Party Guest, and I Cling Inside the Border-Wall by Amber Taitague - February Femmes Fatales

Amber Taitague is new to the February Femmes Fatales feast. Regular readers and contributors to my weekly Friday Fiction Prediction challenge will better know Amber as MuckieDuckie.

Amber's writing delivers naughty wickedness, a dark and dangerous outlook that makes you smile - in guilt. Here she revisits two of her Prediction challenge pieces. They are well-chosen and present her intriguing style so well.

Little dabbles with delicious drabbles. Read on...

PARTY GUEST

Balloons drift limply to the floor; the party decorations hanging haphazard throughout the house. A dazed girl in a torn party dress wanders about, wincing at the loud music. She ignores a platter of congealed London broil on the dining table, making her way to the front door.

Her head cocks in puzzlement at the bottleneck she finds. Bodies with empty eye sockets that glare red are piled about like pillow shams.

Softly singing Portishead’s “All Mine” she grabs a jar off the floor, smiling at the eyeballs it contains.

Marie is a collector and she has only just begun.

_________ The End _________

I CLING INSIDE THE BORDER-WALL

When love’s rotation gyrates on fear’s axis, the strain of years doesn’t strengthen the glue of you. The toll bears down heavy.

The cracking you hear is not of bones breaking but of self shattering.

His angry face is on again. He shouts the words that show the border between us and little pitchers hear; small eyes shimmer soft as the television tries to hypnotize.

I’m ice to his flame, no more moved by his rages.

The border-wall recedes, but the space between us is different. We’re half-remembered strangers or half-forgotten friends, but I cling.

Cling to keep us whole.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Amber Taitague has been writing since she was a child, dabbling with short stories and poetry. She recently fell into flash fiction and has been working many years on a novel, however she's guilty of procrastination. She can be seen in 5x5 Issue Four: Smoke.

The Colour of Murder by Dorothy Davies - February Femmes Fatales

Dorothy asks the big question today, "What colour is death, would you say?" Answers at the end please. But read this disturbing narrative first and see if it changes your mind.

Dorothy's speaker is not someone you'd like to meet, worse - is not someone you'd want to discover you actually know.

A chilling, worrying mind to...

THE COLOUR OF MURDER

What colour is death, would you say?

Let us consider the tramp, the vagrant, the homeless, the complete waster/loser in the doorway over there, life’s detritus, - I know not why he is there, nor do I care. He will do well for my synonym right now.

Take a good look at him, if you can bring yourself to do that. He is dirt. He is ingrained dirt, ground in, muddied, worn, grey. As grey as the face you will wear when in your coffin for a short time. When colour goes and preservatives are swilling round your long dead veins, you will go grey.

We can safely say grey is the colour of death.

What colour is life, would you say?

This is more difficult. Looking around, I would say pink is the colour of life, if you take notice of the young girls in their pretty little tops and shorts, with pink bags swinging by their side, pink bows and other fal-de-dals in their hair. Pink princesses, every one of them. Who would want to harm them, I ask, unless of course their demands as princesses become too much and the money will not extend to buying yet another pink thing on demand and then, yes, you could. Do you really think child killers kill only for sexual reasons? No, they take out the whining demanding divas before they become older whining demanding divas. And save us the job. We should praise them, not incarcerate them. They do a public service for the rest of us who cannot stand the whining and demanding.

We can safely say pink is the colour of life. For some.

What colour is love, would you say?

Love is two colours – black and gold.

Love is gold when it is fresh and new, when there is nothing but lust instead of love, when the adored one is everything, when that chasm is breached, the last stronghold of the one against the other – you know of what I speak? Sex, of course. What else drives this human race but sex? Even money doesn’t rank alongside the power of procreation.

And love is black when the lust dims and the loved one becomes familiar and there is a new and exciting gold love just around the next road where you can go and be accepted and invited into that deep chasm which is exactly the same but you fool yourself it is different and the love will never become dim and the loved one become familiar. Oh how we fool ourselves with our desires!

The fallout from the discovery that it is just the same after all makes black the colour of love.

I think sometimes it is the only true colour of love, that the gold is a mere fleeting fantasy which lasts perhaps a whisper away from the white wedding and the new home.

