It’s A Long Way To Sometime by Dorothy Davies - February Femmes Fatales

Dorothy's back already with a terrifying tale that freaks me out every time I read it.

I dare you - read it more than once and see where it takes you. Then tell us what you saw.

Hate to show off, but I loved making this particular 'cover'.

IT'S A LONG WAY TO SOMETIME

One step. One step me. Earth shook. Shook much, dust fell on head. My head. Dust on head. One step I took more. Dust fell. Do not want dust on head.

Two steps I do. Clever. I walk. Them said “he never walk.” Them wrong. I walk. See three steps. Now no care about dust.

I want.

I want same as others.

Mother. Father. Brother. Sister. Home.

I want.

They not want me.

Four steps. Five steps. I walk. I walk good.

This. This door. This stop me walk any more. Bang. No door stop me walk any more.

This is. What they say? New.

This is. Room. Big. Walk here good. More steps. How many more steps. Ten more steps. I walk good. Them say “he never walk.” Them wrong. I walk. I walk good. I no care about dust. I walk.

Oh. Person stop me walk. Bang. Person no stop me walk. No one stop me walk. I walk good.

I walk out of here.

I not like here. I not like noise. No. Not noise. Person sound. Scream. Yes. Scream. Person see me and scream. I not like. I stop scream. Bang. Scream stop.

More person. More person run and scream. Say “he walk!” I say “I walk good!” but I only make noise. Not word. Why I not make word? I big. I walk good. I talk – talk? Make word is talk? Person go from me. Good. I not like person. Stop me walk. No one stop me walk.

Out. Out door. Door no bang. Door open. Person – bang. Person lie down. Person not move. Good. No stop me walk. No stop me, I walk good.

What is light. Light in sky. Light is hot. Light is hot on me. I know I hair. Lot of hair. Person say “he lot of hair.” Good or not good? Person not say. I not know.

I walk. I walk good. Person scream loud and I go bang and stop person scream. Person run away. All person run away. I walk good with no person.

Dust fall on head. Earth shake when I walk. I walk good. I no like dust but I like outside. I like no person stop me.

Oh. What is – box. Round things. Noise. Scream. No, not scream. Shout. Shout STOP! Bang. Box go flat. Round things go flat. No more STOP.

I remember.

I remember Mother. Mother soft. No bang for Mother. Mother good. I remember Father. Father not soft. Bang for Father. Father bad. I remember brother. Brother soft. Small. No bang for brother. Brother run fast, cry, run, not me. I walk good. I no run. I walk and go – fast. Big legs. Person said “he has big legs. He take long steps.” Other person said “he no walk.” Person wrong. I walk good. I take long steps. I go fast.

I remember sister. Sister soft. No bang for sister. Sister cry and – touch me. Touch hair. Call me “teddy bear.” What is “teddy bear”?

I remember. Mother said “I come and see you sometime.”

Father no say nothing. Father bang lie down no move.

Brother say “It’s a long way.”

I say “What is? Sometime?” I walk. I walk good. I walk fast. I see person run scream hide I see no person to bang no person to stop no person to bring box and round things to stop walk.

I go.

I go find mother. I tired of room. I tired of bars. I tired of person who call me an – im – al and hit me. I bang person. I big. I strong. I bigger now. Mother know me.

I say “it sometime. I come.”

Brother say “it’s a long way.”

I say “it’s a long way to sometime”. No know what is but sound good in head.

No one stop me.

I walk good.

No person to bang.

Sometime. I come.

_________ The End _________

Dorothy Davies

Bio: Dorothy Davies lives and works on the haunted Isle of Wight, where she works with spirit authors, some of whom are horror writers who have not yet finished with their horror writing.

 She is a full member of the Fictioneers as well as editor and contributor to many Static Movement anthologies and guest editor at Red Skies Publishing, too.

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

As we teeter on the edge of "will it snow, or won't it?" all I can think about it is locking myself into a cosy sitting-room in front of a roaring fire and writing, writing, writing. Alas - this isn't going to happen!

And so life goes on.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

We owe John Xero huge applause for taking the time to comment on the truly varied entries over the last two weeks. I offer my personal thanks to him for holding the fort while I wasn't quite myself (make of that what you will) - I'm on the mend now - but thank you John!

