I is for Impossible

I is for impossible.

757ebca39a183a207ddaebe1503b7da0 Having blown out her one hundred candles, with a slight relieve that her dentures didn’t come flying out covering the butter icing, Alice was quite exhausted and glad to be back in the solitary of her room, where she lit up a stogie and sat back in her chair.

As much as everyone had made a great fuss over her centenary birthday, with just as many making ‘ohh’ and ‘ahhh’ noises over her best wishes from the queen, Alice was not so fussed. In all her years nothing had compared to the magic of that one summer when she was just a girl, sitting in the garden, listening to her sister reading.

After her great adventure, falling down the rabbit hole and all the people she had met, she had honestly thought, hand on heart that her adventures would have been greeted with the same passion as she had felt, but alas this was not the case.

When Alice tried to explain that what she was telling her peers was real, this only made everyone around her more concerned for the young girls mental health. When she refused to admit it was all part of her imagination, her peers got angry and said she needed to be shut away for her own good. And so for the next ninety-three years Alice lived her life behind the great wall of Jupiter Hills Institution for the Mentally Insane. Not that that was what the place is called these days; successive management teams had come and gone, each adding their own view on how the inpatients should be cared for but more importantly how the institution was viewed by the outside world. These days the place on top of the hill is simply called, “Jupiter: Where We Care to Care.”

Alice would have liked to protest over such sentiments, but she learnt a long time ago that such acts of defiance only led to electrodes, isolation and beatings.
When she first arrived she longed to find a cake to eat or a drink to drink, to transform and escape this madness.

Her obsession with food and drink led to a frightening disorder which led to being force fed, a particular horrible experience which went on for many years. Now of course everything is liquidised and fed directly in to Alice’s stomach and Alice no longer has the fight to fight back.

And so, back in her windowless room, where suppression of natural stimulants are all part of Alice’s “care to care” package which for decades had been, as far as the powers that be were concerned, a great success. Although it took a lot of punishment, otherwise know as conversion therapy, eventually Alice’s spirit of th imagination was broken and eventually they have cured Alice of talking about her delusional dreams.

Although Alice stopped speaking wonders from that summer day, she just had to close her eyes, as she did everyday at three and let her imagination bring everyone back into sharp focus.

And so Alice settled down in her chair, the only other furniture in the room was a bed, and waited for the ticking noise to fill her head, only this time the ticking sounded different, louder, outside of her head, filling her room.
Afraid to believe it was true, Alice kept her eyes firmly shut until the ticking became so loud that it was quite impossible for it to be just inside her head.
First Alice opened her left eye, then her right and then shut them tightly shut again as she processed the sight of the white rabbit standing in the middle of her gloomy room. Again Alice was too afraid to open her eyes as she realised the wish that for so long she had held tight had at last come true.
Alice jumped as a slight touch was felt on her knee. This time her eyes sprang open wide and their stood the rabbit, standing by the rabbit hole with his , pocket watch in hand. Although Alice had wizened beyond all recognition of her youth, the rabbit recognised he right away, held out his palm and said, ‘It’s Time. Let’s get out of here, let’s go on an adventure’.

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Posted on May 3, 2017 by admin in A-Z of Horror, creative writing, fiction, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, short, short story, urban gothic Leave a comment

H is for Hipster

H is for Hipster.

The reason the new eatery stood out so much to Donald, was its choice of setting up shop in a part of town where the most exotic experience to be had was a mangey charity shop for a local cat charity. But that’s how these Hipster cafe’s start isn’t it, they move into a place with low rent and once they are established others move in. ‘Gentrification’ they call it, nice if you can afford to go to these places but they always cost an arm and a leg…
Thankfully for Donald, money really was not a problem. Donald would like to say he was one of those geeks that invented an app that changed the world, or at least helped soak up some of that teenage time that is so lucrative these days, but the truth was his parents were very, very rich, both died before they were fifty and left their rather tidy bank balance to Donald, their only child.

As any one with new money will tell you, the first thing you must do is go out and buy a house with more bathrooms then you’ll ever use, an indoor pool that will stink the rest of the basement out with chlorine and then of course there’s the expensive clothes. At one stage Donald wouldn’t wear anything but Gucci, including socks and pants; did you know you can even get Gucci toilet paper! The thing is, after a while such things become pointless, they become everyday things that you have. The back bedroom was filled with boxes of shoes Donald never wore along with a ton of gold bracelets, rings and pendants, all just to show everyone else how rich he had become.

For the first year Donald felt like a king, but after a while people with less then him got jealous and ignored both him and his wealth; while those with the same amount of cash or more either didn’t see what was that special or they would go out of their way to outdo Donald with something more extravagant.
Eventually Donald realised that the only way his fat wad of cash was going to make him happy (and noticed again) was to spend it on what the super rich simply called, “Experiencers”.

And so Donald went down that road. First he got dropped off by helicopter on top of Egypt’s three most famous pyramids, The Great Pyramid of Khufu, The Great Pyramid of Kahfre and The Great Pyramid of Menkaure. As amazing as those views were, after a while Donald realised that there was only so much sand and horizon he could take in without getting completely bored. And so he tried other stuff to satisfy the itch that being incredibly rich just could not quench. Donald went swimming with dolphins in Mexico’s Riviera Maya, walked on the seabed of the Bahamas, just to say he’d been up close to sharks, travelled in a hot air balloon across the Serengeti National Park, but after a while his eyes stopped seeing how brilliant these things were as they became ordinary; and so Donald found himself chasing something more tangible.

