Jump!*

Well, my Hipster Kilroy did not get 100 or more likes as I had hoped, but I’m not a complete jerk – so here’s a flash fiction piece that I wrote this past week.  (However, I am a sadist, so you will have to wait for Disillusioned Dreams to get a glimpse into Eric Clachan before he became a mass murderer)

I never grew out of turning the lights off, running and jumping into my bed. The dark had ceased to be scary years ago, but I still did it, every night. I would even cover my head with the blankets. However, as an adult, this was silly behavior and I had finally met a person I wanted to live with, possibly even marry. I had to break the habit. It took some thought and ingenuity on my part, but I finally caught the monstrous beast that had lived under my bed since my childhood. I went to a cousin’s house that I don’t really like and has seven kids, along with a bottle of organic lemon & kale wine, and when they weren’t looking, I let him go. He immediately skittered up the stairs and disappeared from view. That night, I turned out the lights and forced myself to not rush my bed like a linebacker trying to sack the quarterback, by repeating the mantra “there is not a monster under my bed” with each step. It took about a week, but it worked! Also, I stopped sleeping with the covers over my head for the first time in more than two decades!

For more twisted/humorous horror shorts from Terrorific Tales, check it out on WattPad.  I add two short stories or flash fiction pieces a day right now.  Comments and votes are always (incredibly) appreciated, especially since I haven’t entirely figured out my publishing plan for the collection.  Who knows, I may remove the stories that don’t get any votes or that get comments saying that the majority of readers didn’t get it and replace them with other stories.  Consider it a way for you to give me feedback on a book I have yet to actually publish (I so wish I had done this with Tales to Read Before the End of the World).  WattPad accounts are free as is all books and story collections available.

*This was originally written for one of the Gishwhes 2016 scavenger hunt challenges.  I wrote several, but my team voted to use another one of mine.  So, I got to share this one early.  🙂

©Hadena James 2016
This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

Battered Dreams to the Editor

I have finished Battered Dreams and it has been sent to the editor.  It is my strangest and most gruesome story to date.  My apologies to those with weak stomachs… You might skim the gory parts.  But the story is one of the best, in my opinion.

However, what does a writer do while waiting on edits and beta readers?  I write.  This is the time when I start churning out short stories and flash fiction.  So expect a handful or more to be posted in the next couple of weeks.

Odd Beginnings

Christian stared into the trees.  His position in his deer stand didn’t give him a commanding view, but it gave him a view.  A view that would terrify most people.  Not him.  For him, it was the normal view of the third Saturday of the month, a day spent with his father.

His father sat in a different stand, about thirty feet away.  While Christian fidgeted, wishing for something to entertain him, his father was still, barely breathing.

His father was a man that appreciated nature.  A man that liked being one with the woods and the solitude of country life.  The son had fallen far from the tree, so to speak.  Christian was a boy who liked arcades, loud music, and indoor lighting.  He’d done his best for the boy, but the boy just wasn’t willing to meet him along the path.

Christian had a Discman going.  The music that filled his ears was harsh, loud, and violent.  The band was called Green Day.  It was new punk and Christian couldn’t get enough of it.  He knew his father didn’t approve, but Christian really didn’t care.  Even at thirteen, he knew his father was an animal.  A waste of carbon that would be best suited for fertilizer.

If people knew why they were sitting on these stupid platforms at six in the morning on a Saturday, they would have been shocked, appalled, outraged.  They would have demanded Samuel Hunter’s head on a platter or burned at the stake.  But no one knew.  Montana wasn’t called Big Sky Country without reason.  His father’s land holdings amounted to about four hundred acres.

Movement caught Christian’s attention.  A doe and fawn ran out of the trees, into a clearing.  The wait continued.  A little before noon, he unpacked a sandwich and a Sunny Delight.  A piss-poor lunch for a day that wasn’t going much better.

He threw the sandwich bag down to the ground below him and belched loudly.  He wanted to be playing Sega.  He wanted to be watching Saved By The Bell.  He did not want to be waiting on his father.  He didn’t even want to be with his father, but his mother kept making him come on the appointed weekends.  Some bull about custody agreements.  If only she knew what his father made him do when he visited, she might think differently.

Movement again.  His father moved too.  He gestured towards the nude figure of the young woman that had just entered the clearing.  Christian frowned and picked up the hunting rifle.  He took aim, catching the woman in his scope.  His finger twitched along the trigger.  He’d never participated in the killing, just watched his father.  He wasn’t going to start now.

