A poem by Harold Monro which never fails to fascinate me,
from which I’ve take the words for next week
.
Winner from this week, chosen in a bit of a rush as I’ve
been to the Inner Hebrides and back since Monday, where WiFi was but fleeting, but
even on a stolen glimpse Jim’s
gruesome ‘Tailor-made’ haunted my imagination, sufficiently for me to declare him
this week’s winner. Thank you all for your participation.
Words
for next week: beads stare voice
Entries
by midnight (GMT) Thursday 10th October,
words posted Friday 11th
Usual rules: 100 words maximum (excluding
title) of flash fiction or poetry using all of the three words above in the
genres of horror, fantasy, science fiction or noir. Serialised fiction is, as
always, welcome. All variants and uses of the words and stems are fine. Feel
free to post links to your stories on Twitter or Facebook or whichever social
media you prefer.
Congrats Jim. A well deserved honor. Grave Undigger... should likely be added to the dictionary soon.
ReplyDeleteCongratulations, Jim, on a well-crafted and intensely creepy story. Exactly the stuff of which top honours are made! And is it just me, or were several star authors missing from last week's line-up?
DeleteYes, there were a few absent last week. But then, we did get Terrie back.
DeleteI am honored to be honored with top honors last week. Many thanks!
Deletedefinitely a winner, Jim! congrats!!
DeleteThe Bray Chronicles
ReplyDeleteBartholomew Bray carried a bead filled wool sock in his back pocket when on the prowl. He had his eye on the Moroccan choirboy with the silk voice who also dallied a bit on the side, it was said.
Bartholomew possessed a mesmeric stare with the depth of twin goldmine tunnels that he turned toward the choirboy. Blankly, the choirboy walked to the older man and took his hand, leading him away.
Perhaps Bartholomew would spare this one. Just enjoy his company and part ways amicably. The familiar tingle in his stomach, alas, told him differently.
Damn! There was something gentlemanly about 'Bartholomew Bray' T thought he'd resist.
DeleteCreepy is the word I get from this, a chilly creepy feeling. Not easy to do. Good one, John!
DeleteBartholomew Bray carries such a Dickensian feel for a name. I'd like to think that Moroccan choirboy would escape without a scratch, but I somehow imagine differently. Lovely turns of phrase here, especially "twin goldmine tunnels."
DeleteVery chilling, John. Great name for the lead character, and having him stalking a choir boy adds to the depravity. Well done!
DeleteLet’s pretend [Threshold 272]
ReplyDeleteTo save Raven’s blushes (and hide his entirely unblameworthy lack of fourth arousal from avid, judgemental female stares) I murmured, in a voice only just loud enough to be heard, ‘But I'd much prefer to keep this between ourselves,‘ and reached for the quilt to cover us.
For fully twenty minutes, beads of sweat anointing the pair of us, Raven bucked and I panted ever-nearer imaginary orgasm until a final groan told me he’d judged his performance sufficient. We collapsed together, I stifling giggles as he, for effect, went to cry my name, then remembered he did not know it.
Can I borrow a cigarette?
DeleteEven Raven doesn't know her name. Don't you think, Sandra, the time is nearing? A great installment this week with really nice prompt insertions.
It's a bit Rapunzel, John. I keep asking but she won't tell me. And thank you.
Deletethere's always an interesting feel when names are withheld, knowledge of someone's name gives power over them. She's not giving anything away.
DeleteOh what a lovely reminder that our narrator continues to keep her name a secret. However, I never imagined that Raven would be in the dark as well. What an amazingly enigmatic creature this female is.
Delete'then remembered he did not know it' hit me like a wrecking ball, Sandra. Beautiful writing!
DeleteChange of focus [348]
ReplyDeletePettinger turned and stared at the junior officer who, oblivious of Pettinger’s preference for ignoring his blood-beaded cheekbone graze, tutted in sympathy.
‘Looks a nasty one, boss. You’ll need to get it properly disinfected. Tetanus and such –’
‘Has Iris – the Drug Squad DC – checked in?’