That’s when quite by chance Donald came across this new Hipster bar. Now, Donald has eaten just about every exotic, rare animal, vegetable and mineral out there, so he was more then relived when the maitre’d came over. A tall man, with an immaculately trimmed black beard, quaffed hair and exquisitely ‘dressed down’ in a Vivian Westwood red lumberjack shirt, jeans and hand-stitched wild-bore leather boots. Showing no pretence to keep their conversation private, the maitre’d announced to Donald (and the room) that he recognised the hunger in Donald’s eyes for something more then was on the menu and if he would like to wait until the end of the evening, he could promise Donald a taste sensation. In turn, Donald felt a tingle rush through his body that he had long forgotten was possible, which he knew everyone else in the restaurant could also now feel.
For the next hour the waitress was suitably aloof in her attendance to Donald’s needs, ensuring his glass, (trimmed with gold leaf that dispersed on his lips) was kept topped up with Croizet Cuvée Léonie. To those who have no idea, this just happens to be the most expensive and rare cognac’s in the world.

By closing time Donald was swaying slightly on his barstool. In all honesty he could have happily gone home, grabbing a burger (gourmet of course) on the way and watched some porn on his ‘Stuart Hughes’s television’…never heard of Stuart Hughes? Why would you, very few people can afford a 22ct, diamond encrusted TV set.
As much as Donald wanted to go, he knew that if he turned down the offer waiting for him, it would never be offered again and so he drained his glass as the last of the customers were leaving and followed the waitress through the back swing doors and saw the maitre’d, smiling, “I hope you have enjoyed the ambiance of our little eatery and that the cognac has warmed your soul.

Tingling with anticipation, Donald gave a little chuckle as he was invited through to the VIP lounge; sparsely decorated, a small flambé table where the chef stood, a single round table and two chairs. The red walls contrasted fiercely with the black floor and ceiling; as did the chef’s bright white uniform. Donald noticed that the blond chef sported the same Hipster style of quaffed hair and beard of the maitre’d, who was standing on the opposite side of the private dinning room by a small round table with two chairs either side.
Pulling the chair out, the maitre’d gestured for Donald to sit, then joined him on the other side. The maitre’d then reached inside his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a device that looked like a cigar cutter. Out of all of Donald’s vices, smoking had never been high up on his list, but if the next thing on offer was going to be a, Gurkha Black Dragon, then who was he to refuse?

The maitre’d held the device up to the light and said, “This is one of only five in the whole world, made from extremely rare, Rosé Snake Wood. You see the pink glisten within the tanned wood, It’s a miracle of nature, never been seen since. The blade is made from harden steel and then coated with rhodium, the edges of the wood are trimmed with Cononish Scots Gold. If you look along top edge of this exquisite device you will see it has been encrusted with jadeite.”
Now, normally Donald would normally be lapping this all up, but for the first time in his life it all just felt a little bit too over the top, ‘It’s just a cigar cutter’ thought Donald. Besides, the brandy was now beginning to gurgle in Donald’s gut and the thought of smoking a cigar would be the best ingredient to bring it all back up.
“If it’s all okay with you, said Donald, I’m not in the mood for smoking. even if it is a G. B. D.”
But then the maitre’d showed Donald a small flawless diamond on the side that when pulled down, the blade’s aperture concertinaed tightly shut.
Unable to help himself, Donald blurted out, “I’m a sucker for gimmicks like that, how much for the cigar cutter?”

The maitre’d looked back with some puzzlement, then added, “Oh, I’m sorry if you were misled sir, this device is just part of a bigger ritual, you see this hand crafted device has been specially created as a kitchen utensil, nothing to do with cigars”.
Slightly puzzled by his words, Donald nodded for the maitre’d to continue.
“You’re a man of frivolous wealth, so you understand the need for such extraordinary expensive instruments, they are all part of the performance.”
The Chef then came to the side, wheeling the flambé table all set to show off his cooking skills.

“Our five Star chef is renowned for bringing out the flavours out of the most unusual of dishes. He’s skill is to create flavours that are unique to you and to you alone, flavours that will have you craving for more. Now, I am sure you would like to taste something like that, Sir”.

The truth was, Donald was bored. He had seen such performances, flambéed, dry-iced, sparkled, smeared and candy-popped more times then he cared to remembered and was about to leave when the maitre’d grabbed Donald’s hand, slipped the device over Donald’s middle finger and with a quick flick of the diamond, lopped Donald’s middle finger clean off. The chef then grabbed Donald’s hand, and quickly cauterised the wound with the flat of a soldering iron.

The scream lodged in Donald’s throat, as all urgers to move failed his shocked and horrified body. It was all Donald could do but to just sit and watch as the chef skilfully de-boned Donald’s fingers, stuffed it with an array of ingredients and then shallow fried it in the most delicious, European White Truffle Butter (A smell Donald knew well).
As crazy as it sounds, the smell took away all the pain that was throbbing from Donald’s stump as his mind buzzed with anticipation.

The chef then placed a deep matt black plate in front of Donald, and delicately placed Donald’s cooked finger in the centre of the plate at a millimetre of an angle.
With his good hand, Donald picked up his finger, sniffed in the most amazing aromas then popped the finger in his mouth and was amazed at how the flavours danced across his palate and made his heart sing.
Amazed at how eating his own finger made him feel; slightly dazed Donald lifted his left hand up to his face, slipped off his platinum, diamond encrusted wedding ring (Donald was never married) and offered up his wedding finger to the maitre’d. Again the maitre’d quickly snipped Donald’s finger off and handed it to the Chef who in turn cauterised the wound, then set about de-boned the finger.

