonsense I gave the other two saps. But get this! She gives me Kit Kats! I love that woman! I thank her and give her a big hug. She tells me I’m a very polite little girl. Ha, ha!
Anyway I trick-or-treat until my goblin head is full to the brim with Kit Kats. My knees are killing me!
Oh, no. The kid’s on her way home. I start running and jumping over fences. If anyone is watching they’ll know I’m taller than I look (but not by much, mores the pity).
Rachel, her dad and the little dog stroll into the house just as I get the bird, the cat and myself all cleaned up. Rachel can’t understand why all the candy is still in the bowl. I just want to know… did she get any… Kit Kats?
Hope you liked the story. The one for kids is just as outrageous but without the insulting words.
An excerpt from an urban fantasy. Thanks for the fun opportunity!
ReplyDeleteI woke up on cold metal, surrounded by absolute darkness with only a sheet draped over me. I tried to sit up and banged my head on a metal ceiling.
Fighting nausea and claustrophobia, I kicked until the door finally caved outward. I wiggled out of my refrigerated coffin and wrapped the sheet around me, tying it beneath my arms. Where is Lukas?
I pulled the drawer out below mine and lifted the sheet, finding some old guy with a shriveled face. I stifled a scream and threw the sheet back over him. The next drawer was empty. I opened another one, raised the sheet, and gasped.
Eerily pale with blue lips and eyelids, Lukas lay motionless, his hair matted with blood. I jiggled his shoulder and said his name but he didn’t move. I pulled the sheet down further. Bullet holes perforated his torso, upper arms, and neck. A black, tribal design tattoo covered his shoulder to just below his clavicle.
“Lukas,” I whispered and shook his shoulder again but he didn’t flinch. “Come on, wake up, please,” I begged.
No response.
I paced the sterile, windowless room. I had to get us out of here. I flung open the glass door of the stainless steel closet. Our bloody, shredded pajamas hung on a rod. Crap! Once again we’d need new clothes.
I returned to Lukas and touched his cool forehead. Pressing my ear to his chest, I thought I heard a faint heartbeat. “Lukas, can you hear me?”
His lips twitched. “Allie,” he barely managed to whisper, “You’re a terrible driver.” He opened his eyes and smirked.
I smiled back and helped him sit up. A few of his entry wounds still bled lightly.
“Where are we?” he asked as he tied his sheet around his waist.
“In a morgue somewhere.”
He tried to stand up but his legs buckled and I quickly put my arm around him to steady him. His skin felt cold and slick.
“Take it easy. You’re still really pale.”
“Because I lost most of my blood. Then you tried to kill me again by driving into that tree.”
I stuck my tongue out at him.
“Don’t tease me, Allie.”
I was glad the dried blood on my face hid my blush.
At that moment, a skinny custodian pushing a wheeled bucket and mop opened the door. He’d just sloshed some water on the floor when he saw us wrapped in our blood encrusted shrouds. He froze for a second, screamed, and bolted out the door.
I helped him limp towards the stairwell and we made slow progress up to the third floor landing. Lukas slumped to the floor. “I need to rest. Find us some clothes.”
“What? You don’t like the zombie toga party look?”
He smiled weakly. “Hurry. That janitor will tell others.”
I quietly opened the stairwell door and crept into the empty hallway.
“Be careful,” I heard him say as I closed the door.
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