What colour is murder, would you say?

Ah, here we can range over many colours. Silver if there is a blade used, brass perhaps for a blunt instrument, bullets come in all colours, take your pick.

But the true colour of murder is red.

You see … and here come the secrets, which every killer spills in the end, do they not? She – that hussy/slut lover of mine – had a special message for me. Red slinky dress with the longest zip down the back, underneath the red bra cradling creamy globes of delight and red briefs covering the portal of delight.

The dress would slide carefully gently sensuously to the floor, the bra would follow, the briefs a moment later. The red pool on the floor indicated It Was Time. Once, twice a week the red pool would gather on the floor and we would be locked in the timeless embrace of lust.

Then it became once a week, then once a month and I, being the deluded fool that I am, took several months to realize this was happening. Why did I not miss the red pool earlier? But I didn’t.

And then it stopped. Completely.

A further two months went by and I discovered why – another man, of course, one for whom the gold light glowed and the lust was strong and of course he would never become familiar, would he, as I obviously had.

She began to wear pink. Pink dresses, pink underclothes -pink! A reason to kill, if ever there was! Anything but pink! No little girl stuff for me, thank you!

I trapped her in her lies and confronted her with the evidence, photographs, texts, timed calls on the landline, everything. She said she wanted to go and I saw black. The endless black of loneliness and depression of being without her. Of imagining her with another man.

I said fine, go pack. I followed her into the bedroom and watched the packing, watched the red dress and the red underclothes go into the suitcase. When she turned away to get something else, I took out the red bra and the briefs. In a moment I had her helpless, stuffed the briefs into her mouth and, before she could scream them out, strangled her with the red bra. I left her in her own red pool. Blood gushed from her as she struggled, something I didn’t expect. Seems the damn catch on the bra sliced the jugular vein. Perhaps I needn’t have pulled quite that hard. Perhaps I should have made it slow and painful instead of fast and furious. Shows what happens when you lose control. I think about it now; wonder what I would do given another chance. I leave you to decide.

And now she is grey. I made sure of it, made sure she was buried, not cremated, so the beauty would go grey and wrinkly and old and tired long before I did.

The prison cell is pretty much grey too, but nothing I can do about that. I can live with grey. I can even tolerate the occasional flash of pink as the sun sets and the gold of the morning. Pretty much I live with the black of solitude, of being without the woman I loved.

Just don’t ask me to tolerate the colour of murder.

_________ The End _________

Bio: 

Dorothy Davies is a writer, editor and medium who lives on the Isle of Wight, just off the south coast of England. It is reputed to be the most haunted place in the UK, which may explain why she has done nothing but write horror stories since she moved there.

She is an editor and contributor with Static Movement and Red Skies Publishing.

Spangles by Lily Childs - February Femmes Fatales

I originally wrote Spangles for Pill Hill Press's Daily Bites of Flesh 2011 anthology, a huge volume that brought together 365 short horror tales. I have the book on Kindle and still dip into it whenever I need a short, sharp shock of the dark stuff.

Spangles was one of those deviant tales that started with a single sentence; I had no idea where it was going but it wrote itself in the end. I do hope you enjoy it as the narrator might have some other stories up her sleeve, or elsewhere...

SPANGLES

They found sequins in my knickers. The silver disks filled my crevices, finding their way into folds of flesh where they cut and sliced me raw. The question the cops asked themselves – did a killer place them there, or did I?

Hudson swore as his boss gave him the best job of all; standing between my legs to catch the corpse as they cut me down. The wind was ferocious. My body swung in circles from a creaking oak, a pendulum. Hudson danced like a girl, trying to avoid the spillages splattered over the forest floor beneath me. Evacuation - the elegance of death. He caught my thighs and held me tight, gagging as the gales whipped my skirts up to cover his head. His rough-shaven cheek nestled against my cold skin. And that’s when he saw me sparkle.

I whispered at him.

“Touch them.”

Hypnotised, he reached into my torn, stinking panties. He probed gently. The tiny jewels sprinkled into his hands, reflecting the darkness and a thousand skewed versions of his own expression. He gathered them as they fluttered into his fingers. Above me the rope was slashed. I fell, heavy yet empty into his face. We slipped, entwined in carnal embrace to the ground.