‘Aye, sir, successfully arrested.’ Then, in recollection, Moth’s expression changed. Voice lowered, and less buoyant, ‘You’d best get back to the station. The Boss wants a word, toot sweet.’
Trusting Moth’s operational discretion, he began to note his assailant’s details. ‘About?’
‘A young lad at the station. Asking for you.’
‘Name?’
‘Aleks.’
‘Shit!’
What is Aleks doing now? Yet another twisty turn. Love the phrase toot sweet, though I can't say I've used it. Maybe soon.
Deleteintriguing! What's Aleks up to, or is it better we don't know?
DeleteHow wonderful that Aleks has simply shown up out of nowhere. Loved the use of "toot sweet" and the background history that accompanies this phrase.
DeleteReflections
ReplyDeleteShe stared into the mirror. The eyes that looked back were small jet-like beads that lacked luster and life. The voices told her there was nothing to see. Nothing to fear. Nothing out of the ordinary.
She knew better.
You do these short and far from sweet pieces so very well, and the use and description of beads is superb.
DeleteThis woman may lack self esteem, or maybe she's possessed or something. Either way, or completely otherwise, it packs a punch for such a shorty.
Deleteso much being said in so few words. Brilliantly done.
DeleteDawn of the Amsterdamned (Part 4)
ReplyDeleteSix of us escaped the overwhelming of the department store.
We linked up with another group, crammed into the back of a delivery truck. A bearded Imam endlessly fingered his worry beads next to someone we couldn’t help but stare at. A living legend. Barry Hay from Golden Earring.
The message on the radio was to head for the evacuation zone at the Port of Rotterdam. The truck swerved to avoid a wall of rabid cadavers. Barry strummed his blood splattered guitar. His voice instilling hope. “Been drivin’ all night. Hands wet on the wheel.”
Yet another rich in imagery installment, with the added soundtrack of that wonderfully-titled song. Can't help wondering what's made his hands wet ...
DeleteThe ribbon of rabid cadavers really stood out in this one. How many dead people must it take to create a ribbon? Lots. I'm sure. Radar Love certainly played well into this.
Delete'Hands wet on the wheel' conjures a host of creepy images, David. This is depressingly good!
DeleteI'm a big fan of Radar Love, it's woven skillfully into this instalment, very clever.
Delete"Radar Love." Always one of my favourites. Incredible weaving of this into the story. Very nicely done, David. Very nice indeed.
DeleteDifferent culture
ReplyDeleteWe’d assumed the house was empty. Didn’t bother keeping our voices down. Enough light from the street to find our way upstairs. For me to spot the danger.
‘Watch it, There’s beads all over the floor. Stand on them and you’re a goner.’
‘Not beads, young man!’
Christ! Near jumped out me skin! From the shadows the voice – a woman – continued, imperious. ‘They are Tahitian pearls. Would you be so kind as to pick them up.’
I moved to where I could better see her face. She stared towards where I’d spoken from.
And would never see who hit her.
I wanted to tell the young man not to pick up the pearls, but he got clobbered anyway. It seems maybe they were used as bait.
DeleteSo much for being a kindly person, but rooting around in an unoccupied house can indeed lead to untoward surprises - as you so expertly stated, Sandra!
Deletethis conjures many images, not all are nice...
DeleteAh, now never assume a house is empty. Many an explorer has come a cropper over such an assumption. Really enjoyed this stand-alone which was expertly put together.
DeleteReflections II
ReplyDeleteThe image wore a necklace of beads with a crucifix. A rosary? A righteous personage? How was it possible to stare to so long without blinking?
"No retribution," the voices promised.
She did not believe them.
Ok, I see more Reflections below. This lifeless image warrants more study. I'll be back.
Deleteit gets better...
DeleteReflections III
ReplyDeleteThey found her, rigid and unmoving, staring at a vacant space on the wall. The use of beaded smelling salts -- spirits of hartshorn -- in a glass vial proved fruitless. Her fingers were locked in prayer and rested on her swollen stomach.
