Dark Fiction - Glue

Glue

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

The last log in the makeshift fireplace cracked like a gunshot.

‘Mum!’ Maxwell cried, his eyes searching her out in the dim space.

‘It’s okay it’s okay!’ Wendy soothed as she scuttled over on her hands and knees. ‘It was just the log!’

‘It frightened me!’

‘It’s because it’s empty in here Max, the sound echoes off the walls.’

She cradled the sniffing boy, the first sign of a snot bubble beginning to form under his sooty nose.

‘How long are we staying here?’ His eyes locked onto hers, dams of tears ready to flow whatever her answer.

‘We are going in a few minutes, now that we are awake. Might as well make use of the day.’

‘Muuummm!’

‘I know Max,’ she whispered as she held his face to her chest. She glanced around the abandoned garage, the early light of dawn fingering its way under the heavy metal shutter.

She lifted the boy’s head and ran a finger over his cracked lips. ‘Time to seal. No point waiting til after breakfast as we’ve got nothing left.’

His tears began to flow as she reached behind her for the small yellow tube. The one with red writing and gas mask pictograms scrawled across its metallic surface. The stuff that seemed to last a perfect twelve hours. Max sat surprisingly still as she squeezed some along his lower lip, then gently close his mouth. She pinched his lips for a sixty count and let go. ‘How’s that?’

He sniffed and nodded. She felt his eyes on her as she did the same thing to herself, the clear gloopy liquid flowing into the damaged skin of her lips. A tear dripped down the side of her face.

Once the glue was firm, she corralled Max into helping her tidy their sleeping things. She gave a tight smile when she realised that a lack of provisions also meant a lack of washing and rinsing. She left the lone oat bar wrapper from their bedtime snack to dance across the concrete floor, frolicking in the dust and grime.

Both stood near the shutter, the first howls ululating outside at the first sign of the sun. She glanced at Max and was warmed by his hobbled smile. With a nonchalance her stinging lips protested, she lifted the shutter and guided them both out into the glare. After all, she thought, they had nothing to fear, the creatures couldn’t get in, not as along as they had glue.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Forget

Forget

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

A dog barks somewhere in the distance; it’s noise muffled by the dark trees that pressed in on the old house. Ted Smith stood on his porch step, taking the air and watching the evening deepen. A slight breeze molested a stray leaf as it bounced across his narrow garden path, the only other noise in the stagnant grounds.

Ted rubbed cracked fingers over his white stubble and nodded to himself. He pushed a hand into his shirt pocket, retrieved the headphones, slid them over his head and pressed play on the small MP3 player. A nasal male voice began to talk down to him.

You are in a safe place. You feel calm and relaxed.

Ted thumps down the steps and strides along the gravel path.

You are listening to this because you want to forget. You have suffered and you would like to erase that pain.

Reaching the waist-height wooden gate, he gropes behind him and pulls a pair of thick gloves from his trouser waistband.

Together, we will improve your life, removing the pain and adding so much more joy and fulfilment.

Gloves on, he squints into the failing light and frisks a nearby rose bush.

In a moment, I am going to count backwards from ten to one.

His gloves close on a spool of barbed wire. With a grunt, he lifts it, snagging one end on the shiny gate bolt. He twists and weaves and drags until the whole gate is a jumble of twisted metal spikes.

Try not to resist the process, we are all friends here.

A firework bangs in the east, its fizzing trajectory sputtering out somewhere over the high street.

Ten.

He back-steps a few paces and picks up a plastic bucket. It clinks and chinks as he gives it a small shake.

Nine.

He tips it slightly and continues his backward pacing, shards of glass cascading onto the uneven surface at his feet.

Eight.

The street light dazzles as it caches in the tumbling daggers, Ted’s eyes twitching as they try to follow the movement.

Seven.

His heels bump against the porch step. He takes off the gloves and chucks them and the bucket to one side, turns to face the house and climbs the steps.

Six.

Another firework goes off as he edges the screen door open, his hand resting lightly on a lever. Once his feet are clear of the welcome mat, he pushes the lever down hard. Heavy spikes puncture the mat from beneath, lifting it a few inches from the floor. He lifts the lever and twists it, a metal ping sounds below. The spikes barely show over the “Welcome” now, but the mat seems to quiver slightly.

Five.

He closes the door and looks up at the slab of concrete perched on a folding metal shelf. He takes hold of the gossamer wire that is linked to the triggering mechanism and delicately loops it around the door handle.

Four.

With a burst of pace he trudges through the house, picks up a handful of cloth and a carrier bag.

Three.

He rushes out the side door and jogs along his driveway, passes the hunched metal bulk of his car.

Two.

He reaches the other side of his garden gate and rummages inside the bag. He pulls out a long black cape and a rubber Frankenstein mask. He puts them on and then lifts a small plastic bucket from the bag. It’s orange and shaped like a pumpkin with small stickers plastered all over it. A lone candy rattles in the bottom. He throws the bag away and kicks off his shoes.

One.

His hand clamps down hard on the waist-height, wooden and now very sharp gate.

Your pain can be overcome...

THE END

Happy Halloween. If you read this before 1st November, you might be interested to know that my Dark Distractions anthology is on sale:

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Dark Fiction - Slackjaw

Slackjaw

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

His jaw really is slack, that’s why we call him Slackjaw. He’s not a person, not really, he’s more a nightmare given form. His jaw hangs down so low that it dangles like a dewdrop enveloped in taut skin, his chin half way down his chest. The rest of the head looks human enough, but old, really old, and the skin is mottled and red. Oh and his eyes are grey, vacant and dull, as if his mind fled such a vessel many moons ago.

