Mammoth Competition - Runner-Up: Asuqi

Asuqi uses words like creeping tendrils; they penetrate your emotions then whack! she slaps you with something so unlikely, so bizarre - yet acceptable. Whenever I read her fiction I come away feeling I have learned 'the big answer', but somehow, can never recall what that is.

Asuqi is the third runner-up in the Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Vol 22. competition. Her story Born This Way tore at my heart. Wrap your own up carefully, then read on...


Born This Way by Asuqi

During daytime, she walks pleasantly two steps behind. Simplifies her language and diminishes her thoughts. Behaves.

During nighttime, in her dreams, she’s in a twilight park in some old European town. Statues and fancy buildings; stone, stone, stone. She’s on a balcony, in a hotel maybe? And so far the dreams are okay. But her view is over those statues, and one of them seems closer, more important, like it’s been chosen for some reason. It stands tall with its back at her. As she watches, it moves closer, fills her view, becomes a monolith of religious proportions, and then it turns to face her. It’s as if though she’s holding a breath, one she won’t ever release, because when it turns, she sees its face is gone, replaced by a smooth rubbery surface. It moves to speak, but the surface won’t open and the statue makes a chewing movement, stretches its stone flesh in despair, and the scream she hears would have been her own if she’d been able to let go of that breath.

She wakes up and flings open the window. Takes deep, dry breaths. Tries to regain balance. Initially it works.

One day, on her way to work, a crow dives and hits her. It’s immediately stuck in her long hair. She and the bird are both thrown into full mode panic. It tears and claws, and she falls, they fall, her perfectness a mess. She lies face down, paralysed, and the crow stills, exhausted. She stays put as nights grow longer and ice creeps slowly over every available surface.

The Winter forest freezes everything, dreams too, and there is a calmness in that. Hungry little ones come to sniff and search; to taste the crow’s scraggy flesh. Its bones rest lightly on the back of her head, a styrofoam structure left to pale and weather. And she feels oddly cleansed.

It’s Spring when she returns to civilization, hungry. There is a difference now, for when she finds food she eats. No questions asked, no hesitation and she’s not going to back down.

She dreams again. When the monolith turns to face her, its features are the crow’s. She sees it’s not perfect. It’s not desirable - not the preferred result. But it is. It sees with unblinking crow eyes and when it opens its beak to speak, its roar; her roar, is magnificent.

The pretty is no more. She gains fearlessness. She says no and if necessary, she strikes. People avoid her. She’s called crazy, dangerous even, but it’s a small price to pay - the dreams are gone.

________________________

Bio: Please accept me as Asuqi. I find horror difficult to write, it's so easy to make shallow rip-offs and so hard to find an angle that communicates something truly scary. Trying to write horror scares me, but is that an angle? I´m eternally confused. Visit me for random confusions at http://asuqi.blogspot.com

Mammoth Competition - Runner-Up: Dorothy Davies

A big Feardom welcome to author, editor and medium Dorothy Davies. Dorothy is the first of three runners-up in my The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Vol 22. competition with her story Victims of War.

Please read her story and give Dorothy your feedback. This one will touch your very soul.

Victims of War by Dorothy Davies

Do you not think a train whistle is the loneliest sound in the world?

Or is it just that I think so, because I am here on this station – because trains are my life?

Have you not seen them, the young men in khaki, hiding their fear behind gallows humour and stiff upper lip, when you know well they are not old enough to leave home, to face the guns, the foe in all their fierceness to push us out of Europe…

I see the men; I see the light around them. I can tell before they go who will come back missing a limb or even two, for those limbs have no light around them. I could go to them and say ‘don’t go, don’t go, for you will come home legless, armless or wounded in some terrible way. But they would laugh at me and get on the train anyway.

But the real nightmare I live with day after day is the ones I see with no heads, just a skull. Oh yes, I see the ones who will not return and how sad, how heartbreaking sad is it to see them for are they not young and energetic and have much to give to this world?

How many are so shown to me? I cannot say. In a crowd there could be 3 or 4 of them, maybe more. I see the skulls; I turn away for I cannot bear the thought of the loss of the young men.