The aroma made Donald drool as the chef once again produced the most amazing flavoured tapas which Donald quickly devoured. The maitre’d gave a wry smile and explained that the dishes tasted so good as Donald’s palate was reacting with the unique flavours he had grown up with all his life, the taste of himself. This was why Donald had never experienced such taste sensations before as it was only with the expertise of the chef’s great talents that he was able to bring out the amazing flavours that were causing Donald’s taste buds to sing so widely.

Before Donald had any real contemplation about what he was doing, the maitre’d had snipped off every finger and all of Donald’s toe’s which Donald in turn greedily swallowed. As he took the last gulp of his stuffed big toe, The maitre’d said, “Now sir, there is one more digit that will truly compliment the taste sensation…”
The electric charge, coupled with the smell of cooked flesh, filled the kitchen. By now, Donald had a crazed look in his eyes; he knew he had to take the final step in this ‘experience’.
As he stood up on his back heels, he went to undo his belt around his trousers, only to realise that he no longer had the ability to preform the task. The maitre’d stepped forward, undone Donald’s trousers and slipped the cutting device over Donald’s penis and with a set of Cononish Scots Gold tweezers, stretched Donald’s member as tight as he could before making the final snip.

Donald felt nothing but a lust to taste his meat, only to watch in horror as the maitre’d threw Donald’s manhood in a bucket on the far side of the kitchen, and then high-fived the chef.
Clutching at his groin with his stumps, Donald felt woozy, he was losing blood fast. The maitre’d wrapped his arm around Donald’s shoulder and led him back in to the kitchen and into the walk-in freezer. Along the way Donald spotted a crate of cheap cooking brandy and a rack of empty ‘aged’ Croizet Cuvée Léonie bottles. Donald was equally horrified to see a cardboard box filled with hundreds of identical, ‘digit cutters’ that on mass looked decidedly cheap. The maitre’d then settled Donald by several containers of monosodium glutamate, and said, “Don’t worry sir, it’s all about recognising good taste.”

Posted on April 4, 2017 by admin in creative writing, fiction, Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic horror, Horror, short, short story, urban gothic Leave a comment

G is for Glenn

G is for Glenn.

I’ve always loved horror stories. Skeletons have been at the forefront. I had a full size paper, glow in the dark skeleton and then a bit later the poster on the opposite side of my bed was of a skeleton on a motorbike, which I thought was great! I think i got it after seeing th esketon riding a motoabike in the Hammer Horror, Doctor, Terrors, House of Horrors, an all time favourite of my sister and mine.
I liked the skeletons that grew out of the monsters teeth in Jason and the Argonauts and seemed to always find those plastic skeletons either on a key ring or the like while on seaside holidays.

My sister had some great gothic children’s books, one was a collection of the original Hans Christian Anderson’s fairy tales, with great illustrations. My favourite was the Sea Witch from the little mermaid, she was the stuff of nightmares! The other book my sister had was about dwarfs and giants. The one story I liked my sister to read to me was about a group of dwarfs who kidnap a princess. The scene that will never leave my brain is when the princess complains that the carriage seat is too hard, the dwarf jumps out of the carriage, plucks out his eye, throws it in the air and sees a filed of wheat…poor princess!
From their I discovered the Pan Books of Horror. I loved the covers and the blurb on the back as much as I liked the stories themselves.
The very first horror story I wrote was at school and leant the first rule of horror is you need to build the tension, let the feeling of dread creep in. Of course once you have mastered this then you can experiment every which way.

Over the next few years I wrote bits and pieces for myself, two of my favourites were a take on a Mills and Boom style story called The Quite Storm, the other was a typical slasher horror. I loved those 1980’s horror films that were based on a holiday or date: Halloween, Friday 13th, Happy Birthday to Me, Black Christmas, My Bloody Valentine, April Fools Day, Mother’s Day! So I wrote mine based on nursery rhymes, a sample of which can me found on here under, All Fall Down.

A couple more years passed and I was looking for a project to learn something new when my husband Keir spotted a creative writing class at Brighton City College. My tutors, Ruth and Maria said, for your first project we don’t want you to write we would like you to draw a rough plan of the street you grew up in, followed by us naming who lived in each house. From there grew my collection of short horror stories called Blanche Street.
Blanche Street, where all the neighbours are a nightmare. My friend Andrew Nimmo Helped me upload my e-book onto Amazon, while my friend Linus created a brilliant webpage advertising the type of synopsise of my ten tales in the style of the ones I admire from PBH.
My late mother-in-law, Hazel Bottrill created some brilliant art work for the stories, The Fall of Derrick Houser, Dead Famous, and the book cover. My other talented friends also contributed some brilliant images to go with the Blanche Street Tales, Angus Stewart: Filth, and publicity photo for back cover, Davey Sutherland: Frank, Sarah Prades and Kristan Akerman and three new pieces from Darren Menezes: Sugar Almonds, The Nightmare and Some Mother’s Son.
Finally, I found online a great editor, Jenny Prince, who through fresh eyes and is at present getting the book in shape for its (self publishing) into paperback.
More information to follow.