Nobody can remember when we first started seeing him. Early sightings were confused and vague and spoke of him flickering and fading from view. People took more of an interest when the murders started though, each body found with its mouth hung low, signs of force on the cheeks making it appear that it was wrenched down by great violence.

What was a strange and almost pitiful creature became the devil over night, the manner of his appearances making it plain that there was no way to keep him out, no barricade or lock, no hidey hole or strongroom.

He worked his way through the town, the newly dead found almost every day. Then it was my turn.

I was struggling to eat my breakfast one morning, a softball to the chin having broken my jaw a week previous. Curved prongs of metal wired it shut so that the bones could set. It wasn’t conducive to eating cereal though.

I remember pushing the bowl away, pain flaring across my face. A movement at the window caught my eye and there he was, Slackjaw come for me. I tried to shout but all that escaped my dental prison was a shrieking mumbling noise like a cat caught in a lawnmower.

He pressed his face to the glass and seemed to push into it without breaking it, his teeth somehow clacking as they passed through.

I was on my feet now, my back planted firmly to the opposite wall.

He seemed to sniff the air, looking left and right and then back at me. He snorted, saliva bubbling from somewhere deep inside him and erupting like a frothy white volcano from the folds of his cheeks.

I closed my eyes and trembled. I waited. I waited for what felt like a long time but in reality I am sure it could only have been seconds. I waited and nothing happened.

When I opened my eyes again, I found myself alone, the sounds of the world outside of the house seeming normal, comforting. I ran to my neighbours and collapsed on their doorstep after I rang the bell.

We never did catch Slackjaw. I’m not sure he is even catchable. My story soon spread and people came up with a solution. Everyone in town, all four and a bit thousand of us now have our jaws wired shut, have had them that way for the last year. It was reckoned that he saw my metal contraption and figured I was too much bother to take on. It worked, we haven’t seen Slackjaw since.

I sometimes don’t know what’s worse though, the threat of him coming back one day, or a town without a voice.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - The Sword of Infinite Possibilities

The Sword of Infinite Possibilities

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

Digby and Nurn, his faithful dotard companion, traipsed the winding mountain path, both taking quick glances behind them every few paces.

‘Do you think they’ve given up?’ Nurn asked the rocky wall to the side.

‘What?’

Nurn turned his face the other way. ‘I said have they given up Digs?’

Digby grimaced. He hated that name. ‘I haven’t seen any sign of them for the last two miles.’

‘Tha’s good!’

‘Yes it is.’

‘We almost there?’

‘Yes we are.’

‘Will be more up there with it?’

‘More what?’

‘Trolls.’

Digby sniffed. ‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘You said that ’bout the goblins.’

‘I know.’

‘Good thing you had them dirty magazines. Good bit a forward plannin’.’

‘I try my best,’ Digby replied and looked off to his left at the precipice beside him. It had taken him ages to find a tavern that sold those magazines. He sighed into the wind. Still, he pondered, it was better to lose them to the perverted goblins than wake up hung upside down with your genitals exposed. He had heard tales of travellers coming to a sticky end if they happened to cross paths with goblins. No, losing the magazines was a small price to pay.

‘...wonder how they did it,’ Nurn continued.

‘Did what?’

‘’scaped from that randy witch.’

‘Who?’

‘Buster an’ Winkle!’

‘What have they got to do with anything?’

‘Was just thinking how our ‘scape might compare with theirs. Winkle still limps you know?’

‘I’ve seen,’ Digby nodded sagely as he pondered. They had crossed paths with Brenda the witch, or as others called her, Bendy Brenda. You just couldn’t seem to pass anywhere near the Forest of Gloom without her jumping out at you, all three hundred pounds of naked flesh and sagging breasts.

‘s’ard to get over something like that,’ Nurn said with a sigh.

Digby scrunched up his forehead. ‘Did Winkle ever find anyone to remove the wand?’

‘Nah. Everyone’s too afraid ta touch it.’

‘How does he, you know, toilet?’

‘Carefully.’

‘Thank you Nurn.’

‘For what?’

‘Twatting her over the head when she tried that shit with us.’

‘Any time my pal.’ Nurn's mouth peeled open in a massive grin at Digby.

Digby smiled and slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Looks like this is it!’

They had reached the peak, although it could more accurately be called a crater. A large hollowed basin spread before them, a lone dais standing in the very centre, the last rays of the setting sun twinkling from a large sword.

‘Tha’s it!’ Nurn shouted excitedly as he skipped and jumped into a loping run, his pots and pans clattering on his back.

‘Must be,’ Digby said to himself as he ambled along behind.

‘’sa beauty!’ Nurn's voice floated to Digby.

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘Looks heavy!’

‘They always are.’

Digby arrived next to Nurn and deposited his backpack on the hard ground. Wasting no time, he grabbed hold of the hilt and yanked, lifting the mighty blade from its stone sheath. ‘Strange, there was no crackle of power.’

‘Huh?’

‘These old magic swords usually spark or glow or something. This one’s dead.’

‘Oh no!’

Digby swung it around. It whistled and hummed through the air in just the way a normal blade might. ‘Yep, it’s not magic, and look, the tip is missing.’

‘So where’s it?’

‘What’s that down there?’ Digby pointed to long thin box that was haphazardly nestling in a crack in the ground. He watched Nurn retrieve it and rip it open.

‘Oooh,’ swooned Nurn as he held up a variety of strange metal implements. ‘What they Digs?’