The draining of the country is how I see it. Those who would work, those who would labour, those who would teach, those who would lead, they are heading for the Front, that mystical ever moving ever dangerous and treacherous Front, where they will come face to face with the enemy, with gunfire, with barbed wire and with every fear there is known to man.

They will come home damaged in body and in mind.

So you see me, a porter here on this station, ushering the young men onto the trains, smart in their uniforms, casual in their humour, dying inside with fear and gut wrenching longing not to be there, someone they ignore completely. I wave my green flag, I blow my whistle, I send the train out of the station to the coast where they will board the ships that will take them into Hell and damnation. For they will return changed beyond belief, beyond recognition, except for those who wear the skulls, who will end up under grass in a foreign land.

Those who boarded those trains are the lucky ones. Those who stayed behind suffered the agonies of being left behind.

I wanted to go. I thought I had to go.

But I looked in the mirror the day I was due to go to the recruiting office, I looked and I saw –

A skull.

And I could not go.

I stay here, with my cowardice. In my own hell.

___________

Bio: Dorothy Davies, writer, editor, medium, resident of the Isle of Wight, fanatical Predictioneer and horror lover.
--
Dorothy Davies
Author and editor.
Amor Vincit Omnia

Check out my websites:
www.oneinspecyal.com
www.circle-of-light.co.uk

Femme by Lily Childs

I have no excuses, no apologies and certainly no explanation. My story Femme is up at the marvellous Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers.

It's nasty. It's painful, and sorry - but it's bloody horrible.

If you are of a delicate disposition, then I'm not really sure what you're doing here, but don't - especially if you're a bloke, whatever you do - read the story.

Dare you...

_______________________________________

Deafening Hush - brief poetry

This was my entry to October's One Word (poetry) Challenge over at Writers' News and Writing magazine's online Forum Talkback. For non-Brits, WH Smith is a huge Stationers with branches in more or less every town in England.

The theme of the challenge was 'Silence.'

DEAFENING HUSH

I’m standing still in WH Smith.

All is numb.
All is quiet.
Staff chatter, making Os and Es
with empty mouths.
Eyes wide open
I stare around,
newspaper in hand –
my shuddering hand.
Crowds mill
hustling, bustling, shuffling
past me.
I’m in their way.
I don’t feel their elbows,
don’t see their looks,
can’t hear their tutts,
their complaints.
The world’s fallen silent.
All I can do
is stare at your face.
The front page.
You’re on the front page.
And I know
that you know
where I live.

__________________________________

Their Dark Masters Cover

Mark Anthony Crittenden's done a great job for the final cover of Red Skies Press' forthcoming Their Dark Masters.

This anthology promises to be something else. Authors include Gregory Miller, Barry J. Northern, Mark A. Crittenden, Paul Anderson, Rebecca L. Brown, Marissa Farrar, Erik Boman, Lee Hughes, Tyree Campbell and Lily Childs.

Can't wait.

______________________________

Acceptance into Daily Bites of Flesh

Great to hear this morning from Pill Press' Editor Jessy Marie Roberts that my new piece 'Spangles' has been accepted into Daily Bites of Flesh 2011.

Pill Hill's own description of this great anthology says:

"Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 is an anthology of 365 flash fiction stories, each assigned a calendar day, offering horror readers an opportunity to enjoy one story per day - even with a hectic schedule. Pill Hill Press is actively seeking FLASH FICTION, 500 words or less (firm) about ZOMBIES, VAMPIRES, WEREWOLVES and other MAN-EATING/BLOODSUCKING CREATURES. Should have strong elements of HORROR."

The submission period is still open, but closes on 3rd November so if you have something for Daily Bites, visit Pill Hill for more info and sub. guidelines.

Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers

I've been far too busy for my own good lately and have neglected the wonderful Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers. I popped over an hour ago and found some dark and disturbing treasures from Ron Koppelberger, Sandra Seamans, Sean Patrick Reardon and  Joleen Kuyper.

Don't be a stranger like me. Pay a visit. Hell, submit something.

