The Hunger by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

February Femmes Fatales readers have been treated to AJ Humpage's unique fiction throughout this and last year's showcase. The feedback you have given in response to her work just proves how impressive we all think she is, and how desperate we are to see her novels on the shelves of our actual as well as virtual bookshops.

But fiction isn't the end. I have had the pleasure of regularly reading AJ's poetry for several years now and it is as astonishing and disturbing as the stories that fall from her fingers.

The Hunger will draw you in, and expose the truth. I hope you're ready...

THE HUNGER

Fetid breath, she makes
Her noxious broth, like trailing threads
Raspy fingers on your flesh
A spider’s touch
Dissolute stench
Melting fast beneath the sun.

Cold expression, she spills
Her sunken eyes, like shrivelled fruit
Deathly glare to lure your gaze
A stony wince
Mouth agape
Smiling beneath a tarnished glaze.

Meaty souvenirs, she gives
Her plump grey carcass, like swollen clouds
Food for thought on your lips
A gamey hint
Unsweetened gristle
Filling bellies with her meat.

Putrid ground, she soils
Her leftovers, like a crown of bones
Her last moments, in your mind
A weary voice
Lost forever
Dissolving the memory of Buchenwald.

______________________________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

Under a Veil of Red by AJ Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

Coming towards the end of AJ Humpage's reign of Femme Fatale terror, Under a Veil of Red will speed through your soul faster than you can run.

Without spoiling anything I absolutely love this tale of times, of despair and bigotry because - you know what? - it makes me remember.

AJ's work consistently blows me away. It can only be a matter of time. While we wait for her to be snapped up let's enjoy...

UNDER A VEIL OF RED

The rain came down so hard it stung her skin, flooded her vision.

Thick mud crawled up her aching calves as she ran through the mire. The darkness made it worse; she could barely see where she was heading. But she had to keep running, had to.

Voices behind her slewed through the storm, like echoes carried on raindrops.

They were getting closer, inching into her frayed senses minute by minute and igniting a fear so intense that it burned and raged in her chest. She had never known such disparate terror – the darkness and the cold and the braying horde seemed so far away from the ordinary life she knew, the only life she knew.

But now her legs were tired, solid, becoming heavy. Breath stalled in her clogged lungs. Every cell in her body had exhausted every ounce of energy, yet she somehow pushed through the pain that flooded her core and she forced herself forward through thicket and trees and dark recesses.

Thick branches scuffed her face and arms and she slumped – a momentary respite.

Voices...closer now.

Her skin tingled from the cold, made her shiver. She grabbed onto a branch, got to her feet and half jogged, half stumbled into the encroaching darkness. She had been running for almost an hour, and no matter how much her mind willed it, her body couldn’t cope with the lactic acid filling her muscles with fiery spite and again she dropped to her knees, watery fingers pulling her deeper into the muddy mire.

Thoughts tumbled around her head, then melted the moment the light grazed her face.

She peered up through the squall, cold breath hanging in the air.

Somewhere up ahead, more lights scattered through the branches.

Surrounded.

‘There she is!’

Her stomach bunched, then sank. She could run no more. The adrenaline in her veins turned to an icy flow.

They seemed to approach from all directions, moving in on her like ghoulish, hungry spectres, the light from their torches blinding her with flashes of white.

She held up her arm to shield her face, blinked against the flare.

The sound of the rain song against the leaves filled the void, all that she could hear from her rain soaked pit.

The men surrounded her, remained still. The glare from their torches shielded their granite faces from her.

The sound of movement made her turn and look up. A shape whose face she could not see and who sheltered beneath a wide brimmed hat, stared down at her.

His voice parted the darkness. ‘You can’t escape us.’

‘I’m innocent,’ she gasped. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, I swear on my life.’

The figure leaned forward. ‘What about the Bible? Do you swear on the Bible?’

The rain masked her tears. ‘No, I...I don’t believe in God.’

‘Then you are a witch,’ he said, flat.

‘I’m not a witch! I’m just an ordinary wife and mother, I--’

‘You are the Devil’s consort,’ he cut in, blunt. ‘There is no place in this society for those who conduct maleficium.’

She took in a deep breath. ‘What are you talking about? I don’t know what that means.’

He stared at the wretch kneeling in the muddy pool, the light glinting from the rain-dappled surface, stared at her soiled face, her drenched, matted hair and torn clothes.

Disdain dribbled into empty spaces and filled the atmosphere with a stilted sense of detestation.

‘Godlessness is a crime. That you are most certainly guilty.’ His eyes lacked emotion. ‘Kill her.’

‘No! Please! I’ve done nothing wrong. Please...’

The first strike dug into her shoulder blades, but rather than pain, she felt a strange dullness, as though being numbed. The second one struck her across the side of her skull, the impact strong enough to throw her into the mud.

Cold dirty water sluiced down her throat, made her retch.

Any hint of pain seemed lost to jagged senses, until the slice of something sharp across her back brought her mind into sharp focus, then another slice and another, and she rolled in the mud, but saw that her legs had not moved, and then she saw the men hacking at her limbs in a strange, silent frenzy, their movements shuttered by the light.

She screamed then, but not from the pain.

Even through the relentless drone of the rain, she heard their swords whipping through the air, over and over, and then one hard slice severed half her hand from the wrist, spattering her contorted face with thick droplets and saturating her vision with a warm scarlet hue.

She fell back into the mud, felt the rainfall on her face, soft against her skin, almost soothing her, and she drowned beneath a veil of red.

* * * 

He walked back through the woodland towards a group of men waiting by a main road.

A tall, slender figure gestured from beneath an umbrella. ‘A job well done, Mr. Treese.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘One less witch to threaten the laws of our land. Did she confess?’

‘Yes sir, she admitted to her godlessness.’

‘A crime against humanity if there ever was one,’ Edward Van de Gaard muttered. ‘But a crime nonetheless.’

Treese smiled; guile slithered beneath his sallow skin. ‘She isn’t the last one by any measure.’

Van de Gaard walked towards a car parked nearby. From across the river, the beguiling lights from New York City pulsed through the darkness. ‘I don’t doubt it, Mr. Treese.’

‘She has a child,’ Treese said. ‘And a husband.’

Van de Gaard turned, faced Treese. ‘I have every faith you’ll exterminate every last one of them. There will be no more ungodly heathens left to threaten our way of life. You’ll see to it, won’t you, Mr. Treese?’

Treese’s eyes blackened to glistening shards of coal. He smiled without humour. Rain trickled down his face, washed away the blood. Her blood. ‘Of course, Senator. Every last one...’

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

Sliver by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

AJ Humpage's character Hackett came to wicked, wicked life here at The Feardom. Festering in AJ's mind, this monster - for he can barely be considered a man - slips in and out of The Prediction chambers and has started venturing further. A terrifying thought indeed.