Digby swung the sword so that it pointed at Nurn. ‘Push one on there.’

Nurn picked up one piece of metal that was saturated with holes and carefully clicked it into place. ‘How did ya know?’

‘Saw the writing on that booklet.’

Nurn looked down and lifted it slowly. ‘Wha’s it say?’

‘You really should learn to read one day Nurn, maybe you’d stop falling down wishing wells and dangerous holes if you could read the signs. It says “The Sword of Infinite Possibilities, sharp and flexible for all of your cooking needs.”’

‘What?’

‘That thing you just put on, I think that grates cheese.’

‘And thissun?’ Nurn held up a wire contraption.

‘God knows. Anyway collect it all up, we may as well take it anyway.’

‘What we going ta do with it?’

‘Well we will use it for now, then we will sell it to some cook or other.’

Nurn corralled all of the pieces together and jammed them into his pack. ‘I don’t get it. Were we fibbed ta?’

Digby sheathed the sword in the large black scabbard that had been empty on his back for the whole adventure. The special one with magic shielding and anti-theft devices that he had provisioned for just the purpose of retrieving a grade two magical sword. Bollocks. ‘I think Nurn, we have been the victims of false advertising.’

Nurn nodded sadly and sniffed. ‘Oh.’

‘Come on,’ said Digby, let's get out of here.

‘Where to?’

‘Home, but we are stopping at Mick's Tavern on the way.’

‘Why?’

‘Need to replenish my goblin bait.’

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Skip

Skip

By Casey Douglass

As part of #fridayflash

I was nineteen when I learned how to skip forward through time. That probably makes me sound like a time traveler but it’s not quite that clever. It’s a mental thing. Somehow my body and mind still function but I’m not there. I never did work out where I went to but I always came back at the right time so didn’t worry about it too much.

I was waiting to go to the cinema one night, had about an hour and a half to kill but couldn’t decide what to do. I felt tired but had a racing mind so didn’t fancy resting as I usually ended up anxious. I didn’t want to watch anything or do much that used a screen as I would be spending a few hours in front of the local IMAX anyway, which usually made my eyes ache after a while. I thought about drawing or writing but no ideas came.

I felt myself getting wound up, that nervous energy feeling that was like a highly charged boredom. Agitation maybe. I sat back in my computer chair and stared off vacantly at nothing in particular. A thought crossed my mind about how cool it would be if I could just jump forward the hour or so and then be ready to go out. I nodded to myself, a whole body kind of agreement. I heard a car horn outside which sounded like my friend’s. I carried on gazing at nothing until the horn sounded again. Thinking he might have come round early I smiled. At least that would solve the boredom. I looked at the clock and felt my mouth hang. It was time to go!

I don’t remember much about the film. It was some action flick with swearing and a sex scene every fifteen minutes. I’m sure it was good but my mind was lost in pondering what had happened earlier.

When I got home, I tried to write down everything I remembered, my mental state, my thoughts and what I was feeling. I tried to skip forward again but it wouldn’t work. Shelving my notes I tried to sleep but couldn’t.

Sometime in the early hours, I began to fantasize about skipping to the time my alarm would be going off. I nodded to myself and flinched as the dim room turned to day and my alarm buzzed to my right!

I jumped to my notebook and jotted down my thoughts. The nod, the need. I turned to my clock and tried to skip ten minutes. The digits instantly changed to ten minutes later.

I yelled and whooped as the enormity dawned on me. I would never have to wait for anything again!

To date I haven’t! When the enthusiasm wore off, caution did play a part in my thought processes. I decided to record myself with my smartphone to see what happened to me when I was ‘out’. To my relief, I saw that I still functioned normally, even getting dressed, tidying my room and doing some of my art stuff. Everything I witnessed of my own behaviour seemed to point to me carrying on, doing the things I would have done anyway. Just without the boring stuff in between.

Reassured, I began to skip my way through life. You are probably thinking that having such an ability began to dent my levels of patience. If anything, I found that they were vastly improved. You save so much energy when you can cut out the agitated waiting for things: for appointments, for stuff to arrive in the post, for that party to happen. When I did want to knuckle down and do something that took a lot of concentration, like my drawing, I was there!

One thing I did find was that my drawing when I was ‘skipping’ was even better than when I was there. Maybe it was a case of getting out of my own way. Who knows.

There was a downside though, as you can probably imagine. It became a bit like an intolerance spreading. Say you are someone who doesn’t like adverts on TV. You might initially just dislike a handful of the most annoying ones, but as time progresses, you find more and more that you despise, until you avoid any advert at all costs. I became a bit like this with my time skips. I soon found myself skipping things that previously I would have looked forward to. It took a awhile to dawn on me but once it did, I knew I had to stop.

The turning point was the birth of my first little boy. I was twenty seven, married to Susan and we were both looking forward to our first child. It was a long and hard labour, something like thirty hours. To my shame I skipped it.

When I was back, Susan was asleep, the baby was in the small plastic crib thing that hospitals use and I was covered over with a blanket in a large chair. I walked to the baby, Mark I mean. We had already decided on Mark. His little chest was moving in and out as he slept peacefully, the odd twitch of his fingers putting me in mind of Socks our cat when she dreams.

I had a burning weight in my chest that seemed to flare out with every heartbeat. My jaw tensed and my eyes began to tear up. I had missed it! All for the sake of an easy ride! We hadn’t even filmed it like so many people do.

I remember leaving the hospital room and balling my eyes out in the nearest toilet. I swore to myself there and then that I would never skip again. And I never have.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - A Brief Study of Trolls

A Brief Study of Trolls

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

Film and fairytale have let the side down in recent years. Trolls are either portrayed as blundering fools or as some human eating monster. Well I am here to set the record straight.

My name is Arthur Quint, and I have had the privilege of living and working with various Trolls for the last decade. This is no small achievement, as many people have never even seen one with their own eyes.

The difficulty lies in them being inter-dimensional beings. They don’t live under bridges or in dark forests you see. They simply use these as doorways into our world. They seldom use these however, as they have most of the things they desire in their own backyard, so to speak.

One night, I was cycling along a back-road near my home when I was bundled off my bicycle by something large and heavy. After a profusion of apologies and a hastily made splint for my broken arm, Jarth the Troll offered to make it up to me by taking me back to his world. It only took moments for my fear to be overwhelmed by curiosity and I soon found myself gazing across a literal uncanny valley.

The Trolls themselves are partially made from rock, and partially flesh and blood. They continue to grow throughout their entire lives. Once they reach a certain size, they stop moving and simply sit or lay, gradually becoming part of the landscape and losing their sentient spark. This is considered a good death in Troll society. Of course some die in civil wars and other conflicts but most Trolls can look forward to a very long and healthy life.

They live in an honour bound society and seem most like the olden day Samurai of Japan. This is partly why the governing hierarchy permitted my visits. They viewed it that Jarth had wrong me by injuring me and saw my visits as evening the score. I don’t think that I was originally permitted to visit as much as I have. I would like to think that I won them over with my manner and quick humour.

Their world is similar to ours but everything has a purple hue. In later visits I discovered that they actually live underground in their plane of existence, and the purple light comes from an enormous orb that is suspended from the ceiling of one giant cavern. The size defies belief. Let me put it this way, in the decade I have been visiting, I have only seen one third of what it has to offer. I did manage to get to an edge once however. There the light is very dim and things are quite dangerous; not all Trolls are friendly. The maladapted ones literally get pushed to the fringes of Troll society. On that day, Jarth and a host of Troll guards accompanied me. There was no fighting, just uneasy eye contact and chest bashing.

Troll society as a whole is very civilised, by some standards at least. They have institutions that we would recognise as schools, shops and banks. They have law and order, healthcare and all manner of so called modern inventions. They don’t quite have smart phones and computers but what they do have is a quite lovely steam-punk technology that does a superb job of imitation. You haven’t lived if you haven’t seen a Troll using a sputtering cog-bound calculator.

One aspect of their society that is hard to stomach is their currency. Their whole society is based on a body fluid system. These are, in ascending order of worth: urine, saliva, snot, blood and sexual secretions. Yes it turns my stomach to think of it. It is safe to say that every opportunity that arose where a Troll desired to pay me, I kindly refused. It also goes without saying that you never ever want to win the Troll lottery.

This leads us to one of the main reasons why some come to our world. They make dangerous trips to biohazard bins, abattoirs and the occasional raid on sperm-banks to make their equivalent of easy coin. You might think that this influx of external fluid would unbalance their economy and you would be right. That is why the various gateways are heavily guarded. Enterprising trolls occasionally avoid the beating bestowed by the hulking guards and manage to sneak through.

Along with biological fluids, they are also quite partial to human pornography. A copy of Penthouse would go for...well...let’s just say that you’d need a few buckets to collect your payment.

Sadly, the doorways are closed now which is why I feel I can publish this small paper without endangering them. I don’t know what has happened in their realm but one day I found a small purple pebble left outside my back door. It was broken in two perfect halves and was covered in fluid. I think it was a message from Jarth, my friend and my guide to that world that is now lost to me.

We have lost the opportunity for something remarkable and I have lost my friend.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Stress and Sunshine

Stress and Sunshine

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

 

‘You’ll be okay until I pop in again Mr Oakes?’

‘Yes yes of course. You don’t need to come as often as you do Mrs Smith.’

‘You know it’s part of your bail conditions...’

‘So you keep reminding me!’

‘Be good Mr Oakes.’

He watched the door slide shut behind her with a hiss. Meddling old crone. Sixty one years under her belt and she spent the whole lot of it meddling in other people’s affairs.

The phone began to ring. He reached out from the comfy chair, moved his arm over the mints and daily paper. Lifted the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, our records indicate that you could be entitled government funded-

‘I’m not interested.’

‘-solar panels installed by our specialists-’

‘No thank you!’

‘-based in the UK!’

‘Piss off!’

He slammed the receiver down.

‘You look a bit flushed today Mr Oakes!’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You aren’t over doing it are you?’

‘Me? Perish the thought!’

‘No schemes? No plans? You know it’s-’

‘Against the terms of my bail! Yes I know!’

‘No need to snap Mr Oakes.’

‘Then don’t treat me like a simpleton!’

He watched her bustle around straightening this and that. It was strange as his room was to the minimalist style. He marvelled that she found anything to do. His eyes began to droop as he watched her leave for the day.

The shrill of the phone woke him from a peaceful slumber.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, our records indicate that you could be entitled to-’

‘I won’t tell you again! Bugger off!’

‘-panels installed-’

‘Are you deaf?’

‘-in the UK!’

‘Rarrrgh!’

The phone cracked as it hit the other side of the room.

The trembling old man threw aside his leg blanket and stood on his wiggling legs. His teeth gritted, he shuffled across to the large curtains covering the floor to ceiling windows. Taking a handful of the velvet fabric, he heaved to the left, dragging them until a satisfactory gap split the darkness. He moved to the glass, pressing his face to it and looking down.

A large and rusted metal aperture split the ground of the island, the sea glimmering at the far edges of his vision, the volcano looming ahead belching out small parps of black smoke. Large loading equipment stood idle, automated defence drones swinging from their chains in the breeze.

‘To hell with it all!’

A wrinkly hand smacked the glass. He walked back across the room with increased assurance, parts of his body activating that hadn’t for years. He clutched at the phone and jabbed in a number.

‘It’s me...Yes I know...Bugger all that!...Assemble the teams, I’m activating the base again!...Yes now!...We will begin Project Darkness...Details?...We are going to blot out the sun!’

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Sleeper Cell

Sleeper Cell

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

The figure under the heavy duvet groaned and rolled onto his side. The air in the dark room was stuffy and oppressive, the kind that hinted at antique oxygen that was captured many weeks ago. The only illumination came from the faintly buzzing digital alarm clock, its digits declaring 01:17 in a ghoulish green light.

A tiny breeze fluttered at the tattered posters on the wall before all became still once more.

‘According to the manifest, this one sleeps like a log.’

Another swift movement of air billowed gently and faded into nothing.

‘Ugh this room stinks!’

‘They all do, to varying degrees.’

A tall stick-like figure moved out from the deepest patch of darkness and approached the bed. ‘He sleeps like he welcomes the oblivion.’

A smaller figure joined the larger one, its hands clasped behind its back. Both were cloaked in black material that shifted and swelled as the eye roved over it. The material hid their contours, their only visible body parts their hands and faces. Over-large foreheads squatted down on beady eyes, the nose in between looked stretched and pulled, the tip hanging just past the chin over mouths that were just a dark ‘O’. The larger one spoke again:

‘You are happy with your assignments?’

The small one nodded.

‘Do you have any questions?’

‘No Sir.’

‘You understand the ramifications of failure?’

The small one looked up at the tall one. ‘Yes Sir.’

‘What is your task?’

‘To manage and harvest my allotted cell, to utilise the energies within in furthering the goals of the movement, to stay hidden and nameless.’

‘Very well. You seem to have a firm understanding of your role but I think that perhaps a little test is needed. Why do we not like night workers and what do we do about them?’

‘We erm, we don’t like night workers because they are awake at night, going against the grain of the majority and denying us their sleeping energy. We manipulate their bodies to hasten poor health which will make them give up that kind of work or die, restoring the balance.’

‘Excellent! Question two. Explain Mardum’s principle of manifestation and tell me what your assignment is with ten sleepers.’

‘Haha that’s an easy one Sir. Mardum’s principle states that every sleeper generates five unnims of dark-wave energy. To derive your manifestation powers, that is your solidity, stability and reality control, you simply multiply the number of asleep by five. As far as my task with ten sleepers, that would generate fifty unnims, which would be...erm...information gathering from electronic devices, such as computers, tablets and phones.’

‘Very close. Fifty unnims just pushes you into your next grade of action, which in this case is modification of ventilation and air systems to force them to sleep longer and more deeply. If a little toxic gas gets into the atmosphere, it can push them into a deeper level of sleep. How much energy will they generate from this Kinnar state?’

‘Two extra unnims each.’

‘Good lad!’

‘Thanks Dad.’

The tall figure ran an alabaster hand over the head of the shorter.

‘You are very young, too young really, but needs must. Our people are fading down into the nightmare plane again, which is why it’s all hands on deck, so to speak. If we can’t infiltrate this world and make it our own, we are finished.’

‘I know Dad.’

‘Can you do it? Manage this ten story dwelling and get the energy you need to further our aims?’

‘Yes!’

‘Good boy.’

A mumble came from the bed followed by a dry cough. The two figures looked at each other as they began to fade.

‘See you at home son. If you get there first, make sure you wash properly. I know we will have to get used to the stink of this world soon but there’s no reason to bring it back with us before we have to.’

‘Okay Dad.’

The smaller figure blinked out in a quiet pop of air. The larger one lingered a few moments longer. He appraised the room around him. ‘Animals,’ he whispered, before imploding into nothing once more.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Fur

Fur

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash.

One image bleeds into the next, a hazy scene forming once the seeping impressions become more solid. An outdoor car-park, pretty full but with the odd space here and there. Groups of people chatter and laugh, the event or happening that drew them here either finished or about to start. There is a suggestion of folding tables and bric-a-brac so it might just be a car-boot sale.

A babbling man with a bushy beard is gesturing to a small gathering behind a red hatchback, his right hand continually shooting up to his nose to scratch at the hair just beneath. I recognise him as Slavoj Žižek, the Slovene philosopher from The Pervert's Guide to Ideology, a film that I had watched weeks ago. I like philosophy. I also would be intrigued by any guide written with perverts in mind, wondering how that might make it any different to a regular guide. What I got was an interesting look at some of the things that we treat as factual and don’t question. Where perverts come into it I still do not know.

The people are enraptured with the furry man’s talk but his words fail to reach me with enough volume to decipher. I pass by and continue to look around me, hemmed in on all sides by hot metal and baking concrete.

I don’t know how or why the shift occurs but things begin to change. Maybe a fleeting anxiety crosses my mind or it just happened without my intervention. What was a sunny day begins to dim into a very dark twilight, the cars around me falling into a deep shadow and only staying visible where some unknown light source glints from their contours.

A deep rumbling howl erects the hairs along my arms and neck. I hear a woman scream and sense the people around me scrabbling for somewhere to hide. I am grinning, a strange hot sensation in my chest, like the fire in the core of a furnace.