____________________________

Their Dark Masters traps Walls of Flesh

This morning I had great delight in hearing that Mark Crittenden has accepted Walls of Flesh, recently showcased on The Feardom, into Red Skies Press' forthcoming vampire anthology Their Dark Masters.

I've been invited to submit another, full-length piece of between 4-7000 words, and am working on The Infanta Triptych. The Triptych's three stars hope to introduce themselves very soon.

____________________________

Grave Echoes by Erin Cole

Been waitin' too long... and finally - it's here!

The Feardom is very excited that Erin Cole's début novel Grave Echoes is now up for grabs - and grab it you should. Her writing is mysterious, dark and exquisite, laden with sensual and poetic treats.

Grave Echoes is on my wish list - don't you dare get it before I do! But if you must, then take a look at Erin's blog 'Listen to the Voices' to find out where you can buy it. If you're in the UK like me you can get it from Amazon.co.uk.

Congratulations Erin, bring on Wicked Tempest.

____________________________________

Their Dark Masters

Got a vampire tale leeching at your red stuff, desperate to be invited in?

Mark Crittenden over at Red Skies Press is launching a new "highly thematic horror anthology" Their Dark Masters.

You can read full submission details here - and see Mark's description below to get a juicy taste of what it's all about:

"I am asking for stories that concern vampires, the custodians of forbidden knowledge, and the secret force behind the destruction of mankind. It is encouraged that you include something about an elder vampire in your tale, the maker and master pulling the strings in the backdrop of your story. I want only your darkest and most well-constructed tale. Your story may take place in any timeline and any geographic locale. I am looking for your most horrific/haunting tale."

What are you waiting for...?

_______________________________

Walls of Flesh by Lily Childs

They are dark but I can clearly make out the striated slashes in the deepest of red. How you ever came to decorate this palace with the freshest of corpses I can never know. But it matters not.

Your obsession with my skins seems the baddest of fanhood. Your adoration of the dances that my girls perform before and after death – it is indeed perfectly justified. Yes, I receive your letters – daily. Yes, I sometimes read them, coarse as they are with poor grammar and despicable spelling but I confess I appreciate the scent and how you vary it with odours emitted from various orifices – yours and others.

Your invitation was most welcome. Is your name truly ‘Vidal’? It has connotations, you know. I’m a sucker for film and fashion, which of course you do know.

How did you do it? How many did it take? It’s a frenzy the like of which I have never seen; or at least, not for many years. It is something of which I thought only I was capable.

The crusted, sunburnt flakes - blemishes and hair intact within the box at my door – an inspired tease; you knew I would bite. The Classifieds in the NY Times – over the top. I ignored them you know. It meant waiting; I nearly gave up.

But this morning’s gift was a bliss of obscene design and forethought. I bow to your genius. An invitation to my own funeral wrapped in a membranous envelope, tied and knotted with lengths of my hair. I awaited the promised carriage with disinterest and desire, lest you couldn’t deliver and I would have to scratch my own itch.

Who is she, hanging here on the left beside the Modigliani? I saw her once, I think, on the silver screen. The eyes so intricately repositioned within the slits in the ribs beneath her breasts suggest a four-eyed monster. Delicious. I commend you. Take her down, before the flesh gives out. 

Dinner? I don’t feed, surely you know that. But oh! What a masterpiece. Guests at your feast; it must be so easy for you. The minions flock to your every appearance, hang on your slightest word. You are politics, religion and ethics in one single man. The world applauds you – as do I. In this your banqueting hall – an altar to Old Money and Holy Sanctuary – I am truly spent. Bodies lie plaited and overlapped the full length of the oak table, each gut split and stuffed with basted animal offal which spills onto the cloth. I cannot eat but I can embrace. I mount the parade, fingering and sucking at the corporeal repast as I slide through its treasures. Until here we are; face to face.

Do I know you? You offer me a goblet inscribed with my name; the blood inside is hot and I know it is yours, spilled freshly from your wrists. I won’t drink of you. You can dedicate your life to me for as long as you can bear. I don’t want that life; I need only your death. Not a sacrifice, not a willing soul.