Posted on March 23, 2017 by admin in All Fall Down, Blanche Street, Dead Famous, fiction, Fiction & Books, Gothic, Gothic horror, Ipswich, short, short story, Suffolk, urban gothic Leave a comment

F is for Fur

F is for Fur.

Roger lay in bed, every time he opened his eyes the room span madly making him shut his eyes tight again. Downstairs he could hear the others getting on and knew that he too had to get up.

Ever so gradually, Roger held both hands tight round his face as he lifted his head off the pillow. With his eyes still tightly shut he made the familiar journey to the bathroom, only to misguide where the laundry basket was and stubbed his toe. Bright lights filled his head as he let out a yell. From downstairs his wife, Julie called up the stairs and told her husband not to cuss in front of the children.

Blindly, Roger reached out for the bathroom light-switch, pulled the cord, then quickly pulled it again to stop the roar of the extractor fan switching on and cutting through his delicate head. Gripping hold of the side of the sink, Roger slowly lowered his head and rested his forehead against the coolness of sink, but felt little benefit from doing so. With the same amount of effort, Roger slowly lifted his head back up and tried to recall just what he had been up to earlier to be feeling so dreadful now.

Still unwilling to open his eyes, Roger reached for his electric toothbrush, but shuddered at the though of turning it on and putting that noise inside his fragile head and so he just gently went over his teeth manually.

As he brushed, flashes of events earlier came into his head, he was sitting at his desk, with the blinds half way down blocking out blazing sunshine which sent a crack of pain through his head. As he flossed his teeth, his tongue felt furry as another flash came flooding in; this time he was standing by the water cooler hearing Sharon from accounts yabbling on about the latest c-celeb on TV, her on/off relationship with her boyfriend Barry and how’s although she’s starving, she has lost 2 pounds this week on the ‘Carrot diet’. “You can eat as many carrots as you like, juiced, shredded, sliced, boiled, steamed, grilled, but you can’t have them deep fried in batter which a real shame.”

Next Roger fills the sink with water and lathers up the bar of soap and vigorously washes his face. As he splashes cold water over his face another memory hits hard; the same droll day continues with his sitting in the staff canteen, looking at a piss weak cup of tea and a flaccid white roll filled with egg mayo. Across the table, Barry is moaning that he doesn’t quite know how to dump Sharon as he and his mates have a holiday booked in Magaluf and what they really want to do is get so drunk they throw up, get a tattoo (a devil in a diaper being the favourite) and then finding as many ‘birds’ as possible to shag.

The blandness of his day drags in more memories, his boss droning on about the next five year forecast being the most depressing thing that refuses to stop rattling around his head.

With a heavy sigh, Roger stumbles back into the bedroom, with anticipation of bright sunlight, pulls back the curtains and sees the full moon staring back. Holding his puny hands up to his face he watches as fur sweeps up hands and arms, torso, back and round and round his legs and feet.

The horror of his life as a clerk are put in check as he combs his fur across his cheeks, licks his teeth and joins his family for a night of hunting….he really hopes to bumps into his his boss, Barry and Sharon.

Posted on March 11, 2017 by admin in Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, short, short story, urban gothic Leave a comment

C is for clown

Take a lette rof teh alpherbet and write flash horror fiction within half an hour