Without thinking, Christian swung the gun up and fired.  The bullet caught his father between his eyes.  Samuel Hunter fell, his body snapping branches as it plummeted towards the earth.  The woman screamed.  Christian pulled off his headphones and climbed down from the tree stand.

The woman, still screaming, stood motionless as Christian approached her.  He handed her his jacket and a bag of Doritos.  Then he began the trek back to his father’s house to call the police.  He was sure they would be interested in the Father/Son bonding activities.

 

©Hadena James 2015

This is a work of fiction.  Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious.  Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

The Box

She cocked her head to the side and listened, straining to hear anything.  The wind answered, rustling the dead leaves on the trees.  She sighed.  She had become a cliché, a slasher-film victim.  Her she was, in the woods, in the middle of the night, looking for some mysterious box, buried in the ground, under a stone with drawings on it.

The fool’s errand her grandmother had sent her on was just unsettling.  There was nothing sinister in these woods unless you considered small mammals and the occasional security guard sinister.  She didn’t.  She was a grown woman.  She’d be at home, snuggled into her cozy bed, if it hadn’t been for her grandmother’s frantic call.

You have to go get the box!  The old woman had practically been screaming into the phone line.

The Box was folklore, passed down through generations of her family.  It was supposed to contain something magical, something mystic, something unknown.  No one could remember what it was or why it had been buried, but they remembered The Box.

And because she wanted to put all this box nonsense to rest, she was out, scouring the woods, looking for the marked stone.  She’d search the area all night and when she found nothing, she’d take that back to her family and tell them where to shove it.  She couldn’t save a make believe box from land developers any more than she could pull a rabbit from a hat.

Her feet led the way.  Her eyes and flashlight scanned the darkened ground.  Her brain reminded her that she was an idiot giving into the senile old woman’s ramblings.  Her feet stopped.  Her eyes stared.  Her brain shut-up and took it in.  There, right in front of her, was a stone with strange writing on it.

Another rustle.  This time the wind wasn’t responsible.  She stared into the night, her flashlight falling on the bark of dormant trees.  Nothing moved, but the sound still existed.  A rustling noise that never changed.  It didn’t get louder.  It didn’t get softer.  It reminded her of sticks being rubbed together.  Then silence again.  Too much silence.  There were no insects buzzing, no birds calling out to each other, not even the rustle of dead grass.

She bent down and began to dig.  The dirt caked under her fingernails.  Her fingers were covered in wet soil that wasn’t quite mud.  Why hadn’t she brought a shovel?  She wondered.  Because she hadn’t intended to find anywhere to dig.  But she had.  It was like her feet had known the destination she didn’t believe existed.

A fingernail broke as it scraped against wood.  She swore softly and contemplated the finger.  Blood oozed slowly from the wound, mixing with the dirt.  She needed a Band-Aid, some Neosporin and maybe, a tetanus shot.

Gently, she hoisted the wooden box from the hole.  It was roughly the size of a shoebox.  Its size was deceptive, it was a good fifty pounds.  She was now going to have to lug this box back out of the forest, put it in her car, drive it to her grandmother’s and wait to see what was inside.

Or she could take a small peek here.  Would it hurt?  The tiny padlock on the box was rusted.  It could break, no one would know.  She’d been told not to open it.  She’d been told not gaze at its contents.  But one small peek wouldn’t hurt.

She tugged and the lock broke.  Too many years spent in the ground with the elements leeching the strength from the iron.  There was another moment of hesitation.  Did she really want to look without her approval from someone?  It was a family legend, maybe there was something amazing or awful inside.

Steeling her nerves she opened the box and shined the flashlight inside.  The light caught a button.  Then another button came into view.  Doll clothes.  The entire box was filled with doll clothes.  The great treasure of her family were doll clothes.  How disappointing.

 

©Hadena James 2015

This is a work of fiction.  Any names, places, characters, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination and are purely fictitious.  Any resemblances to any persons, living or dead, are completely coincidental.

Whispers

Tell me your dreams, he whispered.  Tell me your hopes, your darkest desires.  Share your secrets.  Unburden you soul.  His voice was seductive; husky and melodic.  It was enough to make a girl swoon.  It made a girl want to unburden her soul.

Tell me your fears.  He sang to her.  Confession is good for the soul.  You have much to confess.