*** 

Before the leap, I had already drunk my hostess dry. Her blood and fluids nourished me for six long months until she began to tire. As did I. The taste of her – muted and banal – was no longer heady as darkest California wine. At the edge of the woods where walkers and joggers parade their skinny bones and yapping dogs I arranged a most spectacular end to her life. It was my way of offering up grateful thanks to the woman I’d only ever known as Rambling Rose.

Together, with her hands and my mind we shoved the sequins into her most secret of places. They were a tease, an enticement. She laughed as she jumped from the tree. She smiled as she died.

*** 

Burial of my former self was planned for the following day. Hudson visited the mortuary for the final time, no longer disturbed by the cuts and the collapsed state of Rose’s belly. Her leeched organs, hard as nuts, had been removed. The detective bent over her face. I waited patiently inside the husk, drawing Hudson closer to me with unheard promises. Mouth to mouth.

“Kiss me.”

*** 

With my help Hudson has chosen to travel for a while; the job was getting him down. He wants to see new horizons; feels that something new and lush is burgeoning inside him.

He is strong. His flavour is of Merlot and beef stock. I have gorged myself on him.

Hudson and I cross the state line and set out on the journey, a backpack stuffed to the seams between his shoulders. He is fitter than he has ever been. Freedom weaves through his heart. Sucking his soul in pulses I lie hidden in a purse of silk, bathing in six hundred silver sequins.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Lily Childs is the author of a growing number of short horror and dark fiction stories that have appeared online and in print. Watch out for the first volume of a new collection coming out on Kindle this Spring.

Horror Editor at Thrillers Killers 'n' Chillers, Lily is also a Spinetingler Award 2011 nominee.

The first two short novellas in Lily's Magenta Shaman dark urban fantasy series are available to download from Amazon, with the third book planned for the summer of 2012. She is currently completing her first supernatural novel.

Lines by Laurita Miller - February Femmes Fatales

I'm so excited that Laurita Miller has joined the Femmes Fatales again this year. Her superb fiction and poetry aside Laurita has a lot say about writing itself. Her blog Calling Shotgun is packed with well-considered, almost conversational posts on the craft; she digs deep into topics and lays her thoughts bare. I admire that.

In Lines, her first of two February Femmes Fatales pieces, Laurita tests your comfort levels from the very outset. Let this story move and unnerve you - for it will. And then some.

LINES

The steady, droning buzz was his focus, like a mantra. He never got used to the needle, the little pricks of pain that merged to create a more significant agony. He needed it that way.

He glanced at his arm, at the progress. It wouldn’t take long; just one line this time, stark black on his pale flesh. Little dots of red rose to the surface, mingled with the ink, and he looked away. He didn’t like the sight of his own blood.

When the buzzing stopped he looked down at the finished product, the horizontal slash that crossed four existing vertical lines, a set of five that matched the one above it. Ten. It seemed like a small number, until he saw them grouped that way. He knew the suffering that went with each line.

He paid and left as soon as the work was done. Outside, the evening had cooled. He didn’t bring a jacket, didn’t want the fabric against his throbbing arm. It was really aching now, and there was a heavy knot in his gut.

The cold felt good.

He reached for the crumpled pack of smokes in his pocket and pulled one out with his lips.

Damn.

He took it from his mouth and threw it on the sidewalk, tucked the pack back into his pocket. Just in case.

There was an all-night diner on the corner. What he needed was a good strong cup of coffee, maybe some of that awful apple pie with the cardboard crust. Something to ease his mind, keep his hands busy.

A young waitress pulled the door open just as he reached for it and she almost walked into him.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.” She offered a smile and stepped around him.

“That’s alright,” he whispered, and watched her run across the street to the bus stop, pink skirt and red ponytail swinging.

He found a booth at a window, ordered his pie and coffee without taking menu. It was warm in the diner, uncomfortably so. He drummed his fingers on the table, focused on the drawl and twang from the juke. Outside, the waitress stood underneath the bus stop sign, illuminated by the streetlamp. She pulled her sweater around her and bounced a little on her toes. She craned her neck, looking for the bus. A stray dog wandered over to her, stuck his nose to her leg. She patted him on the head. He thought about the lines on his arm. The ten.