C is for clown

C is for clown.
Her name was Fiz, well her name was actually Caroline, but everyone called her Fiz on the account that she was so god damn physically fit! Not that you would recognise Fiz these days, she’s changed. No scratch that, she has transformed into something completely different, not through her own choosing mind.
No one has any idea who was behind the nightmare, but there must have been a world wide group involved because the pandemic spread within days. I think Fiz was the first victim. As much as I miss her, I’m glad it was her who answered the door and saw the package, I know, I know, selfish comment, but she is no longer aware of who she was. To be honest, I’m not sure I would be able to tell her in a line up, not that I would want to put myself through that.
I’m running away with myself now, I need to tell you about the package. I guess Fiz thought it was a gift to her, admirers were forever leaving things on the front step, flowers, chocolates, one guy even left her a teapot, I think it was his way of being romantic, “Let’s meet over tea” something like that. It was a lovely teapot, makes a great brew and the spout never drips.
Sorry, I’m transgressing again aren’t I, where was I? Oh yes the package, it was plain brown paper and string, Fiz might have thought that was quaint, you know plain and simple, I don’t think Fiz ever had anything plain or simple in her life, ever. She loved to accessories, I know, I’m digressing, but it will help you get a better idea of who Fizz was. Do you know those, Sobranie cocktail cigarettes? Fiz would coordinate her clothes to match the coloured cocktail cigarettes. She would make me laugh, her funny ways. The ironic thing about the whole situation is that she was never particularly funny, never cracked a joke. Don’t get me wrong, she liked to laugh, more of a titter when she’s had a little bit to drink of fizz but never, never loud, not like that time.
I’m running ahead aren’t I. So, it was a Wednesday morning, I was still in bed, so were our flatmates, Posh-Sarah and King Albert, both have excellent breeding but absolutely hopeless in a crises. I heard Fiz shuffling about downstairs, making herself a cup of tea, no doubt she had a pink Sobranie on the go as she always wore pink pyjamas. I then heard her go to the front door and then there was a long silence, I think she was drinking her tea, bit of toast, cigarette. Then I heard this terrible scream. All three of us came running down to see Fiz sitting at the kitchen table, parcel opened in front of her with Fiz herself holding the side of her face; we all thought she had been slapped.
Fiz was more angry then upset, it took a lot to pull tears from her face. She then pointed a finger at the sprung snake and tin on the floor. It was King Albert who picked the tin up. It transpired to be a joke, one of those fake tins that when you shake it you think there’s something inside, Fiz thought it was jewellery or something, but when she opened it out sprung a fake snake, hitting Fiz on the side of the cheek.
None of us thought much more of it, I think privately we all chuckled to ourselves but that was it. It wasn’t until later in the day that I noticed a white streak across Fiz’s face. At first Fiz wouldn’t believe me, she refused to get out her hand mirror to look, (which belive me was a shock in itself!) It was only when I picked up a magazine,Majesty or Posh I think and pretended to read it that I noticed from the corner of my eye Fiz sneaking her mirror out and having a look. She didn’t say anything, she just got up and went to her room. She was in their for an age, I mean it felt like forever. Eventually I tapped on her door and asked if she was okay. Fiz mumbled something then opened the door a fraction. I was shocked at her red eyes, she had been crying. I don’t think she knew what to do, so she just opened the door a little more and showed me the side of her face. The small white mark had spread rapidly, completely covering the side of her face.
I think Fiz was hoping that I wasn’t seeing what she was seeing, but when she quickly realised I did she yelled, pulled me into her bedroom and slammed the door behind me.
I’d never been in Fiz’s bedroom before, It was a lot messier then I imagined, knickers on the floor, a plate with some unfinshed dinner by the foot of the bed and an ashtray filled with multi-coloured tips. Okay, okay, I’ll get on with the story at hand. Together we went through every lotion and potion Fiz had but nothing would remove the white. It was only while she was trying her Joan Malone face wipes that I noticed her lips getting redder. At first I thought it was because she had been rubbing her face so much or that she was having some kind of allergic reaction to all the stuff she had spread across her face.
Fiz must have seen my face because she started to panic, she ran over to her dressing table and tried to scream, but her face just kind of froze. I was watching her transformation from across the room, reflected in the mirror, it was all so surreal, like I was watching something on the television. The red smear grew into a wide grin, while the white covered her whole face, blue stars sprang up and bled across each eye and her perfect nose blew up big and bulbous. I went to take a step closer to Fiz, only for this chilling chuckle gurgled from her open mouth made me slowly creep out of her room, close the door and run.

Posted on January 31, 2017 by admin in creative writing, fiction, Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, short, short story, urban gothic Leave a comment

B is for Bonsai

Take a letter of the alphabet, write flash fiction within half an hour.
B is for Bonsai.

The art of Bonsai has always been a passion of mine, the art of keeping something so delicate in a miniature state takes a real skill, not to mention patience and dedication. Gradual manipulation of limbs, breaking and resetting the natural will. It was these skills that came into their own fifty years ago.
My daughter is as delicate as a lotus flower, as was her mother, but alas her mother was too delicate too survive. It filled my heart with such sadness to know that my beautiful daughter would never know her mother’s love.
It was the shock that I could lose somthing so precious, so easily that made me realise I had to do all I could to protect my daughter.
Have you got children? Yes! Then you will surely understand why I had to do everything in my power to keep her safe.
Please take that look of your face, you are seeing things from the point of view of a world constricted with rules and regulations, but it is these very things precisely that have enabled me to keep my daughter safe. In all the years she has never had an accident and I in turn have never had need to worry.
I home study her, everything she needs to know about the world she has learnt through me.

I believe, deep down she has no understanding of her diffrences, as far as we are concerned her world is normal. Her world is defended against all the horrors that ravarge and steal.
It is my job as a father to protect her. In the beginning I just bound her feet. Yes, there was much pain for both of us, but I knew I was doing the right thing for my daughter. Despite her bound feet, she still managed to crawl around at great speed. There were times when I needed to leave her for lengths of time, further binding was the only answer. As with her feet, I broke and bound her hands, arms across her chest. I made the decision that my hands would be her hands, I would feed her, wash her, stoke the side of her face when she cried.
As time passed, she began to grow at an alarming rate, something that I knew would only bring misery to us both and so I bound her whole body.
It took a lot of patience for the final part of the process, but as with the Bonsai, dedication brought out the true beauty.
Each day I would help stretch her legs backwards, folding, until eventually they lay flush with her back.
Eventually she came to understand that she had no need to worry about anything, all she needed was me.

Posted on January 25, 2017 by admin in fiction, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, Literature, short, short story, urban gothic Leave a comment

Writing Everyday in October: I Love Trish.

The taste of blood slid across Howard’s tongue as the Norwich to Ipswich train rattled along the track. For the last half hour he had nervously bitten his nails, all in the pursuit of the latest high. Howard’s best mate, Kes, (everyone called him Kes, because he was always high as a kite) had raved about the mind blowing time he’d had the other night at the Caribbean Club. Some bloke had offered Kes a new kind of high at the club toilet and he said he was off his head all night, “It’s called Trish. Think ecstasy, crossed with a trip and dib-dab of speed.”
Even before Kes had finished yabbering, Howard was hooked. Kes had said he was going to meet up with a guy called Chef and get some Trish for the weekend. That had been a couple of days ago. With no job worries, Kes will still be off his face on Trish, thought Howard.
As the train pulled into Ipswich’s train station, Howard pulled out the crumpled piece of paper from his jeans pocket on which Kes had scrawled.
9 Blanche Street, Ipswich. Ask for Chef. Say, “I love Trish.”

