Mid-Week Blues-Buster Week 2.35

Welcome to the Mid-Week Blues-Buster Flash Fiction Challenge, Year 2, Week 35.

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.


The challenge starts whenever I post this on Tuesday and ends at MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday. You read that right. Pacific Time.

This week’s song prompt continues the darker theme established by Emiliana Torrini last week.

The tune is, “Not of This World”, by Danzig.

Here’s the link; http://youtu.be/UdUtPdu7lXE

This week’s Judge is acclaimed author of all things horror… Lisa McCourt Hollar.

The challenge opens the moment you read this post and runs through MIDNIGHT PACIFIC TIME on Friday January 30th.

Now… Go write!!!


Posted on January 27, 2015, in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. Star Of the Show

    Shifting, settling until comfortable popcorn on one side, coke on the other. I’m ready for action. Blood and guts stream across the screen, I laugh uproariously. Who takes this stuff seriously? The only thing scary is the looks I’m getting from the couple in front they need to get a life. I mean seriously, her hiding her head in his shoulder is a sure sign of first date, make him feel brave and strong crap. If she keeps staring at me in that way, something might happen earlier than I want and ruin my game plan.

    I have long stopped going to movies for anything to do with romantic, insipid notions. I immerse myself into the screen and don’t like being bothered by some idiot fumbling beside me. If I want to do that the last place I’d do it is here. I like my full attention on the task in hand, if you know what I mean, and for things to come to a satisfying end for me the last thing my partner needs is distracting.

    These days I have bigger issues when I go to the cinema. I like to go to horrors and if my timing is right and my luck in, I like to re-enact what I’ve seen. I’m the ultimate copycat killer. Lazy in murder as in everything, screams and gasps are easily hidden with the inane crowd that flocks to these. I’m merely giving the survivors something they can remember. I’m a copycat but sometimes like to add a little twist, an extra bite, put my spin on things.

    I usually go for people on their own, the loners that not many will miss, I had one who was not discovered for three days. Three days, I haven’t been there since, I mean for flip sake, clean the place. Today maybe different, can’t think of a more deserving couple to serve my needs than the ones in front. Each time I laugh, there glaring, don’t they know that horror movies are the ultimate comedy, farcical? She is seriously getting on my tits and I can’t handle there gazing into each others eyes and break their reverie with an ear-blasting snort. Sickeningly, simpering twats, turn my stomach more than the movie ever could.

    Cool, only about twenty minutes left and it looks like the couple’s going to get it. I’m poised and salivating, the drool pooling on my shirt. Yeah, while their kissing, brilliant straight through her head with the knife, he turns around and looks in horror as does his counterpart sitting in front of me. I do a little extra because he really is an obnoxious little prick, on screen he’s stabbed in the heart while he leans over to try and restrain the attacker. I go straight for the throat, and gaze into his eyes as realisation of his death enters his soul. Neither has the chance to scream, they collapse into each other, to the casual observer they’ll look like there getting it on, hormonally excited teenagers. I have no need to wait I’ve had my happy ending, satisfaction and release coursing through my veins, heaven. I can’t resist taking a quick photo, a selfie with them positioned behind me, these phones are great, I can upload and mess around with it when I get home. Brighten their personas and mine as the mood takes me. Remove any red eye, I’m hilarious, no-one can amuse me like I can.

    I love the movies, I always end up the star of the show, always the villain never the hero. No fun in being the good guy, that’s the persona I have to take on every day just to be accepted by society.

    I buy more popcorn and coke, will need supplies, I have work to do. My screen may be smaller but the viewing more enjoyable. Real life scenarios definitely make a difference and the star of my show is a dark, broody, but unbelievably good-looking actor. It’s a pity my work can’t be shared so I can get the idol-ism I’m entitled to. For now it’s for my own personal pleasure, I don’t think my public would understand.

    word count – 698 excluding title

    #flash fiction



  2. Not of this World

    In one deep stretching-red moment of twisting agony she took everything from me and then she was gone. Some vestiges of the pain still resolutely remain, but they have dulled now; a merciful consequence of my dying nerves.

    To my surprise I have been left with a sense of self, that particular notion of me, of I, which has, against all odds, endured. At first I could not tell if this perseverance of mind was a gift or a curse, but as the days and nights have passed, I’ve been forced to conclude it’s undeniably the latter. New horrors befall me every day through the failing of my organs and the festering stink of their decay, the offending odour of which can intensify at an hourly rate, depending on the weather.

