Just a quick 'Hello'

I'm perfectly aware I've not been keeping The Feardom up to date lately, nor have I been on Facebook or Twitter much either. For that, I apologise.

It's not to say I'm not writing; I am. But this girl has a day job which - at the moment - is overwhelming to say the least. If my day job was as a novelist, that would be utterly fabulata. Sadly, it's not.

So please don't give up on me. I have a pile of tales almost ready to put out as a collection, or submit separately to publishers. I haven't decided yet. They include:

• a story that will make you scratch and itch and punch yourself senseless
• a gin-riddled, ghostly account of debauched possession
• vicious trailer trash horror
• plastic bubbles in a plastic world where you must watch where you tread
• dolls trapped in trees
• a dystopian tale of golden corsets, time-travel and drugs
• a new Magenta Shaman episode

I'm also reworking Six Souls, the asylum novel - with passion.

Bear with me. I'm not done yet.

Waiting... just waiting

CABARET OF DREAD - Now in Paperback!

It's been a while coming - and a lot of work - but, as requested... Cabaret of Dread: a Horror Compendium. Vol.1 is finally available to buy in paperback from all Amazon stores!

Please join me in raising a celebratory glass - be it real or virtual - of champagne, absinthe, cha - or whatever trembles your taste buds. Many, many thanks for your support - and CHEERS!!!

Should you wish to buy Cabaret of Dread, recommend it to friends, or simply 'Like' the book on Amazon, you can do so at:

UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Cabaret-Dread-Horror-Compendium-Volume/dp/1475100477
Available at a special opening price of £5.49 - with free delivery

US: http://www.amazon.com/Cabaret-Dread-Horror-Compendium-Volume/dp/1475100477
Available for $6.49 - plus shipping.

Or 5.99 Euros in Europe.

The book is still available as a Kindle ebook too, if you prefer.

Thank you. Comments and reviews are very welcome.
Lily/x

No More Mrs Nice Guy

Having neglected The Feardom for a while I've popped in with the duster to clear out the cobwebs, thank everyone for their support during 2012 and wish you all a happy, healthy and successful 2013.

Oh, and here's a bit of posh, slasher fun to end the year with...

NO MORE MRS NICE GUY

Dear Prime Minister

I would like to know, if my question doesn’t inconvenience you too much, what I am supposed to do now?

My name is Clara Barfington-Thropes, of Tunbridge Wells. I hope you do not mind my calling on your expertise but you are - as I understand is referred to in common-speak these days - The Top Man. I did of course, vote for your party so I trust we have similar leanings and that you will empathise with my plight.

My question, as an upstanding and accountable member of the community is, am I to be arrested for the murder of the two young gentlemen currently dirtying my drawing-room Axminster? Of course, I use the word ‘gentlemen’ loosely. I regret they were not terribly gentle when they attempted to assault me. And neither are they really yet ‘men’, merely teenagers with fluffy facial hair and pock-marked skin.

These lads weren’t known to me, so when I caught them after they’d crawled in through my tiny pantry window, you can imagine how quickly I accused them of trespassing. But Sir, it was to no avail!

They frightened me right from the outset with their rolling eyes, and the way they lolloped from side to side with their thumbs and little fingers poking out. Like apes, they were. I suspected they had been at a public house for their young, pink faces flared red – leading me to suspect they had been consuming alcohol – even at their young age. Now, there’s nothing wrong with alcohol Sir; I enjoy a claret of an evening myself. But with this pair, I felt there was more to it.

I discovered later, after I’d stripped them of their blood-soaked clothes that they had cuts and infected holes in their arms, their necks and even (though I apologise for having to mention it) in their groins next to their little winkies. Sir, I do believe they were “drug addicts”.

Now, I understand you will have some questions for me too before you can fully respond to my enquiry. If I may anticipate:

1. Was my pantry window not locked and secured? A question I would expect you might want to ask for insurance purposes (they did break a selection of my Royal Doulton after all.)

My answer is that I live in a Conservation Area. According to the people at the council we are not allowed to have double-glazing here as it doesn’t fit in with the look or something. Absolute poppycock, of course, but never the less the single-pane – now smashed – of the locked window is how they entered the premises.

2. How or why would they want to assault (Sir, I’m afraid you must read that as ‘rape’) me? 

Indeed - a very good question! I am a 67 year-old widow after all. I cannot imagine the attraction, though I must say I do look after my appearance and have several admirers at the Bridge Club.

I shall set the scene. When I stopped the boys in their tracks they laughed at me and spoke in a colloquialism that I could not understand. I believe they must hail from the other side of Kent.

But I digress. One of them addressed his friend as ‘Tommo.’ I shall refer to him henceforth as ‘Tom.’ They glanced at each other quickly from below their hoods. Tom wore grey, the other’s was black. It was strange to watch the boys’ eyes move independently of each other – one up, one dipping in and out of the side of its socket. That's the drugs I suppose. But when they attacked me, it was fast. Tom grabbed me first. He pulled my hands behind my back and pushed me up against the other boy. This was when the assault happened Sir. This naughty young man forced his hand inside my blouse and into my brassiere; with his other hand he dared tear at my skirt to find - and attempt to enter - my underwear. I could feel young Tom fiddling with his trousers with the hand that wasn’t pinching my wrists together. I am embarrassed to say, Prime Minister that at that moment I did become very frightened and am afraid I screamed a most unladylike cuss-word.