When the train finally pulled in to Ipswich, the seasoned travellers rushed from the platform and grabbed the waiting taxies. With no sign of a bus, Howard began walking towards what he hoped was the town centre. Half way he bumped into a young couple and asked if they knew where Blanche Street was. The woman shrugged her shoulders, as the bloke said, “You sure you want that part of town mate?”
Howard nodded while trying to ignore his growling stomach, all he wanted was to grab his stash of Trish and get back to his bedsit in Norwich.
Recognising the nervousness pouring out of Howard’s body, the man shrugged his shudders and said, “It’s no more than ten minutes away, just off Cemetery Road.”

Having followed the man’s directions, Howard turned into Blanche Street and instantly understood what the man had meant. The street was a row of pre-war dilapidated terraced houses. As he walked down the street, Howard’s stomach tightened; with most of the street lights broken it was difficult to make out the door numbers.

As he crept past one house he heard a man shout, “Madeline, Madeleine!” which caused Howard to quicken his step. Each house he passed seemed to be more decrepit than the last: that was until he reached number seven. The bottom half of the door had been boarded up. Bare wires hung where the doorbell had once been and the upstairs windows were smashed.

Again Howard felt his gut jolt, but there was no way he was going back home empty handed. Taking a deep breath he raised his hand to knock on the door, only for it to suddenly fly open. A dark silhouette of a very, very big man filled the door frame.
“Y,y,y,you Chef? Said Howard?

With no ready response, Howard tried to steady his voice without much success and said, “I,I,I,I,I love Trish.”
The man stepped back and nodded for Howard to enter the gloomy lit front room.

The first thing to hit him was the overwhelming stench of stale cigarette smoke, greasy takeaway food and something else, something rotten. While trying to manoeuvre passed the minefield of beer cans and overflowing ashtrays, Howard knocked a half-eaten takeaway box off the oversized leather armchair: spilling its contents onto the threadbare carpet. Dropping to his hands and knees, Howard went to clear up the partly chewed, greasy chicken bones only for Chef to yell, “Fucking leave it, get your arse in the back.”
Howard jumped to his feet, brushed the grease from his hands on to his jeans and then followed the man through the middle room, into the kitchen.
Hanging from the centre of the kitchen celling was a bare light bulb highlighting the cobwebs that strung from every corner, the floor felt sticky beneath his feet. Howard glanced round the near barren kitchen. The only other furniture was a tatty pine wooden table, either side sat two mismatched chairs and a bar stool. Chef nodded at Howard and grunted, “Sit.”

Like a well trained mongrel, Howard quickly obeyed, pulled out the chair and sat himself down.
Chef flung open the fridge door and said, “Beer?”

Howard stared at the man’s huge hands that gripped the rusting fridge door, his fingernails caked with black grime. A trickle of bile shot from Howard’s empty stomach into his throat causing him to nod as he tried his best to swallow his sick.

Grabbing two cans from the fridge, Chef slammed one can down in front of Howard, cracked open his own and drained the contents before Howard had even opened his.

“Get that down yah, it will stop you from being so fucking jumpy.”

Howard tried his best to stop his hands from shaking as he opened his can, only for the contents to spray all over his face.
Howard slurped at the frothing can as Chef laughed while he grabbed another two beers from the fridge. As he sat down at the table he said, “So, how’d you hear about me, was it London Tony?”

….. Wanna find out what happens to Howard and the other residence of Blanche Street? why not pop over to the homepage www.blanchestreet.co.uk and click on the doors and then hurry yourself over to the Amazon link to and get stuck into ten terrifying tales: http://www.amazon.com/Blanche-Street-Where-neighbours-nightmare-ebook/dp/B00OWFK1SA

Posted on October 31, 2015 by admin in Blanche Street, fiction, Fiction & Books, Horror, Ipswich, short, short story, Suffolk, urban gothic, Writing everyday in October Leave a comment

Writing Everyday in October: The Tenner

Trace the journey of a ten pound note through the lives of five owners. What was exchanged during the transactions? How much (or how little) did the transaction mean to each of the people involved?

Saturday night at the hole in the wall and Jerry takes out an extra tenner, put it in the back of his wallet telling himself that no matter what else he spends tonight the tenner will be marked as taxi money only. There was no way he is going to end up dazed and soiled with his flatmate’s one night stand stepping over him the next day, taking an incriminating shot before leaving the flat and posting it on Facebook.

(click here) Six hours later…

Pissed and hardly able to say his name, mainly because he had forgotten it, Jerry staggers into the kebab shop and screams as he shields his eyes to the bright fluorescent light. Although he can’t remember his name, he can remember to ask for extra chilli sauce of his shish kebab. Jerry knows that all he needs is some food inside him and then he’ll feel much better. It is only when he reaches for his wallet and finds it gone does he’s world start to tumble down. With no food to fuel his brain, Jerry loses all memories completely, from what club he’d been to, to where he lives. Jerry promises himself (again) that he’ll never, ever drink this much ever, ever, ever.

Meanwhile, outside The Ritzy…

Linda has had a horrible night. First she had a steaming row with her best mate, Gazza over a bloke who looked okay, but as soon as the cold air had hit it quickly transpired he was too pissed to remember his own name, let alone where he lived and had staggered off towards the local kebab shop, not realising that Linda had stayed back. Meanwhile Linda was hanging outside The Ritzy, hoping Gazza would come out too so they could go home and make up over a curry pot-noodle.

