EROS ERRORS by Absolutely*Kate - February Femmes Fatales

Oh, how the world has been waiting for the truly, madly, deeply unique voice of Absolutely*Kate Pilarcik. Never - I promise you - will you have read words performed or uttered in such a way. She peddles intelligence in places that need her, rising above academia to pirouette between clouds of creativity.

If you don't know Kate, you'll think I gush too much; if you do... you know I speak the truth.

Not only does Ms Kate write with a mythical authority but she also spends her extremely valuable time promoting the work of others. Do read her extended Bio below EROS ERRORS for places to meet with her, share with her and be inspired. But if you don't do anything else then take the time to dally at The Bijou where Noir is the order of every single day.

And now, I give you...

EROS ERRORS

Pointed arrows make sharp points.
Light doth hark though heralds dark.
Trajectories sublime hover joy o'day
yet ironically, swallow bitter dismay.

Once upon a Myth, Truth became a fragile Reality. I have lived to tell this tale, but barely, just barely, and delectably, with pun ensconced. Let's make that firmly ensconced, where Cupid, ne'er stupid, made good his golden mark 'pon my naked truth.

Amazing what flies in one's open window on a deep-sleep moonless night. Son-of-a-bitchin' son of Venus became my plight . . . but ahhhhh, my pleasure too. Therein lies the rub. His rub, his reach, his grasp, his touch, his lurid tongue, all to lure me in, to make me his Psyche . . . sensually, his soul-felt mate. Eros' arrow lost potency to do the deed his maniacal mother bade proceed. Vexed rose vainglorious Venus when sunny sonny boy botched his midnight mission. (Even more so, when her cosmos of spy-minions chortled on about our conflagrant positions.)

Cock-sure was Eros, where his potency did excel. He lusted me as his heaven ~ I knew him as my hell. Skin against skin, depth surging depth, eyes screaming 'Yes!' to permissions unwhispered. Like butterfly wings our animated force beat on as breath of Life itself. But what price to pay, for natural beauty sensating his way? You've no idea what damage a riled up goddess on a rampage can do, do you?

Mama Venus, by her lopsided Aphroditian soul, had access to the wilds of the four winds, and the ear of zany Zeus. She conjured plots of torment and avidly let loose. Oh she did. And she did some more. Twas majestic for immortal gentry to see, though for me to abhor. I mean, who was I - just a gal minding her own earthly business, setting her womanly wiles on betrothal to a run-of-the-grist Alexander or Barnabus, Damon or Gregorious? But come the vivid rage of Venus, no one reigned victorious.

The world itself floundered without Love begot from Cupid's arrows, for Eros -- as he was known at the best Greek daises -- went on strike. He resisted the persistence of his mother's vile insistence. The floundering world withered, cold to touches which now did not come. Eros came though. Again and again, invisibly so. He hunted the locale where I was secreted away. The good god of the west wind, sage Zephyrus, turncoated loyalties as he suited, and whisked me to higher safety, a mountaintop away. There, night after night, Eros entered more than my chambers. Passion's darkness beaconed his insight.

Greater insights though were needed for our erotic coupling to see eye to eye. Eros coulda, shoulda, woulda seen barricades to my being his beloved, but mama-boy gods are not consistently clever. Have you truly looked up into menacing skies on a stormy day? The Underworld hath no fury like a furie scorned. Venus on rampage through the heavens did emerge. Nevertheless, tough love is tough love and I went searching for potency in answers.

"Will you help me, to a together-ever-after . . . for your son, certainly you see, is enamored of me?," squeaked the tentative tenacity of my ardent plea.

There then, the mother-lode of a bitch showed true her colours -- envy green and pitched black to taunts testing me. "Separate these grains in this basket before the nightfall! Retreive golden wool from the field where the killer sheep graze! Make water flow from a serpent-guarded rock-cleft impossible to see!" Verily, Venus staged set-up shots and torment traps deigned for my mortal failure. Only sheer valour conjured fortunate what my spirit called forth in mystical aid: An ant busied his little self with dissection of the grains. A river-god warned of the killing fields, pointing instead where branch and bark beckoned rubbed off wool for the gathering. I was no goddess' fool. I thanked all these spirits heartily, including the soaring eagle who winged about my water divination. But salutations aside, Venus veered one more task, a greater task, a greater risk. "Go into the Underworld, Girly. Bring me back a box, bountiful with bits of beauty."