His pie and coffee came, dumped onto the table by a surly middle-aged waitress. The coffee was strong, the pie soggy and flat. He turned back to the window. The young waitress was just climbing onto the bus. Tonight she would relax and prepare for her long shift tomorrow.

He rolled his shoulder, felt the ache in his arm, felt a sob rise in his chest.

She would be number eleven.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Laurita Miller lives on a rock and and collects lines of her own. She sometimes comes out of her basement for coffee. Her work is scattered all over the web, like flies. She blogs here – www.ringkeeper.blogspot.com

Tap, tap,tap by Helen A. Howell - February Femmes Fatales

Helen A. Howell and I are relatively recently acquainted, but goodness me do I like her words. She has a way with pace, pulls no punches and says it like it is.

With this tale Helen chills us slowly, dragging us down to a cold place of terror. It feels like a classic strange story from the distant past.

And the big surprise is - not only can you read TAP, tap, tap - you can also let Helen's lovely voice read it to you [MP3 file: 5MB].

Please enjoy this sixth story, from Helen A. Howell - our fifth February Femme Fatale.

TAP, TAP, TAP

The bird first appeared as a dark shadow overhead, just far enough away for me not to see it clearly. It followed me on my walks; dark, ominous, moving silently above. I shielded my eyes against the sun’s bright light and squinted at it hovering above me. The more I looked, the more I could discern what it was. A raven, a large black bird with iridescent feathers and a wing span so broad it caught the up-draught and hung in the sky.

Who had sent this? What did it mean?

—oOo— 

Cr-r-ruck Cr-ruck. The noise woke me and I glanced at the clock. 5. am. I slipped out of bed and walked over to the window. There resting on the branch of the big oak sat the raven. Its eyes glittered in the light as it tipped its head from side to side. It had now been seven days since I first spotted it. It never left me when I ventured outside but this was the first time I had seen it close up. It balanced on the gnarled bark of the old tree and continued to call to me. Cr-r-ruck Cr-r-ruck— a sound so sharp it touched every nerve in my body. I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help it. I threw open the window and reached out to it, curling my fingers as I beckoned towards it. Its claws wrapped around my wrist and its jet black eyes stared deep into my own. I ran a hand across its inky feathers and a chill ran down my spine. I knew this wasn’t a good idea, that there was something dangerous about this creature, yet I was caught in its spell as hopeless as a fly in a spider's web. No amount of struggling would set me free.

The raven left my arm and glided to rest on the bed post. It turned its gazed towards me; those eyes, something was so familiar about those eyes. But how could that be? I stared at the floor, almost afraid to look back at it.

Tap, tap, tap. What was it doing? I forced myself to look up. Tap, tap tap. It had a picture caught between it claws. It looked at me, then with its beak, tap tap tap on the photograph. I advanced towards it and with a shaking hand I reached out and clasped the photo. Mark! My heart missed a beat.

“How did you get this? It was beneath my clothing in that drawer,” I whispered as I gestured towards the chest, waving the photo in its direction.

Cr-r-runk, Cr-r-runk was its only reply.

At Mark’s funeral I’d wept as the heart broken girlfriend. I looked again into the raven’s face. Those eyes, they’re his, but changed—darker, frightening. For a moment I felt dizzy as the raven held my stare. Unable to tear my eyes away, I walked towards the bed and sat down next to the post where it rested. Lifting my arm, I held it out and the bird climbed on; the photograph fell to the floor. The bird and I were trapped in a moment of time, unable to break free of each other. Just like it was with Mark, until I freed myself.

I lifted my hand and ran my fingers down its silky feathers, then rested them around its throat. Would I free myself from this bird or would it free itself from me? For now, we are joined. It knows my secret but the question is, can it keep it? Time will tell.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Helen has been writing for three and half years and has written several short stories, poems and completed her first novel.

She is a regular contributor to Friday Flash. She has had two poems, a short story and a Drabble published.

Her blog helen-scribbles.com is where she shares her writing.

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