I am home, Vidal. Evanesced. For all of your dedication, you will be mine at the time of my choosing – if I choose you. I confess you impress, but my tastes - you must surely understand are not for the willing and the desperate but for those who are blind to my art and my craft and are innocent of darkness.

Wipe your monastery clean of death and decay, Vidal. Invite instead those seeking God, as your vestments declare. For then I will take my unwilling disciples. What better prey than those who pray?

_________________________________________

Pat-a-Cake by Lily Childs up at TKnC

Hungry?

Feed yourself up with my new nasty 'Pat-a-Cake' over at Thrillers Chillers 'n' Killers.
Thanks to Lee Hughes TKnC co-editor for publishing it.

Excerpt from Pat-a-Cake:

Roger’s thoughts are black. He is tipping back and forth on shoes wrapped in blue plastic bags. He could be a coroner, he thinks, or a forensic scientist. But he is a confectioner.

Everything’s a weapon. Roger hungers to use one. He spots the sharp corners of this morning’s loaf tins, sitting clean and stacked on the shelves in the back. They’d puncture nicely; he daydreams about the holes they’d make.

Read the full story...

__________________________________________

The Devil In Me

Michael J. Solender, prolific noir author and satirist invited me to to write as a guest over at the NOT

My new piece The Devil In Me is up on his site now. Feel free to pay it a visit and let me know what you think.

Here's a taster...

The Devil In Me

The last time I saw The Devil he was dancing on stage. 

What I was doing there, I can’t be sure. Sleep had evaded me – I swear I was awake. It was one of those vivid ‘between the veils’ moments where the extraordinary seems real; when you can fly without wings and fall off cliffs without landing. It was a moment when being invited to watch The Devil trip the light fantastic seemed a perfectly reasonable thing to do.

His voice rang out as I entered the darkness of the endless auditorium.

‘Ah, Jimmy. It’s been so long, so long.’

Read the full story...

____________________________________________

They say things come in threes

As the very final minute of June hit last night, I had another acceptance from Chris at Static Movement - this time for SM's Gothic Worlds anthology.

The story Scuttle first appeared on TKnC last year and is probably the one I've most enjoyed writing. Debauch, dark and dangerous it's one of those that made me laugh in horrible pleasure as it came flying out.

Can't wait to see it in print - the cover is delicious - I want that dress!

Thanks Chris.

Another Day - Another Acceptance

Thanks to Lee Hughes tipping us the wink about Static Movement's new anthology Caught by Darkness, I submitted a rewrite of my gruesome dialogue piece 'Softly'.

Static Movement ed. Chris Bartholomew said she loved it. She's accepted it into the anthology - I'll shout loudly when it's out.

More info at Static Movement

__________________________________

Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers is Back!!

I am heartily relieved to report that Matt Hilton and Col Bury's superb site Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers will be back in business from 1st July.

TKnC has been a huge sounding board for my nasty little pieces and I am so grateful to Matt and Col - not just for publishing my work but for their ongoing support and guidance. I am also thankful to the many visitors who have commented on my fiction.

If you're new to TKnC - it's hard, it's chilling and it's noir. It screams, it terrifies and it bites. So get on over to http://thrillskillsnchills.blogspot.com/ to take a look.

If you want to submit your work (I've got something ready guys - just waiting) then make sure you read their submission guidelines.

The Lily Childs/Pixie J. King Interview

Pixie J. King, at just 16 years old has given some of us older - but not necessarily more mature writers a kick up the backside. Her writing is dark yet insightful with topics and twists that take the reader by surprise. I was proud to invite this aspiring thriller writer into The Feardom to hear about what makes her tick.

_________________________________

"He wondered why the alphabet blocks spell out the words ‘hurt’ and ‘pain’. He wondered why she cried herself to sleep every night. He questioned why there is a shiny object from the kitchen on the bed. He wanted to know why she is using it to cut her wrists."

From What Ted Saw (c) Pixie J. King

________________________________

Lily Childs: Welcome to The Feardom Pixie, I’ll jump straight in. Your writing touches on subjects darker than what might be expected of a young girl about to leave school for college. Where do your ideas come from?

Pixie J. King: I don’t really know, to be honest; anything that happens to pop into my head.