A loping thing rounds the side of the car ahead of me. I walk towards it, my right arm partly across my chest, the fist clenched. I know it is going to happen. Everything about it angles the events into one narrow funnel which can only lead to one outcome. The black shaggy dog launches at me with an almost sub-audible roar, its teeth latching onto my right forearm as I bring it meet it. I feel no pain, no real sensation besides the pressure around my forearm. I am surrounded by darkness now, the only feeling my pounding heart and the strain from smiling so forcefully. Then I wake up.

--THE END--

This is the tail end of a dream I had a few days ago. I have the feeling it was a dream which was getting a few things straight in my mind. My anxiety and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder has continued to be problematic for weeks. The therapies and methods I have been using to try to improve my emotional response all rely on a certain level of acceptance, which at times I have struggled to get to.
This dream seems like a more visceral way of my mind getting the message. If I had to guess, I would say that the cars could be my obsessions, the philosopher the ways I try to get a handle on things/techniques I use and the black dog the anxiety that launches itself at me. In the dream, even not knowing it was a dream, I marched straight towards the dog knowing what would happen, accepting it. It’s quite funny that I can do something like that, yet the prospect of possibly having left a tap running reduces me to palpitations. Either way, a cool dream and one as I said, that feels like it had a use.

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Dark Fiction - Crackle

 

Crackle

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

It started as a tinny rustling sound, like a small plastic bag cavorting in the breeze. I looked outside my flat but could see nothing snagged or drifting across the small communal garden. Thinking it might be something on another resident's balcony, I did my best to ignore it.

A few days later it got louder. It sounded like a can of pebbles leisurely rolling down a grass slope. I struggled to hear the TV over it but again blamed the neighbours.

After a week, I managed to get an appointment with my doctor. He hummed and haaah’d and referred me to the hospital.

Things moved quickly after that.

Now I’m sat in a white sanitised room, large sections of plastic sheeting flowing from ceiling to floor on all sides. The machine next to me beeps now and then but I don’t always hear it. It can’t compete with the crackling inside my head.

Some kind of parasite they think. Probably came over in a shipment of bananas from the sub-continent they said. Horrible luck they whispered, eyes looking at the floor beside my bed.

A specialist came the other day, said that as far as she could see, the bugs reacted to stress hormones. The more stress hormone in my body, the more voraciously they reproduced. I asked if there was any kind of medication that would help me curb the hormone. She shook her head and said that it had to be an ‘authentic reaction’ or the bugs wouldn’t buy it. I asked if I relaxed enough, would they leave? She shrugged.

Now I lay and try to relax, calling on every technique I can to calm my body and unwind my mind. The slightest shock to my sensitised system, like a door slamming somewhere down the hall, causes such a jolt of agony that I pass out for minutes on end. On the plus side, my hearing is fading so that kind of stimulus will be no threat soon.

The relaxation seems to work but I know that in my heart, I am trying too hard to relax. It’s like trying to accept something horrible in the hope that it will go away. That’s not true acceptance. You should be able to accept something whether it goes or stays. It shouldn’t matter.

My head buzzes with the movements of the larger bugs now, new generations hatching and chewing on my brain with every passing hour.

I saw the orderlies install more sheeting around the doorways and windows yesterday. Nice to know they are planning for the best!

All I know is that I’m tired now. I feel annoyed to go out this way but I’m sure there are worse. I’m going to stop trying to relax, stop hoping that I will recover, give up the dream of recovery. I think it is a genuine acceptance I feel now but who knows. All I know is I’m done with the struggle and whatever happens happens.

People condemned to death usually get a last meal. It is rare indeed that they are the last meal.

Bon appétit bugs!

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Ink

Ink

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

You feel the air currents swirling against your skin but can see nothing through the blackness that envelops you. You wave your arms around and feel slight relief that you can feel them, even if you can’t see them.

A cough rasps through the void behind you. You wheel around and see a small area of golden light glowing some way off, a dark shadow stooped in the middle.

You force your heavy feet to take move toward it. You struggle to get the muscles and nerves to obey the order but you manage a shuffling step. The next is easier, the third almost child’s play.

The tension in your body dissipates as you edge nearer the light. The dark shape that moves and twitches now and then is nothing more than an elderly man leaning over a large table peering at a piece of parchment. He is bald and wearing a weathered white robe that looks rather like an old dressing gown.

You stop beside him but he fails to acknowledge you. You gaze at the parchment and the design upon it, wondering what on earth he is doing. The paper is brown with age and pinned at each corner with a rusty nail. The centre of the page is covered with a large black blob of ink.

The quivering hand of the man pours more ink from a small clay vessel, expanding the dark patch so that it almost takes up the whole parchment. A tuneless hum sounds from his pursed lips, the smallest hint of a smile stretching the mottled skin above his white stubble.

‘What are you doing?’ you ask.

He begins to whistle.

‘Hello?’ you say, waving your hand in front of his face.

He reaches down to a small drawer and takes out a quill, the edges of the feather fizzing with tiny sparks.

You watch as he leans forward. He presses the writing tip into the inky dark and begins to scrape searing lines of white light. You cannot make out what he is drawing but your heart begins to pound as some of the elements coalesce into something horrible. You see a large maw forming, then some razor teeth. Further up, two eyes with an evil gleam. A little lower, a massive outstretched claw.

The elderly hand picks up speed and is gliding over the surface of the parchment now. You watch the creature take shape, each new feature adding to its hellish appearance. A trickle of sweat gets stuck in your eyebrow and you wipe it away with the back of your hand. The air is hot and stifling, the heat drying the back of your throat.