Hackett is the shining dark star of Sliver. Enter his world - you'll never forget it.

Join me in trying to convince AJ to take this beast into a full novel of his own.

SLIVER

A sliver of skin.

Sliced delicately, thinly, it had started to curl. Soon it would crumble and the only thing left of her would be gone. The only organic thing left of her.

Light reflected from Hackett’s grey eyes. His mind drifted from the noise of his exhibition.

He’d burrowed beneath her conscience like a maggot, manipulated her whims and thoughts with voracious audacity and plied her with meaningless trinkets. He’d spent months moulding her, priming her. The more she trusted him; the more the veil of promised love trapped her beneath his sticky blanket of persuasion.

‘I saved your messages on my phone,’ she gushed, the day he picked her up. ‘Don’t worry; no one knows it’s you. My parents think I’m staying with friends. Daddy would be furious if he found out.’

Daddy was a highflying financier in the city. Rich sonofabitch.

Hackett chose his girls for their simple beauty, those who would become works of art. She was delicately boned, soft. Pliant.

He took pride in his petty deceptions, turning them into something exquisite.

He showed her around his country house, led her to his workshop.

She noticed his collection of instruments. A famous sculptor by trade. Enfant terrible.

He fingered the knives. ‘You’d be perfect to carve.’

A master’s muse and model, she wasn’t afraid to show off her pert little body. ‘Yes. That would be amazing because Daddy collects art.’

Petty deceptions. Like tinselled snowflakes descending through a frosty dusk, finite and cold to the touch. He wondered if she could see the satanic shadows squatting in his expression, the hint of a blackened, ghoulish imp impatiently salivating.

A smile slithered across his lips. Deceitful. Sedulous.

‘Carve me, make it beautiful,’ she whispered.

And he did.

But not how she imagined.

That evening - the perfect time for creativity and secrecy - Hackett lulled her to the workshop with the pretence of sublime creativity. The first punch stunned her. The second one blotted out her consciousness and made it easier for him to handle her.

She was ready to carve.

She awoke to a dull grey cloud which stained her expression with dreadful sickness. She lay gagged and strapped to his sculpting table, naked and vulnerable, like a cold joint of beef.

The throb of her heartbeat crawled beneath her skin, stuttered with abject terror every time he moved. Perspiration oozed across her skin from swollen pores, darkening like a stain.

He placed his blade against the meaty flesh at the top of her thigh, forced the knife towards her knee, scraping out a long thread of flesh, like an ice cream scoop.

She jolted. Terror engorged veins stiffened in her neck, eyes shot wide. Hands contracted wildly as she strained against the straps. Fear bristled across the workshop, like chains scraping across a concrete floor. It clung to the cold walls, reluctant to fade.

Blood spilled down her trembling thigh. He smiled at how dark and rich her juice was.

He dug another part of her leg, lifted muscle and skin, laid the pieces on the table next to him - moist, human spaghetti, gleaming beneath the light.

Her body stuttered. Tears gilded her pain with terror, skin sickened to a strange glaucous hue - made worse by the strip lights which sucked the colour from her flesh.

Hackett then reached for the dermatome to harvest her skin.

The shock of his onslaught spread through her body like a thick, malignant shadow, overloading her nervous system. A trickling sound diverted Hackett’s attention. He saw pale yellow liquid ooze from between her legs and dribble down the table leg.

They did that sometimes when the fear became too much, nerves shut down and they lost control of their bodily functions.

An hour later, he moved to her neck.

But even when he sliced into her, she remained conscious, fraught. She watched every moment, soaked by a grotesque, bilious-tinged horror. The workshop quickly became odorous with approaching death - her misery stained the air, roused his senses. Her bowels had opened, spreading like a stain across the table, spattering onto the floor.

Hackett ignored the stench and pushed the knife through the thick sinew and fibrous neck ligaments. It took a while, sawing through her delicate neck bones. She gave one final blink before the last slice detached her head from her shoulders and dropped to the floor. A wide crimson arc shot from the stump and spattered the wall.

Her eyes flickered, skin twitched.

He carved her.

The noise of Hackett’s assembled guests broke his thoughts. His memory of her vanished.

A large crowd had gathered around the exhibit; art dealers, critics, buyers, the press...Hackett loved the attention. Craved it.

He moved around the sculpture – a decapitated human, feminine in shape, reclining, stripped of flesh and holding her severed head as though clutching a purse.

Martin Burroughs – Hackett’s most favoured client - gazed at its brassy sheen. ‘It’s fascinating, macabre, but that is your signature style, Hackett.’

Hackett’s eyes shifted. Most of his sculptures resided in many of Burroughs’ various offices and homes. Hackett leaned in, lest the press should hear. ‘I read about your daughter in the paper...how terrible...’

Melanie Burroughs had run away from home.

‘Seven months and still no word. She’s always been rebellious. It’s not a pleasant place out there.’

Hackett’s lips twisted. ‘No, it’s not. Kids...they think they’re so grown up.’

Burroughs peered at Hackett. ‘She’s barely fifteen years old, she’s my little girl.’

Hackett’s eyes shuttered. He touched the sculpture. ‘Well, I’m sure she’s not too far away...’

Burroughs shook his head. ‘Anything could have happened to her.’

Anything indeed.

Petty deceptions filtered through Hackett’s mind. He glanced at the sculpture, the way 14-year-old Melanie Burroughs held her severed head as she lay on a bed of her own flesh, bits he’d so lovingly carved. He lifted the little plastic container, stared at the sliver of skin inside.

Smiled.

All that was left of daddy’s rebellious little girl.

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

The Firewood Collector by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

If you've read AJ Humpage you'll already know how she can take the fiercest of human behaviour - love, lust, hate - and lay it bare. She will scrape your face with it, tear out your soul with it... and break your heart with it.

Ally's ability to describe atrocity with the poetry of senses is unique. Read The Firewood Collector and just tell me it doesn't touch and chill you to the bone...

THE FIREWOOD COLLECTOR

Green over umber; these colours filled Reuben’s vision, vibrant and deep, reminding him of childhood summers spent in the Rhine valley. Childhood aside, he had lived and worked in Berlin most of his life, until the war began, and now everything had changed - his life and his world had transformed immeasurably.

Sweet smelling moss and pine laced the mist around him as he followed the soldier along the path. The sky had turned grey, as though drenched and degraded by an unwelcome fear. Another soldier followed behind; soft steps, deceptive.

Reuben collected firewood every day for the camp, had done so for three years. It was a hard task, finding enough to stoke the furnaces and power the machinery. He dragged along a large cart which he had to fill with wood. Sometimes he made two or three collections during the day, which left him exhausted at night, although not as exhausted as some of the younger men in the camp.