How I muttered low, how I glared at the mother goddess so. "Go connoiter your own cosmetic challenges, venal Venus!," I wished I'd shouted. Upon my descent to the Underworld of Hell, how I regretted not telling her where to go. But I muddled on. Will Love conquer darkness? This time I prayed aloud, for an oracle of an outcome. A tower of power came to my aid and this task too, I muddled through. But I was tired. So tired. Bone tired. Stop in my tracks up out-of-the-horrors-of-the-Underworld tired. So I peeked into the bit of beauty box, for any small touch of revival.

Zap! Zowie! An eternal infernal sleep arose to my head with such a clatter before my battered senses bade what was the matter. Then there, in true courses due, on blitzing, on dashing, the fate of my Eros/Cupid flew. By Jove and by Jupiter, we got this thing right! A celestial council was convened. Heavenly, the democratic vote careened. Gods and goddesses, bless those Greeks and their political discourse ~ of the mortals, by the mortals and for the mortals. Celebration lit the heavens. They served me ambrosia and immortality. As I said, I'm no fool. I sipped full of both. We wedded. We bedded. We honeymooned on Mount Olympus.

When our daughter was born, Grandma Venus and I ultimately saw it best to see eye-to-eye. Intuitively gleaning less power as adversaries. we femme-fataled a truce of peace. Doubling our pleasures insured that the world prospered . . . the ambrosia flowed . . . the democracy of the Greeks would garner a model of political genius . . . and for centuries to come, many would play good sport upon Mount Olympus.

~ ~ ~ 

ILLUSTRATION:  L'Amour et Psyché, by Francois Edouard Picot

T H E    E N D ?

No, not at all. Only the beginning of a brazen beguine. 

Eros and Psyche named their girl ~ Voluptuas. 

In translation, to all immortal days ~
'Sensual Pleasures' lives on.

________________________________________

Bio: Absolutely*Kate? Prolific author and promoter/publisher of innate design flair with moxie. World needs more moxie. Her writings flow as shadows shimmer Noir, as creamy poils on Ziegfeld Goils, and in synergistically researched decades-of-distinction from the roaring 1920's to the swinging '60's. All on stage at her theatre for the mind creation, AT THE BIJOU ~ "Where Writers' Raves are Readers' Faves" ... There, Believing in Believers, and authors taking authors higher in their  soar, Kate deftly adjusts spots and kleigs so worthy writers rise. The smash sensation "THE SHADOWS OF OUR NOIR" is currently in its 4th month of intrigue, highlighting international authors' tales.

Bookings? Absolutely*Kate is published online at Thrillers, Chillers 'n Killers, other literary and crime scenes, including 'spirited' appearances at Femme Fatale Erin Cole's. One of the authors of GRIMM TALES, by Untreed Reads Publishing; ("You Dirty Rats"), Absolutely*Kate is also co-author with Harry B. Sanderford of Sweet Chili Philly . . . co-writing THE 1976 SOCIETY with Irish/Frisco muse Kevin J. Mackey and . . . co-rollicking/writing SPY-SIDE ECONOMICS with the illustrious AJ Hayes. Absolutely*Kate is editing for publishing in eBook and print ~ IF THE GUMSHOE FITS and "HOLY MOXIE!", while working on her physics time-travels novel, THE VILLAGE SMITHY.

Promotion? Absolutely*Kate launched on Valentine's Day, the "Brevities" Salon site of WOMEN, LOVERS, FRIENDS & MOTHERS, to attract lively interactive readership flow to know and follow fellow authors. Early reviews were sensuous and exciting! She goes 'live' this week inviting millions of women readers through channels her silver spade has been digging.

And The Best Is Yet to Be ~ HARBINGER*33, sailing the destinies of 33 stellar authors, with 3 stunning artists, 3 sensational 'authenticators' . . . featuring 33 noted author salutes,  33 ports of call to writerly havens, and a *Treasure Chest* to behold . . . watch for it in this brave new year.

Coming Up? Mais Oui! Absolutely*Kate joins promotional ranks with author/marketing whiz Kevn Michaels. Shhh, Lily's secret: It's the ultimate RIGHT ARM ~ "Authors' Reach Marketing", finding a need and filling it ~ taking authors' books in today's markets to tomorrow's intended reach. Holy Momentum!

Absolutely*Kate recharges energies with coffee, jazz, loving her Prof man, walking at sea, and realizing the fortune of daily jivings with authors and publishers she greatly admires. She's on a Quest this year to read and review all  fellow authors' books on the rise -- thus putting in a new bookcase, at the historic home at the confluence of two rivers in Derby, Connecticut.

CABARET OF DREAD - News and Book Cover

I've been gathering all my short horror stories, from the less-than-drabble to the big fat five-thousand-worders. Some have appeared online, others only in print, still more have never seen the light of day. The result is that I have enough pieces for two volumes of deepest, darkest tales to terrify the blood from your veins.

The books will be called CABARET OF DREAD. Volume 1 is in production at the moment and will be available as an eBook for Kindle in March.

I thought you might like a glimpse at the book's cover, and to read a short excerpt from one of the stories...

In Adoration - an Excerpt [If you're easily offended - you shouldn't be here.]

Reuben slips a withered hand into a side pocket of his sensible jacket and rummages – an old man seeking a buttermint. He squeezes hard. Thick red liquid oozes through the grey cloth in blooms. He brings a bag out of his pocket and thrusts it towards a straggling child.

“Want a cherry?”

Reuben delights in the girl’s scream as she runs away to catch up with oblivious parents. By the time she reaches them, she won’t remember the scary man with blood on his teeth.

The suit hangs off the body he is wearing; cheap fabric, and designed for a younger, oh so much younger man that Reuben had pleasured to death in some other town along the coast. He snorts at the memory, his expression turning to derision as he shuffles within the octogenarian skin he has adopted for the day. It itches. He scratches at his face, watching the flakes fall into his lap, already dead.

***

“I’ve been waiting for you Reuben.”

‘Reuben’ sheds his clothes and the outer flesh of that day’s victim. He stands before the Holy Father. His peeled skin is the dark blue of game that has hung in a butcher’s back-room for a month. As he reaches the pulpit the spikes and jewels that habitually decorate his body burst forth once more, taking their place upon the landscape of his living corpse. He lunges.

“You don’t frighten me,” the priest smiles.

Reuben isn’t the demon’s true name. He has hundreds of names, and none, but the good Father needs something to remember him by. Face to face they stare each other out, nose to nose, rancid breath mingling between them in the sacred air. The building shifts. It skews. Pews crack with the weight of the confrontation. The knee-cushions unravel, disintegrating the biblical quotes so neatly strewn across their tapestry. Father Judas throws himself to the cold ground as stained glass shatters and sprays the holy structure with killing shards.

The demon pulls the man of God into his embrace. His split black tongue sucks that of his master. Their cocks fight each other for attention before they fall into each other, plunging back and forth. They fuck. They spill. They die a thousand deaths....

Much more to come...

Your thoughts are very welcome, nay - invited. Thank you.

Fire Dance by Tania Redd - February Femmes Fatales

She's hot, she's not what you expect her to be - for who is?

Tania Redd's second February Femmes Fatales piece packs a powerful, breathless punch. Goth, pagan - traditional - I am LOVING  the image Fire Dance throws at us, its shadow burning...

FIRE DANCE

Dimona looks wicked tonight; the long black bridal gown hugging every curve.

“Your hour will come” she smugly reassures.

I give a crooked knowing smile; follow her through the undergrowth cursing under my breath. Her betrothed is waiting; he’s unable to meet my eyes. He leads her into the nine foot wreath lined circle.

Facing each other, their hands are tied together with cord, a broomstick at their feet as the ceremony gets underway. My role is to sweep the circle with the broomstick, dance around the happy couple. I rehearsed earlier to ensure everything goes to plan, and add a little sizzle to the nuptials. Snatching up the fire torch, I advance swiftly, an ancient flame thrower shrieking in delight, as the petrol sodden broomstick flares up, engulfing the traitess and her quarry in flames, the circle collapsing into a burning pit.

My hour has come.

_________ 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.

Lily's Friday Prediction

Apologies for the lateness of today's post. School half-term means snatched time here and there - even moreso than full-time work! But my little gorgeous girl comes first - sorry!

Now I'm a blub of tears - an old Soul girl - I've been listening to a new complication of tracks whilst I cooked up some Poulet Basquaise, all of which I already possess over and over on (original) vinyl, tape, CD and MP3. So -"Give Me Just A Little More Time" and I shall become Chair(wo)man of the Feardom Board - vaguely organised. If you're under 40 - forget what I've said.

Winner of Last Week's Prediction Challenge

New Predictioneers will not be familiar with her writing but R.S. (Rebecca) Bohn's writing sends me - every time. I'm so glad she dipped in to the Feardom's Prediction challenge this week, for her beguiling and disturbing piece Heiress is my winner. Congratulations Rebecca - an exquisite experience from your pen.