Ten minutes later…

After arguing with the bouncer that she was in fact not that drunk and promised she would not end up causing another scene in the club, Linda gave up and decided to go home alone. it was then she saw a wallet on the ground and picked it up to see it belonged to the drunk who had staggered off to the kebab shop. The good part of Linda thought about trying to find him, but when she saw the tenner folded neatly in the back of the wallet, she thought, Oh fuck it, took the tenner, dropped the wallet in the nearest bin and made her way to the taxi rank.

Outside the taxi rank…

Underneath the blanket was huddled Jamie and his dog, Wordsworth. Unbeknown to the ignoring crowds above, Jamie had a lot of interesting tales to tell, but no one had time to stop and listen. If he was lucky, he would get the occasional coin thrown, but what he really needed was a lucky break to get enough money for and his dog Wordsworth to get the train back home to his mum and dads, but Lady Luck, The Good-fairy Godmother and his Guardian Angel had all been on an extnded holiday for what felt like years. However! Tonight Jamie’s luck changes when he watches a ten pound note fall to the ground as a pissed passer by precariously past him and plonks herself into a cab.

Then the drug dealer appeared…

Growing up, Jamie had been an avid fan of the kids TV show, Jamie and the Magic Torch and had eventually convinced himself he was the real life, Jamie. At first his parents had humoured him when he came home with a dog and said its name was Wordsworth, they even ignored his late night sessions spent under his bed shining his torch at the floor, but when it became apparent he had a serious problem with drugs, so they had kicked him out. Life on the streets was no picnic for Jamie, but his drug dealer was always popping past and doing cheeky deals with Jamie.

Jamie was delighted to have the tenner, but it was far too little for a train ticket home, so Jamie was greatly relived to see the drug dealer who who had the powder that enabled Jamie to travel once agin (Unfortunately without his magic torch as he’d pawned that a long while back) ’d pawned a long time ago) to better, kinder worlds beyond this realm.

With the deal done…

The drug dealer slipped off into the shadows and broke the one cardinal rule of drug dealing, don’t take the stuff yourself. With his newly acquired tenner, the drug dealer got out his bag of the latest street drug, Trish, rolled the tenner up and took a hearty snort of the powder and promptly collapsed. Gradually his fingers unraveled as Trish took hold and pulled him into a nightmare not that dissimilar to a short story called, I love Trish in a book, called, Blanche Street, you dear reader can downloaded from amazon.co.uk.

A gush of wind took the tenner out of the dealer’s hand and something very unusual happened in one of Glenn’s story, a happy ending! You see, the wind caught the tenner, took the rolled tube high into the air and as it unraveled, it floated down, landing in front of Jerry.

Posted on October 24, 2015 by admin in Blanche Street, blogging, Fiction & Books, Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic horror, Horror, Ipswich, short, short story, Suffolk, urban gothic, Writing everyday in October Leave a comment

Writing everyday in October: Run!

“Run!”

Her horror snares me. I’m on my feet running, fast, but from what?

Crowds scurry, infectious fear.

A chorus of terror urges us, to run, run faster.

Hysteria rules, out of their homes they pour: stampeding, screaming, caterwauling.

The horror! Faces underfoot, no time to stop, just keep running.

But running, running from what?

Posted on October 17, 2015 by admin in blogging, creative writing, fiction, Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, short, short story, urban gothic, Writing everyday in October Leave a comment

Writing Every day in October. Filthy Weather, Part 2

Writing everyday in October.
Filthy Weather, Part 2

The next day despite it being even hotter then the day before, Barry lay feverishly in bed, with the blankets pulled up around him. Genie walked in to the bedroom with a glass of water which only made Barry wretch. He then calmed himself enough to say that he literally could not stomach anything.
To make matters worse, Barry was a hopeless patient; by midday Gina had enough of Barry’s moaning, made all the worse as she was unable to do anything to alleviate his symptoms beyond damping his brow with a damp cloth and wiping a way the gunk that kept building up in the corners of his eyes.
When Barry started to dry heave again, Gina apologised as she rushed out of the bedroom saying she needed to get some air. Gina was pleased to find none of the other neighbours were out on the patch of grass at the back of the flats. As Gina settled into the deckchair she notice the neighbours on the ground floor had the windows shut and curtains pulled tight which suited her just fine. The last thing she wanted was small talk with the strange mother and son combo who lived there.

Sitting back, Gina felt her body relax. High above from one of the flat windows, Gina heard a radio DJ, giving the usual cheesy chat.
“Well, I hope whatever you’re doing you’re making the most of the weather as we have reports that rain is soon on its way, next up is a tune for all you lad-ies. Here are those, Weather Girls and It’s Raining Men.”
Genie had her eyes closed as she sang along to the music, it was then she suddenly became aware of the unaccustomed sound of seagulls. Just as she looked up she saw the sky turn grey as hundreds of seagulls flew high up over the roofs. As the birds passed it looked like they were pulling behind them a glimmering golden carpet. It was in fact an unusual cloud formation; it looked to Genie as if it was chasing the birds out of the sky. As the massive cloud eclipsed the blue heaven, sun rays pierced the cloud causing it to sparkle.

“What is it?”