Over to our guest judge...

"Wow... this is not easy. And you do this every week? How? ;)

There were some really creepy characters, chilling moments, shudder-worthy descriptions. But my winner has to be the piece that had them all...

Tiptoe by Dion Winton-Polak

Some great descriptions, with little touches like the Tchaikovsky and her mind pirouetting on into the future that really round it out. A horror in itself and for its reflection of the real world. Brilliant.

My runner-up was a close contender for the top spot too, and much gnashing of teeth there was in deciding.

Revolution by Phil Ambler

For a depth of description you rarely see in under a hundred words, for capturing a scene and a moment so wholly. Impressive writing."

And there we have it. Congratulations Dion and Phil!

Words for 03 February 2012

Here we go...

• Mangle
• Penalty
• Dice

What can you do with these naughty little'uns?

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 9th February 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 10th February. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it.

Get those frozen fingers walking. Your pages are blank and begging for your words. And so am I...

___________________________________

The Last Picture Show by Dorothy Davies - February Femmes Fatales

Regular Predictioneers (contributors to my weekly Friday fiction challenge) will better know Dorothy Davies as Antonia Woodville - horror writer extraordinaire and editor of a growing collection of anthologies for Static Movement and Red Skies Press.

Dorothy has supported The Feardom, my writing and that of many others for a long time. It's a privilege to offer not one, not two but six marvellous pieces of her flash fiction in February Femmes Fatales 2012.

Please enjoy this first nostalgic tale from our Dorothy. I am wearing sparkling red shoes in her name - all ready to click together and take me home.


THE LAST PICTURE SHOW

It mattered not that the curtains looked the worse for wear, the hem hanging down a little, the runners showing where the weight of the curtains had dragged holes over the years. The fact remained they were temporarily hiding the reason the building had an existence – the huge silver screen. Fly speckled, marked here and there, it mattered not. The anticipation from the audience in the auditorium was palpable, a hush of unspoken words, a withholding of the rustle of popcorn and other comestibles, that indescribable smell and atmosphere accumulated over many years: bodies clothes, food, sighs, tears, cries, held breath, screams and laughter.

This was the last picture show. At the end of tonight’s performance the doors would close for the last time. In future, films would be shown in the new multi screen complex across town, bright, glittering place with chrome and fine flooring, with carpet and seats that tilted and did not move when you leaned back. Move as in their moorings had come adrift from the floor. It added something to the ambience of this old, much loved building.

I crept in quietly, almost on tiptoe, not wanting to disturb anyone’s breathless anticipation of the curtains gliding open and the screen being revealed in all its tarnished glory. I found empty seats, which I didn’t expect, and sat three in from the side aisle. It was not the best of positions but it would do. There was room for two others if they chose to come and share the rest of the row with me. On my other side someone grunted and shifted, but did not look round.

The music blared, the numbers began rolling, white on black and the pre-feature programme began. I allowed myself to submerge all thoughts in the magical moment, the losing of self in the actions on the screen. Someone crept in as quietly as I did and sat down next to me. We nodded to one another in the darkness, nothing said, eyes swiftly turning back to the screen. A sigh seemed to come from my new companion, one I echoed. Contentment. Filmgoers of the world unite!

All too soon the interval came and music blared out of ancient speakers. There was chatter and laughter, a sense of heightened emotion, anticipation, eagerness, a mixture of so much unclassified, indescribable. My companion, an elderly man I had seen many times before, nodded in time to the nonsensical piece of rhythm which ended and began again, same record. A few people laughed. It ended, it began again. This time whistles and shouts had erupted, there was stamping of feet and yells of laughter. By the time it began again, when it was obvious to all that the impending closure had left the cinema with just one record, the entire audience was in uproar, laughter shaking ancient dust from ancient carvings and light fittings. I smiled; the sense of the absurd was beyond belief and unbelievably funny. My companion was laughing so hard I feared for his heart.