Forgive me, but I cannot decide on a runner-up this week. There are four that make me tremble in completely different  ways which just shows the overwhelming talent here, and I don't thing it's fair to split the vote. Apologies - if you have read all the entries I'm sure you all understand.

Words for 17 February 2012

I'm slipping my fingers into the dictionary's pages - ooh, it's tight tonight. Here we go...

• Riddle
• Hook
• Venus

May your synapses glisten.

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 23rd February 2012 to enter.

The winner will be announced on Friday 24th February. 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.

If your lethargy is getting you down, look out the window. Whether you see an apartment block or an open field - study the finest detail, become awed, write about ants, or dust, or murder...

___________________________________

Between Feathers and Fins by Erin Cole - February Femmes Fatales

I owe a lot to Erin Cole. Even if I were purely a reader and not a writer I would be eternally grateful for the blissfully dark prose she pours onto pages. She is a writer whose words twist and turn, lilting with sinister poetry and stealing us back and forth between the horror of the bizarre, and the terror of reality but always, always delivering her unique fiction with soul.

Believe me, you'll want more after you finish reading Between Feathers and Fins. And I can tell you where to find it. Of the Night is an amazing collection of Erin's supernatural horror that will leave you spiralling in wonder and fear. You can download the book to your Kindle from Amazon.co.uk or Amazon.com

Back to my words of thanks. Erin has constantly encouraged, supported and promoted me on my writing journey so far and we have shared thoughts and emotions across the ocean. Erin, you are an inspiration. Thank you.

Read her words...

BETWEEN FEATHERS AND FINS

The ocean took him and never returned him to me, keeping him as though she hadn't enough treasures buried at the depthless bottom of her frigid heart. But I know better - I have seen them, once a time ago. Before I loved. Before any memory of him. Archaic relics inlaid with gold and precious stone, mountains of coral, shelled-lockets of pearl, legions of vessels from different spaces of time, and so many bones that she has built castles out of them. My love is among them now, his spirit still smiling, not caring that he is dead.

I search the shores, pretending I'm looking for seashells. Tiny crab bugs spring from the wet sand beneath my step. I imagine I am a giant plodding through their town, smashing their labors, creating havoc. Are they screaming and I just can't hear them? They dive at me, sharp as pointed sticks against the tender flesh of my ankle. I believe they are not fleeing in blind terror, but assailing their monster. I am not fazed by this thought. My grief vindicates the horror, for I battle my own monster, and it has calloused my heart.

The cat killed a bird this morning. She pounced into a savage dance of murder and pierced her sharp teeth into the warm pulse of life. I yelled at her and chased her off. She sulked around the trunk of a pine, lingering to finish the job. I picked up the bird. White feathers swirled in a mess. The tail tapped at my wrist. The body wriggled in my palm, and its glassy, red eyes were frozen by the probabilities of death. I am the monster now. It knows not fur from skin.

The bird stills. My hand is stained cherry. I climb over the dunes into the wild sage and bury it beneath a handful of sand. At the water's edge, the cold froth of gray-green waves distend a mirrored sky at my feet. A playful tease. She wants me back, wants us all back. I deny it no further and step into the bitter cool of her infinite deep, up to the curve of my breasts. She is quick to take me back. My skin molts into scales, my legs no more, as a fish's tail conquers the form of my feet. The current seizes me, and I swallow the icy salt into my lungs as they too transform back into gills. The song of the sea comes to me again, a lulling, violin melody. But I am listening for him, beneath the boom of tide and gurgle of bubbles in her throat. I am keen to the harmonics of his voice.

I roll in the waves, my fin scraping rock and sand. The gravity of her breath pulls me back from the shore, but another force is greater, and I am unable to find the deep. My body is lifted, as if thrust ashore by a rock giant's hand. Resting on the sand, I shed her waters like tears, his tears. Legs have found my body again. The crab bugs continue their assault, and I surrender to their calloused hearts. In the dunes of wild sage, I see my love. He is no longer smiling - he has battled his own monster.

White feathers somersault and swirl across my panoramic view of the beach. I stretch my fingers up and catch one. My legs are no more. I know not feathers from fins.

_________ The End _________

2012 © Erin Cole

Bio: Erin Cole fears the ocean more than strangers, but writes about them both from the Pacific Northwest. She's won a couple of cool awards, while still enjoying the torture of rejected submissions.

You can learn more about her dark fiction at www.erincolewrites.com or www.erincolelive.blogspot.com.

