Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 11

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Week 11.

This is a flash fiction challenge.  The prompt is a song.  You are not required to write about or even mention the song.  It’s there only to get the ideas moving around in your brain pan.  If you want to write about the song (or the video- it’s all good here) go for it but don’t feel like you have to.

The rules;

500 words, but it’s a slushy 500, meaning you can go up to 700 or as low as 300.

Post your entry right in the comments section of this post.

MAKE SURE TO PUT YOUR TWITTER HANDLE NEXT TO YOUR WORD COUNT AT THE BOTTOM OF YOUR POST

The challenge starts whenever I post this on Tuesday and ends at 11:59PM Pacific Time on Thursday.  You read that right.  Pacific Time.

This week’s tune comes courtesy of heavy metal legends, Judas Priest.

The song is, “The Ripper”.  Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/j1VtM8zkFnI

This week’s Judge is the master of the macabre herself, Lisa McCourt Hollar…

Okey then… That’s it for me… get out there and write, write, write!  The challenge is open from right now ’til 11:59 PM Pacific Time on Thursday May 2…

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Posted on April 30, 2013, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. PESADILLAS

    Thumping bass still rings inside my head though I’m outside the club. The cool night breezes through my hair. Someone eases me into a car and I have fleeting thoughts of a seatbelt. Clean leather fills my nose as I lay my cheek against its cool softness. I grip the edge of the seat and my world spins in drunken circles. A car door slams somewhere and road vibrations lull me into sweet slumber.

    I wake to stairs being shoved under my feet. Then I’m in my room; my pillow appears under my head. I lay my head on it but my body falls through it, straight into a dream.
    I’m back in the dark hallway of the club. I shield my eyes from a bright light ahead. It must be the men’s restroom because a tall man enters but stops short and grabs the doorframe, almost like he’s trying not to step in something. My vision zooms in and out of focus. A dark figure lies on the floor.

    Blood.

    It’s everywhere. It pools away from the fallen man’s head. It covers his jacket and splatters the wall behind him. It drips off the hand of another man, who’s stooped over him. The stooping man looks up and I watch his face contort in agony. His black eyebrows knit and anger fills his eyes. He lifts his hand. I realize he holds a gun and he aims it at me and fires. I see the flash at the end of the barrel, smell gunpowder and blood. My blood.

    I look down at my blood-soaked hands. It starts to climb, making its way up my arms to my shoulders and chest. It travels up my neck, strangling me. I gasp and choke but the blood is a red vice that rips air from my lungs.

    I open my eyes and bolt upright, looking around. I’m in my bed. I fall back to my pillow, breathing sweet breaths, so glad to be here.

    Then my door bursts open. My ex-boyfriend races to the end of my bed, covered in sweat and grime.

    “You saw.” Asher’s face goes pale and fear settles in his eyes. He nods to encourage me.

    “Asher? How’d you get in here?”

    “You saw him. Last night.” He rushes me. “Erin, you saw him, didn’t you?”

    “Saw who?” I hold my aching head. “I didn’t see anyone. I drank too much and Molly left me there.” I look around, conscious of the obvious misstatement.

    “I brought you home and used your key to get in.” Asher closes space between us and places both hands on my shoulders, pressing me against the headboard. “Tell me you saw him!”

    “I…You’re scaring me.”

    He looks away for a second but meets my gaze again with wide, fearful eyes. “A man was murdered last night, Erin. And you were there. You saw it.”

    A frigid numbness slithers down my spine. The dream. I remember the dead man.
    Asher recognizes my hesitation and grabs my shoulders. “You remember.”

    I shake my head, but he doesn’t buy my denial.

    “What do you remember?” he asks, desperation filling his voice.

    He digs his fingers into my arms. Tears spring to my eyes. “It was a dream!” I yell. “It was just a dream!”

    “No, Erin! It was real! Someone was murdered and you and I are witnesses. They know who we are and they’re coming for us.”

    Headlights streak my curtains and a motor cuts off outside. Asher peers out. “Holy fuck. They’re here.”

    Panic rips through my body, piercing every organ. Asher reaches for me but sheets wind around me like vines, tethering me to the bed. I scream and buck. My head cracks against iron and everything fades.

    I open my eyes. My room is dark. I throw back the blankets and run downstairs. My door remains locked and a note lies on the table.