Exhaustion meant he slept well, cocooned from the nightmares.

They moved further up the hill.

Mist clung to the trees like a cloak and veiled the crows hiding among the branches, but Reuben knew they were there, he could hear them. The air was still, damp and somehow heavy, and each crunch underfoot seemed to carry across the forest.

He looked out from the hillside, saw the camp below. Square shaped huts dotted his vision, the darkened roofs reflecting the rain which must have fallen during the night. A large funnel of grey smoke billowed from the chimney of a nearby building, the smoke stack rising high into the air. The stench from the smoke stack didn’t reach the hillside, and instead it drifted across the forest to the east, drenching the surroundings with a chalky coloured powder, slightly sticky to the touch. Reuben was glad he couldn’t smell it. He knew what they burned to make it so nauseous. Some days it left a greasy residue in the lining of everyone’s noses and throats, and the thought of what laced their tongues made some of the men physically sick.

He looked to his right, saw the railway track leading up to the gates of the camp. The forest was silent today, but tomorrow there would be more people arriving, crammed into the dark wooden carriages. More men and women, more children. More misery.

He had seen the neglected flesh and bones, the sunken faces, the twisted piles of humanity forming a mire of decay. He had seen grown men wet themselves with unimaginable fear, he’d seen the aftermath of soldiers rounding on the women. Tears and semen formed a milky dew on pale, deathly skin, while the unborn stagnated in their mothers’ dead wombs.

Movement brought Reuben to.

The soldier in front stopped, lit a cigarette. He exhaled slowly and grey smoke swirled around his face like a serpent.

Reuben’s brow drooped. Lines in his once fresh face deepened. He pointed. ‘There’s no wood here. We have to go up to the clearing to get the best wood.’

The soldier smoked, shook his head. ‘No, here is fine.’

Reuben rubbed soiled hands down his striped clothes. ‘But...there’s no wood here...’

The soldier smoked, watched Reuben carefully with retentive blue eyes. Reuben’s grey expression slowly turned dark. Afraid. He knew that look; he had seen it so many times. Behind him, he heard the other soldier moving about and it made him turn, the sensation of fear scuttling across his skin.

The other soldier stood near a muddy patch of ground, his foot resting on a large boulder, his rifle slung around his shoulder. He stared at Reuben with dark, almost black, cloudy eyes, as though they had lost sheen and no light could penetrate them.

Reuben shuddered, turned to the soldier in front. The clouds in the distance undulated and churned, it looked like more rain was coming.

‘There’s no need for you to collect firewood anymore, Reuben,’ the soldier said. The soldier lifted his rifle. ‘I’m afraid you’ve outgrown your use.’

Reuben shook his head. ‘But I don’t understand...’

The soldier coughed as though he had grit stuck at the back of his throat. ‘I have my orders.’

Reuben’s insides contracted with fear. ‘No...I’ve been a good worker, I’ve broken no rules.’

‘We know that,’ the other solider said from behind Reuben.

Reuben looked at him. ‘You need me. Who else is going to collect the firewood?’

‘The boys will do it,’ the soldier replied, indifferent.

The little boys, all without mothers, who picked around the camp, clearing up the detritus and the dead. There were always more of them coming in every other day.

‘But I know all the best places for wood,’ Reuben said.

The soldier pointed the gun at Reuben’s head. ‘The boys will find new places.’

‘No, please...I’ll do anything you want...’

‘We don’t need tired old men,’ the other soldier muttered.

Reuben stared at the young soldier; saw the man’s knuckle turn white as he gripped the trigger, poised. Wonderful memories shot through his mind - family dinners and parties, evenings around the piano, going to work alongside his father at the furniture factory on the outskirts of Berlin, getting married, having children...but then the dark memories rose up and smothered him; memories he had fought hard to forget, like losing his wife the day the soldiers came for them, losing his children. All three boys murdered on the blood-sullied streets of Berlin, cut down by a shower of bullets. All these elements, all that he was, all that he knew, had gone.

He blinked at the shale coloured surrounds of the cold austere forest that enveloped Auschwitz.

Memories frittered.

The shot scattered crows skyward; filling the greyness like a black vapour.

Reuben slumped to his knees and fell forward, his shattered face buried in the moss, red over green.

‘Shame,’ the German soldier said, nonchalant. He flicked his cigarette. ‘I liked him. Still, he was a Jew nevertheless.’

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: AJHumpage

And Then by A J Humpage - February Femmes Fatales

If it hadn't been for AJ Humpage I might not have had the courage to continue writing. She gave me advice when I needed it, support from Day 1 and a friendship I value enormously - and for all that I thank her.

As a Creative Writing teacher, she generously runs an incredibly useful blog at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com that answers all the awkward questions writers regularly face. I highly recommend it.

Ally's own writing is second to none. Her words are poetry in darkness; exquisite description dances and spirals throughout her work. She approaches human nature with stark observation, seeing layers invisible to many. A mistress of the craft.

Having read excerpts from her first novel I simply cannot wait for the day it hits the shelves. Let's welcome AJ Humpage back to February Femmes Fatales, with her first of five pieces of gold.


AND THEN

Minutes. His life ticked away.

Sounds echoed around his head - muted, strange and tinny, and somehow detached - they lapsed into his conscience like the colours of a long forgotten sunset.

Sounds of the crash echoed around him like a residual tear in the fabric of space and time; he remembered the deceptive lull of speed and the stinging flash of chrome. He remembered hearing the grinding shriek of metal against metal, followed by the eerie hissing of air from a tyre.

And then... a strange lingering silence enveloped him; cold, tight and full with dread.

Cool air fingered his skin. The stench of gasoline clung low, poisoned the back of his throat.

He had been returning home along the country lanes as the evening shadows descended across the inky horizon. It had rained earlier in the day, but he remembered the skies had cleared and he recalled looking up at the stars that glimmered against a thick indigo blackness punctured by the arctic glaze of the moon.

He didn’t know what caused him to lose control of the motorcycle. All he knew at that moment was the shifting umbra which pressed against him.

He wasn’t sure how long he had been lying there – it seemed such a long while, even though outside of his slanted sense of reality, it had been only a minute - and for a moment, he couldn’t move; his body and senses had numbed and become compacted by the impact. But then, gradually nerve endings trembled and feeling returned. Skin tingled. His veins swelled and his muscles contracted. He was able to clench his fingers and move an arm.

He reached up, lifted the visor from his helmet.

He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his neck felt wet; something dribbled down his jaw and around the bottom of his earlobe. He couldn’t move his head, not at first. A strange feeling spiralled across his shoulders and down his spine like a wave of needles pricking his skin. His vision appeared skewed; he lay staring at the glittering glass fragments close to his face, saw his bike lying in the road just ahead, wrecked.

Legs moved, and arms and hands. But his head felt so heavy.