The voice haunted her.  Night after night, it followed her through her dreams.  Tantalizingly beautiful, yet dark and dangerous, creating chaos as she slept.  It was always there, always whispering the same words to her.  Always singing for her to confess, to unburden her soul.

There was never a face.  Never an identity to go with the powerful voice.  It haunted her when she was awake.  She kept checking, listening for that voice to appear in the real world, expecting some man to come up beside her with that voice.

In her dreams, the voice filled her with fear and awe.  She didn’t know what it would do to her in the real world.  Terrify her, sooth her into confessing whatever sins she may or may not have committed.  She desired to tell that voice everything, but she didn’t.  She felt it already knew her sins.  She felt it was just waiting to hear the words come out of her mouth.

Sing for me.  Sing a song of your sins.  Tell me what darkness lurks inside you.  The voice again, another dream.  She awoke screaming, as she always did, unsure what might be hiding in the shadows of her room.  In her dreams, she did feel she had much to confess.  Awake the feeling passed and whatever sins the voice believed she had committed, she couldn’t identify.

Release is yours.  I will leave your dreams.  All I require is for you to confess.  To sing of your sins.  A different dream, the same night, another screaming fit as she struggled to pull herself awake.  She looked at her hands, covered in blood.  Where had it come from?  Had she injured herself?  She didn’t know.  Sleep was gone for the night.

After a shower, she began to dress for work.  She’d go in early today.  She wiped the steam from the mirror to dry her hair.  Behind her stood a man or she thought it was a man.  There was something wrong with him, but she couldn’t figure out what.  She turned, he wasn’t there, but his reflection was still visible in the mirror.

Confess for me.  His voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard, screeching in her ears, shooting pains through her brain.  She collapsed and began to babble about her sins.

He smiled, cracked the bones in his neck and entered her.  Confession was good for the soul, it was even better at allowing possession.  He owned her now; mind, body, and soul.  She was his for eternity, to burn in the fires of hell.  Another day’s work for him.  Another soul to add to the flames.  And a gateway into her world, where he could claim so many more souls for his master.  It was a beautiful day.

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

Tell me your dream, he whispered.  Tell me your hopes, your darkest desires.  Share your secrets.  Unburden you soul.  His voice was seductive; husky and melodic.  It was enough to make a girl swoon.  It made a girl want to unburden her soul.

Tell me your fears.  He sang to her.  Confession is good for the soul.  You have much to confess.

The voice haunted her.  Night after night, it followed her through her dreams.  Tantalizingly beautiful, yet dark and dangerous, creating chaos as she slept.  It was always there, always whispering the same words to her.  Always singing for her to confess, to unburden her soul.

There was never a face.  Never an identity to go with the powerful voice.  It haunted her when she was awake.  She kept checking, listening for that voice to appear in the real world, expecting some man to come up beside her with that voice.

In her dreams, the voice filled her with fear and awe.  She didn’t know what it would do to her in the real world.  Terrify her, sooth her into confessing whatever sins she may or may not have committed.  She desired to tell that voice everything, but she didn’t.  She felt it already knew her sins.  She felt it was just waiting to hear the words come out of her mouth.

Sing for me.  Sing a song of your sins.  Tell me what darkness lurks inside you.  The voice again, another dream.  She awoke screaming, as she always did, unsure what might be hiding in the shadows of her room.  In her dreams, she did feel she had much to confess.  Awake the feeling passed and whatever sins the voice believed she had committed, she couldn’t identify.

Release is yours.  I will leave your dreams.  All I require is for you to confess.  To sing of your sins.  A different dream, the same night, another screaming fit as she struggled to pull herself awake.  She looked at her hands, covered in blood.  Where had it come from?  Had she injured herself?  She didn’t know.  Sleep was gone for the night.

After a shower, she began to dress for work.  She’d go in early today.  She wiped the steam from the mirror to dry her hair.  Behind her stood a man or she thought it was a man.  There was something wrong with him, but she couldn’t figure out what.  She turned, he wasn’t there, but his reflection was still visible in the mirror.

Confess for me.  His voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard, screeching in her ears, shooting pains through her brain.  She collapsed and began to babble about her sins.

He smiled, cracked the bones in his neck and entered her.  Confession was good for the soul, it was even better at allowing possession.  He owned her now; mind, body, and soul.  She was his for eternity, to burn in the fires of hell.  Another day’s work for him.  Another soul to add to the flames.  And a gateway into her world, where he could claim so many more souls for his master.  It was a beautiful day.