However, although I am of a slim build with - it has to be said - delicate features, I am also rather strong. I rode from the age of four, and am proud to say I still do. I keep a mare at the Hedgley-Bateson’s estate in Tenterden. Perhaps you know the family? I was able to squeeze my thighs tight onto the hand between my legs until the boy yelled and released his attack. He moved sufficiently enough to free me a little so I head-butted him hard on the nose. He roared with pain and before Tom could loosen his grip on my wrists I flipped my head backwards, hitting him in the face. I don’t know what I connected with but he whimpered “Ouch” like a little boy. Quickly I raised my left knee then kicked back into his shin with my heel which I dug in as hard as I could. He screamed, and let me go. 

I was so proud of myself - I had been able to use my powers of recollection from the 1980s when I was judge at the annual local flower show. We had been treated to a packed programme of events, one of which was a self-defence demonstration; how to protect oneself against attack. Well Sir, I was not even aware I had taken all that information in, but the evidence was right before me.

I should have left it there perhaps, and called the police but it transpired I had only given myself a few minutes grace. As the young men shuffled towards me, angry now, I raced out of the kitchen and down the hall. My dining-room doors were open and I almost fell through them, locking them immediately behind me. My heart was fairly hammering Sir, and I admonished myself for selecting a room that contained no telephone. I waited – I don’t know – it may have only been minutes, but it felt like hours.

I heard before I saw the handle slowly turn on the interlinking door between the dining and drawing rooms. What a fool; I had neglected to lock that one. I ran towards it, reaching it just as it opened a tad and an arm shot through the gap. I slammed the door repeatedly on the hand until it retreated and my final slam closed the door once again. I stood with my back against it, panting by now – I can tell you. I rested my ear against the panel to try to hear was going on on the other side, but could make out nothing. All of a sudden something huge crashed into the door and I was forced to the floor. I looked up to find myself staring at a gaping hole between the two rooms.

They both ran in, wielding kitchen knives. Heavens! What was I to do? Before they could get to me I flew to the corner, to the dresser where I keep the important cutlery. I pulled open the drawer and took a bone-handled carving knife from its bed of blue velvet, and grabbed a sharp bread knife for good measure. I spun around just as they reached me. To their surprise I parried them with both hands. Their simple lunges were nothing for St. Judith’s School for Girls fencing champion (1957 and ’59). Now, I must admit, my precision is not what it was, but with the awakening of a dormant thrill of combat I must say that I turned into a wild cat! What would you have made of me, I wonder as I slashed and cut, dancing around the room on nimble feet. Tom fell back from a daring thrust at his face – I caught one of those rolling eyeballs and flipped it from its socket, severing the nerves as I did so. Tom wailed like a baby, tears spurting from his remaining eye and collided into the dresser, causing the aforementioned Royal Doulton to crash to the parquet floor.

“Get her of me. Get her off me,” Tom cried.

His friend, cowardly thing, made for the window. His bloodied hands tore desperately at the handle of the sashes but it wouldn’t open. That’s because I’d had it sealed years ago when the council wouldn’t let us have the wretched double-glazing.

“You’re a fucking nutter,” the boy shouted at me. I use the expletive in full, Sir to demonstrate his terrible attitude and language. The lad still grasped his weapon but had apparently forgotten it was there. I brought the heavy bread knife down and neatly sliced off his thumb. His blade fell to the ground, as did the thumb. He screamed in both anguish and pain, I shouldn’t doubt, and didn’t object when I took him by the hair (I knocked that silly hood off first – what a shame – he would have been quite a nice looking lad if it weren’t for the pustules around his mouth) and dragged him over to the dresser where I pushed him down onto the shards of porcelain. He fell easily and lay there, pressing himself tightly against Tom. They whimpered, the pair of them.

Well, Prime Minister, I wasn’t done with them yet. I sat at their feet, twisting the knives around in my hands. I told them it wasn’t right, what they had done. I told them they did not have permission to enter my property, and nor did any man have the right to assault a woman. I asked them what they wanted – what they had come here for – and when they didn’t answer I swiftly sliced each of them across the cheek.

“Money,” they screamed together.

“We need the money,” Tom said. He broke into a full-scale, one-sided sob.

“What for?” I asked. “To buy drugs?”

They nodded like a couple of guilty fools. And it made me cross.

“My father worked hard to give me a good upbringing. My husband too. We didn’t have children, but by God, if we’d had two boys like you we would have loved them and cared for them and would never have let them turn out the way you have.”

Tom’s friend wept uncontrollably, not for my sad tale of a childless marriage, but for himself. My heart, despite my rage, fluttered with a touch of sympathy.

“So,” I asked. “What do you want to do?”

“Stop,” Tom replied, his voice breaking. “I just want to stop. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

I looked at his friend.

“Do you feel the same young man?”

He nodded, wiping blood and tears on a grubby sleeve.

And then Sir, I feel there was a misunderstanding. In retrospect I realise they were probably telling me they wanted to come off the drugs, perhaps be something more like the boys I never had. But of course that would have been impossible. And at that moment, I didn’t even consider it.