    I try to take one day at a time, sometimes I attempt to distract myself by focussing on the less disgusting aspects of my predicament, like how much I hate my fast food uniform. During my life my attire served as a constant reminder of my failures and now during my afterlife it continues to mock me. I have tried many times to remove it, but sadly I lack the necessary co-ordination; after about an hour of flailing and fighting with my own cold stiff limbs, I am always forced to admit defeat and give up. The ultimate offence is that deep down I know that even if I could get it off, I certainly wouldn’t be able to put any new clothes on and I’m not sure I want to spend the rest of my afterlife wondering the streets naked, quite frankly I’m already terrifying enough without being considered some sort of zombified sex pest.

    I try to stay away from people, the living and the dead. The dead scare me; they have misty lifeless eyes and can’t seem to walk in a straight line. Unfortunately I am also affected by these same afflictions and so predictably any encounter usually starts and ends in collision. This ungraceful impact can’t be remedied by a brief courteous apology, instead the exchange involves flopping limbs and growling, the ferocity of which usually depends on how many organs or limbs have been lost by either party; deceased bodies have little or no resilience.

    The dead don’t scare me quite as much as the living; they’re armed now and they know their enemy. Of course it doesn’t help that any time I am within their vicinity I turn into a slobbering starving beast. They radiate this pungent, irresistibly intoxicating smell, I mean even if you hadn’t eaten for days and you were made to sit at the back door of a Chinese restaurant this still wouldn’t capture it.

    In my darkest times I’ve fantasised about what it would have been like to be one of the first born into death, I imagine the living would have been easy pickings back then. Truth be told I’ve never tasted a live one; I can’t catch them you see, unlike all those B Movies I used to watch in my apartment on all those lonely Saturday nights, the living dead don’t gain super power strength or mind blowing running speed. In the end Romero was the one who got it right; the undead are droning belligerent imbeciles left to march aimlessly and oafishly to their own decaying dirge; we are not of this world, we are trapped by it.


    “Rwwwaarr llluuuurrrr gaaahhhhh mmmmmuuuhhhh….”

    The two scientists watched the footage back again with puzzles expressions.”

    “It definitely looks like he’s trying to express something, look at his movements, his gestures, he looks sad and frustrated, he’s more talkative than any of the others.”

    “For God sake Sam, don’t be ridiculous, its gestures are merely rigor mortis, its spouting gibberish and frankly frustration seems to be permanently marked on all their faces, it means nothing.”

    “Still, I think we should keep him, maybe we can learn more from him?”

    “Waste of time Sam, it’s the same as all the others, there’s nothing here to learn except how to hit the frontal lobe of a McDonalds employee with a Colt King Cobra at 100 metres.”


    Erin McCabe
    698 words


  3. The city stretches out before me, the twinkling and winking lights spread out for miles. From up here, I can see everything. I sigh and let my legs dangle over the edge. This is my favorite time of day. The hour just before the sun rises. The sky is still mostly an inky black smudge, but in the east there’s a hint of the coming morning. Along that edge the sky’s not quite black anymore, but more like the purple of a fresh bruise that starts to spread across the sky as it chases back the night.
    The sounds of the traffic below reach me, and I smile. There’s no place else in the world I’d rather be. Even if I could sleep, I still think I’d choose to be awake at this hour.
    There’s a soft breeze. It lifts the hair from my forehead, and causes the immense wings that stretch across my back to rustle quietly. It’s as if the breeze reminds me of their existence, and I remember that if I’m going to fly, I need to do it soon.
    I stand and spread my wings as I prepare to launch myself into the air. One jump, and I’m airborne. It’s effortless, weightless, and completely exhilarating.
    I sore above the tallest buildings, higher and higher until the air is noticeably thinner and cooler. I fly until my wings and my lungs burn with exertion. Reluctantly, I land. Not on the rooftop again, but on the sidewalk below.
    The little sky that reaches all the way down here is lighter now. The sun is probably already up, but it’s impossible to tell between the towering skyscrapers. The sidewalk is filling up with busy people. All of them with somewhere to go. None of them looking at me. I move among them undetected, unseen, unnoticed.
    It doesn’t take me long to find him. The one I’m after. He’s walking, head down completely engrossed in his phone. I wonder, not for the first time, if I’d be noticed even if I could be seen. Humans are often so oblivious. It’s the part of their nature that both frustrates me and makes my job easier at the same time.
    I fall in step behind him. I know how it will play out. He stops absentmindedly, automatically, at the intersection. I gaze down the street, even though I already know what I’ll see. The bus lumbers toward the intersection, its light green, its way clear.
    I’m right behind him now, almost touching, but not quite. Not yet. His head is still buried in his little electronic device. I wait. Eons of practice grants me the patience I need. At the perfect moment, I reach up and place one finger weightlessly against his shoulder. With practically no effort, I push and he stumbles out over the curb and right in front of the bus. There’s no time for anyone to do anything except stare in horror. Someone screams. There’s almost always someone who screams. I’m used to it by now.
    It’s grizzly. This is the part that’s sometimes not pretty. The man lies still for a moment, eyes closed, and I wait. Luckily, today it doesn’t take long. He stirs, stands, and dusts himself off before glancing back down at his shell, the husk of himself that’s still lying in a bloody heap on the street. He’s confused for a moment.
    I step forward, and he notices me. He sees me now.
    I spread my dark wings and beckon him.

    587 words


  4. This World or Not?

    Az flexed his shoulder muscles, extending his arms and clasping his hands as if in prayer. Wearing a ripped down “muscle shirt” this displayed the fluidity with which his muscles flowed. He reversed the hand clasp and simultaneously cracked every joint in his fingers.

    This attracted the attention of the grunt sitting at the next table. He stared at Az with a pair of hooded eyes and a mean, moody expression on his face. Az stared right back at him. Az’s expression was one of wry amusement. He just knew that the grunt sitting over from him would be unable to resist some kind of insulting comment, if not a full blooded, macho, testosterone fuelled challenge. He was never wrong about these things.

    As predicted, the grunt blew his breath out, loudly, through pursed lips and said, “Yo! Shit fo’ brains! Ya t’ink wur shivrin waatchin’ yo’ pretty rippling’ muscles, Bwoy?”

    Az just continued to look straight at the grunt.

    Inevitably, this incensed the grunt even further. He banged his beer bottle down on the table, causing it to froth up and spout a little beer from the neck. “Sheeeeit! Lookee whut ya done made me do now, Bwoy! Am t’inkin’ dat mebbes ya needs ta be showin’ a likkle more respec’. Mebbes gittin’ ma next beer might be a good move on yar side, Bwoy!”

    Az simply did not move or utter a word but continued to maintain his look of wry amusement.

    With a great expulsion of air through his nose, the grunt stood up so vigorously that he knocked his chair backwards onto the wooden floor. As the crash of the chair resonated in his ears, he glanced over his shoulder, ready to call on his fellow drinkers for some moral, and if necessary, physical support. The glance failed to find the expected players by the pool table. He looked further round the bar but found no other customers, only Harry, the barman. Astonished by the absence of any fellow revellers, never mind support, the grunt turned to Harry and shouted, “Whut da hell is gon on hea’? Whar in da hell is evabody?”

    Harry continued to work his cloth in the glass he was drying and gave no response or reaction to the grunt’s shout.

    This caused the grunt to become exceedingly agitated. He picked up his beer bottle but could not decide in his alcohol fuddled brain whether to throw it at Harry, for ignoring him, or the smooth, muscly asshole that had started all trouble.

    He turned back towards his supposed antagonist to find that he had moved. He was now standing between their respective tables. He still had that look on his face that really just riled the crap out of him.

    The grunt fairly screamed at Az, “Whut choo doin’, Bwoy? Yo comin’ ta me fur some ass whuppin, Huh?”

    With that, he threw the bottle straight at Az’s head. To his total astonishment, the bottle veered in mid-air and sailed harmlessly past Az’s head.

    Az decided that the time had arrived when he must attend to his duties. His expression changed from wry amusement to a gentler, more sympathetic one. He extended his right hand and said, “David, I know you. I know of you. I have come to help you make a decision. Please clasp my right hand in yours and let us walk from here.”

    As David turned again towards Harry, Az spoke again, saying “Harry cannot help you. He cannot see you because you are not here. This was simply a waiting area that we thought might be of some initial comfort to you. Now, please, take my hand and I will lead you through the next door where you will make your decision.”

    630 words


    (Memo: Azrael – The Angel of Death and the planet Pluto. His name is found on the fifth Pentacle of the Moon)


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