The man leans back and mutters something before adjusting his position. His hand manoeuvres the quill in the area just under the colossal claw, the scratching of the implement slicing through your nerves. You lean forward, trying to see what he is drawing now. It is small, tiny even, and very hard to make out. You reach out and grab his wrist, dread rising inside you. The wrist cracks in your fingers. The old man yowls.

You sense movement behind you, a shifting of the air, a tension pressing down on your head and shoulders. You lean forward, feeling your heartbeat in every part of your body. You look at the paper, your eyes struggling to focus on the intricate art. The tiny, dwarfed thing that the monster is towering over. It’s you! You reading from some device!

You notice your hand is empty, the man is gone. You vaguely wonder how he vanished and where he went. That is, until you turn around and empty yourself into the biggest scream you can muster.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Anxiety

Anxiety

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash 

Krillon yelled as the scanner drone floated past their table, the late afternoon sunlight dazzling from the humming metal sentinel. It thrummed and twisted towards him but soon turned away to take in another diner. He flexed his foot and scowled at Maxis. ‘What the hell did you do that for?’

Maxis grimaced as he held up a palm. ‘You were dangerously relaxed Krill! I had to do something, you know how twitchy those things are!’

Krillon felt his foot throbbing now, a prickly heat spreading through his toes. ‘Thanks I guess.’

‘You guess? I just bloody saved you from being carted off!’

‘I wasn’t that relaxed!’

‘You were almost asleep!’ Maxis huffed and sucked down the last of his replenishment shake.

Krillon turned away. He didn’t want to lose his temper with Maxis. He knew Maxis was right but he was insufferable when you admitted it to his face.

‘So what’s the secret?’ Maxis smirked.

‘What secret?’

‘Why are you Mr Comatose all of a sudden? You always used to be fidgeting like a crack addict in withdrawal!’

‘You seem pretty chilled yourself Maxis.’

‘Nah I’ve got lots of inner turmoil, still waters run deep and all that. Enough to keep them off me anyway.’

Another drone buzzed past the café, a larger crowd control unit with high-grade weaponry. It was a large orb like thing and painted a dark grey, a white line around its equator, just below its collection of cameras. A hush fell on the other diners as many pairs of eyes watched its course until it was around the corner.

‘I don’t know why they are worrying,’ Krillon hissed. ‘Nothing’s ever gone down here!’

‘There it is again!’ Maxis whispered leaning in closer. ‘What’s happened? You used to crap yourself when those big bastards went past!’

‘Maybe,’ Krillon leaned towards Maxis until their noses almost touched. ‘Maybe I just don’t care any more!’

‘What!’

‘Maybe I don’t care. It’s all bullshit and I’ve decided to just let go, go with the flow!’

‘That’s terrorist talk!’

‘I’m not a terrorist.’

‘It is to the Overlord Command Dispenser! You’ll be dead in hours if you keep this up!

‘I don’t care! It’s better than a life of fear and anxiety over bullshit that doesn’t matter!’

‘They got to you didn’t they!’

‘Who?’

‘That freedom group, Always Chill Together or something.’

‘What if they did?’

‘Christ I can’t talk to you any more!’

‘Suit yourself!’

Maxis leaned back in his chair, his face ashen. Krillon watched his eyes, gazing all around the face of the person who used to be his friend. He knew that Maxis felt that he was now looking at a stranger. He watched Maxis shake his head and stand. He watched him turn away and begin walking. He watched him. Maxis didn’t turn around when the alert sounded. Not even when the first shot was fired.

--THE END--

A bit of sci-fi for my #fridayflash this week as my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (OCD) has been the worst it’s been for years. The astute amongst you might recognise those initials in the Overlord Command Dispenser line. Anyone with any interest in anxiety treatment may also recognise Always Chill Together abbreviates to ACT, Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, the process I am trying to apply to my life so that I can at least do some of the things I value, rather than being under the thumb of the Overlord Command Dispenser 24/7. Thanks for reading.

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Dark Fiction - Into The Jaws

Into The Jaws

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash

 

The heavy metal boots squelched through the row of corpses, a particularly bloated body rupturing pleasingly to Moranth’s satisfaction. He didn’t let it show.

‘The death you have caused!’ the gaunt elderly man hissed through yellow teeth as he floated a few paces to the left.

Not for the first time, Moranth looked to both sides, the seemingly unending road of bodies buffered by darkness on both sides as it stretched into the hazy distance. He shrugged his left shoulder, the vein that ran down the bicep a snake weaving and winding its way towards some unknown prey. The metal of his chest plate was torn and stained with his life’s juices, the jagged edge rubbing into his skin. He marvelled that he no longer felt the pain; that had faded once his mind had awoken after the brief period of darkness.

‘Look Moranth!’ the floating man in his dark robe was pointing now, his knobbly finger pointing into the distance.

Moranth breathed in deeply, or at least what passed for breathing in this place. He stopped walking and turned to the old man. ‘I see what I have achieved.’

The man wafted closer until his nose was almost touching Moranth’s. ‘Achieved? Achieved?’ he shrieked. ‘Even in death you show not a sign of contrition?’

Moranth’s mouth drew back revealing the rows of broken teeth that still clung to his gums. He lunged forward and grabbed the old man’s face with his massive gauntleted hand, the clinking of the metal competing with the slight crunching of bone. 