I take something, chew it up in my head and spit it out into a story. I’ll take ideas from anywhere - TV, music, lyrics, newspapers (when I can be bothered to read them), personal experiences, my fears and just the general madness that I call my brain.

I Can Fly was taken from a music video. A Date was taken from a newspaper article I read over my mum’s shoulder in the hairdressers. In The Woods came from a P.E. lesson… in the woods. And Swirls of Wonder came about after a really bad day at school. It’s funny really, that my first piece of writing to be published was because of a bully.
_________________________________________
"‘I’m gunna fly mama, I’m gunna show them and I’m gunna fly.’ He moved back inside and grabbed his helmet and goggles."

"He felt the kart move downwards, felt a rush of the wind against his face as gravity clawed at his body. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles white."

From 'I Can Fly' by Pixie J. King (c)

__________________________________________
LC: What drives you to write, and what stops you from doing the mundane chores of life?

PJK: English, ironically. For me it is the most boring subject to sit through. When you have a teacher that kind of looks like Dracula (sorry sir if you read this…) and you’ve done all the work, then the notebook and pencil comes out and I just write.

It’s often school work, coursework, and exams that stop me writing. I don’t actually do any chores, since I’m far too spoilt and far too lazy. It’s my own fault really.

LC: I think school work, course work and exams at 16 are a perfectly reasonable excuse for getting distracted from writing, Pix. I'm sure you'll do fabulously well - those of us who know you from Writers' News online forum Talkback have seen how hard you work.

LC: According to your biog, in ten years time you hope to be a Forensic Scientist. What are you doing right now to get to that place?

PJK: Well, I did originally want to be a forensic scientist, but now I can’t decide between forensic science, forensic psychology or computer forensics. At GCSE level, I took Triple Science as an option which allows me to have each of the three separate sciences: Biology, Chemistry and Physics as independent GCSEs. At A Level, I am planning on taking Biology, Chemistry, Psychology and IT for my options so when I decide what I want to do I can have the qualifications to do it. [LC: Very wise PJ]

I watch a lot of forensic type shows, too: NCIS, CSI:NY, CSI: Miami, Bones and loads of other shows. NCIS is my favourite, really. I just like Gibbs…

LC: On the same subject, it’s one thing to write horror and thrillers but another to dissect bodies in real life and deal with varying stages of decaying flesh. How will you cope with that?

PJK: If I were to do forensic science, then yes I would have to deal with decaying bodies at crime scenes but I'd never want to be a pathologist who deals with dissecting bodies, as I would puke! I think I’d rather be in a laboratory analysing results than out on the field. Though at the moment I’m leaning towards forensic psychology so no decaying bodies there. I think it’s safe to say that I’m not entirely sure which field of expertise I want to get into yet.

LC: We’re reminded of the TV series ‘Bones’ which I believe you adore. Do you relate to the main character Temperance Brennan, herself a fictional manifestation of the actual author Kathy Reichs? Are you inspired by them? How? Why?

PJK: Haha, I love Brennan. I haven’t actually watched Bones for ages; I just haven’t had the time what with exams and coursework and all the tripe that comes with finishing Year 11 of school. But yeah, I guess I do sort of relate to Temperance Brennan humour wise, and how she is so driven with her work. She is very intelligent in her field. Am I inspired by her? I would have to say no.

I think I am more inspired by Abby Sciuto in NCIS because Pauley Perrette the actress who plays Abby is actually a qualified forensic scientist, so she knows what she is talking about. She cracks me up too. Without the gothic attitude and look, I could see me as her, so she inspires me in that way.

LC: On a lighter note you’re a big Girls Aloud fan. What do they and their music mean to you?

PJK: Their music means the world to me. They make me happy, and have actually gotten me out of depression so many times. To listen to their music gives me great joy.

To me, they are a good role model of dreams. Each girl had a dream of becoming a singer and performer in front of thousands of people in big arenas, putting on a spectacle for their fans. They went on a talent show to do that, and seven years down the line, love them or loathe them, they have achieved so much. They achieved their dreams and stopped at nothing to get there. They have the determination to do it.

Also, during their career, they’ve received a lot of crap from the media but they’ve pulled through it and become stronger. I’ve done the same with being bullied. I’ve been following them since I was around nine years old, so I’ve grown up with them. For me, it’s just one big journey. I’ve had the privilege to see them live twice now, and they DO put on a show for their fans and better themselves each tour - and go through hell to do it. Same for me, I like to write good stories each time and better them if I can.

LC: Back to the slog. All writers struggle at times to find their flow. What works well for you and what holds you back?

PJK: I just write. I had a block a couple of months ago that was seriously getting me down. So to cure it I just wrote anything. Fortunately it was the Easter holiday break and I managed to write two stories which got published on Thrillers, Killers ‘n’ Chillers.

What really stops me, apart from education, is my confidence and editing. I cannot edit to save my life. I often have writers that I trust to go over my work especially Creative Writing advisor A J Humpage. I owe most of the success of my writing to her as she is happy to cast an eye over my work and tell me where I’m going wrong. Since we first met, I have learnt so much about writing.

I am constantly learning. I know I don’t know it all, and I don’t think you do at any stage of writing. Writing is just one big apprenticeship and it never ends.

LC: Wise words Pixie. Confidence is key. That you ask others you trust to critique or cast an eye over your writing is great. I expect many authors feel themselves ‘above’ this. It’s their loss. To me, this shows that you understand that writers are forever learning - whether they're mere beginners (sometimes those filled with the most unique ideas and freshest approach) or old hacks - even those who think they know it all.

LC: We've already discussed that you’re a member of Talkback, the online writers’ forum from the UK’s Writing Magazine and Writers News, which of course is where we ‘met’. How has being part of such a community helped you as a writer? Have you ever joined other online groups, or writing circles at school or in the area where you live?

PJK: To put it bluntly, without Writers’ Talkback I would not be published. I would just be a 16 year old girl trying to write. My writing has grown so much since I first joined.

I have met some amazing people, such as Col Bury who I owe the first rung of the ladder to for publishing my stories on TKnC. Without Lee Hughes, I wouldn’t be about to be having something published in an anthology.

It is such a great community and I have so many special friends; I feel privileged to be a part of it. I have joined Six Sentences, too. Sadly, no writing circles where I live though…

LC: You blog over at http://theworksofpixiejking.blogspot.com/ (which incidentally Googles top if you enter Pixie J. King), you tweet, you are now a regular over at Matt Hilton’s Thrillers Killers ‘n’ Chillers and you have had acceptances of your work elsewhere. What do you feel are your biggest writing successes to date?

PJK: Being published, with Swirls of Wonder over on TKnC. I remember waking up, dreading an English Language exam I had that morning, got the email and I remember going crazy on my bedroom floor, bearing in mind I’m trying to get dressed for school. That for me is a big big achievement. It just proved I can write.

Winning Talkback's monthly One Word Challenge too, with my poem Dead Girl Walking was a huge achievement, a year of trying finally rewarded. But I think my biggest achievement is actually finishing my first ever story, Wild Rose. Still dark, and so many mistakes that it will probably never see the light of day unless it has a major rewrite. It’s around 6000 words took me a week to write, coming home after school and just writing. It was inspired by a song, too. But it got me writing and I haven’t looked back since. Being published in an anthology is good too, haha.
__________________________________________

"...My heart is empty
My blood sucked away
Like my soul was,
I’m just a pale, lifeless freak
Who has no emotion left


You can’t hurt me anymore
When there is nothing left to hurt.
You have raped me of my life
Made my days unbearable.
The walls are closing in on me
There is nothing left to prove..."

Excerpt from Dead Girl Walking (c) Pixie J. King

_____________________________________________
LC: You’ve said you hate liars and bullies. Does this fuel your writing?

PJK: Yes, definitely. There is nothing more on this Earth I hate than a liar and a bully. I’ve been bullied a fair bit in the last five years, especially since my writing came out in year 11. The most notable pieces I’ve wrote as a result of bullying have to be my flash fiction of Swirls of Wonder, which came from a bad day of school, and my poem Dead Girl Walking.

