Prediction Winner

A basketcase of earthy bounty this week, my skin crawled with pleasure at your poetry and fiction you glorious writers, you.

Let's have a lookie-see to sum up:

• Michael thrust his way in with The Perfect Successor. Satan takes charge, flashing his serpent as he goes.
• Rebecca's Seed is all wistful, worrying wonder. Children and inheritance of manner and blood.
• Mimi's sacrificial lamb questions the people and faith as dubious rain begins to fall in Small Consolation.
• Aidan's playing an explosive game. Who is the winner, in Mr. Miners Lettuce in the Greenhouse with a Squib?
• The Horned One returns to slake his thirst of Melenka's fecund Pillar of the Community.
• Antonia's Dangerous Dabbling reveals far more than her character expected.
• The world has a sparkling parallel? A fantasy from the waste we make, in Asuqi's Magpies Lost.
• Revenge lies waiting in the arms of the Earth in my Dressing The Well.
• Ellie's pseudo-Messiah makes her mark whilst rejecting the masses in Second Coming.
• ravenways delivers finger food to the drooling Loup Garous in Last One Chosen, followed by her untitled poetry that sings of eternal spectral wanderings.
• Ally's Viet Cong girl submits unwillingly to a cruel platoon; twisted and tragic vengeance in A Songless Bird.
• Chris's Lawrence is asylum-bound when he meets the nubile Helena in the throbbing Waiting on Onuava.
• John's Acolyte obeys demands, utters spurious commandments and eats familial flesh.
• William's character is reeling with grief and regret, honouring the memory of the deceased in Squandered.
• Kim's Oasis leaves us gasping for resolution as his protagonist awaits the sword.
• Anthony is battle-weary but goes the final mile to survive in In Dark Trenches.

That this is hard to judge goes without saying, as always. And just to tell you know now - *next week's winner gets to do the judging!!!

The winner this week is Michael Solender with his gorgeously dark The Perfect Successor; one of the best last liners I've read for ages.

I could choose so many runners-up but it's down to two - ravenways Loup Garous on the make in Last One Chosen and Chris Allinotte's Waiting on Onuava. Both dangerous, both a wicked delight. Well done.

Back tomorrow for the next Prediction - and just a little extra pressure*. Bonne nuit.

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28 Days Later...

A big thank you to everyone who took part and so generously contributed their wonderfully dark fiction and poetry to the 2011 February Femmes Fatales showcase. You are extraordinary writers, each and every one.

I've added a permanent FFF page to the blog now, listing and linking all the authors and their entries. I also understand from the grapevine that several writers would like the opportunity to take part in a future FFF showcase, and so I've included details on how to contact me on the page. Yes, there will be a February Femmes Fatales 2012!

And now to catch up with the writing I had put to one side; I have competitions to enter, submissions to make and deadlines to meet. There's a new novel to plan and some other exciting projects I'm keeping to myself for the moment. I can't wait.

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

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 28th

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

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

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

Arbeit Macht Frei By A J Humpage

Hopeless voices

Entangled branches

Deep wine coloured leaves

Cold breath dancing

In frozen streams.

Slung back rifles, relaxed

And the satisfied stench

Of smiles etched cold

In ribbons of smoke

Stark against the haze.

Hoisted skirts, akimbo legs

Semen stains to soil the skin

Bare breasts like trophies

Chilled to the touch

And wretched in death.

Eyes wide open

But blood still warm

Captured by the camera

Dignity stolen

By the men of war.

Star of David sewn on the arm

But the smile is gone

Clouds fill with spite

The fires burn bright

Day and night.

Their ghostly faces

Shine; frozen in fright

Stilled, fooled hearts

Peace in death

At a price. 

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

All Change for R.S. Bohn - Penultimate February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 27th

She may not forgive me for saying so but R.S. Bohn is bad to the bone - at least her writing is - in the most stunning and beautiful way. She consistently captivates her audience with the obscure and bizarre, treading with ballet-shoes across egg-shells, plunging us in and out of labyrinths.

She is myth and she is corsets; she is a challenge to psychology and a purveyor dreams. Rebecca Bohn is a writer I can't get enough of, and I await her fictional future with relish.

Rebecca's final Femmes Fatales tale First Time For Everything explores misconceptions and bigotry. It equally saddens, frustrates and maddens me; a clever achievement in under 1000 words.

First Time For Everything by R.S. Bohn

Victor’s at the end of the bar with the game machine, blowing smoke over it and taking sips of a martini. He’s not wearing the wig tonight, because it needs to be washed and re-styled, and anyway, it’s too damn hot in Frank’s. They’ve got the door propped open by him, but there isn’t a hint of a breeze. He sighs and rubs his temple. Wishes he could go to another bar.