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

Mix Ups

The light was only slightly bigger than a star.  It caught her attention because it pulsed gently, like those healing crystals they hawk on TV shopping stations.  Blue, yellow, green.  Blue, yellow, green.  It didn’t move.  It just hung in the sky, pulsing, blue, yellow, green.

She stood mesmerized by the pulsing light.  Fear welled up in her belly.  Her knees felt weak.  She wanted to run, but couldn’t.  Her feet wouldn’t move and her face wouldn’t turn away from that abominable light; blue, yellow, green.

It was getting larger.  Instinctively, she knew the light wasn’t moving, she was.  She was getting closer to it.  The fear threatened to suck her down, pull her into darkness.  She fought it.  If she was going to survive with her wits intact, she needed to be awake and thinking.

As it neared, the duration between pulses seemed to get longer.  The colors became more intense.  They hurt her eyes and she tried to use her hands to shield them from burning her retinas.  But her arms wouldn’t move.

One moment, she was outside, moving through the air with no control over her body, the next she was indoors.  Inside there were lots of flashing lights and shiny surfaces.  The light seemed to radiate from everywhere and nowhere.  She felt confusion settling over her mind.

“Welcome,” a deep voice said.  Her eyes found the speaker.  He was short, slender, with blue skin and large green eyes.  At least, she guessed he was male by the sound of his voice.

“What do you want with me?”  She asked, trying to find courage that didn’t seem to exist.  Her throat was dry and the words came out as barely more than a whisper.

“We want Cheetos Mix-Ups,” the creature said.  She stared at him, her mouth falling open, sure she had heard him wrong.

“You want what?”  She found her mouth a little less dry this time.

“We want Cheetos Mix-Ups,” the creature repeated.  “We need you to get them for us.  And a couple cases of Mountain Dew or Pepsi, nothing diet.”

She frowned at him.

“Look, it isn’t like we can walk into a gas station and buy them, so we abducted you so that you could buy them.  We’ve got money.  Once you’ve bought them, we’ll bring you back here, give you back your free will and we’ll all go our separate ways,” he smiled at her.  “Deal?”

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

Lions, Oh My!

She watched him, her eyes never leaving his body as he moved.  She longed for his attention.  She longed for him to come over to her.  She wanted it more than anything else she could remember at the moment.

He turned her way and smiled.  This made her desire his presence even more.  She needed him to come to her.  His presence was distracting.  It was hard for her to concentrate on work.

Just before break, her longing was fulfilled.  He sauntered over to her.  She reached up and touched his T-shirt, rubbing her hand gently across the very center of it.

“What the hell are you doing?”  He asked, stepping away.

“It looked fuzzy, I had to pet it,” she answered.

“What?”  He frowned at her.

“The lion on your shirt.  I’ve wanted to pet it all night.”  She smiled.  “Unfortunately, it wasn’t fuzzy, just cute.  You’re free to go about your business now.”

She grabbed her purse and headed out the door for break.

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

Rampage

A few stray dogs wandered the deserted streets.  With their tails tucked between their legs, they scurried around looking for somewhere to hide.  Hiding spots were at a premier today and finding one early was essential.

As many cars as possible had been removed from the streets.  Store fronts were boarded up, protecting the glass.  Everything was closed, even the factory and school.  A few people were finishing preparations, but most were tucked away inside their homes.

A mangy mutt with small mangy pups climbed the front steps of a house.  She let out a sorrowful howl as she looked for somewhere to hide her brood.  The home owner, a man in his forties with two kids, opened the door and quickly brought them all inside.  It was too cruel to leave the stray and her pups outside.

On the outskirts of town sat a van.  The windows were open.  The three men inside were busy with their own preparations.  One had a video camera to film the event.  One had a tranquilizer gun.   The other had a pole that held radio tags.  The townsfolk thought the scientists were crazy.  The scientist thought the townsfolk were.

A small ruble began in the earth.  It could be felt in the van as well as the floors of the houses.  The rampage had begun.  It happened every year, no one knew why.  The town had installed sensors a few years earlier several miles away to give them advanced warning.

Long bodies with dark fur began to appear in the fields.  In the long grass, the creatures were barely visible.  They sauntered, their gait slow and purposeful, the grass swishing around them as the moved.  One stopped, making a snarling noise and alerting the others.  They descended upon the van.  Their long claws scratched at the metal creating a screeching noise that hurt the ears of the scientists.  One managed to catch hold of the metal and began climbing the side of the van.  Others followed suit.