Genie turned to one of her other neighbours and her two children who had popped out on hearing the increasing row the seagulls were making overhead.
Gina stood open mouthed, unable to give any answer that would have made sense as the sight in the sky was beyond any comprehension she could think off. It was then Genie heard Barry’s dry cough rattling out of the window from above. Normally her instincts would have been to go to his aid, but she found herself transfixed by the gold sheet that was now covering most of the sky above.

“It’s beautiful” shouted the little girl standing next to her mother. Genie could only stand and nod in agreement; the intolerable hot weather had all been worth it.
Genie suddenly became aware that all the neighbours, except Barry had come outside, standing in their small back yards as they marvelled at nature’s gift to them. The birds had all but been chased away and the skies had turned truly heavenly.
Not a sound could be heard as people got out of their cars and marvelled at the magnificent sky that continued to sparkle a deeper hue of gold.
From down the street someone started to clap, which was followed by someone else then an another and then another until it seemed that everyone standing in their backyards where applauding the magical gift in the sky.
What happened took everybody by complete surprise, it was as if the sound of the had reached high up and touched the gold cloud which in turn broke up and showered everyone below with its gold. At first everyone threw their arms and faces up, welcoming the refreshing downpour, relived to be soaked after the amazing heat wave. However, the pleasure soon turned to horror, the rain slid down the skin leaving an oily film; but worse, so much worse was its unexpected reaction. Within seconds of making contact with its worshippers, what was gold upon the touch quickly dissolved into a brown acid burning sludge. Where only moments ago a sense of joy had filled the street was replaced with the sounds of agonising screams.
Genie ran into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and jumped in the shower frantically scrubbing herself. At first the relief of having the clean water rush over her gave Genie much relief but she suddenly became aware that the waters consistence had changed and the same gold/brown globs of liquid where now chugging out of the shower head. Distraught, Genie jumped out of the shower, ran into the kitchen and emptied what water was left in the kettle and water jug in the fridge over her. Hearing the commotion, Barry had pulled himself out of bed and started at Genie as she grabbed at the tae-towels, pulling the mess from her skin. Although exhausted himself, Barry grabbed another tea-towel and helped Genie get clean while the filthy weather continued to hammer against the side of the flat.

After a fitful night sleep, Barry turned to the alarm clock, the time said seven a.m. and yet it was still dark outside as the rain continued to pour down.
“Genie, you awake?” Croaked Barry. Genie groaned an unconvincing “yes” before turning her back and pulling the covers with her. Barry got out of bed and cupped his hands against the windowpane but could not see beyond the greasy sheen on the other side. Although Barry had swallowed the sea water, he had managed to get rid of most of it over the last twenty-four hours and felt a little better, but Genie had been really effected by the downpour, although she had managed to get the slime of her skin pretty quickly, Barry knew she was still feeling the phycological effects that were much harder to wash off.
Without thinking, Barry said, “Genie do you want a drink of wate…?”

Genie’s hand shot up before Barry had a chance to finish saying anything more which in turn made Barry feel just as bad.
As he made his way down the stairs, Barry became aware of a strong smell, as he reached the bottom of the stairs he gingerly opened the door onto the communal hallway then quickly slammed his hand over mouth and gasped. During the night the rain had seeped into the entrance hall, covering the floor with an oily brown shimmer that stank of nothing on this earth, but within the slime was movement. Barry didn’t want to look too closely, but the creatures looked a like large silverfish thrashing around across what had once been the hall carpet.
Barry ran back into the flat, unable to control his tears, to Barry it really felt like it was the end of the world. As he stood outside the bedroom, he managed to compose himself enough to walk back into the bedroom and was surprised to see Genie sitting up in bed. Genie looked terrible, but Barry pulled on his best smile and said, feeling a bit better love, you look a bit better”.
Of course, Genie and barry both knew the lie that hung between them, but to admit the truth was to much to bare and so Genie nodded and said that she did feel a little bit better.

Barry, continued to lie and said, once it stops raining we can all get the neighbours together and give the whole place a clear up.
Again, Genie nodded knowing full well that that was not going to happen. in the last five years of living here the only neighbours they had any contact with was that vile neighbour Ronny on the top floor and a brief conversation with that woman and her kids yesterday in the backyard before the sky had fallen in.
Genie managed to pull herself out of bed and went over to the window and cupped her hands against the pane. In truth, Genie could not see anything, but the cool glass against her head gave her some relief. As she stared into the nothing a bolt of lightning lit up the outside world, making Genie scream.
Turning to Barry, Genie looked ghostly white. Barry tried to askj her if she was okay and ran over to the window to see what had spooked Genie so much, it couldn’t have been just the lightning but when he cupped his hands over the window all he could see was the same brown/gold sludge pulling itself down the window.

Barry continued to stare at the window without turning said, what is it babe? What did you see?”
Barry then turned to see that Genie was no longer in the bedroom. Thinking that she must have gone to the bathroom or kitchen, Barry returned to the window, hoping the lightning would strike again. After a couple of minutes of looking at the same nothingness, Barry went to the bathroom to see if Genie was okay but she wasn’t in the bathroom or the kitchen of the lounge.
It was then that Barry saw the front door was ajar. Barry threw the door open and saw the receding footprints of Genie bare feet disappearing in the hall way sludge.

Glenn Stevens’s photo.

Posted on October 15, 2015 by admin in Brighton East Sussex, Flash Blogs, Flash fiction, Gothic, Gothic horror, Horror, sci-fi, short, short story, urban gothic, Writing everyday in October Leave a comment

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