The minutes evaporated.

And then that strange sensation rushed through him again when he tried to move – his head remained skewed.

Something trickled into his stomach, flooded his abdomen and he winced against the sickly eddy, tried hard not to vomit.

He remained still again, swollen heartbeat pumping furiously beneath his clammy skin, deep burnished breaths filling his lungs. The contents of his stomach swilled and frothed, yet somehow he refrained from retching.

He removed his glove, lifted his arm and touched his neck. It felt strange and wet, just as he had guessed. He tried movement once more, slowly sat up; ignored the dull ache around his shoulders. He didn’t feel any pain, but he felt a peculiar dragging sensation around his neck.

His vision blurred momentarily. Light and colour blended into one before the world around him came back into view. His vision refocused, but he found it hard to blink and his eyes shuttered in response.

Cold air laboured in his lungs. The corridors in his mind sank into a dismal mire of heavy confusion - his vision still seemed strangely lopsided, as though he was staring across his chest, and yet he was sitting upright.

He reached up, felt across his shoulders and sensed the tight, twisted flesh. He tentatively put his hand against what he thought was his neck, felt something soft, sticky and warm. He knew it was blood. The steady stream from the serrated gash soaked through his clothes and stained his flesh. It dribbled down the inside of his leather jacket and soaked through his shirt now that he was upright. He felt the roundness of the crash helmet resting against his chest.

The thought tore through him that he should feel immense pain; his body should have reacted to the crash, yet his entire body remained insensate and it confused and distressed his brittle senses.

He realised then; in the silent minutes that remained, that his head had become partially detached from his body and now hung around his chest, held by wrenched slivers of muscle, bone and sinew.

His stomach contracted and forced adrenaline into every open pore. Vomit lodged in his gullet, as though afraid to expel.

He wanted to scream, but his vocal chords didn’t work.

Minutes to seconds. The darkness crowded him.

He wanted to cry like a lost child, but the tears wouldn’t come.

His life - counting down to a blackness he didn’t want to enter - made him so frightened of approaching finality, so raw in his fear, that he couldn’t shriek in the face of a truth, and the help he so desperately wanted he knew would never come. He could barely grasp any of it and his thoughts rattled inside his skull; a dreadful, terrifying cacophony that drowned out the inevitable.

He couldn’t be saved. He was going to die. In the middle of the road, in the middle of somewhere, next to bristling leaves and whispering fields of wheat, beneath the bleak, nonchalant glare of the moon.

The life he knew melted into the slow darkening corridors in his dying brain. Moments, snapshots, family, voices...

Then the minutes stopped.

Amid the suffocating inner silence, his final moments vanished into the encroaching darkness and his vision instantly turned into an infinite blackness.

He slumped back against the cold tarmac.

And then...

Nothing.

_________ The End _________

Bio: A J Humpage has short stories and poetry published in anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines, and has completed her second novel.

She offers writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com.

Her work can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com and you can find her on Twitter: @AJHumpage

Lily's Friday Prediction

Love it or loathe it, Predictioneers are about to get a Christmas gift - that of TIME itself!

It's a double-edged sword, this time thing - I'm figuring that most of us will be in a semi-frantic state in the lead-up to Yule and beyond - so writing will take a back seat. But then afterwards - we'll have relaxing, extra time when writing will be tickling and teasing us, desperate to pour out. So... I'm giving you TWO WEEKS to enter the penultimate Friday Prediction Challenge of 2011.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

The Institution overwhelmed us this week, I feel. And so it should - it provoked some incredible visions and brilliantly-crafted entries.

My winner, with that dangerous sicko Harker is AJ Humpage's cold and terrifying Viewing Room. The cruelty this creature is capable of absolutely petrifies me - but I can't leave it alone. Congratulations AJ!

Two runners-up; aesthetic and twisted, Stu Ayris's untitled entry is a vicious and clever attack on our conscience whilst David Barber's The Game is terrifying in the murderer's normalcy. Well done both!

Words for 16 December 2011

Here you go then - two weeks to write whatever you want (though please - have some respect - keep it dark and disturbing):

• Apron
• Lash
• Grail

Little but pokey!

Rules

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have two whole weeks until 9pm UK time on Thursday 29th December to enter.

Winner will be announced on Friday 30th December. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it.

Release the Christmas spirit - mine's a Vodka and Russchian please - and imbibe on inspiration...

_________________________________________

Lily's Friday Prediction

What a week! The Childs family in now a healthy mob, all ready to pick today's Prediction challenge words from the big book.

And of course, I've finally published the second in the Magenta Shaman series, Magenta Shaman Stones The Crow.

Read the news about the book | Buy it here (UK) or here (US).

I've already held you up long enough so lets kick on...

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

Great mix of styles and directions this week, which actually makes it harder to choose winners. However - the task is complete.

Rising two places to the top of the charts my winner this week is AJ Humpage with her squidgy, gut-wrenching (literally) horror-fest that is... Squirm. Disinfectant at the ready... Congratulations AJ!!

And my runner-up with a tale worse than death is Nick Mott with God's Love Lacking. Very well done Nick.

Words for 18 November 2011

• Monsoon
• Chapel
• Transcend

Hmmnn, better get the brollie out.

Rules

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have the whole week until 9pm UK time on Thursday 24th November to enter.

Winner will be announced next Friday 25th November. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it.

Lie down, meditate and invite the words in. I'll hear them in my dreams...

_________________________________________

Prediction Winner

So glad everyone has been posting and commenting without me - what a great bunch of writing comrades you all are. x

I shall summarise by way of comments below:

• Sue, Books to the Future is an adventuresome delight. I have had some VERY important books fall at my feet from unlikely shelves in old bookshops. They do have lives of their own - or maybe a part of their author's soul lives on within the pages? I love what you have evoked here - and it needs to run, run, run into a full scale volume. 
• Chris, firstly let me apologise for unwittingly hijacking part of your title, Maman and in a roundabout way - some of your story. I must have subconsciously picked it up. Sorry my dear. Chercher le Futur - a spectacular image of pentagrams and mirrors against a desert background. What choice did Legris have? Tell, or be damned. Mon dieu indeed.
• David, Mr Cheeky Barber is back. Have you ever considered doing Spooky Stand-Up? I really liked how you turned A Watery Grave from a tale of concern to a wicked little murder.
• Aidan, Jailbird's Song is freakin' freaky. Your narrator's snarling voice growls in my ear, making me nervous, causing me to look for him over my shoulder. Gripping, and terrifying,
• Antonia, all the best for the counselling session. I do hope you will be on the way to recovery soon. Boudicca’s Last Stand chilled me to the bone, not least because I felt I was staring back from the scrying bowl (one of my preferred methods after the mirror). This is haunting.
• Phil, Oh knock me down and make me fear for my life! Beware the Soldiers - that would be enough to scare a man; you'd fear war, terrorism, a coup d'etat... but ants? Very, very clever. Lesson: never take a prediction at face value.
• AJ, an emotional discovery, poetically performed. My feeling is this is the result of a search for a near-ancestor, that the MC has taken a cruel journey to locate this man and incite his Resurrection. We need - on behalf of all the family - to know more about what really happened; why he was there, and why he joined the Legion in the first place.
• Kim, that told him. And what he doesn't know is that beneath every 'old hag' is a soul harbouring a beautiful and terrible wisdom. More fool him. I liked this atmospheric arrival in our mystical lands of a people who still occupy the heaths and mists. For the Romans, it was ultimately a Gloomy Ending.
• Anthony, I felt a very non-spiritual sense of satisfaction at Jess's revenge. As children we are entitled to believe in fairy-tale castles, though if we ever knew the original stories we'd never want to be mixed up in such horror. Maybe In Crystal Vapours represents the modern day reality of ancient myth. Chilling.
• Me, A la Recherche d'un Homme Perdu speaks of a woman who can't bear that her man chose The Legion over her, and her family. Papa's letter proves it was all for their sake, not his.
• Reba, so glad you're back. "The media was the polar opposite of scrying – only able to see the future in retrospect." is a fabulously innovative - and insightful line. What You Sow questions law, legislation, government... It's the way it should be. This is a conspiracy theory with legs.
• William, a beautiful gothic feel to Non Lossless Depression. A poem? Prose? I can't work out if the narrator is desperate for Love, or Death - because the subjects twist, and twist about. And I like that - a lot.

The entries are so diverse; the standard of writing excellent. I haven't been very good at making decisions this week but the entry that stayed with me, and is therefore the winner is AJ Humpage's Resurrection, closely followed by Tony Cowin's In Crystal Vapours as runner-up. Congratulations both.

I'm going to bed. In the morning I will be a different person - by a few skin cells only. But who knows the memories the new cells I've caught might hold; perhaps I'll be Cleopatra - like everyone else. Or maybe not - maybe I'll be your grandmother. Have you exfoliated lately? Maybe I'll be you - sssshhhhhhh.

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Prediction Winner

So here we are. A year down the line, and what an astonishing cauldron of fiction and poetry has brewed, bubbled and boiled over at The Feardom during that time.

Thank you each and every one. You are an extraordinarily talented bunch of writers. I hope the weekly Friday Prediction has provoked you, poked you, challenged and inspired you.

I'm heading to the summaries for last week's LFP now...

• Susan's Attention Seeker gets an unexpected come-uppance. She should have thought about her behaviour before whinging one time too many.
• AJ's Confluence sets horror to music as her well-named murderer Hackett slices and chops his victim in time for dinner, but what's being dished up?
• Phil's intrepid Diedrick fights to survive a morbid game in The Maze, to the delectation of a death-hungry crowd.
• Rebecca's widow wallows in memories as her husband breathes his last alcoholic breath - and she breathes a sigh of relief in Drink, Darling.
• Chris throws us to the beasts with a gladiatorial epic in under 100 words. We're grinding sand in our teeth and are ready for the battle - Against the Odds.
• Antonia throws open the question -  when justice is not done, should we take it into our own hands? The executioner answers for us, with their own taste of killing.
• Aidan's Bermuda Salvage is haunted by mer-creatures; their prey - the divers and swimmers seeking history and treasure. Swift is their death, and the myth lives on. 
• Kim's sadistic sheriff gets his thrills from long, drawn-out torture in Taxing. Dark John's bones will be picked white in no time.
• My Dirty Poppies shows that drugs don't care if you're rich or you're poor. An addict is an addict, but if you live in a palace someone else is probably buying the junk for you.

My winner this week is AJ Humpage's operatic Confluence. This tale roils in cinematic beauty with a feeling that reminds me of Kubrick and Scorsese. This is a film I want to see again and again. Congrats Ally - you knocked my socks off.

The runner-up badge goes to Phil Ambler's wicked, wicked game The Maze. May I never be a contender. Well done Phil, and everyone else too for your amazing pieces.

Right then! You have two weeks off, but as I mentioned before - I ain't goin' nowhere so you may well hear from me during that time. Whatever happens, I'll be back on 10th June for a new Friday Prediction. Bye for now...

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Prediction Winner

Life has been horribly demanding for many of us lately and I've had a series of apologies from regular Predictioneers who have been unable to contribute these past few weeks. You're not forgotten; The Feardom's doors are always open. However, in a major attempt to catch up myself, I'm announcing that there will be a two-week Prediction break at the end of May. Details to follow soon.

As for this week, I am shaking my head (you can't see it, but I am). You knock me out, and the quality of writing continues to rise. How can that be? No, I know exactly how - such talent...

So to summarise this week's outstanding fiction (sorry for lack of links):

• My Children of the Sand were 'Children of the Damned', blond and bored of playground competition between rival mothers.
  
• Erin Cole exposes the sibling hunter for what he truly is; and fortunately 'deals' with the problem in A Shot To The Left
  
• In Eaglewing & Mastermind to Save the Day? Aidan Fritz parades his nemesis Super Heroes across a perverse and illogical world.
  
• Antonia Woodville's Spring Sacrifice glides us through a beauty found only in this floral season before declaring the 'sacrifice' that man chooses to make of beast. Poor beast.
  
• Pixie J. King treats us to a glimpse of her realm in Beautiful Prison, where the victim - despite everything - will not survive,
  
• The Unwatered Well plunges us into filth and flesh until we drown in bilious and noxious liquid. A.J. Humpage goes full-scale horror.
  
• Monsieur Allinotte invites us back into the doll-like world of vampiric Ma petite homunculus, ma fiérté. Michaud va mourir, c'est sur.
  
• RR Kovar, Reba creates as if from the whisper of Mother Nature herself in the poetic Truth and Consequences. Meanwhile she misleads us into believing we are amongst naughty children in boarding school, until skin starts to smoke and a vampire flies to his exquisite death in Sunshine Laws.
  
• David Barber chills, making us all face our innermost demons as a judgemental reflection in the murderous Your Reflection?
  
• We hang from a spout of fear that captures mankind's perception of sin whilst evacuating The Devil beneath in John Xero's galactic, tremulous Tower.
  
• Ravens feed with relish at the bound body dealt up by Steven Chapman in his debut, untitled Prediction entry (entrée) as nourishment.
  
• William Davoll has us by the fragile bits - not once but twice. The Devil Inside forces us to linger inside the mind of a psycho-killer as he stalks and tortures his victims. In Pilot Error - OMG what a clever, and oh so Easter-timely play on words the Christ figure is only crucified because of a joke - a heckle. How our history might have been different without a Comedian from Coventry. ;)
  
• Kim slips in at the last moment with a fight. A carefully-planned and terrifying observation of the preparation, the circling of combatants in a raw pit as they attempt to blindside each other in The Pits.