    Sweet dreams…
    ~Asher.

    @Valeriebrbr 656 words

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  2. Title: In the Basement

    Mr Johnson was glad they’d moved the boy down to the basement; the thud thud of his music was far more tolerable than hearing it in full upstairs. ‘Heavy Metal’ they called it, and it was dreadful. Mr Johnson had no idea how they could bear all that screaming. And were there words? He couldn’t tell, even when the boy had had his room upstairs.

    Denny’d said they were evil songs, inciting the young’uns to be violent; that the words were all about death, killing and sexual perversion. He didn’t know about that, even though the boy did wear his hair long and he only ever saw him in black. Denny was sure he’d seen him wear make-up, but even though he lived next door, Mr Johnson couldn’t attest to that.

    The boy was just an adolescent, trying to define who he wanted to be, and he wasn’t close yet. As for violent? Mr Johnson gave a snort. No, he didn’t have that in him, he was fairly sure of that.

    Mr Johnson gazed at the house from this second floor study window and remembered the layout from when he’d lived there. Some thought he was strange for having moved next door after he was widowed, but he couldn’t bear being inside those walls.

    He thought about the boy being down there in the basement, filling it with his noise, and wondered if he’d managed to drown it out.

    Mr Johnson shivered as he stood there remembering that night; how he’d been gone a whole week and hadn’t had a clue anything was wrong. Communications then weren’t what they were today, where everyone could get hold of you any time. One call a week was all he managed when he was on the road.

    He’d walked in blindly that night, shouting for his wife, not suspecting anything. He still remembered the shock he’d felt, when he saw him standing there, bold as you like, hands covered in blood up to the elbows.

    “Howdy neighbour,” was what he’d said, while he waited to see what Mr Johnson was going to do. And it was in that silence that he’d heard it; her moans.

    Paulie had had a grin on his face, his eyes alive – even sparkling. The only time Mr Johnson had seen them like that was when they’d had the neighbourhood barbeque, and he’d told them all about the pig he’d gutted while it was still alive.

    But what Paulie hadn’t known was that Mr Johnson was a veteran – not of the Vietnam War though, like everyone seemed to be these days, but the Korean. And since returning he’d never been able to go anywhere without being armed – but not with a gun, like everyone thought, but a knife – in an ankle strap.

    It was handy, especially that night when he’d faked being sick at the sight of his own wife’s blood and bent over double; his moans matching hers.

    Paulie had even helped by stepping forward – even saying, “You okay, bud?” as he did so. And Mr Johnson had come up fast, sticking it in just under the chin, and twisting hard. He almost relished the gurgle Paulie had given out in surprise.

    He’d left Paulie then to fall and bounce off the lino as he’d rushed to see the damage he’d done to his wife, but he’d known as soon as he’d laid eyes on her that it was hopeless.

    It was only after, when everything had been examined, that they had found out he’d been busy with her for days; taking her apart, bit by bit. There’d never even been a chance.

    They’d called him a hero; Paulie had been wanted in five states for such atrocities. They’d even had a nickname for him; the American Ripper, after that guy in London years ago.

    But Mr Johnson didn’t want to be a hero, he just wanted the moans from the basement to stop, and some nights, when it was really still, he could still hear them, even from over here.

    676 Words
    @PurpleQueenNL

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  3. Dancing Flame

    A mean ole bastard…

    Gabriella stretched her arms out over her knees watching the dancing flames. It had been years since she had been home, twenty six, she never thought this day would come. She had left on bad terms with her father, but then he was not a pleasant person for anyone to be around. She thought often about the day he caught her with Jacob in the barn. He nearly beat the boy to death, a local football hero who would never play the game again. He got by with little more than a slap on the wrist after the local police, who he attended church with, learned of his reasons. It was several weeks later before Gabriella could come up with enough strength of her own to leave her life in Kentucky behind. An attempt to run away from her nightmares, at eighteen she did not realize they were always there looking back at her in the mirror.

    The beating she had gotten because of Jacob was more than she could describe leaving a noticeable scar under her eye but they did not compare to the ones on her back. It wasn’t the first time he had laid his hands on her. At fourteen she had come home with a book about Jack the Ripper. “Blasphemy” he yelled, “there was to be only one book allowed under his roof.” It was weeks before she returned to school.

    She watched the flames dancing in the blackness. She could almost see the figure of a woman one arm outstretched toward the heavens and the other wrapped around her body with a circle of flames at her feet. She could see her face looking back at her seductively, wanting Gabriella to join her. She knew who it was calling out to her. She would never forget those eyes.

    Gabriella had just turned nine. Her mother had been gone almost two years for reasons she still did not understand but had come to suspect her father had murdered her. She woke to the sound of a woman’s voice. She still thought to this day it was her Momma trying to warn her, to help her to escape the terrifying life to come. She thought she felt her warm loving touch on her face but it was only the summer night’s air creeping in through the window. She sneaked from her bed, through the house but never saw her father. Outside the house she heard the sounds coming from the garage where her father often repaired vehicles for extra cash. Slowly she stalked with her bare feet she was only a few steps from the door when she heard his voice, “Cmon.” Up to the door for a peak, she saw the three women immediately for the moonlight shinning in from the other door. “You will show me the way,” her father yelled out. They were bound together, unable to scream with her father circling them much the way she had seen her dog survey a carcass. “You were delivered to me to show me the way to god.”

    Gabriella peered through, her eyes met one of the woman’s and she began to scream even through her covered mouth. Her father circled back, harshly grabbing her jaw before turning to see what caused a glimmer of hope in the woman’s eyes. “Mah child,” he laughed. He would make her watch everything he did that night, a young girl who loved and trusted her father not knowing the evil inside him.

    She watched the flames. Gabriella could no longer fight the tears as they streamed down her face. She glanced to the bloodied knife in front of her. She had come home to confront her father. To right more wrongs than she could ever count. Most of all she had come home to take revenge on what her father had turned her into.

    At twenty she found herself hitchhiking trying to escape other hard times. A trucker had stopped to pick her up and tried to take advantage. She saw what he wanted the moment he opened those doors, stepping inside she knew she was given a purpose in life.

    (697 Words)
    @ashviper

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  4. The Fog

    Nobody expected the fog. It rolled in overnight and as Kit stared out the window she smiled. Only faint halos from the white gas lights could be seen, like will-o-the-wisps lost in urban alleys. She backed away from stark oblivion, her skin taut and cold in the early morning air, and slid back into bed beside Tay. He grumbled in his sleep and Kit ran her finger down his exposed spine. He tensed, his whole body suddenly alert, and she giggled.
    “Don’t do that!” he admonished sharply as he relaxed and rolled over.
    She responded by curling her legs around his torso and placing her lips firmly on his.
    “Okay, you can do that…again…” he said as he pulled away then drew her close for a more intimate kiss.
    She gave herself for a few sweet moments, sharing passion as if they were sharing their last minutes together, before reluctantly pushing him away. He watched, sated, as she rolled out of bed and pulled on her underpants then drew her jeans over her long legs.
    “Come back, just for a few more minutes…” he urged.
    She shook her head and pulled her sweater down over her body and stood. “C’mon Tay, it’s perfect out there today, and there won’t be much time, it could change any moment!”
    Tay grumbled again, but pushed the covers away and got out of bed. She grinned, and threw his shirt at him. “Get dressed!”

    Kit shivered as they stepped out of the apartment and into the gloomy world. She reached for Tay’s gloved hand and gripped it tight. “Don’t let go,” he warned.
    “I should be the one telling you that!” She rose on her toes and kissed his stubbled cheek.
    Whispers of frost coiled within the fog and she shivered again. Holding hands they moved along the wall and waited at the corner.
    Kit listened. Her hearing was perfect, and in this low visibility hearing was the greatest weapon they had.
    The city was quiet, almost silent.
    The birds never sang anymore, and the only birds they ever saw were ghostly corvids, and they sat lonely and lost atop the gas lamps, like black shadows in the mist. They never sang.
    Kit squeezed Tay’s hand and they moved, heading into the labyrinth of alleys. Glancing down, Kit could barely see her feet. She pulled her soft leather jacket tight amid the cold, white fog. They were prepared, and ready.
    Their familiarity with the dank corridors kept them on track and they ran silently through the streets.
    “Almost there,” whispered Tay, as they came to an abrupt halt.
    Kit listened, and Tay’s nostrils flared.
    “I can smell the river,” he murmured. “I can smell…”
    “Don’t!” Kit placed a finger over his lips and she strained to hear. “It’s quiet, but I can hear them…we’re not alone.”
    They stood with their backs against the once imposing, now dilapidated, Savoy, disguised only by the blinding fog. Kit reached into her jacket removing her hunting knife from its leather sheath. She noted the narrow trident dagger strapped to her boot, and felt the comfort of her combat knife snug against her thigh. Tay stood beside her similarly armed, with his kukri held close.
    They moved stealthily forward, until reaching the embankment. On the river’s edge, they stood, back to back…ready.
    Tay squeezed Kit’s hand and then let go.
    Sweat sparkled in the fog and they waited for their scent to betray them.
    The water was still, stagnant and foul, but Kit listened as its tiny lapping waves grew and the tendrils emerged. Like snakes tentatively searching, tendrils peered through the fog and curled before their faces.
    “Now!” Kit’s battle cry rang through the fog. “The Kraken wakes, but so do we!”
    The swish of knives swung through the air, sweeping through tentacled flesh and ripping jellied arms and limbs from the leviathans.
    From the Thames came explosions of water as creatures from the deep surfaced and climbed out onto the promenade, but alongside Kit and Tay, all along the embankment, came shouts of battle and wrath, and from the fog emerged a force so large and enraged that bloody battle to the end was the only possibility…

    (700 words)
    @LastKrystallos

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  5. Doctor Zellor reviewed his notes on the patient, Carl Xylos. Carl was a nut. Carl was dangerous. Doctor Zellor leaned back in his office chair and remembered his last session with Carl.

    “I told you I go to church, didn’t I?”

    “Yes, Carl, you did.”

    “I never told you why, did I.” Carl had made that a factual statement, not a question.

    “No, Carl. You never have.”

    Carl smiled. The same smile you see on someone who is so proud of having dissected their first frog, and found it fun, and want to dissect other things. Birds, snakes, cats, dogs, fish. Everything.

    “Because God keeps me in line. He forgives me for my thoughts. My dreams.”

    Doctor Zellor had played his part well that day, “What dreams, Carl? And why does God have to forgive you for having them?”

    Through his smile, Carl spoke, “Because, Doctor. I have told God many times of my wish to help him cleanse the world of Lucifer’s minions. And God does not approve of how I would help.”

    “And how would you help?”

    Carl leaned forward in his chair. “Doctor. It’s really simple. I can’t cleanse the world. But I can help weed out Lucifer’s minions. One at a time.”

    What came next made Doctor Zellor’s blood run cold. “It’s so simple, Doctor. You pretend you are their friend. You smile at them. You wave. You say hello. One day at a time, you draw them to you. You laugh at the jokes they tell. You agree with what they say. You pretend you are their friend.”

    “One day at a time, Doctor, you inject yourself into their lives. You become someone they trust. Someone they depend on.”

    Doctor Zellor was afraid to ask the next question. He was afraid how Carl would answer that question. But his employer needed to know the answer. “And then?”

    Carl’s eyes had gleemed, their deep, dark green shining almost black. Doctor Zellor felt his throat constrict. “Doctor. Then you cleanse the world of their presence.” Carl didn’t wait for Doctor Zellor to ask another question. “You take them someplace. Alone. The two of you.” Carl stood up. “And as you walk with Lucifer’s minion, you reach inside your pocket,” Carl’s hand went into his pocket, “And you grasp the weapon God gave you. The knife of the Angel Gabriel. You close your eyes, and silently pray to God, ‘For you, Father. Please bless me for helping you in your conflict with evil.’” Carl looked up, toward God. “And then you shove the Knife of Gabriel into the eyes of Lucifer’s minion.”

    Carl sat down. “But you can’t stop there. Lucifer’s minions are not so easily cleansed from the Earth. No. You have to find the crystal inside them. The crystal Lucifer puts there. The one that marks them as one of his followers.”

    Carl made slicing motions, as if searching for something. “You dig through the body, searching. Searching.” He behaved as if he moved internal organs, skin, and ribs aside, digging through the body of the victim, searching for a crystal that didn’t exist.

    Doctor Zellor asked, “And if you can’t find the crystal?”

    Carl hung his head, in shame, and quietly whispered, “You go to Church on Sunday. And you pray. You ask God for forgiveness of your mistake. You ask in Jesus name.”