The silence of the voices was deafening.
Loved how the mirror was no longer there. Strange happenings here.
Deleteand more mysterious
DeleteReflections IV
ReplyDeleteShe was interred quickly and without ceremony. No time to stop and stare. Soil rained down into the burial pit. Beads of dirt that exploded into countless spattered drops upon contact.
The motherless infant, mouth open in screams that had no voice and eyes that wept without tears, was immediately spirited away.
Voiceless screams and tear-less weeping...
Deleteit grows dark around here -
DeleteReflections V
ReplyDeleteThe infant's sole playtoy was a mirror suspended above the crib by a necklace of beads bearing a crucifix. The babe stared at her reflection day and night, comforted by the voices that crooned lullabies and assured her, in gentle tones, there was nothing to fear.
She would grow to believe them.
She knew no better.
You've created a five-scene cinematic tale told in black and white stark stillness, redolent of the cell in which I see it taking place. And given it a terrifyingly chilling ending.
DeleteWell done, Patricia.
I agree with Sandra. This is brilliant in how it escalates and stalls at the same time. Nothing to fear my butt. Really nice format with the 5 pieces, all told with all the prompts each time.
DeleteThe Reflections series, Patricia, is splendidly crafted - chilling and magnetic in its ability to pull the reader into and through all five of them. This is a great read!
Deletea dark and mysterious read, made my wsek!
DeleteSEEING THINGS
ReplyDelete“You’re staring at me again.”
No answer. I raised my voice.
“I said to stop staring at me!”
No answer.
I turned away, closed my eyes, clenched my fists and huskily whispered, “I’m tired of looking into your beady little eyes and tired of seeing your sneering smile. I am not going to tell you again.” I raised my voice again. “I don’t want you anymore!! Get the hell out of my life!”
Praying he had left, I turned slowly back toward this person I detested with every fiber of my being.
The rotten bastard was still in the mirror.
Oh, that ability of mirrors to create horrific uncertainty!
DeleteSounds like this guy is having a psychotic episode, with more to follow, I'm sure. Nicely done, Jim.
Deletewhoo hoo! Didn't expect that ending!!
DeleteNow that's what I call a surprise ending. Great title too. An altogether tight little tale in an amazing little package. The visuals were spectacular.
DeleteThe apple didn’t fall very far… Or, Mean Girls Finish Last
ReplyDeleteRicky Bob had a bead on the bleach blonde’s forehead. She’d had the nerve to stare right at him and laugh after he asked her out. Said he was a dumb hick. He applied pressure to the trigger ever so slowly but her head exploded into pink mist before he could shoot.
From the side, in a stand of poplars, he heard his brother’s voice. “Goddamn bitch! Now who’s a clueless ignoramus?”
From behind an oak: “Goddamn it, Willard, I was going to shoot her,” their father said. “Said I was an amorous old fool… whatever that is.”
The horrific thing in this for me is that a gun is assumed to be the only, the automatic response to a verbal insult. (Last month an American friend asked me about UK ownership of guns. Told they were illegal in the UK except, licensed, for hunting, her incredulous reply was 'Not even for self-defence?)
DeleteAnd yes, I DO realise this is horror fiction!!
Leave it to you to incorporate a three-generation crew of spurned lovers. Guess she had it coming, but still....
DeleteThose guys must have been three really ugly dudes. That blonde took on the wrong family. Quite the novel tale, John!
ReplyDeleteone of my authors (in the States) has been ranting about the 'gun problem' there and how it doesn't compare to the deaths caused by smoking -difference being, a gun kills you outright (if you're lucky) smoking takes it lifelong time. This is horrendous and clever at the same time. Good job we don't have to judge this week, it'll be too close to call. methinks.