With Swirls of Wonder, I was deeply missing someone, so I was vulnerable. I kept getting abusive comments, leading me to break down several times. I came home after school and just wrote – and that’s what came out.

Dead Girl Walking came out of depression, and was basically about how I deeply felt about my bullies, and I faced them in a way I knew how.

I don't know if anyone has lied to me so I guess it hasn’t fueled my writing as such, but I still can’t stand them. At all. Perhaps a story for the future? Who knows. See what takes my fancy, or who messes with me.

LC: Thank you for sharing such an emotional experience with us. I'm really glad you can use your writing to kick ass - it's great therapy!

LC: What’s around the corner for Pixie J. King?

PJK: Well, I am very slowly trying to write my own novel. Although with all these exams, finding time to even write flash fiction is hard, let alone get some solid progress on my novel. But apart from my piece Swirls of Wonder being due to be published in an anthology, not a lot really. I haven’t had a chance to get my writing further than it has.

Now that my education isslowing to a more relaxed pace, I can focus on trying to write some more; submit things. I am trying to set up a website for myself, too. So all I can say is watch this space, because this Pixie is coming at you…

LC: I'm glad to hear it. There's a great voice in there Pixie. We look forward to the next shout.
_________________________________________

Interview with permission of K. Cocksedge.

Cold Stare

I wake up completely blind. Dumb. Paralysed. Yet my ears rage and my skin burns with the heat of you beside me; your rancid breath, a sickening stink.

Why do my senses ebb and flow? What makes them fluctuate so?

I plummet without warning to the ground. Prickles at my fingertips surprise me and I come back to giddy life. Inwardly I sigh, recalling where I am. My mind floods with memories, of days of wretched grief.

My vision clears and I seem to see you through curtains of mist. They swirl, revealing glimpses of the crypt, of you bent over my tumbled corpse, sobbing helplessly.

You take no last look upon my face as you lift and place me back onto the cold marble. You don’t see my eyes screaming as you wrap me once more in the linen shroud. You kiss my unbound lips goodbye. They twitch with words. You walk away.

I whisper in the dark. You turn your head, then back again. The iron gates groan, drowning out my breath as you pass through; unwashed, emaciated.

I find my voice. ‘Don’t go!’

Too late. The lock is turned.

Too late.

I die once more.
_______________________________________________

(c) Lily Childs May 2010

Lily's Friday Prediction

I'm obviously not as good an oracle as I might have hoped as none of the Friday predictions have come true yet - but considering the excellent 100-word flash fiction entries you've been sending in, that may just be a good thing.

I really like this week's words. Let's see what you can do with them:

• Spore
• Fenian
• Metamorphosis

I'm waiting...

Made to Order

‘What’s your name?’

The woman shivered at the question, barely able to contain her excitement.

’Maggie. Mrs Margaret Droit’.

The man nodded, his expression serious as he made notes.

‘Friday then Mrs Droit. Your curtains will be prepared and ready.’

Maggie hesitated.

‘Don’t you deliver?’

Solomon Pincett looked at the woman standing before him. The pale blue of her sensible suit a stark contrast to the slapped red of her cheeks. She must be twenty-five maybe. She looked fifty. What a waste. He had no sympathy and charged an extra five percent for the inconvenience.


Maggie was ready. The room was ready. She paced up and down, staring at the phone, daring it to ring and for someone to tell her they weren’t coming. At 3pm precisely Pincett’s van trundled up the driveway.


He wasn’t pleased.

‘Are you telling me you want me to hang them too?’

‘If I recall, Pincett, I made that quite clear.’

Solomon draped the heavy fibres until they fell in perfect folds, ruched in waves. When he left, with a few shillings for his trouble, Maggie locked all the doors and windows. She unplugged the phone and stood at the window. She stroked her purchase, sheets of cream tripe hung in thick curtains, trembling at her touch. She fell on them, dug her fingers into the honeycomb, rammed her tongue into the cold lace. She sucked.

Maggie wrapped herself in the swathes of offal, relishing the cold embrace. Blanketed in congealed innards she lay down to wait. Oliver would be home from the city in a few hours. She was pregnant, he’d be so proud. He’d ignore her cravings.