Tag Archives: dark fiction

Murder In Her Eyes

There was murder in her eyes. He saw it clear as day.


He rubbed the tender spot where she’d hit him with the blunt — and his heart skipped a beat when she pointed the barbaric weapon at him.

“You’re not actually going to use that thing, are you?” he stammered.

“Oh, I should,” she seethed. “I should use it to take you apart piece by piece.”

He licked his lips nervously and cast about for an escape, but she clearly had the advantage.

“C’mon,” he pleaded. “Can’t we be civilized about this?”

“Ha!” she laughed mirthlessly. “We’re way beyond civilized here, Robert.” She paced around him, where she had coldcocked him.

“Bastard!” she hissed. “All this time I was looking for my boy, I came to you for comfort! All this time…” She gasped, trying to catch her breath. “I looked everywhere for my boy — and all this time you were feeding him to me, a piece at a time!

“I should kill you!”

He smiled, then, a psychotic glint to his eyes.

“Yeah,” he smirked, “but didn’t he taste wonderful?


We broke the world, cracked it open from pole to pole. Lit the planet up and burned it with fire from within. We had to. It was the only way to get rid of them.

It was a doomsday weapon, of course. A last recourse. God knows we’d tried everything else. Nothing had worked. And so we did what we always swore we would never do, despite the fact that we had built the weapon anyway. We knew that, push come to shove, we’d use it, even while we were telling ourselves we wouldn’t.

It sure as hell was better than the alternative.

And so now we walk the surface, just the four of us, protected by our armored suits. So far as we know, we are the last of our people, the last of our kind, and the last living things anywhere on the planet. Our world is dead now; it will never recover. But at least they can no longer have their way with us.

It is a fair trade.

Enemy Within

We slipped our bonds and escaped across the dunes. The distant sound of crashing waves drew us westward. We ran for everything we were worth, fear and desperation driving us on.

We never saw our captors. We never knew where — or what — they were. What we knew during our captivity was only confusion and befuddlement, a strange mixing of thoughts like a spoon thrust into our minds and stirred. For nearly all that time, I was convinced I was going insane, and I was not the only one.

In the beginning it was clear that there were many of us in that dark, cavernous room, but over time they weeded us out. The number of groaning voices filtered down until only three remained.

And then without warning, our minds were clear and there was sand beneath our feet. We were running for our freedom.

But as we ran, voices began to appear and visual data to overlay the landscape — and we were forced to one sickening conclusion. They — whatever they were — had not set us free. They were merely riding herd inside us.

Rumination and Horror

He vomits, on all fours and stomach heaving. Long, ropey strings of fluid slide from his mouth to the ground, wet and glistening. It is the color of infected phlegm, the smell powerful, overwhelming. His belly clenches again, and he vomits more of the greasy strands into the dirt.

They puddle before him, a gelatinous mass that slowly congeals into a single entity. He kneels over it, weak from the effort of puking and panting heavily, struggling to take in air again. Sweat falls from his face and forehead, the salty droplets landing on the yellow, stinking mass. He thinks that he has never felt so badly as this.

It pulses — once — a wet squick of sound, like an infant sucking on a pacifier, and stills.

He is breathing more normally now, still feeling shaky but gaining strength — and now the mass is pulsing again, faster than before, still making that god-awful sucking sound.

And then it leaps, sealing itself to his face, and he realizes he was wrong.

It is possible to feel much, much worse.

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He soared.

He had always wanted to fly, and now he was doing just that. He had no feathers, no wings, but he was flying just the same. The special magic that fathers possessed had made this possible. He laughed with the euphoria of the moment.

The wind blew his hair back, and he closed his eyes, reveling in the pure joy of the experience. He threw his arms out, tried to catch the air, tried to use it to his advantage. It was a thrill beyond belief.

Tumbling over, the last thing four-year-old Jacob Brown saw before the ground broke his tiny body was the figure of his father standing at the top of the cliff, arms still outstretched.

[Originally posted on Ficly.]

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This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.


In hindsight, Trista realized she probably shouldn’t have fallen asleep under that tree.

Pus dripped into Trista’s eyes from the multiple infected sores on her scalp. She wanted to wipe it away, but the tree held her fast, pinning her arms to her sides, arms she could no longer feel. Feverish and frequently delirious, Trista couldn’t struggle. She’d lost track of how long she’d been trapped here. Days? Hours? She couldn’t remember.

Her body was coming apart. She was covered in sores as the tree slowly digested her. Her skin was sloughing off in greasy sheets, exposing bone and muscle that had turned black from the tree’s corrosive sap. Strands of flesh and tissue were all that was holding her organs in and that not very well. Already thick coils of bowel stretched from her abdomen to the ground, where insects feasted on them.

In her rare moments of coherency, she longed for death. She had suffered for so long.

Her final thought was a wish – a wish that she had never ventured into this hateful forest.

[Originally posted on Ficly.]

Skin Deep

He works quickly, his deft hands flitting over the instruments with a skill that comes from a vast history of experience. He talks while he works.

“You are my failure,” he says. “I blame only myself.”

He sets one tool down on the tray, picking up the next.

“I raised you better,” he sighs. There is melancholy in his voice. “But alas, the damage is done.”

He pauses for several long moments, intent on his work. Large beads of sweat stand out on his brow. He pays them no notice. He grunts with the exertion of one particularly difficult area, and after a moment he resumes his narrative.

“Do you know,” he asks, “that vanity is considered a deadly sin? Well, it goes with pride, at any rate.” His chuckle is raw and coarse. “I tried to break you of it, but of all my daughters, you were always the one most taken with her looks.”

He makes one final cut and the last of the girl’s skin springs free, stretched taught on the frame above her.

He gestures. “And you see? I warned you. Beauty really is only skin deep.”

[Originally posted on Ficly.]


He helped her up from the floor. She was bruised, bloody, and shaken. Whatever had happened here, it had been violent and traumatic. The room was a study in chaos.

“You alright?” he asked. No response. Her gaze was distant, focused on something far from here. He tried again. “Hey! Look at me!”

She did.

“Are you alright?” She nodded, tentative at first, then more emphatically. “Good,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“S- Sarah.” Definitely in shock.

“Ok, Sarah. It’s ok, now. I’m going to get you out of here.” She sagged against his shoulder.

“Can you tell me what happened?”

He felt her nod. “Attacked.”

“By what?” No response.

Something crashed in the other room. He made her look at him again, helped her focus.

“Ok, Sarah, this is important. The thing that attacked you, it might still be here.” Fear flashed in her eyes. “Can you tell me what it looks like?”

Her face clouded with confusion.

“I- yeah, but it doesn’t make sense.”

“It’s okay. Just tell me.”

“It looked like a pair of folded purple socks.”

[Originally posted at Ficly.]


Lightning flashed, and the boys ran, pumping their legs as hard as they could.

“Did you see that?” the first cried.

“No, and neither did you! Keep running!”

“I can’t,” came the reply. “I’ve got to stop for a sec.”

They dropped behind a fallen log and sucked air in ragged gasps, the panic of their flight showing its toll on them. Blood roared in their ears as their scared and exhausted bodies tried to compensate for the brutal run.

“Was that what I think it was?” the first asked. The reply came as a nod. “How can that be? I thought they were just legend?”

The second shook his head. “I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter now. We just have to get away. Ready?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Good. We’re almost there.”

They stood to run again, and another flash of lightning illuminated the shadow looming over them, arms outstretched, a wooden pole shoved up its back. They screamed, and the thunder boomed.

In the morning, the ring of scarecrows circling the town had increased by two.

[Originally posted on Ficly.]