Failed Connection by Pixie J. King - February Femmes Fatales

My, but it's a privilege for me that Pixie J. King has contributed to February Femmes Fatales this year. Pixie was 'out there' as a writer way before me and despite her tender years (she'll whack me for that) was incredibly supportive from Day 1 - all the way back in 2008/9.

Currently working incredibly hard on her A-Levels, please join me in wishing Pixie every success. To have found the time to write and submit Failed Connection, which in itself was a development of a Friday Prediction drabble entry, is astonishing.

This is a dark and disturbing tale, typical of Pixie J. King. It sings in her voice, and as always, is portrayed from a unique angle. Go Pixie...

FAILED CONNECTION

I smiled as the woman squirmed, pleading and mumbling incoherently. I circled her, like a lion to prey. My eyes locked onto hers. She tried to blink out the fear, but it was impossible. She knew. She looked away. Was my presence too much?

No.

A noise broke my concentration and I turned my attention towards the door. Through the glittering haze of smoke, I saw the woman I desired, long scarlet hair draped to one side, shadow teasing.

Something stirred in my heart at the sight of her, a dark desire fired through me. I knew she would be mine to capture, mine to devour.

‘So you came,’ I said, cool. I gestured for her to come forward.

She moved. Slow, hesitant. The sound of her stilettos echoed around the room and into my ears, like an invitation - a need.

I gazed at her, noted how every inch of her red chiffon dress coated every little curve, hugging, defining her beauty.

‘What is your price?’ she asked, fear lacing her voice.

A smile formed across my lips, the desire growing stronger. ‘What can you give me?’

‘Anything,’ she replied, desperate. ‘I have money, plenty of money.’

Money. Money wasn’t a price I considered. ‘Money is of no interest of me.’

‘What then?’

I moved closer to her, placed a firm grip around her waist, leaned close to her ear. ‘You. I want you.’

I could feel her heart beat hard against her delicate chest, blue eyes dilating in horror. I could see her latent attraction towards me, despite the figure strapped to the chair in the centre of the room, despite what I had done.

Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘And if I refuse?’

Disgusted, I let her go, pulled out a knife from my Armani jacket. ‘Then you get to put a nice long gash across your beautiful lover’s throat, then watch her bleed.’

She glanced at the knife, felt her stomach turn. Her lips pursed, her mind carefully considering the options. ‘Are you sure you won’t take money?’

I frowned. I wasn’t usually one for negotiations, or the cash, but my eyes grazed over her exquisite curves; the desire burning a hole in my heart, and it meant I could take advantage with the price. ‘If you can gather ten million before the night is out, I will release you and her. However, fail to do so, and you leave me with no choice. You will have to kill her if you won’t do as I desire with you.’

‘Ten million?’ She stared at me, eyes filled with terror. ‘Do I get a phone call?’

‘Of course,’ I rasped, pointing to the telephone on the table in the corner.

I watched as she dialled the number. She cursed under her breath when she heard that there was no connection. She glanced up; blue eyes turned a lighter hue, fear glazed over her ethereal face.

I gazed at her, my expression dark.

She turned her focus to the woman; trapped, and centre of attention in the middle of the room, bathed by the shadows. Her knuckles had turned white.

I saw the way she looked, but I couldn’t help but sneer. ‘What, no connection?’ I smiled as I poured another Disaronno, the ice clinking in my glass. I handed her the knife, flicked my eyes towards the woman, then back.

Her hand trembled. Tears began to form in her eyes like pockets of salt.

I leaned close, my breath raspy. ‘Kill her…’

_________ The End _________

Bio: Pixie is an A level student who enjoys writing anything dark, from horror to fairies, and in any length.

While completing college, Pixie writes when she can, living in the world of her three protagonists as she completes three different novels.

She dares you to enter her Realm at http://www.therealmofpixiejking.co.uk

Death and Derek by Lou Treleaven - February Femmes Fatales

Lou Treleaven is back in the February Femmes Fatales basement ready to tease us with her unerring humour and the continuation of the Derek saga.

Although Death and Derek stands alone, may I recommend you take a quick peek at the first episode from 2011, Fun With Derek to fully set the scene. I defy you not to giggle.

Lou has a wonderfully quirky view of life, which makes her an ideal author of children's books. She really gets inside kids' heads and has them laughing, and preferably screaming too - but not too much. Try Lou's very handy tips for dealing with useless parents and school bullies on the Horrible Hints page of her blog. Wish I'd thought of them!

Here we have the lighter side of horror, and it's a side I simply love.

