Tag Archives: drabble

The Seamstress

dale-rogerson4

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

She sat quietly, stitching the final stitches in the glow of a dying candle. Months had passed since she’d begun the arduous task, but she was finally finished. Time and time again, unhappy with her work, she’d ripped portions out and re-stitched them. The quilt needed to be perfect.

Her fingertips caressed the beautiful creation. The hint of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. With her new blanket–one side a patchwork of varies pigments of human skin, the other an amalgamation of the scalps of her victims–wrapped around her shoulders, she stepped out onto the balcony.

When I first looked at this photo, I thought of a woman being stalked by a man, but the woman turns out actually be hunting the unsuspecting man. I’ve written that story before, probably several times, so I moved on. Next I thought of werewolves, but didn’t have any idea of where to go with that. So I moved on to my next thought: Frankenstein. But I wanted to go a different route than the traditional monster stitched together from corpse pieces, and thus the Frankenquilt was born.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here to read the stories from the other Fictioneers.

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New Release: ROTTEN LITTLE THINGS

Welcome back, Minions.

I have some spectacular news for you! As I’d announced recently, Rotten Little Things (100 Tiny tales of terror, volume 4) was on its way.

And now it’s not.

Because it’s here!

Go forth and do that reading thing you do so well. Then leave a couple words encouraging others to do the same (assuming you enjoyed the twisty words the fell from my brain onto the pages, of course).

Thanks!

You guys (and gals) are the best!

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The Boat Graveyard

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

PHOTO PROMPT – Copyright – Georgia Koch

It’s hard to believe she’s still there, exactly where I left her, completely untouched after all these years. She’s just sitting there at the edge of the river rotting away to nothing, a mere shell of what she once was. I told myself I would never come back to this awful place, that it was best left in the past, but the gnawing need to apologize for leaving her this way grew too intense. I’ll always regret abandoning her on the edge of that dirty river in that little run down boat. I just wasn’t ready to be a father.

This is pretty dark for a story written on my birthday, but I tend to go that way with my writing, so I can’t say it’s much of a surprise. I’m not sure if the “she” in the boat is the baby or the pregnant woman. Either way, it’s bad.

On a lighter note, my wife (to my knowledge) still hasn’t hired that hitman yet. Another year older and I get to carry on awhile longer. Hopefully I can avoid making her too mad until my next birthday.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here for stories from the other Fictioneers.


Divorce Is Messy

PHOTO PROMPT – © Me

PHOTO PROMPT – © Me

His boots thumped against the wood as he walked toward the end of the boardwalk. Her silhouette beckoned him in the distance. He didn’t think she’d actually show. They usually don’t. They usually have a change of heart. Not this one though. This one meant business.

He grinned as he approached. She looked nervous. Most of the ones who made it this far did. He didn’t trust the ones who didn’t, refused to work with them.

“You got the money?” he asked.

She extended a shaking arm to him, a bag clutched in her hand.

“He won’t bother you anymore.”

I figured it only appropriate to write about marriage for this photo as I snapped the shot while on my honeymoon almost 9 years ago. Sure, this story is about a broken marriage and a hitman hired to kill the husband, but it’s still about marriage. If you’re wondering, this story is not a reflection of reality. To my knowledge my wife hasn’t hired anyone to kill me and as far as I know she isn’t planning to. I’ve been wrong before though.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here for stories from the other Fictioneers.


Purgatory

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Marler Morrill

PHOTO PROMPT © Jan Marler Morrill

I don’t know how long I’ve been here, walking this endless labyrinth of concrete blandness. I remember a time before this place, but I don’t know how long ago that was. It could be hours, days, weeks, months, even years. There’s no way of really knowing. Time is funny here. It slips through your fingers like water. Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.

Not even the sweet release of death can free me from this God forsaken place. The last memory I have from the time before I came here is of the day I died. I fear I’m stuck here forever.

Written for Friday Fictioneers.

Click here to read stories from the other Fictioneers.