It took a while for the audience to settle down after the nonsense with the record, but the main feature began and the theatre became silent. Clint Eastwood strutted his stuff across the screen many times larger than he actually is –or was – shooting all and sundry, fighting his way out of this battle and that. It was almost a shock when the film finally ended. The credits rolled and we were on our feet, some ready to slide out, others prepared to stand and show respect as the National Anthem was played.

It was then I smelled smoke.

It was then I realized three things, as I did at this point every Halloween. First, the theatre had caught fire, second, judging by the frantic screams and yells of trapped people, the fire doors would not open and third, recalling the local newspapers I had seen afterwards, not one of us survived.

Where we were is a block of flats, ugly, functional, utilitarian and dull. We died because some idiot, anticipating the closing of the cinema, locked the doors. This I knew, this I could accept, if only…

…We were not summoned back from our graves every Halloween.

I just wish that the dead could be allowed to sleep in peace.

_________ The End _________

Dorothy Davies

The first part of this story actually happened, but not on the Isle of Wight where I live. Here there was a very old cinema and someone who used to entertain the waiting audience with a glove puppet around the side of the curtain…

Bio: Dorothy Davies, editor, writer and medium lives on the Isle of Wight, where she writes strange stories and edits strange anthologies and has a wonderful time doing both.

Bloodwork by Tania Redd - February Femmes Fatales

Tania Redd excels at unnerving her readers from the outset then teases them with hints of betrayal, success, even sacrifice before plunging them into the deep end - without mercy.

I have had the pleasure of hearing Tania read not only her short crime and horror fiction but also excerpts from her novel. And I am very excited at what she has to say. 

I am so pleased to welcome Tania as the second February Femme Fatales in this year's showcase. I just know we'll want to hear from more this thrilling writer.

BLOODWORK

Derek derives pleasure from cool chicks and Sundays. Chicks don’t come much cooler than the ones slabbed out in the mortuary. Sundays bring in fresh meat, a result of low hospital staffing levels at weekends and an increase in road traffic accidents.

It’s not a job for the fainthearted. The laborious process takes time, patience and skill. The intimate setting of his workplace allows him to be up close and personal with the casualties. He whistles as he checks the tag against the clipboard, slides her out, and places her in the supine position. Step one - check the radial artery, make sure there’s no pulse. Satisfied, he stirs the germicidal solution, swabs her feet and legs. Working his way up the torso, he pauses to run his fingers up and down her swanlike neck for a moment before drying her off.

Derek meticulously follows the procedures laid out in the embalmer’s handbook. If he follows best practice now he will pick up the needle, ready to inject the right carotid artery to drain blood and internal fluids from the jugular. He will massage the body, bending and flexing limbs to break up any circulatory clots and relieve rigor mortis before filling cavities with embalming fluid. But even best practice can benefit from upgrade. The recent epiphany Derek experienced allows him to take shortcuts, indulge in avant garde procedures, makes his job more satisfying.

It starts with a tremor, now his whole body is shuddering, hunching, compressing; his breath quickens; lips smack together then purse rhythmically like a dying fish. Transition complete, he inches across her, attaches himself to her, positions his sucker, and with daggered teeth penetrates the artery. He sucks at her feverishly, lapping wildly to avoid seepage.

Formalities over in seconds, she’s being tidied up. Derek doesn’t view himself as a deviant defiler, a predatory parasite who seeks thrills by degrading the defenceless and decomposing. It’s a quid pro quo arrangement. He moisturises her face and lips to stop dehydration, applies powder and rouge to feign a healthy pallor. Nobody’s coming to view, but he dresses her regardless; clothing the corpse is part of the service.

Sated, he locks up, leaves, and chances the dual carriageway.

...................................

Derek wonders where he is. He’s unable to move, talk or see – his eyelids firmly glued shut. But he can hear. Scraping noises. He’s being lifted, slapped on a table, naked and exposed. He can hear voices now, women? The place is crawling with them. What the hell... they’re all pawing at him, and is that water? They’re washing him? Derek strains his ears; hears lip smacking and sucking. HIRUDINEA LIED! He said Derek was the chosen one. The sanguinivorous annelid that came to him in the middle of the night promising eternal life is after more than a pounding of flesh. Sweet Jesus, Hirudinea’s recruited a whole army! As a whiff of formaldehyde and ethanol enters his nostrils a terrified voice inside him screams “CHECK THE RADIAL ARTERY BITCHES!”

_________ The End _________

Bio: Tania Redd enjoys writing black comedy, horror and crime fiction in the form of short film scripts. She is currently redrafting her first novel and working on a radio play.

The Fog by Anna Harris - February Femmes Fatales

WELCOME TO FEBRUARY FEMMES FATALES 2012!

Over the next twenty-nine days the wonderful work of sixteen writers will be published on The Feardom in this year's February Femmes Fatales dark fiction and poetry showcase.

Visit us every day of the month to read the most wickedly gorgeous writing by some amazingly talented women.

February 01

This showcase opener this year is The Fog by Anna Harris. Anna and I have been rubbing virtual shoulders since I first got 'out there' in early 2009 - having met on Talkback, the UK's Writing Magazine online forum and then through Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers.

She is not only a very talented writer, she is also a most supportive listener and reader.

Anna has a unique voice; she manages to touch your trembling skin in whispers to leave you chilled far further than the bone.

Please welcome Anna to February Femmes Fatales...


THE FOG

Bleak, ashen mist licks at my pasty skin like a snuff-dazed whore still mellow from her last hit. Cold, unearthly hands paw at this clammy skin drawn tightly across the hollows of my sunken jowls. I tug a woollen scarf closer over my clenched jaw and avoid the dim glow of gaslight in Buck’s Row, turning instead into the cover of a dank alleyway on Whitechapel.

A dripping sewer pipe under the bluestone arch rhythmically taps out a chilling monotone note that fails to keep time with my thudding heartbeat, its haunting echo disrupted only by a distant foghorn and a PC’s whistle.

The fog languidly strokes me, salivates. She swills her tongue seductively around my cloak, muffling cautious movement and deadening my deliberate footfall over the cobblestones. Then indolent, gluttonous, she whispers in my ear, “Paint her red, Jack, paint her red.”

She’s eager for me. Ravenous. Breathless.

A bony hand slides deeper into my pocket to encircle the cold shaft of steel. Steady now. It must be slow, measured; an intimate, unhurried tango of lust.

Fog’s wispy fingers beckon me deeper into the folds of her ethereal embrace and I take up her invitation, move further into the cloying, drab vapour.

Then she’s blowing again slowly, gently, “Paint her red, Jack, paint her red,” softly in my ear and stoking a long extinguished fire in my belly until I lose all reason.

She has me at her mercy. I allow her to seduce me, envelope me, engulf me.

I take up my blade, my artisan’s brush, poised to do my misty wraith’s bidding. I am her creator of colour, a master craftsman of design, daubing graphic slashes in vivid vermillion and sensual scarlet. Bloodied red streaks to paint the wan grey canvas of my lover’s kiss.

My portrait cries out a brief overture, a signal the opus has begun but then gurgles and bubbles and becomes as silent as the tempestuous haze lapping at my easel.

Ecstasy consumes me and I paint and I paint until my frenzied creation is complete.

Silence. I step back to capture the artwork, to etch the masterpiece into an indelible vision to savour later.

I breathe again. The smell of the mist, my mist, damp and thick caresses my nostrils. Sooths . I’m replete.

Far away voices intrude on our reverie. The tinkle of broken glass. A cat’s mewl. A foghorn.

Sated, my spectral mistress secretes me once more in the pallor of her comforting womb, sheaths me in her swirling, cosseting blanket to see me safely home until the moment she will entice me out again with the promise of another erotic dalliance in her voracious arms.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Anna Harris can be read in numerous e-zines and publications such as Pill Hill Press and Static Movement.

She has no problem writing about murderers, ghouls or headless horsemen but if you really want to hear her scream drop her into a field full of cows.

Coming Soon - February Femmes Fatales 2012

One day to go!

The wonderful work of sixteen authors will be published on The Feardom in this year's February Femmes Fatales dark fiction and poetry showcase. 

Put February 1st in your diary, then visit us every day of the month to read the most wickedly gorgeous writing by some amazingly talented women.

We'll be waiting...