A winner? Well, do what you will but - it's me! No, not really. I have two joint winners - as Antonia said last week, everyone else truly is a runner-up. Not a cop-out - a reality, and testament to your talent.

So - the winners are A.J. Humpage with the visceral, claustrophobic and hopeless The Unwatered Well, and Reba with the first (as if I could choose between them) of her entries Truth and Consequences, a beautiful birth.

But seriously, a huge well done to everyone; you are so inspiring.

Sleep well lovelies; I'll be back.

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This is the end - beautiful February Femme Fatale, A.J. Humpage

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 28th

So, here we are. This is the end - as the beautiful Mr Morrison sang - and continues to do. The final February Femmes Fatales showcase piece.

I chose this carefully, and yes it's poetry rather than fiction. But Arbeit Macht Frei by A.J. Humpage is remarkable. I confess I've bigged Ally up throughout this showcase, but it's not without warrant. All contributors to, and readers of my weekly Friday Prediction will know how capable she is of scaring the human hell out of us. She sees the horror in mankind, and throws it in our faces - deal with it.

Arbeit Macht Frei upsets and distresses, confuses and hurts. It is a brilliant work that forces us to address inequality. Please do read it. And thank you, Ally for contributing this disturbing, and so well crafted poem.

Arbeit Macht Frei By A J Humpage

Hopeless voices

Entangled branches

Deep wine coloured leaves

Cold breath dancing

In frozen streams.

Slung back rifles, relaxed

And the satisfied stench

Of smiles etched cold

In ribbons of smoke

Stark against the haze.

Hoisted skirts, akimbo legs

Semen stains to soil the skin

Bare breasts like trophies

Chilled to the touch

And wretched in death.

Eyes wide open

But blood still warm

Captured by the camera

Dignity stolen

By the men of war.

Star of David sewn on the arm

But the smile is gone

Clouds fill with spite

The fires burn bright

Day and night.

Their ghostly faces

Shine; frozen in fright

Stilled, fooled hearts

Peace in death

At a price. 

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Bio: A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

A.J. Humpage - oh, the human horror. February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 23rd

A.J. Humpage's skill is in laying bare the bones of human discord, revealing the extreme horror that man - and woman - is capable of. She tackles taboo events of war and abuse, targeting the evil that lies in the hearts of the guilty, exploring too the excuses that are used to defend such behaviour by the individuals themselves but just as frighteningly, by their protectors and governments.

A mistress of sensory description Ally weaves though taste and smells, and also captures the unsubstantiated sense of intuition. Here, in Push the theatre of drug addiction is splattered with filth; the scenario is vile, the victims - tragic. I've already mentioned in a previous Friday Prediction my phobia of heroin addiction due to somewhere I worked for many years where I met both the unfortunate, and some wicked, wicked shites.

Ally's description of the pimp and his victims is spot on. I was always told heroin can't be smelled on users - but I beg to differ. It's a sweet, heady, sickly scent that sticks in your throat like malignant honey. I used to know before an addict even walked in the room that he/she was on their way. I can still sniff out them in the street.

Push is brilliant. It is disturbing, horrifying - a nightmare. Be prepared. I will have to tell myself over and over again not to dream about this tonight.

Push by A J Humpage

The walls gleamed with a strange kind of mucus; a sticky leftover stew gilded by the foul air. Dark, fetid handprints led a path down the silent hallway. The piss-tainted stench, caught by the breeze that rattled through broken windows, lifted from the cold floor and wafted through darkened, rat-infested passageways. Bits of paper and rubbish scuttled against the cool air, settled again.

Distorted reflections shimmered from corners.

A line of dangling light bulbs flickered in tandem. Bare concrete, cold like ice sheets, sucked the dim light from the narrow corridor as Danny parted the darkness and hunched forward, each footstep an empty echo that reverberated long after his presence had drifted into the shifting umbra. He turned a corner, focused on the thin shaft of light at the end of the hallway. The light wavered momentarily; a shadow moved.

He poked a sullen grey face around the broken doorframe. The muted glow from dozens of candles freckled his expression and highlighted every line, every blemish, every droop and every dark, shrunken vein.

A soiled, stale odour of unwashed skin and greasy hair found its way up his nose as he walked through the cans, bottles and cardboard boxes that littered the floor. His young prostitute, Tiffany, sat beneath the broken window while the dusk pressed against the jagged remnants. She swigged from a cider bottle, seemed at ease with his invasive presence, though he suspected that had more to do with her need for a fix.

He dropped onto the stained mattress opposite her, lit a cigarette. The candle flames invoked lithe shadows that flitted across her face, lightened the contours of her sunken cheekbones with irascible definition. Her eyes, just visible beneath the dishevelled fringe, looked like two ball bearings rolling around in an empty skull.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a small foil parcel and dropped it on the floor in front of her. ‘I want paying, so you better get out on the street tomorrow.’

She stared at the silver packet, mesmerised by the way it glimmered beneath the light, the way it seemed to draw her in beyond the gleam, beyond the superficial nature of it. It plunged her headlong into the darkness of want.

‘You had everything yesterday,’ she said, throaty, absent. ‘I’m sore...’

Movement in the corner caught his eye. ‘Tough. You better get me my money, Tiff, or I’ll sling the kid off the balcony.’

Tiff’s four-year-old daughter stood tiptoe in the shit-stained cot, blue eyes bright through a grime-riddled face. She cried out for her mother.

Tiff unfolded the silver parcel and emptied some onto a dessert spoon. She picked up a nearby hypodermic needle, drew up some water from a cup, released some over the powder.

Danny eyed the child, the result of the first time he’d forced Tiffany.

Tiff placed a lighter beneath the spoon, watched the mixture bubble. After a short while, she picked up the syringe and drew the liquid.

Danny looked at Tiff. ‘Suck it up, bitch. That’s good shit.’

The colour of night painted her skin as she turned from him; it withered against the quiet corridors in her mind as insipid eyes rolled back in her head.

He picked up the syringe, drew some of the discoloured liquid.

Tiff crawled forward, shuffled to the cot and picked up the girl. She returned and sat next to the window, scratched around the floor. She found a stale piece of pizza and handed it to the child.

Danny grabbed the needle, pushed it into his bruised flesh, leaving a small amount left in the syringe.

The child fingered the mouldy pizza, watched him.

He sat back, patiently waited for the illusions to creep in to spin their webs.

Time slithered around the room.

After a while, tall thin silhouettes oozed into Tiff’s imaginings, iced her dark eyes like a blackened glacier. She slumped back onto the mattress, but in her mind, she was dropping like an imaginary stone into an abyss.