I bent towards the young men. They must have thought I was going to embrace them, for they both edged forward, very slightly. I reached out and tousled their hair. I still held onto the knives so as I stroked the greasy locks on each of their heads it was with the edge of my hands.

It was very hard, but it seemed the right thing to do. I’m sure Tom knew it too, as he stared at me through his reddened eye.

I did it quickly, so it wouldn’t be too bad for them. Indeed for Tom’s friend it took only seconds. His throat seemed to gush more profusely than Tom’s, whose own jugular spouted for a while longer before his body gave up its life with a judder.

And so, Prime Minister, I am sure you appreciate my concerns. What will Dame Justice make of this poor widow, defending herself in her own home against invading thieves and rapists?

I am sure, as a gesture of goodwill, you will arrange for the matter to be dismissed before it reaches the courts.

I would however, be most appreciative if you could ask the county Police to put me in touch with the boys’ fathers. I promise I will not condescend to judge them – it is simply that my income and savings are not what they were – and these gentlemen’s sons have left me with a considerable cleaning bill. Someone should pay for it, don’t you think?

Sir, I look forward to your reply at your earliest convenience.

Yours, most sincerely

Clara Barfington-Thropes (Mrs)

___________  THE END????____________

Lily's Friday Prediction - Thank you and goodnight

Damn it, but I can't see; I seem to be awash with emotion. As if the Olympic Torch starting its journey to the UK today and Donna Summer dancing over to the other side aren't enough - letting go of The Prediction has hit me even harder than I thought it would.

I'll have a few more words to say after I announce last week's winners...

Winners of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

Stunning, stunning entries. How could I possibly choose? But it's tradition, and so I declare the winner of the Feardom's final Prediction challenge with a spiralling, mythical tale of primal beauty is...

R.S. Bohn, and One Night. The extraordinary vision, so beautifully crafted drifts us in and out of the creation process, grasping and grateful for freedom. I loved it. Your writing never fails to stir me and this is a wonderful example of your delicate skill. Congratulations Rebecca.

I have two runners-up, because I could not choose between them, different though they are:

Aidan Fritz's Brüder - so clever, so inspired. As I said in my comments, Aidan never fails to educate me - pointing at historical or mythical events and characters I feel I should know. I genuinely suffer from a very short memory so no matter how passionate I am about a topic - I will forget. I did know about the Deutches Wörterbuch - once. Thank you for the reminder, for bringing Grimm and the 'players' together and for that last word. And please sell this as the next box-office smash.

asuqi's Smile and No Harm Will Be Done gathered together so many symptoms of society's expectations and failures in 100 words, and despite a daily urban horror event in itself asuqi's unique wordcraft lifted this piece to an ethereal level. "bites through his crust and impersonates a woman" will stay with me forever, as will those creaking Northern Lights - do they...?

Very well done Aidan and asuqi, and all the rest of you too.

Words for 18 May 2012...

...are up at The Prediction's new home at 9am UK time where the weekly challenge rises like a fiction Phoenix, courtesy of Phil Ambler - to whom I will be forever grateful.

A Last Word, or So

To all the friends that have come, gone, stayed awhile, and hung around for two years. Thank you - you've changed my life, and for once - I'm struck dumb.

I do hope you'll come back and play in my darkened hallways; the doors will always be open to you. Pull up a velvet cushion, take a sip of wine, tea or whatever you need and tell me your story, even if it is filled with silence - I will still hear your words.

ALL HAIL THE PREDICTIONEERS:

• Absolutely*Kate
• Shaun Adams
• Chris Allinotte
• Phil Ambler
• Hilary Ashton
• asuqi
• Stu Ayris
• David Barber
• P Blacksaw
• Rebecca Bohn
• Col Bury
• Steven Chapman
• Lily Childs
• Erin Cole
• Colleen
• Steve Cormier
• Anthony Cowin
• Sandra Davies
• William Davoll
• Craig Douglas
• Jenny Dreadful
• Elspeth
• Matt Farr
• Aidan Fritz
• Ellie Garratt
• Reginald Golding
• Grogan
• Sue Harding
• Herbedaceous
• Matt Hilton
• SJI Holliday
• Jack Holt
• Helen Howell
• Lee Hughes
• AJ Humpage
• Susan May James
• Joleen
• Kallandra
• Kim (scratchypen)
• Andie King
• Pixie J. King
• kittylefish
• Reba Kovar
• laplace
• Laura
• Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw
• Lissa101
• Jodi MacArthur
• MRMacrum
• Henrietta Maddox
• mimimanderly
• Melenka
• Marietta Miles
• Marc Mimouni
• Nick Mott
• Sandie Owen
• Bill Owens
• Paul (Crimson Archer)
• Phantasmagoric
• Nina Powers
• Ragemore
• Ravenways
• Sean Patrick Reardon
• St Force (Jack)
• Nick Roberts
• Darren Sant
• Rosalind Smith-Nazilli
• Ronnie Soak
• Michael Solender
• Sulci Collective
• Liam Sweeny
• Alfred M Taitague Jr
• Amber Taitague ( Muckie Duckie)
• Nathaniel Tower
• ttofee
• Cindy Vaskova
• Charlie Wade
• Carol Wills
• Dion Winton-Polak
• Antonia Woodville
• John Xero
• Zaiure
• Angel Zapata

Don't stop telling tales...