The front door opens, everyone looks. A skinny kid in a long black coat, no shirt underneath, sunglasses on even as he makes his way through the gloom up to the stretch of polished mahogany, a relic of days when Frank’s was Frankie’s Place and the after crowd would hang here, talking about the play or orchestra or whatever the hell had gone on down at the Broad. Before the Broad closed and they all went away, leaving the junkies and people like Victor to fill in the empty spaces.

The kid's hair is greased, slicked back. Victor thinks the kids these days try too hard. He thinks this as he puts down his martini glass and cigarette and swivels up lipstick for a fresh coat.

He stares at the screen, waiting for the door to open again. The kid’s got a clique, no doubt. They’ll be in here any minute, loud, boisterous, annoying Frank’s regulars, who just want to drink their drinks and smoke their smokes and talk about how it isn’t like it used to be.

Another martini – no rocks, extra olives – appears at his elbow. He frowns at Danny. “What’s this?”

Danny grins. “You got an admirer.” He walks away. “There’s a fucking first for everything.”

“Fuck off,” tsks Victor after him, but he’s nervous. What does the kid want? He’s coming over, trying to sway, trying to make the most of the slim bit of chest he’s got, those matchstick hips. Twelve. He looks twelve to Victor. But then, they all do these days. Little boys.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

Victor could laugh at the dramatic huskiness the kid’s putting on. He puts a hand over his mouth, then says, “Victor. Thanks for the drink. Now kindly fuck off.”

The kid’s face falls. It’s a pretty face. Narrow, smooth, tanned. Dark eyes behind the cheap sunglasses. No. Victor will not fall for pretty boys that look Brazilian. He had enough of those seven years ago with Juan.

“I thought we could…”

“What? Talk? Go out back for a quick suck?” Victor rolls his eyes when the kid’s face momentarily lights up.

“I heard that…” The kid pauses. “I heard that this place, you know, Frank’s…”

“Yes, this is Frank’s.”

“You know. That sometimes, some guys. Uh.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Victor stares.

“Eighteen.”

“That’s better. No lies.” He sips his martini and lowers his voice. “There are a lot of men in here who might be interested, but I’m not one of them.”

The kid shuffles closer. He smells like tanning lotion and Gaultier, dear god. He leans in. “Look. I’ve never done this before. You…”

“Look like I’ve done this before?”

The kid shrugs. He looks miserable.

Victor takes pity on the kid, who probably just got out of school after keeping his sexual orientation secret for four years. A kid who’s trying too hard, and doesn’t know the rules yet. And besides, he looks Brazilian.

The bathroom’s just behind them. Victor tips his head, the kid follows him. The light is dim yellow, the walls and ceiling burgundy rubber.

“What’s your name?”

“Paul.”

“Well, Paul, there is a first for everything,” he says, and undoes the top button of the kid’s jeans.

He’s amazed, though he shouldn’t be. He’s forgotten what eighteen is like: the kid probably woke up hard, jerked off, and has been hard all day since.

“Lock the door,” whispers Paul.

Victor, already down on his knees, groans and shoots the kid a look for making him get up off his old knees. He locks the door. When he turns around, Paul is zipped back up. He starts to think the boy’s changed his mind, when it hits him. The kid’s fist. Left cheek. He goes down to one side, unable to defend himself – it’s happening too quick. Another blow. Another. He can’t call out. He’s got no breath to call out. His head knocks against the sink, and he tries to slip under it.

“I’m not a faggot.”

The blows have stopped. For the moment. Victor, hand over one side of his face, looks up. Paul is shaking.

“I’m not a faggot. Say it.”

Victor wipes a hand across his mouth, smearing blood and China Red. “You. Are not a faggot,” he says softly.

“No,” says the kid, staring down, wild-eyed. His thin chest heaves. He looks like he’s going to cry. He’s out the door, fumbling with lock, yanking it open and disappearing. The door shuts again, leaving Victor, the faggot, on the floor with a face full of pain. It’s not the first time. He wishes it was, but it’s not.

He thinks about Paul, running shirtless into the summer night, black coat flapping. No, it’s not the first time. It hasn’t been the first time for a long time now.

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Bio:

RS Bohn lives in a suburb outside of Detroit with a motley troupe of creatures and one lucky man. She's currently writing a steampunk novel, and you can find more of her shorter work here: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com/

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Counting Down, 1..2..3... Dorothy Davies, February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 26th

And so we count down to the final three days of the February Femmes Fatales showcase. The standard of writing has been extraordinary, and these upcoming pieces are by no means last in quality. On the contrary.

Dorothy Davies; author, editor, mentor displays herself here in a literary sense. Hers is a matter-of-fact declaration of intolerance. There is no moral high-ground, simply a territorial case of 'this belongs to me, and if you break the rules - you pay.' That's the way it is; if you don't like it...

Of course, as a piece of fiction we do like it very much. I've already read Do You Happen To Have... several times,  but I still want more. How about you...?

Do You Happen To Have... by Dorothy Davies

Do you happen to have...

No, before I ask you that, let me explain why I need to know. You know the best way to dispose of a body? Dump it in the cellar and let the rats feed. Simple, isn’t it? How come no one seems to have done it? Oh, there’s the small problem of what to do with the bones but – well, come night and a mallet, you can smash bones into tiny fragments which can then be tossed in with the household refuse and who knows what goes into the back of the refuse lorry and then to the landfill site?

That’s what I did with the charity worker who refused to accept ‘no thank you’ as a polite way of saying ‘I don’t care about your charity; I have enough to do catering for my own, thank you very much’. He would argue, so I invited him in. Fool that he was he came in, too, thinking he would convince me with his superlatives and his greased hair and his false teeth. He didn’t, he just gave me a good deal more to smash up. Good job I don’t have neighbours.

The rats fed well that night.

It’s not that I enjoy killing, you understand. I am not that heartless. I just – like the power of life and death. I like to survey the person standing on my doorstep and decide whether they should live or die. Are they of any use to mankind; are they better off being disposed of? Those who come to deceive and steal, they are of no use to anyone so they become – well, rat food, basically. Other people go to the supermarkets and buy cat food and dog food; I get rat food delivered to the door. On foot. No effort involved.

The rats are multiplying, though and they need more food than they did when I began. Oh, when did I begin? Who was the first to meet his fate in my cellar? I think it was the simpering irritating canvasser for the local Tory party. I don’t vote. Don’t believe in it. Why waste time and effort putting a pencil cross – and how demeaning is that, I ask you? Make your mark, peasant! No signatures needed here! – to vote in someone who you will never hear from again. No, I refuse and I told this simpering twit I refuse.

‘Suffragettes fought for your right to vote!’ he insisted.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you have it entirely wrong, little man. They fought for the right for women to vote. Not for me. I came into this world a long time after that right was given – and remember this, they didn’t win the vote; it came about through the war.’

At this point he put a foot in the house as if to attack me, so great was his rage, so I stood back and let him in. Not a thought in my head at that moment of anything but – shall I be honest? Pure malice. I wanted to confound him; I wanted to flatten the ego with which he came. Instead I flattened his head and threw him down the steps... No I didn’t, I rolled him down the steps into the cellar.

You see, I knew there were rats down there and I had done nothing about them. Animal lover, you understand, can’t bear to kill anything. No traps or poison for me. So they lived there quite happily, cohabiting with me. I didn’t bother them, they didn’t bother me.

Until they got the taste for flesh.

It’s a bit of a job keeping them supplied but I can do it, if I work hard enough at it. No sign on my door about no callers, I welcome them.

Then I invite them in to talk. And tea. And a visit to the cellar – that’s not optional, by the way, that’s compulsory.

I started a new game last week. Not killing them first. Oh the fun I had hearing the squeals and shrieks and screams and hammering on the cellar door. They don’t know I bribed the local builder to reinforce that door with steel. Looks like old battered wood on their side. What a joke, I laughed myself silly first time it happened.

I just have this small problem. The rats are multiplying and like I said, no traps or poisons for me, animal lover that I am.

There’s only one solution and you might be able to help me with that.

Do you happen to have the mobile number for the Pied Piper?

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Bio:

Dorothy Davies, writer, medium and editor, lives on the Isle of Wight, that small haunted island off the south coast of England. There she writes her very strange stories and channels books from spirit authors about their lives and loves and their need to put the record straight.

Dorothy Davies Author, 'Death Be Pardoner To Me', the life of George, duke of Clarence.

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Lily's Friday Prediction

The glory of morning rises over the Sussex coast... or at least it would if it wasn't so damp and squib-like. (What is a squib anyway, and why does it always have to be damp?) Anyway, it's my final day off and I intend to use it, skin-sucking mist or not.

This is of course has nothing whatsoever to do with the Friday Prediction so I'll ram my fist into my big mouth and get on with it.

Firstly, many congratulations to Mimimanderly whose poignant and dignified tale Letting Go was the winner of last week's challenge. Well done too to Melenka for her marvellously twisted poem Wed, which caught the runner-up cup.

To me, this week's words are simple but immediately evocative. I just know they'll inspire you. And for regulars, I'm sure you'll be relieved to know I'm giving your Thursdays back - at least for the time being.

• Fertile
• Thirst
• Denounce

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 all week until 9pm UK time on Thursday 3rd March to enter.

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

I look forward to your scribbles, drabbles, poems, coquettish prose and dangerous flash. In fact, I'm hungry for them...

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Sparkling and sumptuous Susan May James - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 25th

Susan May James opened the February Femmes Fatales showcase with Shadows. Her second generous offering, Rubies is equally well-written, and just as strange.