DEATH AND DEREK

“So lovely to see you, Rachel!” Derek’s mother crooned, embracing me tightly. A rather inappropriate greeting, I thought, as this was her son’s funeral and I had killed him, but then she wasn’t to know that.

“Sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, you too darling. We were all sure you’d get back together and even get married. I feel I’ve lost a daughter as well as a son.”

“Mmmm, well.” I tried to pass her into the church but she grasped my arm. “You must sit with the family. At the front.”

“Love to.” I grimaced and took a deep breath before making my way to the front of the church, where I was soon pressed up between Derek’s Auntie Sandra and his Uncle Bernard.

“Tragic,” Auntie Sandra whispered to me, breathing heavily in my ear.

“Terrible,” Uncle Bernard agreed, putting his hand on my knee and leaving it there.

They were right – it had been tragic. I could still see Derek’s green and brown jumper soaked with his surprisingly vivid red blood. My favourite silver dagger had taken ages to clean. My chaise longue had taken a real beating, but I had managed to get the worst out of it with a liberal application of Dr Daemon’s Gore-Be-Gone.

To my surprise I featured heavily in the funeral service, which was interlaced with speeches from Derek’s family about their dashed hopes for the future, and the now impossible prospect of the patter of tiny Dereks courtesy of yours truly’s womb, which quite frankly was locked and bolted with no chance of Derek or anyone else, dead or alive, breaching those defences thank you. (I was working on a booby trap that would cause considerable personal intimate damage, but it was still in beta.) Occasionally the vicar would get a word or two in, something about tragic death, sorely missed, ashes, dust and so on, but mostly it was just Derek’s family droning on while Uncle Bernard’s hand crept further up my lap.

I was relieved when Derek’s mother interrupted the vicar’s final summing up to invite us all for canapés at her lovely home. A glass of wine and a handful of twiglets and it would all be over.

“Tell us what happened again,” Auntie Sandra crooned, squeezing herself into my chintzy armchair and trapping me.

“Well, I did toy with him for a while, but in the end I went for the heart and put him out of his misery,” I confessed, taking a swig of wine.

“Oh darling, she doesn’t mean how you broke up. She’s talking about the terrible murder of my sweet boy.” Derek’s mother pressed a ritz cracker into my hand. “We don’t know who did it, Sandra, but the police are saying it was a crime of passion.”

“Absolutely not,” I insisted. “It was just the way the evening was going.”

“Come and sit on my lap,” Uncle Bernard suggested, patting his beige slacks.

It was time to go.

***

As I drove back to Unhallowed Acres my mind whirled. Had I done the right thing? I knew I’d done the right thing ending Derek – no one who kept used tissues up their sleeves deserved to live – but should I have confessed? I’d tried to tell them the truth but nobody wanted to listen.

The road turned into a track and soon I was entering familiar territory. The sky went dark, bats flitted overhead and pairs of red eyes blinked through the sinister shapes of bare trees. Home sweet home. What worried me was that I was becoming happier here than I was in the ‘normal’ world.

My phone suddenly gave a manic laugh, my text message signal to tell me there was another undead creature waiting for my attention. I began to relax again.

After a long evening’s work – a banshee trapped in an airing cupboard, the killing of a vampire who’d been hosting a late night television arts review show, and yet another exorcism at my local, the Hangman’s Noose, I returned home tired but happy. The menacing statues that normally stood around my house in ghastly tableaux had shifted about and wittily spelled out Welcome Back with the entrails of dead animals, and I heard the ghosts in the attic clanking out a supportive rhythm with their chains as I unlocked the door with its huge rusty iron key.

“Well?” The ghost of Derek drifted down the hall towards me, looking emotional.

“It was fine. They all waxed lyrical about you.”

“But what did they say? Who cried the most? Did Mollie Bishop from school turn up? I know she secretly fancied me for years –“

It had been a long day. I reached into the kitchen cupboard, turned swiftly and sprayed Derek with Dr Daemon’s Ectoplasm Repellent. It would break him up for a few hours and by the time he drifted back together again he’d be exhausted.

Okay, so I hadn’t got rid of Derek entirely, but now he was dead he was so much easier to manage. And, even better, the patter of tiny feet was going to be absolutely impossible now.

With a sigh of satisfaction I went to my display cabinet to make room for Uncle Bernard’s severed hand.

_________ The End _________

Bio: Lou has written this piece as a sequel to her 2011 Femme Fatale entry, Fun with Derek.  She calculates she will finish the story if February Femme Fatales continues for another 80 years.

You can find her at www.loutreleaven.wordpress.com.