The rampaging creatures made short work of the men in the van.  After they had eaten, they continued their journey, entering the town.  The thousands of heavy bodies felt like thunder.  Their numerous claws made a deafening racket on the pavement.

The people cowered in fear as the animals marched through their town, headed for parts unknown.  No scientist had ever survived their attempt to track the wolverines on this strange migration on the last day of summer.

 

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

When It Rains

She stared out the window, watching it rain.  Great sheets of water cascaded down the window pane, slamming into the ground in a deafening symphony of noises.  If you listened close enough, the different notes could be detected.  It was as beautiful as anything written by Bach or Tchaikovsky.  Beneath the ever increasing rhythm of the rain, the radio played.  However, it was barely audible and the words couldn’t be understood.

Outside, nothing moved through the soggy marsh that had been a backyard only an hour earlier.  The birds that had been crying to each other were gone.  The squirrel in the tree making strange, very unsquirrel like screechings, had fled to hide in their nests.  Only the water moved.

As it drained through the lawn, currents formed.  Some moved slowly through broad, open expanses of grass.  Others moved quickly, creating miniature rapids around paving stones, garden gnomes, and a bird bath.  She hated the bird bath.  Now, it was overflowing, helping fuel the flooding currents that ran towards the doors and foundation of her house.

She turned away, moving into the house, away from the water and the rain.  It wasn’t a thunderstorm, there hadn’t been a single clap, just torrential rains for the last hour.  She hated rain too.  Her backyard was carefully cultivated to not need much water.

The ground rumble.  She felt it under her feet through the floorboards as well as hearing it.  It wasn’t thunder, but something worse.  Something buried in the ground, something that grew only when heavily watered.  She sighed and gave up on getting any peace and quiet.  She walked to her room, grabbed the shovel and the shotgun and went back to the window.

She could see it now.  The ground was churning, a mountain of mud rising through the water.  The water went around it, as if afraid of what would come from the mud.  She understood.  She feared it too.  She raised the window and used the frame to steady the shotgun as she leveled it at the rising mound.

Her heart rate increased.  Her breathing became shallower, until she gave in and held it.  Then it stopped.  The rain just ended.  Clouds that had been obscuring the sky began to fade and a glimmer of sunshine could be seen.  She exhaled and grabbed the shovel.  It would wait for another day.

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.

While I Was Sleeping

What is that noise?  I can’t move.  What the hell is happening?  How did I get here?  Ok, let’s just take a moment.  What was the last thing I remember doing?

I was sleeping.  The house was deserted.  I had curled up in bed after dinner.  I remember being in bed.  I remember feeling sleepy.  No, wait, I had to get up and use the bathroom.  I used the bathroom and got a drink, then I went back to bed.  It was warm in the house.  My bed was cool as my body climbed back into it.  It felt wonderful.  I feel asleep almost immediately.

Ok, then what?  There was a noise.  Like a door opening, but not really a door, something metallic clanked.  I wanted to go investigate, but my body wouldn’t move.  I don’t know why my body wouldn’t move.  Someone picked me up, I remember that part.  They picked me up and carried me out of the house. 

Then what?   Motion, a car ride, I think.  It made me sleepy again.  There was a light breeze from somewhere.  It moved my hair.  I think I fell back asleep.

Now, I’m here.  But I don’t know where here is.  The room is bright, terribly bright.  My head hurts.  I’m chained up on something, a table I think.  It’s cold, like metal.  The noise gets louder. 

What the hell are you doing to me?  I try to make noise as a man comes into view.  He touches my face.  His hands are warm.  His fingers dig into me.  I’m picked up from the table.  I want to tell him to stop, but I can’t.  No sounds are coming out of my mouth.  My mouth feels weird.  It’s not just his hands, there’s something around my face.

I’m plunged into warm water.  The man begins to scrub me.  It hurts and feels good at the same time.  He lifts me from the water.  Instantly, I begin to shiver.  The air is so cold. 

AHHHH!!!  What is that?  It feels weird.  It doesn’t hurt, but it feels like it should.  What the hell? 

“Just a few more minutes, little guy, and we’ll have you all prettied up and ready for adoption.”  The man’s voice is gentle.  I finally manage to whine at him, I wish it had been a bark.

 

©Hadena James 2014

This is a work of fiction, any resemblance to persons living or dead or actual situations is completely coincidental.