There's a poetic magic to the story of Jasmine and her rubies; the conversations she has with them twinkle as much as the fairy-lights in her London apartment.

But I will say no more, except that life is not all roses, even if they are ruby-red...



Rubies by Susan May James

Pulling on her stiletto boots Jasmine sits on the bench near the door and casts a final glance around the studio flat. Everything is perfect; the dark burgundy curtains are drawn, fairy lights twinkle in strands from the ceiling to the walls and unlit candles dot tabletops and shelves. The sofa bed has been made up with satin sheets and topped with a crushed velvet throw and three plump pillows. ‘Sumptuous,’ she coos as she stands up and crosses the room. Her steps are heavy, causing her heels to echo against the laminate floor. Pausing in front of a small table in the corner of the room she closes her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and calming her nerves. Incense wafts up, drenching her in a cloud of sandalwood as she opens her eyes to look down at her collection of crystals and gemstones. Amber, rose quartz and amethyst catch her eye but her hand reaches out to wrap around a large polished piece of aventurine. Holding the pale turquoise coloured sphere tight to her chest, absorbing its properties, she reaches with her other hand for a small velvet bag. After a few moments, she replaces the sphere, slips the velvet bag into her coat pocket and leaves the flat.

Sirens blare as she makes her way along Camden High Street. The street is wet and the air damp and thick with the smell of fast-food. She darts down a small alleyway and into a bar. Music pulses and her eyes take time to adjust while she buys a drink and sits down, her long skirt brushing the floor. She takes out the velvet pouch and shakes three raw rubies into her palm. Each the size of the tip of her baby finger, they are dull and flecked with impurities. Nonetheless she smiles as she holds them, knowing the process won’t take long.

She sheds her leather coat and is just leaning back to sip her drink when a man at the next table smiles and tries to catch her eye. She grips the rubies but nothing happens and so she ignores him and checks her watch. The man turns away and she sighs, looking round the room as she strokes one of the rubies between her thumb and forefinger. The second one is more self-assured as he approaches, greeting her with a cocky grin. He sits down and introduces himself but his voice is lost in the dull roar that washes over her. The experience is similar to holding a seashell to her ear, only much more intense. As the rush fades, the rubies grow cool in her palm and when she glances down she sees that they’ve grown darker in colour. The rubies work more quickly now. Looking up at the man she meets his gaze and smiles. He is the one, the rubies whisper.

‘What are those?’ he asks as she puts them back into their velvet pouch.

‘Oh, just my lucky charms,’ she replies before taking a sip of her drink.

His name is Thomas and he works for a small PR firm in Kentish Town. “I don’t normally come in here,” he says. “But it’s been a long day so I thought I’d stop in for a swift half.”

Jasmine nods, he’s not really her type, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not her decision. She notes the faint line on his finger; slightly indented and pale in contrast to the rest of his tanned skin.

“Are you married?” she asks.

“No,” he is quick to reply and changes the subject. “What do you do?”

Looking away so he doesn’t see the flash of resentment in her eyes, Jasmine finishes her drink. “I’m a pharmacist.”

Thomas stands up, “So, what are you drinking?” he asks but she hesitates, explaining that she prefers to get her own drinks.

“It’s just that I don’t know you,” she says as he sits back down. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but I like to be careful.” He accepts this and passes her a banknote before she heads to the bar.

As she waits for their drinks she turns her back to him and slips her hand into her skirt pocket, discreetly working a small tablet into her palm. Then, as the bartender turns away, she deftly drops it into the drink and reaches for a swizzle stick. Smiling, Jasmine returns to the table.

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol and drug to take effect and they stagger towards her flat. Although Jasmine is sober, she stumbles under his weight as she guides him up the stairs. Once inside, she just manages to get him onto the bed as he passes out. With a sigh of relief and anticipation, she quickly rolls him over and cuffs his hands behind his back. She then lights the candles and a fresh stick of incense, taking a moment to switch on the stereo and lava lamp. The sound of pan flutes fills the room as she spreads a large tarpaulin onto the floor and drags her tools out from under the sofa bed. Fairy lights twinkle and she pauses to admire the atmosphere.

After awhile she heaves Thomas onto the floor and strips off his clothes. Folding them into a bundle she places them into a carrier bag; tomorrow she will donate them to a charity shop.

Hours later she sits with her head on the kitchen table, exhausted. Her task is near completion; the cutting had been arduous but now all the pieces are individually wrapped in plastic and packed into two large suitcases. It had taken her longer this time and daylight now creeps in round the edges of the curtains. Disposal must wait.

Nonetheless she is satisfied; she always listens to her rubies and follows their bidding.

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Bio:

SUSAN MAY JAMES is a Canadian born writer living in London. She writes flash fiction, short stories and is currently working on a novel. Her other passions include travel, photography and history and she can be found scribbling and scattering on her blog; Scribble & Scatter.