STARING AT THE PINK - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

STARING AT THE PINK

The final 'previously unpublished' story of the collection.

One death; two souls departed. How many versions of ourselves are housed in this thing we call a body? What happens if they are released before the corporeal shell has finished with them? Perhaps I should have called this "Giving Up The Ghost". Perhaps not.

I wrote Staring At The Pink for a Daily Telegraph competition but it got nowhere, neither did the other two magazines I sent it to want to publish it. Well, I like it - and that's why I've included it in Volume 1 of Cabaret of Dread so that it has somewhere to rest - amongst friends.

So – what’s Staring At The Pink about?

A young woman dealing with the agony of watching her grandmother die slowly in a hospital bed is shocked to see not one spirit depart, but a second, dark mirror image of her lovely Pink Grandma. Fighting off a spectral assault, the narrator escapes with her own soul still intact. But years later, as she is about to give birth to her own child the grandmothers return - and they're not alone.

Inspiration

Sadly, this story is inspired by a friend whose grandfather was seriously ill, but no matter how sick he became - he wouldn't give up. A medium, who didn't know anything about my friend, told her that part of him had already left and was waiting on the other side for the two parts to become one again.

It struck me that this was a dangerous situation that potentially happens a lot. What would happen if the two parts became permanently split - and which parts of one's personality would sit with which broken soul? The thought still chills me.

Excerpt

Her hand rests over my heart, forcing me to study the transparent fingers. I question everything; how can this possibly be? Yesterday she was here, solid and alive in a hospital bed. Today – she’s alive – solid and just about living in a hospital bed. But she’s changed. Last night, she died.

I saw it all. Moments after the green line ran straight and my grandmother began her journey towards the mythical light the doctors snatched her back; breaking the laws of death. I cried at first with fear and premeditated grief, and then again with a relief full of guilt for my selfishness. I didn’t want her to leave. I needed her. I wallowed in my own self-pity - until I saw what they’d done, the damage their interference had caused and I knew without understanding why or how, that from one perfect grandmother another - her dark side, her nemesis, was torn.

Do we spit out our demons as filth when we pass over, purifying ourselves on the way to an unknown place of rest? In the natural process does that shadow-self quickly dissipate and die? I don’t have the answer because I am not so spiritually minded to have considered it before now. But sitting here, staring at the pair of them – both revived, both breathing – I believe we should leave well alone, and that we are wrong to play God.

Pink Grandma rests beneath the sheets whispering laboured breaths into a clinical pillow. It’s the Pale Grandma that sits beside her who leans forward to stroke my chest.

“I’ll have it,” Pale Grandma says in a voice I struggle to recognise. Her bony claws grasp at my small breast, and I feel her ice in my soul. I do nothing, not out of fear but from teeth-gritting anger.

Pale Grandma has black eyes, not the wistful blue of Pink Grandma’s. They stare at me, those vaulted chasms, expecting me to give in. I return her gaze - defiant. I shake my head.

“No.”

She roars frustration back at me with foetid breath. And is gone.

Pink Grandma - Nana - stirs from her slumber, unaware of the nocturnal separation. She smiles without seeing, squeezes my hand without knowing I’ve clutched it back. I move to embrace her, lingering a while, careful not to damage her frail frame.  When at last she sighs I know it is the end and I hug her closer. Pink Nana dies, for the second time, in the safety of my arms.

***

We planned to call our daughter Rosa...

*************

Like the excerpt? The full tale is waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread! By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can also read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful...

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from

Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

Lily's Friday Prediction - end of one era - birth of a new

And so we come to a close, dear friends. This is the final Friday Prediction fiction and poetry challenge here at The Feardom.

I want to thank you all for your continuing support of each other's work and for dallying in and out of my corridors over the last two years.

I'll have more to say next Friday 18th May when I announce my final winner(s) before handing over to Phil Ambler. As you know, Phil has generously committed the time and effort to take on The Prediction Challenge - and as he is an immensely talented writer with an astute eye, not to mention a lovely, considerate man - I am in no doubt Phil will welcome us all in with open arms. I, for one, am looking forward to the first three words he'll be giving us next Friday. THANK YOU PHIL.

Winners of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

The piece of work indelibly engraved on my brain, snapping at my synapses is the bizarro-erotic horror that spilled from somewhere deep and dirty within Shaun Adams' mind. The winning story is his incredible tale Red Wigglers. Congratulations Shaun!

Two runners-up this week: AJ Humpage dragged us screaming into Hackett's world again, a dreadful, dreadful place that radiates with horrific beauty. Supinus. Gorgeous writing.

Helen Howell left us asking questions with a similar scenario but no-less chilling Taken. The subtleties in this gritty vignette touched me, unnerved me - and I like that.

Well done AJ and Helen!

Words for 11 May 2012

Here. The last words from my old tome before I wrap it up to send to Mr Ambler...

• Impersonate
• Elegant (all forms acceptable, including elegance, elegantly etc)
• Shovel

Let's make it a good one.

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 until 9pm UK time on Thursday 17th May 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 18th May. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

I can't wait to read what you dig up for our delight...

___________________________________

LIVING IN A BOX - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite. 

And as a special gift from me, this week I'm going to let you read the entire story LIVING IN A BOX for free!  If you like it, perhaps you'll buy Cabaret of Dread, or tell your horror-loving friends.

LIVING IN A BOX

Grace Pearce is afraid of The Black. She is scared of The Spindle Queen and unnerved by Dr. Pipe. They seem to come and go in Grace's one-room world, and sometimes they bring others to watch. Will anyone ever take her home?

Living In A Box was written for Chris Allinotte's first March Madness dark fiction showcase in 2011 over at The Leaky Pencil.

Why not linger a while at Chris's place and read through the MADNESS series, maybe you'll even download the Madness collections EIGHT DAYS OF MADNESS and NINE DAYS OF MADNESS from Smashwords. They're free too!

So – what’s Living In A Box about? 

The story is narrated by a young woman, Grace, from her cell in an asylum. Pumped with drugs she drifts in and out of consciousness, her perceptions and personalities change and overlap, confusing both Grace and the doctors. Even in the most extreme throes of paranoia and insanity, Grace knows something is not quite right. And when a man she has never met arrives to take her home, the terrifying truth gradually becomes clear.

Inspiration

A constant fascination with mental health, psychosis and treatments. I wanted to be an art therapist at one stage when I was studying psychology, though sadly this never came about. No one thing beside the showcase prompt inspired me to write Living In A Box, but I suspect this story has always been in my head waiting to be written in one form or another.

Excerpt

Quivering, vaporous forms. They are indistinct as my eyes open to the familiar pale green of the box. Walking, talking photographs, paintings even - that morph back and forth.

My mouth is dry – it’s always that way. Someone sticks a tube between my teeth and I suck in the salty, pale-orange liquid. It tastes of electricity and saccharine.

The figures are clearer now. I recognise them from yesterday and the day before that. One’s a man – an old man. The other is young; his daughter perhaps. She is so thin I call her the Spindle Queen. Inquisitive, her tight face bears more lines than the father, but she has scarlet lips; lips that pout, lips that squeeze when she is angry. I’d like to eat them but she draws back as I lunge, a fruitless effort.

“God, she’s fast.”

They nod heads and play out a psst, psst, psst tittle-tattle game of whispers before turning back to face me. My head dips to one side and I carefully emulate the woman’s fake smile. Mine reaches my eyes where hers does not. With a little flare of the nostrils she backs away, fading though the door until it is an empty picture frame.

I would love to stand up. When did I last use my feet? There are straps at my wrists, at my ankles; around my calves, my thighs and up, up, up to my chest where, without warning my heart swells hot then cold – freezing cold; pulsing fast, fast, faster. I can’t bear the panic. I need to run away. The chair is bolted to the floor but still I try to rock my way out of it, going nowhere. Quickly, my body gathers momentum until with every spasm the leather cuts into my skin, spraying blood over the thin gown. It spreads.

The old man calls into the wall.

“Assistance!”

I’ve heard that word before. It makes everything go black.

From somewhere within my belly I feel the squeal. It mounts and grows, taking my soul with it to the ceiling as its pitch rises. From a great height I circle the seated echo of me and join in with the scream pouring from my other throat. We labour as twins to fill the room with unique harmony.

Assistance arrives through another door. It’s the Spindle Queen. She winces at my song. She calls me Banshee.

I can do that. I’ll visit her in her dreams later, steal her children.

My ethereal being flails at Assistance as the needle is rammed into my corporeal arm. Although she cannot see my wraith she swipes at it anyway, but no matter - I am already sliding back inside. I have just enough time to spit in her face. There is red in it. I have bitten off the end my tongue.

***

Black.

***

“She’s not who she says she is,” the old man tells a gaggle of bespectacled onlookers. He smiles benignly at me so I guess it’s time to show him my claws. Midnight blue. I stretch them out as far as I am able.

“Can you tell our guests your name?” He is bent towards me, not too close but near enough that I can smell pipe tobacco.

“Lompster. Snap, snap.”

The visitors scribble onto notepads and clipboards, muttering and frowning. Old Man Pipe speaks again without averting his gaze from my lovely claws.

“Miss Pearce believes she is a lobster, for today at least.”

One of the group stares at me longer than the others. I wiggle my antenna and hope he will fall into my trap. I’m hungry.

Sniggers and half-concealed smirks ripple through the rabble, and then I spot her; Pipey’s daughter. She’s telling them I claimed I was a doctor last week. That’s ridiculous. I’m only twelve years old. Look at them – they’re the deluded ones in their white coats, writing and gossiping as though they can see inside my head. It’s the reverse. It’s me that knows they’re all after Thermidor for dinner; wondering whether to cook me gently, turning the heat up until I fall asleep – or plunge me into a boiling vat.

I don’t like it. I start to rock. Here it comes...

***

Black...

*************

Like the excerpt? Read the whole tale for FREE at The Leaky Pencil. The full tale is also waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread!  By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

Lily's Friday Prediction

Thank you to everyone that sent best wishes for my wedding anniversary - bubbly and dinner at a tiny French restaurant did the job!