    He looked at Doctor Zellor, “And God forgives you. He wipes you clean of your mistake. Of your sin. And sends you out into the world to try again.” Carl’s eyes shined brilliant green, “And you try again, to please God. To serve God.”

    Doctor Zellor took a deep breath. Carl would do. It was time to make the phone call to his employer. He tapped the numbers on his smart phone, then waited for the answering machine to collect his message. “This is Z. I have a candidate for the program.” He ended the call.

    Carl was exactly what his employer was looking for. Add a bit of training. A bit of guidance. And Carl would make the perfect weapon. The perfect agent to send on covert operations to remove his employer’s enemies.

    Yes. Carl was perfect.

    700 Words
    @LurchMunster

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  6. JACK-KNIFED

    He positioned himself at the wash basin so that he could see the still form on the floor as he scrubbed the blood and tissue from beneath his fingernails. The familiarity of this cleansing ritual soothed him and the rage began to ease, oozing out of his pock-marked skin and loosening its grip on his aching spine.

    Reassuring himself that the trophy was safely in his possession, he headed for the door, but a peculiar noise stopped him. Turning, he saw the corpse rising to her feet, in spite of the fact that her eyes, liver and uterus were neatly wrapped in the butcher-paper parcel in his jacket pocket.

    He grabbed the door jamb to steady himself, knuckles white, pupils dilated, breathing shallow.

    She drew a rattling breath and fixed her perfectly functioning eyes on him. “Calm yourself, friend. I’m not here to harm you but to -”

    Fury ignited and knife in hand, he went to work, nearly hacking through her vertebrae this time.

    And this time, when she rose, her exquisite face was mottled with fury. “Kill me again and I’ll have you begging for death.”

    His hands were smeared with plasma and membranes but the interloper purposely blocked his access to the sink.

    Cracking her neck to realign her skull, she said, “I wish to avail myself of your singular services.”

    His eyes focused on the droplets of water sliding from the spigot at irregular intervals.
    Drip drop. Red spots. “I cannot possibly have a coherent conversation until I have cleaned up.”

    She moved just enough to let him pass.

    His meager willpower threatened to snap due to her proximity and scent but he managed to reach the sink without incident and scrubbed his skin until it was as red and raw as her fatal wounds had been moments ago.

    She pursed her ripe pink mouth until it was a rigid red slash. “If you are done wasting my time, let us resume the matter of your employment.”

    “And what work are you referencing, your ladyship?”

    “Your ability and capacity to extinguish lives.”

    He gazed at a pinprick of light just beyond her left earlobe because looking directly at her incensed him. “And why would I perform such services for you?”

    “Because I have a deplorable backlog of condemned subjects on my hands.”

    He stared at the lace against her throat. “Why not do it yourself?”

    “There’s the rub. I cannot kill my own kind.”

    “Don’t have the stomach for it, eh?”

    She leaned toward him. “Oh, I’ve the stomach for it all right. Kill or taunt me again and you’ll find out.”

    He showed no fear. “Doubtful. Anyway, why would I leave all this? I’ve only just begun building my legacy. Five isn’t enough to -”

    “Whether you work for me or not, five is all I’m going to allow you, so you may as well reconcile yourself to that right now.”

    His left hand dove for his pants pocket but she beat him there, pinning his arm against his ribs and retrieving his knife.

    She pressed so close that her breath fanned his eyelashes. “Did you honestly think you could overpower me?”

    He shrugged. “If I can kill your kind, I can kill you.”

    She stepped back and turned him loose. “No, Jack, you cannot kill me any more than you can exterminate my subjects with my consent or in a manner not of my choosing.”

    Infuriated beyond reason, his hands rushed for her throat, thumbs poised to crush her larynx but she anticipated his objective and used his knife to tear open his abdomen.

    Reaching into the cavity, she yanked out a length of intestine and gripped it in her palm like the leash of a dog. “Come now, my pet. Don’t look so morose. I’ve dispatched a letter to the Central News Agency on your behalf to ensure that your legacy will live on.”

    Doubled over in exquisite agony and blazing with an all-encompassing hatred, he could only hobble mutely behind her as she led him down the cobbled road to hell.

    – – – – – – – – – –
    679 words / @bullishink

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  1. Pingback: #MidWeekBluesBuster : Week 11 – Carl Was Perfect | My Soul's Tears

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