The child looked up.

Sounds minced inside Danny’s head; how they swirled, spinning like a drunken, nauseous haze and setting him adrift from the darkness of reality. His head suddenly lolled and vomit spilled from his mouth in a thick watery stream. He gurgled and slumped onto the cold floor, embraced by the empty cans, newspapers and bile. His voice broke into a long laugh.

The little girl peered at the strange shapes across the walls. She pointed, spoke into the coiling darkness, her child speak lost to the motionless shapes on the floor. She slowly got to her feet. The tattered curtain above her billowed against the breeze from the window and cast a cold haze across her mother’s skeletal, fading features.

The child turned to Danny, watched his cold breath coiling from the bilious crust forming around his mouth.

She picked up the syringe.

An engorged silence pressed against her as though urging. The needle glinted in the light. The liquid inside moved about, fascinated her.

She crouched beside Danny. Remembering how her mother and Danny had done it, she placed her thumbs against the plunger. Her mother referred to it as medicine, to make people feel better.

She pushed the needle into the soft skin between Danny’s knuckles, pressed down on the plunger and watched the liquid disappear from the tiny tube.

It would make him better, she thought. The medicine. After a nice sleep.

She patted his arm, left the needle sticking out of his hand and went back over to her mother. She sat down and pressed a button on her toy and listened as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star played into the silence that crept through the corridors, the hallways, the open doors, the wretched abandoned rooms, the blackened staircases and the empty floors of the lonely, crumbling tenement block.

Echoes.

She watched as Danny’s skin slowly began to change colour - turning blue, then deathly grey - before eventually falling asleep in her mother’s stiff, cold arms.

_____________________________________

Bio:
A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

_____________________________________

She's back - with a vengeance. A.J. Humpage - February Femme Fatale.

February Femmes Fatales - February 15th

A.J. Humpage's second entry in the Femmes Fatales showcase is a demonic little number, which means it's right up my street. Creepy and chilling, tickling all those raw nerve endings with a wicked, probing fear.

And you know what? I have a theory (actually I have more than one). I think this is Ally's reply, or the opposite side to Pixie J. King's Sleeping Shadows. I've asked them, but like the naughty vixens they are, they ain't tellin'! But whether yay or nay, it works perfectly in its own right.

Let A.J. Humpage take you to bed...

Nocturne by A J Humpage

Kate had always suffered bad dreams, for as long as she could remember. The kind that crept into her consciousness each night, fingering and ripping at her nerves like a dirty, eager demonic whore.

She often dreaded sleep. It brought with it the creature that feasted on her fears and sneered at her like a repellent child.

Hypnagogia, the doctors said. The transitional stage between wakefulness and sleep, and the cause of her strange visions. But despite the medication, she still dreamed about the night demon which breached her mind, mocking and pawing and frightening her.

This night was no different, as the drum of her heartbeat echoed around the room, pulling her deep into sleep. So soft and malleable. Vulnerable. Outside, silhouetted shadows of naked, gnarled branches danced as the wind taunted.

Kate drifted towards an empty blackness.

Movement.

Her bedroom door slowly opened to the shadows in the hallway; they sucked out the warmth and left a slicing chill, but Kate remained in slumber, despite the room growing colder. A teasing stream of vapour coiled into the air as she breathed.

The door wavered as though a soft breeze had swept past. The shadow in the corridor lurched, grew black.

Quiet vibrations undulated beneath the floorboards, crept across the room like a rolling bank of fog. The metal bed frame rattled slightly and then fell silent.

Kate’s eyes fluttered open, the blurred line between consciousness and sleep somewhat jaded. She half-listened for a moment; her mind tuning into the peripheral. Sounds in the conscience.

A creak spilled into the chilly air.

She lifted her head, gazed at the darkened doorway and shuddered at the cold pressing against her skin with steel fingertips. She could have sworn she’d closed the door. She got up and closed the door against the blackness, then returned to bed. She drew the sheet up over her shoulders and settled back into the pillows. Perhaps tonight would be her first nightmare free sleep.

Perhaps.

She drifted.

A stilted, oppressive silence descended like a clammy cloud of vapour, clung to the cold air. The darkness brooded; grew thick with each minute and filled the stairs and hallway as though shrouding something from view.

The bedroom door silently swung wide. Like an invitation.

The dark mass in the hallway slithered forward into the chilled room and oozed towards the bed as though seeking out her warmth.

The trees outside stopped moving. Shadows became still.

The bedcovers moved. The sheet slowly slipped down her body.

The bed creaked. An indentation appeared beside her torso, as though something rested against the mattress.

Kate groaned. Through the fog of sleep, she felt pressure on her back and her eyes immediately opened to the greyness.

A rancid smell instantly drifted up her nostrils and slithered down her throat like a hungry serpent. She retched, opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came; her voice stifled by the entity pressing down on her, pushing her into the bedclothes, forceful, angry.

The pressure on her body increased, sharp nails etched into her back.

Muscles stuttered, but she couldn’t move; nothing would work.

Christ! Help!

The sound of her heartbeat became loud and fast in her ears, and her stomach churned, full with a fearful, bilious torrent; the sickly swell instantly filling her veins and numbing her body further into submission.

The wardrobe doors rattled.

God, how she wanted to scream, but raw terror clawed at shredded nerves; no sound could get past her swollen larynx. Fear fizzled at the back of her mind, inching through broken synapses to fill her conscience with the sickly torrent.

Sounds crept in; low and brooding. She knew the demon from her nightmares had perched on her back with a glib, Faustian grin. Sometimes she could almost hear it laughing. Sometimes she could hear it breathe; the rough rattle of its lungs. She would often smell the fetid scent of death drape over her, smothering her, but she knew it would be over soon; the nightmarish episodes never lasted long...the horror would subside and she would slip into a deep sleep once again.

Something gurgled. The weight shifted on her back.

Lungs depleted and instantly filled with air. The stench receded.

A noise finally seeped into the darkness; her voice broke. She lifted her head, eyes wide as she peered over her shoulder, fearful she might catch a glimpse of a demonic creature, but only a shifting darkness stared back at her.

The pressure gradually eased from her and feeling returned to her limbs. She shot out her arm to grab the lamp on the side table, almost knocked it over. And then, at last, light filled the room, sending the shadows into retreat.

She sat up, eyes adjusting to the glow. She gazed at the door. It lay wide open against the baleful blackness that seemed to be squatting near the stairs. Fear crawled beneath her skin like a parasite.

Had she shut the door? Or had she dreamed she had?

She glanced at the wardrobe. The rattling noises had seemed so real. The sense of the demonic imp crushing her into the bed had seemed real, but she knew they were all in her mind, the soupy residue of near sleep, just gossamer strings of her imaginings and fears.

But curiosity drew her from the bed to the wardrobe. She reached out, heartbeat pulsating in her fingertips as she gripped the handle, momentarily resisting the urge to...

...face her fears...

She opened the doors, sighed at the cluttered space in the wardrobe, cursed. You dreamed it, idiot.

She shut the wardrobe, went to the bathroom to get a glass of water, still muttering.

* * * 

Bereft of her warmth, the air in the bedroom quickly cooled again, laced with an arctic hush. The light dimmed.

The wardrobe door slowly swung open.

The stench of rotten flesh oozed into the ether.

A hunched, spidery shadow smothered the wall, entered her bed.

The daemon patiently awaited her return.

________________________________________

Bio:
A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

________________________________________

A.J. Humpage is today's astonishing February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 7th

A.J. Humpage has a lot to answer for. She not only writes the most disturbing of dark fiction she also unselfishly helps her fellow-writers with honest critiques.

In mid-2009 she was kind enough to read a story I'd written for a competition - the first competition I'd ever entered. Using the constructive advice she gave, I rewrote it using her suggestions and the story went on to win a national competition out of 1200 entries. Thank you Ally!

If you contribute to or follow my weekly Prediction, or have dallied at the marvellous Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers you will no doubt have read Ally's extraordinary prose.

Her words are poetry, they dance in your mind dealing out danger and dread. She exposes the horrors and atrocities of human behaviour, all the while using her uncanny ability to touch your innermost fears before laying them bare to be teased, again and again.

In Driftwood, the first of four contributions to the FFF showcase Ally takes us to the sea around Crete - the favourite island of several of the Feb Femmes Fatales, myself included. Dare you step into the water?

Driftwood by A J Humpage

Amphitrite glided gracefully through the water, unaware of the jagged darkness hovering just over the horizon.

Stella Harris peered over the side of the yacht, watched the swirling dark water. Childhood fears bubbled at the bottom of her stomach - the thought of what lurked beneath the surface. She hated the water.

And now she was stuck on a boat drifting around the Mediterranean, her husband’s idea of a holiday, even though he knew the water terrified her, but she always caved in to his forceful ideas. It was easier to do that than have his hands rip at her skin in a drunken, violent haze. It was easier to absorb the pain, something she’d done for 23 years.

Every holiday revolved around the yacht, but this was their first foray around Greece.

His voice punched through her reverie. ‘Don’t just stand there, get me a drink.’

She looked up, her mind catching up with her.

Her husband stood at the helm, faux captain’s cap glinting beneath the last of the ruby-tainted sunlight that shimmered in the distance, his hands caressing the wheel as though it was his mistress.

Amphitrite’s deck moaned against the swell. The deep shudder made him smile.

Stella moved away from the rail, inched across the deck towards the steps to the lower cabin. Her voice bristled with caution. ‘It looks quite squally in the distance.’

‘Nothing unusual in these waters,’ he grunted. ‘It’s the Med, for Christ’s sake. It can turn on you.’

Her stomach pitched. ‘Perhaps we c--’

‘Just shut up and get me a drink, yeah?’

She recoiled against his sting, silently descended the steps to the galley and grabbed a beer from the fridge. She gazed at a framed picture hanging on the wall near the steps, two people laughing beneath a cherry blossom tree in full, lusty bloom.

Her wedding day, 23 years ago.

They had no children. He didn’t want them, but she was too lost to the ideal of love that, eventually, her needs became redundant. And now familiarity bred contempt, like a rotting corpse beneath a hot sun. Maggots writhed beneath the surface.

She went back up the steps. A vermillion scar stretched across the horizon to her left, steadily devoured by a creeping darkness to her right. The wind had picked up, no longer satiated by the sunlight.

She handed him the beer, watched as he steered Amphitrite into the speckled grey clouds clinging to the ocean.

The sound of the sails made her look up. They flapped like a flock of stricken birds, became loud. She fastened her life jacket.

He didn’t wear one. He hated wearing them. Confident as always.

Soft spittle grazed her face; the squall rolled in from the distance. The yacht sailed headlong into the approaching theatre of darkness. The sickly swell in her stomach rose up her gullet and threatened to make her vomit, but somehow she managed to keep it down by sucking in the cool air.

The yacht creaked, rolled a little.

He fought with the wheel.

The dark crept in quickly, brought rain with it.

Something across the ocean rumbled. Her insides shuddered as the storm rushed toward them. ‘Perhaps we should turn the yacht around and go back.’

‘No way. You wanted to go to Crete. This was your stupid idea, so that’s where we’re going.’

‘We can still turn back,’ she said. ‘No point in being foolish.’

‘Foolish? No point turning back, we might as well sail through it get out of it as soon as we can. Besides, the yacht is strong; she can face a moderate storm.’

The water around them gurgled with agitation. Something groaned; a dark, malignant shadow quickly rose above the stern and smashed into the deck, washing them both towards the guardrails. The boat listed, heaved by the engorged swell.

Their voices melted into the night. Screams...like dust particles, swept across the bow.

She clung tight to a capstan, saw a blur of colour sweep by as her husband shot across the deck, snatched by the force of the wave. He clung to the handrail; his eyes bright with dread through the darkness.

The sea was cold against her skin, callous against her eyes.

The ocean heaved again, sucked him down.

She lurched as the yacht panned. She gazed down; saw him clinging to the ladder.

‘Help me...’

The ladder parried against the side of the boat and the frothy swell undulated as though drawing the strength to wrench him from his security. His knuckles whitened against a savage God of the sea, a grotesque creature that rose up and snarled, lashing at his feet.

Her fretful expression melted. Her expression melted. She could almost see the trident rising from the depths, the shape of Poseidon lurching beneath the surface.

His voice cleanly sliced through the darkness. ‘Help...Christ!’

She leaned over the rail, barely able to cling on, her fingers outstretched.

The yacht pitched.

Her life with him inked her conscience; memories dulled the numbness in her fingertips. The cold closed in around them.

He reached out for her.

Grasping fingers lured him; her deviant invitation, but a malignant demon squatted in her expression, shuddered with rancour, hungry for spite.

He reached up. Fear dribbled from his face.

She saw through the thin thread of his panic. Saw fear of a different kind. Fear that she had often felt; the closeted pain inside, and out. The stifling feeling of him on her, in her.

Stomach swill threatened. Fingers touched.

His pulse was strong and fearful against hers, bulging with panic.

The God of the sea growled, churned with effortless cruelty, as demons of the deep gathered beneath her husband’s feet like a shoal of foul, rotten-mouthed sharks.

The slight upturn of her mouth betrayed her intention. She let go.

He dropped into the water, sucked down by a devious current.

The lightning stole a glimpse of her relief.

Then, above the storm, she heard his screams. Drifting.

Diminishing.

Then silence.

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Bio:

A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

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