DeleteKursaal (Episode One Hundred Eighty One) - "Observations"
ReplyDeleteNever one to engage in false hope, Arbuthnot Jester voiced no promise of return when taking leave of the Kissing Kiosk Kuties. He presented each with a rosebud...romantic red of course. Sprinkles of morning dew glistened like pearlized beads on each folded petal.
Quinn Underwood, who lacked moral conscience when it came to matters of the heart, had no intention of revisiting the Travelling Circus, even though she assured her nubile love-struck conquest otherwise.
The tracker, who stared at the scenario with a critical eye, detected a nearby rustle in the fallen leaves.
Apparently, the watcher was being watched.
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To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale, please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/kursaal.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
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NOTE: Arbuthnot Jester and Quinn Underwood (as well as the tracker) have featured in previous episodes.
Watcher, and watcher of watcher, very intriguing. I don't recall the tracker, but I'm glad someone is keeping an eye on this bunch. Very entertaining, Patricia.
DeleteI've no recollection of the Tracker either, but still wonder who's watching him!
Deletethere's deceit and double deceit going on here. Waiting to see which way it will go... it's going to be messy, whatever happens...
DeleteDon't blame you for losing "track," John and Sandra. I've created so many characters in this serial, I can't keep track either. I need to kill off a few.
DeleteStop The Week; I Want To Get Off (66)
ReplyDeleteCrazy week, personally and at the shop. My bedroom ceiling caved in under the weight of water (leak from ancient roof). I’d been ignoring the beads of moisture because of lack of money. Now it’s been confronted, just waiting on an insurance quote from a lovely builder/roofer with a friendly voice. No talking down to us. Sales are building in the shop as we head into winter, selling radiators at last. I grew tired of staring at them. A whole load of furniture arrived, more to come through a clearance any time now and no, we don’t have elastic walls…
Oh lord, Antonia - ceiling coming down one of my 2 a.m. nightmares, given I know what's in the loft above my head (pram, cot, and bedspread, plus mica insulation) Hope it gets sorted successfully! And how wonderful your prompt insertions, as ever. .
DeleteIt's always a wonder how you manage to incorporate the prompt words week after week into such a seamless and entertaining scenario. Life is never dull on the Isle of Wight it seems.
DeleteGood news at the shop, not so good with the roof. Good luck with both.
DeleteOh my, the vagaries of owning a business, eh, Antonia?
DeleteThe Mad Italian (125)
ReplyDeleteI wish I was in your life, I would use my voice to put straight the arrant nonsense going on right now and get some of the legislation through whilst letting others debate the Brexit problem. This is solvable, even if it means sitting around with worry beads. I think they do that anyway, accompanied by a blank unknowing ‘what the hell am I doing here’ look. The humour comes in the many who are diagnosed with forms of dementia but your MPs are not. How did they escape the diagnosis? Have you looked at them lately?
We need to get some of the politicians reading on The Prediction. They might not like to hear The Italians views, but it might do them some good.
DeleteOh, what a wonderful series of questions, Leonardo. I only wish the responses would be a fraction so insightful.
ReplyDeleteCripplegate Junction/Part 206 - Time After Time
ReplyDeleteThe Station Clock hands continued to rewind, as did other chronometers within the Junction's jurisdiction. Some, the Station Master's pocketwatch and Constance's Marcasite fob, never had worked but now functioned...in a questionable manner. Others, the Conductor's timepiece and Clive Bailey's wristwatch, suddenly regained tick-tocking function...again in unconventional fashion.
In a Third Class Carriage, beads slid along the wires of a bamboo-framed abacus and children's voices chanted:
Hickory Dickory Dock,
The mouse ran up the clock.
Marmalade, recumbent in a patch of airborne dandelion puffs along the railway tracks, stared at the station timepiece and, in anticipation, licked his pink nose.
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To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/cripplegate.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
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All a delightfully normal then ... love "recumbent in a patch of airborne dandelion puffs".
DeleteThe haywire timepieces and the abacus worked well here. Marmalade is certainly privy to something. I'm thinking the children playing here are the ones that are missing?
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete