FLASH FICTION *The Things We Do For Love*

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The Things We Do For Love
R.A Goli

He smells a bit funny tonight.
Sniff.
It doesn’t really matter as he is already taking off his torn t-shirt. Watching him undress makes me feel tingly between my legs. I move forward to help him unzip his jeans. He rips my t-shirt off in a desperate act of passion and it makes me moan in anticipation. He starts to kiss my neck and slips a hand up my skirt. He nibbles at my skin gently, licking and tasting, then he bites. Hard. I can feel my flesh tear and my own blood spill across my neck and shoulder. The pain is intense and I let out a warbled cry, my hands grasping his hair to pull him back. Tears prick my eyes and my breath quickens, but I resist the urge to move away from him. I love him. This is the only way we can be together.

I’m just glad that he doesn’t want to eat my brains.

He pushes me back onto the bed and then scrambles on top of me. I slide my hands up his chest, the skin mottled gray but mostly unblemished, and I look into his cloudy eyes, as he chews and swallows a piece of me. I wonder where he will bite next, how much I will have to endure before I can be with him. Be like him.

The door bursts open and a shotgun blast rings through the small room. I scream, as his head breaks apart and I am splattered in the gore and fragments of my beloved’s skull. I sit up, wiping the blood from my eyes, my face stinging from the shards of bone splintering my skin. I look down; he is still. Most of his skull is gone, his face torn away, leaving him unrecognizable. But, he smells so good. I pick up a limp arm and begin gnawing at his flesh.

I tear a piece off with my teeth and let it roll over my tongue before I begin to chew. It tastes better than the most succulent steak I have ever eaten, his blood sweeter than any red wine jus. I hear the click of the shotgun barrel as it’s reloaded and I look up, but my vision is blurry, everything has a yellow tinge. I put a hand to my chest and realize that my heart has stopped.

The man says, “I’m sorry pumpkin,” but it comes out in heavy sobs.

That’s when my slowing brain puts the pieces together and I realize who it is.

“Daddy, no,” I say as he raises the shotgun, aiming at my head. I put my hand up as though it can stop a bullet. I see it splatter in a thousand crimson pieces, in slow motion. And then everything is black.

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Flash Fiction Friday *Waltzing Matilda*

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Waltzing Matilda

By Jillian Bost

Matilda trudged down the country lane in a huff. She shouldn’t have been walking by herself this late in the evening, but Emma had stayed behind at the party to bat her eyes and giggle at every word Thomas Ward said. Matilda was the one who’d coaxed Thomas out of his shell, and taught him how to waltz. Yet Emma had been the one he’d stared after, as if she were the cupbearer and Matilda the desert.  “You can’t dance, you great big drooling beast!” Matilda had yelled before storming out of his house.

Jealousy bit at her insides, and she winced. She drew her cloak tighter around herself, hating the wind that battered her face and cursing the moon that was hiding in the dark, for Thomas would be walking Emma home tonight, not her.

Matilda closed her eyes and imagined a new dance partner. This man would be taller than Thomas, stronger, and have a full head of lush black hair. He wouldn’t fall prey to the simpering lamb act of a bored young woman. He would know every dance, including the waltz.

She opened her eyes and gasped. “Oh my…”

“Good evening, milady. I’m sorry to have startled you.”

It was him. Tall, strong, and mysterious.Her dream.

Together they waltzed, though he moved as if he were pained. He released Matilda just as she caught a glimpse of yellow eyes. Some trick of the moon, she mused, which had peeked out from behind the clouds.

“Thank you for the dance.” He bowed, then hobbled away, curled in on himself.

“But wait! What is your name?” Matilda hurried after him, nearly stumbling over her skirt.

She gasped when he swung round, his snout and fangs shining in the light. “Oh dear,” she managed, before he closed in.

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A Cry for Help

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A Cry for Help

by Rivka Jacobs

They turned left from Peachtree Street, into the parking lot beside the Brookhaven apartment building. Kayla, sitting like an unstrung marionette slumped against the back seat, caught her mother’s eyes as she glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Young lady, put your knees together,” the woman demanded of her daughter as they pulled into their reserved slot.

Six-year-old Kayla didn’t move. She watched as her mother checked her makeup and hair, then switched off the ignition. “I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with you,” her mother said as she exited with a graceful swing of her legs, stood, tugged her tight red skirt back into position. “The doctors and counselors couldn’t find anything wrong with you. They don’t have to live with you, sitting there with your mouth hanging open like a dumb animal, your mind the hell knows where…” She paused, then said loudly, “What are you waiting for? Take the damn seat belt off and don’t forget your book bag.” She waited another moment, then shouted, “Kayla Marie Boggs, get your butt out of that car!” Continue reading

Don’t Fear The Reaper

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Don’t Fear The Reaper

Alexander Brown

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“I need you to kill him for me.”

The words were spoken in the right order, the request not unreasonable. After all, Brian Turner’s father had been a son of a bitch long before the Vietnam War but an even bigger one since.

But Brian also knew that rules were rules.

“You know I can’t,” Luke replied.

Before he could continue, Brian snatched the words out of his mouth.

“Rules are rules.” Continue reading

FunDead Kindle Book Sale!

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Both Shadows in Salem and O Horrid Night are 60% off for Kindle, now through March 22nd, 2017! Get your copy now, and pay less than buying ONE at the regular price of $4.99!

Lisa

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Lisa

By Mike Carey

Billy wasn’t happy.

His parents were going out for the night, and in spite of his protests, they had called Lisa to come babysit. Billy hated Lisa. She always hogged the TV and the computer, she was mean, and she smelled weird. Worst of all, she made it sound like she was doing him favors and always wanted him to thank her. The doorbell rang and Billy shuddered. He knew that she had arrived and his best bet was to just stay in his room, but he knew what was coming next.

“Billy!” his mother called up the stairs, “come down here a minute.”

He knew the routine by heart. Dropping his phone on the bed, he sulked down the stairs.  As usual, Lisa had managed to block most of the bottom stair with that huge creepy old bag of hers.  She said she kept schoolwork in it, but Billy had never seen her open it. He tried not to look at her, but she could tell she was staring at him with her fake smile stretching across her pimply face, and her greasy red hair falling onto her bony shoulders. Continue reading

Flash Fiction Friday *Well-Read Books*

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Well-Read Books

By Lance Eaton

Viscous red liquid seeped from the pages of the closed book and crawled in all directions. I thought about what an interesting predicament this was. I pondered what to do.Let the book bleed out, allowing my inner sadist to feast on the sight. Channel my bibliophile horror and attempt to clean up the damaged book. Ride the pounding waves of curiosity and open the tome.

Curiosity won and I coquettishly lifted the cover with the tips of my fingers in such a delicate fashion, one would think I feared I was waking a dying beast. Well, it was far from dying. No sooner did I half-open the book when two purplish black tendrils surged forward and latched onto my wrists.

I leaned back and struggled with the moist appendages but I knew it was a lost cause. The tendrils had small teeth that tore into my skin and giving my growing nausea, possibly seeped some weakening chemical agent into my body. Somehow, my skull made it into the book unscathed, except for an ear. The book wasn’t that big and I felt innumerable bones crack as it dragged me deeper into its bowels.

It fascinates me to no end that my curiosity much more than my sadism leads me into such troubles. But here I am in some perverse reality, where books are people and humans are repeatedly opened wide to be read with great intensity.  I wonder about the day when one of these things decides they want to annotate me.

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