Out of Focus

Hello Hello, the word of the week was blur and it got really weird.  The word blur was used for something moving to fast to see, and this week is horror, with all the blood, gore, and implied murder that I could pack into six sentences.  Don’t read if you are squeamish, and if you aren’t. then join our poor narrator, witness to something unspeakable. Really, it’s never spoken.


It was moving too fast for me to keep my eyes on it, and trying was starting to make me dizzy, or maybe that was the blood loss.

It was like a blur, moving in and out so fast I couldn’t focus on it, and when it stopped long enough for me to see, the carnage beneath it made me look away.

I was never one to have a weak stomach, but I had never seen so much of what should be on the inside spread in pieces across a white tile floor, and if I hadn’t been able to smell the copper thick on the air,  I would have thought I was looking at some bizarre modern art piece.

I knew that I was going to die, no one was going to survive this, and I should have fought it, rallied for life, but there was no way to forget this kind of horror, and there came a point where I knew that death would be a mercy, at escape from a life of trauma.

I wasn’t so lucky though, because that’s when the sirens rang in, loud and clanging, lights flashing blue and red, making the scene surreal in the ever-changing light through the window.

It ran, and I survived, not lived, survived, because I was missing too many pieces to enjoy my existence, every hour awake was pure agony, and yet it was the only respite I got from the abomination that haunted my dreams until the day I finally died.

Cleaning House

Hello Hello, the word of the week is Mess, and this week I am using it in the cleaning up a mess sense of the word.  Follow the story of Heidi, who hates the smell of bleach, and is cleaning up someone else’s mess.  There is a lot implied here, but not much said outright, so I suspect triggers are off the table this week, but let me know if I am wrong. Thanks. Also this is in thiller/horror because while it is not suspenseful, it has that creepy vibe


The smell of bleach was so thick in the air that she could almost taste it, as it burned it’s way down her throat with every breath she took.

This was the part of cleaning that Heidi hated the most, the smell of it, and while every bit of her hurt from two hours on her hand and knees scrubbing the floor, it was taste in her mouth that made her angry.

This wasn’t her mess, she shouldn’t have to be the one the clean it up, but if Olga had the kind of control that was needed to do clean-up, there wouldn’t be a mess to clean up in the first place.

It should have been their mother here doing this, after all it was her decision to let Olga out, even though Heidi had begged her not to, and less than two days later here she was on her knees trying to scrub every bit of evidence from the grout on the kitchen floor.

It wasn’t perfect, this much bleach would let anyone with a nose know that something had happened here, and that alone would bring suspicion upon them, but there would be no forensic evidence to tie to them to it, not if she could help it.

Heidi had liked it here, had liked being Heidi, but that was over now, as once things settled, they would be moving on, lest they be suspects when the next missing happened, and she longed for the day they got to stay somewhere long enough to call it her home.

Don’t Read from the Book!

This one is based on the weekly picture prompt from The Writer’s Mess below, and me watching the Mummy this weekend.  It is exactly the dark wtf you are probably expecting from me, and I think it’s similar to something I have written prior, but cannot seem to find now. Anyways, see what happens when you read from the book.


Whoever said nothing bad ever came from reading a book hadn’t read from the one that they held in their hands that night.  It was supposed to be one of those sleepover jokes, reading from the book that Larissa had picked up at the second had store. 

The book was old, not in Latin, but not exactly in middle-English either.  It was in that badly written English where you could sus out the words, but they were spelled wonky, and they had to sound it out one word at a time to figure out what it was saying.

They had all stood in the yard at midnight under the light of the full moon, dressed to the nines, post their usual sleepover makeovers to do it, just like the book called for.

It wasn’t the first sleepover they had, it was the last though. While the three of them were cleared in the deaths of the other four girls that were there that night, they never wanted to see each other, or that book ever again.

Maybe, if they were lucky, someday they would even be able to forget what had happened.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas…

This one is for the weekly picture prompt on The Writer’s Mess, shown below, and I will tell you that this one is a response to a challenge of “cozy horror” that I discussed with the Mess group a while back.  Sit back and enjoy the holiday season with this lovely little Christmas story.


Ernest lowered the needle onto the record, and stood eyes closed, as the opening baritone washed over him.  He took a deep breathe, and released his remaining tension along with the exhale.

He sat down on the couch clad in his favorite wool Christmas sweater, glass of eggnog in hand, staring into the roaring fire, as the crackling accentuated the feeling of the Christmas music.  

His Christmas tree was decorated, and stockings for him and his love were hung on the mantle with the utmost care.  Every surface of the cabin was adorned with Christmas, whether it be the Santa Claus placemats on the table, or the sock reindeers that sat on the back of the couch.

Some people would say he had gone overboard, but this was his favorite time of the year, and he deserved to go all in.  It was after all, just a month, one perfect month.

He was sure his love would agree, the sounds of her chains coming up through the floorboard like the jingling of sleigh bells.  She would love it… Or the next one would. 

Either way, it would be the perfect Christmas.