In case you didn't realise (our) John Xero's 101 Fiction is now open to submissions. Please take a visit and support John in this excellent endeavour. I'm really looking forward to submitting a tiny tale or ten myself.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

Well, it's been a long week of tears and gnashing of teeth for one reason or another so perhaps this has influenced my decision. Every entry was so-well written, and I really enjoyed the diverse themes - especially with Tartan dancing in for the kill. But the entry that had me grinning with visceral joy, and is my winner is Under A Killing Moon by Veronica Marie Lewis-Shaw. Zombies freak the hell out of me, and Veronica Marie captures the essence of whatever it is that terrifies me every time. Back at ya, VM - my turn to sleep with the light on! And congratulations.

Runner-up is Nick Roberts with the multi-layered Grief. Such an emotional journey - I haven't been able to get it out of my mind yet I confess I still don't quite understand it - and I really like that. Beautiful and tragic. Well done Nick.

Words for 04 May 2012

And so we hit the penultimate Friday Prediction Challenge at The Feardom. Don't forget - it's a minibus over to Phil Ambler's place from 18th May for a Prediction rebirth party. But in the meantime, what do we have here...

• Psycho... (use it on its own or as a prefix. Freedom!)
• Belt
• Purgatory

Ha! Made for us. Let rip - I intend to.

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 until 9pm UK time on Thursday 10th May 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 11th May. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

So strap up your imagination until it's ready to burst. I'm hungry...

___________________________________

WRAITHS AND STAYS - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

WRAITHS AND STAYS

This ghostly horror is set in a medieval-like, dystopian future where darkness, depravity and death threaten men. I wrote it for a small press anthology which sadly never happened, but in 2011 I was interviewed by fellow dark fiction writer Erin Cole and offered the story to accompany the interview. 

Subsequent to its appearance in Cabaret of Dread, Wraiths and Stays was published in print, in Dreams of Duality by Red Skies Press. It is a short, short - at only 663 words.

So – what’s Wraiths and Stays about? 

The narrator is self-imprisoned in a rotting tower with hundreds of other men, all living in fear of a plague of spectral wraiths haunting the once green and fertile land. Staring from a window slit, he recognises wives and mistresses, mothers, daughters, sisters... The women sweep the earth and skies in half-dead hunger whilst the men find solace in each others' flesh. While the narrator reminisces his own sexual encounters over the years, can he resist the base urges being played out all around him?

Inspiration

The opening sentences came to me on the walk down the hall from my bedroom to the bathroom (no 'ensuite' for me sadly). This happens a lot - no soul-seeking, no begging with the muse, just out-of-the-blue stories delivered into my head and begging to be written.

Excerpt

We didn’t speak of it, for how could we? A blessing bell, the priests said but we knew the clanging peel sounded the death knell in our midst, announcing the journey to hell for the fairest and most sweet. Not even the healthy amongst them were saved from the buboids, eruptions and pox. And now, with them fallen like God-forsaken flies - daughters of Beelzebub – I tried to forget what my own looked like. Mother, frail but proud. My girls – a beguiling trilogy - unwed, unbetrothed. Even my wife, traitor that she was and bringer of plague to this island; she played still in my mind, a rotting wretch. Here we wallow, barely buoyant in the floods of death she has left in her wake, in this place that once drowned in roses and where trees dripped with pungent medlars and cider apples. All gone.

Out of high windows we stared at the seething, spiralling mass of living decay. They ruptured below us, then flew to our rooftops to snatch with sharp teeth at our desperate gazes. With every attack we fell to the floor, eyes closed in fear as our only protection.

It is days now; weeks. Food is on ration. Unseasonal snow hardens the ground making crops, seeds and grain inaccessible. Taunting voices steal through stone walls making whispers of love and a promise of more. Around me the weak seek solace in each others’ arms and between the hard legs of fighters and labourers. I don’t want to give in... Can I resist temptation? An intimacy only hinted at amongst the dandiest of types now seems so warmly and wantonly inviting....

*************

Like the excerpt? The full tale is waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread!  By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can also read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

Lily's Friday Prediction - and Exciting News!

There is light on the horizon; a deep, dark red enticing kind of light. So I won't tease you with a preamble, won't ramble on for ages... here's the news:

A friend and fellow Predictioneer has cleared a space in the vast attic of his mind - and will be taking on the Prediction from Friday 18th May. Who is it? IT'S PHIL AMBLER!! Huge round of applause!

Thank you so much Phil for this generous offer; I'm sure I won't be the only one rushing to your domain to join the rest of our community in the continued search for inspiring words to be challenged by. (Pretty sure that was terrible English, but I'm too excited.)

So, put it in your diaries folks - 18th May - over at Phil's place http://phlambler.blogspot.co.uk where he'll look after you behind a new set of doors.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

I am giving a concentrated award this week - the winner will have to water it down - and that's because it's an acclaim for one writer, with two stunning stories. So congratulations Sandra Davies for the ongoing saga of The Blacksmith's Wife - parts 8 and 9. I hope the BBC is reading - it needs this.

No runner-up I'm afraid - they were so good I truly couldn't choose between them, so a mutual back-patting is in order. Well done everybody!

Words for 27 April 2012 (my wedding anniversary, I'll have you know)

The old tome isn't going to last much longer so will probably sigh when I put it down for the last time, but let me just - oof - pick it up and spread its pages. Here we go...

• Backyard 
• Tartan
• Prowl

Something springs straight to mind!

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 until 9pm UK time on Thursday 3rd May 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 4th May. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

A rush and a push and a... gotya! I can see the words forming inside your brains - birth them; I'm ready...

___________________________________

PRETTY PINHOLES - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

PRETTY PINHOLES

I loved writing this horrible story. What an evil serial killer I've created - whoops. We could say all murderers are wicked monsters but sometimes they are the quiet gentle giant that lives next door - and more often than not they are someone we trust. That's the scariest horror of all.

Pretty Pinholes was first published on Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers in January 2010

So – what’s Pretty Pinholes about? 

An obsessive. A character that detaches themselves from reality to perform their unique art upon the body of their victims. The number of pins used is precise, as is the depth to which they are inserted. But who is this killer with such an exquisite taste in design?

Inspiration

The inspiration for Pretty Pinholes was short and not particularly sweet. I went to London for a conference; my colleague met up with a friend afterwards so I had to do the return journey alone. My train got stuck on the track on the way home and I spent twenty minutes staring out the window at an office block that had a single light on, and I could just make out two people. I blinked - and there was only one.

Excerpt

The factory floor was cold beneath her naked back. Hard on the shoulder blades, crusty against her splayed buttocks.

Naomi Allen, her arms and legs strung out to her sides, strapped down to stubby poles she could not see, lay shuddering. The only light - a breath of radiance shooting through a distant keyhole - spangled across the thousand pin heads that pierced her trembling flesh. A bed of nails, she was. Only more so.

 He watched her. Studied her. Inclining his head in the vast dark room he caught the outline of the starshine he had made of her. His snort of amusement had her jumping in her shackles, which made him laugh some more. He wondered who she really was, what she did for a living – whether she was married, had kids. He didn’t think so. He didn’t care. Despite the time he had spent on her, she wasn’t a project. Naomi Allen was just a whim.

He let her murmur and mumble a while longer. She was hungry – no matter. She was thirsty – he had splattered drops of water over her face these last couple of days, making her beg for it, licking as far as her tongue could reach around her lips, her chin, below her cheeks.

Outside the winter traffic thronged. Lorries air-braking, buses carrying mindless workers and wasters, cars distributing selfish lone drivers about the capital. Naomi heard none of it. Plugs of cotton wool, poked roughly into her ears, creaked painfully with every move she attempted to make.

She peed. Then she cried, the thick fabric binding her eyes darkened with the tears that fell more profusely than the pathetic spray of urine warming her thighs.

Crouching, near-naked himself except for the daggers, he took to his feet. Nothing could threaten the verve that prickled his skin, full as it was with exaltation.

*

“I love you.” It was a lie.

Naomi screamed at the muffled voice. So close. In her face.

“You’re twisted, you sick bastard. Let me go.”

“You twist, Naomi.”

His voice came from behind her head, then his hands joined his words and began to stroke her hair. He pulled at it, gently at first, then with harder, sharper tugs until clumps came away from her scalp. Naomi shook her head frantically as he tore at her, her sobbing drowned out as he sang, a high-pitched wailing, echoing her cries.

“Twist. Twist. Twist.”

He smiled affectionately at the girl in his hands. She shuddered as he slowed his caress, released his touch, and sat back, totally still. One minute. Five minutes, completely enjoying the fear mounting in her body.

“Where are you, you piece of shit?”

Without warning, he fell forward across her face and drove his tongue into her open, complaining mouth, forcing it deeper into her throat, sucking at her own tongue until she choked, and gagged, and it was time for more pins.

*************

Like the excerpt? The full tale is waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread!  By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can also read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com

Lily's Friday Prediction

Britain is lying beneath a squally sky this week, but despite my getting soaked to the skin, nay - to the cold, cold bones on several occasions the Lords of Thunder have withheld their purple storms. I am bereft - I need a crashing and a flashing - 'tis my drug of choice. Please? Just a little one...?

Prediction Plugs

Before I start on winners and words, a quick plug or two for a couple of Predictioneers.

Col Bury's brilliant ebook MANCHESTER 6 - six gritty crime stories from the streets of Manchester - is half-price for a limited time. It's a study of harsh realities blended with rash humour. Do read this book - it will remind you what a skilled writer the UK has in Col Bury. The novels are coming - we need to be ready.

You can download it, 'Like' and 'Agree with these tags' at Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com.

John Xero, if you didn't see his post in last week's Prediction comments is starting a new fiction challenge of his own at 101 Fiction. It will open soon for submissions, so please pay our friend a visit and send him your best!

Your support is most welcome.

Winners of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

His language in last week's entry broke my bleeding heart; the winner is Shaun Adams with the haunting, terrible The Morning After. So much atmosphere in so few words - I feel am being rained upon by desperation in this hopeless situation. Brilliant. Congratulations Shaun.

Runner-up is Anthonia Woodville with the breath-stopping Suspense. I almost had a panic attack envisioning the narrator's trapped scenario and was then hit by that incredible last line! Well done Antonia.

Words for 20 April 2012

My fingers fumble, treading the pages. I stab - and open my eyes... This week's words are:

• Fathom
• Forget (all forms acceptable)
• Gallant

I think my pages must have gotten stuck! Good luck everyone.

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 until 9pm UK time on Thursday 26th April 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 27th April. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it. Do give feedback to your fellow Predictioneers - we all appreciate it.

May your words tremble upon the paper, may they evanesce from your minds to the screen...

___________________________________

IN ADORATION - Cabaret of Dread stories revealed

Artwork (c) Laurence Ranger

Every Saturday I’m revealing the tale behind the tale of Cabaret of Dread Vol.1’s main stories, together with a short excerpt of each to whet your appetite.

IN ADORATION

In Adoration is yet another unpublished story. Not for want of trying. No-one accepted it; no-one explained why they didn't want it. Sod it - I love this diabolic tale. So please take it anyway by downloading Cabaret of Dread for a pittance.

So – what’s In Adoration about? 

Demons. Deities. Sex and horror. Pure and simple.

Mr Fucker is today's pseudonym of aged demon, Reuben. Reuben is bored. Reuben steals souls and has had just about enough of Seabourne's twee congregation.

Father Judas takes the demon under his twitching cassock and together they bring bloody rebirth to England's green and pleasant land.

Inspiration

I'd be a liar if I told you I remembered what inspired me to write In Adoration. What I do recall is regularly seeing a tall, creepy character leaving one of our seaside churches and lurching up towards the seafront, belching and seeming to fondle himself on the way. Dirty old bugger.

I am a very spiritual person who was expelled from Sunday School aged eight for asking "inappropriate" questions about the Gods other peoples and tribes worshipped. I have too much to say about this for this particular post but hell, demons, deities and even the devil - there are a thousand explanations - and none is right or wrong.

Excerpt

*Warning: offensive content - it is 'horror' after all.

“Excuse me sir. Are you alright?”

The voice breaks his reverie. He is not amused.

“I need to get to church,” he grunts. The couple bent over him regard one another, smug in their faith in the Lord.

“Of course.”

He watches the woman in her expensive print dress and pink safari jacket. Orgasm plays between her legs in satisfaction at being such a good Samaritan.

“We’re off to late Mass,” she says. “‘Would you like to come with us?”

Reuben squirms within the new flesh that moulds itself across his skull; it tightens around his throat. Believing the poor man is choking to death, the pristine couple help him to his feet, just about tolerating the stench of his soiled underwear.

“Our car is right here. Wait, let me…”

The man places a plastic-backed picnic blanket on the rear seat before strapping the old man in. Reuben spends the journey breaking wind. His hosts open all the windows and still they grin their evangelist smiles, clapping their hands at the Jesus music that speaks to them through the stereo. Frustrated with the overbearing pleasantness Reuben takes the time to vomit down his borrowed suit at regular intervals along the journey. Sirens continue to wail in the distance, disturbing his benefactors.

 “Oh dear,” Mrs Godsquad utters as the screaming grows louder. “I wonder what’s happened. Why don’t you turn the radio on, dear?”

She looks fifty, sounds sixty. Reuben gets inside her head - she is thirty-eight years old. Her husband obeys, flipping the CD off.

“…murder at St. Saviour’s Church, Seabourne. Brian Guilroy, lay-preacher. Husband to Maria and father of Nigel, Constance and Belinda was found in the pews after this morning’s early mass. It is believed the body of Mr Guilroy had been stripped of clothing and his neck broken. Unconfirmed initial forensic reports suggest that stab wounds were found at the base of his skull and at his groin.”

“Ha!” Reuben barks. They don’t know the half of it.

Mr Godsquad gasps in horror. He stares at his wife.

“Brian. Oh shit Barb, it‘s Brian Guilroy.”

Barb glares at him, ready to admonish him for the cuss-word. Instead, she turns in anger to their passenger who is roaring with laughter.

“I really don’t think this is appropriate behavior, Mr…?”

“Mr FUCKER,” Reuben shouts.

The driver pulls over, parking on double-yellows, much to his wife’s consternation. The passenger feels his groin pulse with the scent of the sea, salty in his mouth - in all their mouths. He leans forward.

“Can you smell it, sister?”

The tidy woman recoils yet can‘t take her eyes off him. Reuben unbuckles his seatbelt, staring into Barbara’s pale blues. He moves towards her.

“It’s the stink of my sex. Look at it – it’s hard and it’s fat.”

He shoves his hand between his legs and nods at the woman’s husband. “It’s what he can never give you.”

The wife says nothing. She stares him in the face. Disgust and revulsion don’t stop her gaze straying to his crotch where the mound twitches, filling the old man’s trousers. Despite herself, she flicks her own seatbelt off and reaches for him.

“Barbara. What do you think you’re doing?”

Angry at the interruption Reuben grabs Mr Godsquad’s fine head of hair. Yanking backwards, he quickly snaps the man’s neck. Benevolent Barbara sneers momentarily at her husband before crawling onto the back seat.

The passenger declares himself ‘open’.

With Barbara choked to death between his legs, Reuben decides to take the rest of the journey on foot...

*************

Like the excerpt? The full tale is waiting for you in Cabaret of Dread!  By visiting the book's 'Look Inside' feature on Amazon you can also read the opening tale DRESSING-UP BOX, a few pages of SMILING CYRUS and a handful of mini-tales.

Of course, the best way to read this - and the many other stories in Vol.1 of Cabaret of Dread, is to download it. If you do, I am ever thankful... 

Buy/Download Cabaret of Dread from
Amazon.co.uk | Amazon.com