‘Yes achieved!’ Moranth snarled, ‘Why you play this game Death I know not, but if you expect me to fall to my knees and weep you are sorely mistaken. You take on the guise of this old pauper, the first I killed on my path to glory and you have simply given me the satisfaction of doing it again. You know so much of my life yet you seem not to know the one important thing, the thing that drove my violent path. You think me a monster yet I vowed years ago to right the greatest injustice of life. You and the beings of your ilk, lording over us mere mortals, offering solace one moment and agony the next.’

He squeezed his fingers more tightly and felt the skull give with a loud crack. Death cried out and mumbled into the hand that covered his mottled face.

‘Do not try your tricks on me!’ Moranth bellowed. ‘Can I kill such as you? I have no idea. I am here and from what you have told me, headed for the inferno. I say good! My one fear in life was that there was nothing after death and you have taken that fear from me. Now you have unleashed the mightiest warrior the world has ever known and he has no fear, no pain and no body to hold him back!’ 

Moranth pulled the shrieking Death closer and whispered in his ear, ‘Who do gods pray to when they fall?’

Death struggled and wriggled as he clawed at the dented metal, his eyes beginning to fill with blood. Moranth lifted him away and lofted him higher, until his arm was at full stretch. With a grunt he clenched his fist tightly, the already damaged head imploding in a wet bubble of boney shrapnel and pulp. The body fell, fell down past the morbid pathway and down, down into the abyss below. The atmosphere began to rumble and vibrate as the Death vanished from sight. Small sparks of faery fire danced along Moranth’s armour as he grunted in approval. He looked around him and noticed that the scene was growing dim, a red hue beginning to suffuse everything. 

With one long ululation of intent, Moranth threw himself from the pathway and plummeted into the depths, sulphur and brimstone tickling at his nostrils. The wind howled through his armour and scoured his skin with a hot ferocity that only served to heat his intent further. With a last yell of defiance he vanished from sight, a deafening boom splintering the now empty space that he left behind.

THE END

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Dark Fiction - Potentiality

Potentiality

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/andyhay/10471977903/

‘Living the way I live gives me the opportunity to see the world in a different way.’

‘How so?’

‘I live without limits and this gives me a freedom that others can’t imagine!’

‘And so you help them to see things your way?’

‘Yes! How could someone walking past a prison full of innocent people not feel the need to intervene on their behalf?’

‘The people you help are imprisoned?’

‘You all are! I can see it as plain as the pen in your hand!’

‘What do you see?’

‘It’s hard to explain without being able to show you.’

‘We both know that’s not going to happen.’

‘How can I put it...You have seen those plasma balls that gadget shops sell? The ones you hold your hand to and watch the miniature lightning dancing around your fingers?’

‘Yes I know the ones.’

‘People look like that to me! Yes that’s quite accurate! The transparent globe is their limiting beliefs, the lightening their potentialities...their striving to find a way out, to make something of their reality!’

‘Do I look like that to you?’

‘Of course!’

‘And you’d help me?’

‘Certainly, if you’d only unstrap me!’

‘Your aid proves fatal to the people you try to help though.’

‘Not straight away! They see the truth before that happens! Let me help you!’

‘Your hammer is locked up as evidence.’

‘I can use anything!’

‘You killed fourteen people.’

‘I freed fourteen people!’

‘What use is freedom if it cannot be enjoyed for more than a moment?’

‘It’s better than a life time of confinement!’

‘You’ll certainly find out if that’s true!’

THE END

I found the image of the plasma globe here with a CC Attribution license . I have made no changes to the image and use it in the manner allowed.

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Dark Fiction - Viewpoint

Viewpoint

By Casey Douglass

as part of #fridayflash 

(Something a bit different this week. Read only the bold text, ignoring the italics, then when you get to the end, start again at the beginning and read through it again, but only reading the italics the second time.)

Mike watched the tip of the hoodie as it crested above the pot noodle stand. His heart lumped a couple of times as it missed a few beats. Not another one he thought. Jason browsed the garishly coloured snacks on the shelves, shaking his head at the additives and sugar each contained. If his body was a temple, he certainly wasn’t going to be filling it with prostitutes. He edged along the counter to the panic button. At a snails pace, he pushed his hand below the lip of the surface, his finger trembling as it just touched the garish red plastic. He paused his aisle roaming and smiled. It didn’t sound right but he could use that for his art project. He ran a finger along the bottles, their shiny plastic reflecting the lights into tiny UFO trails. He looked out through the building length window. The only other inhabitant of the petrol station was an elderly man struggling to get the petrol cap off his ageing Rover. He would be next to worthless if anything kicked off. Damn it. It was always the way. He shivered and wrapped his grey jacket around him more tightly. He was glad it had a hood, this chill or bug or whatever it might be was really getting to him. He caught a sight of the attendant through the cans of Pringles. Six times the place had been turned over this year and it always happened when it was dead. Well, Mike thought, no doubt the little shits keep watch and choose their moment. He was looking through the window with a far away glaze to his eyes. Jason thanked his lucky stars that he didn’t have to work a job like that. He knew he would probably start hacking into his wrists with that razor again. Thankfully, that was a long time ago. He wouldn’t get like that again. Mike glanced back to ascertain where the roaming youth was now and jolted as he found himself looking into the depths of the hood. The boy’s mouth was drawn in an ugly grimace, the edges drawing up into his cheeks in a way that made Mike think of the Batman villain Joker. He decided to give up his hunt for something to eat and just pick up a packet of cigarettes instead. He moved to the counter and waited, the attendant still miles away. Jason wondered whether to cough. His phone vibrated in his pocket. He frowned, knowing it would be Teresa. She never got the hint. He placed one hand on the counter and pushed his other into his pocket. The boy stood on the other side of the counter, one hand upon the counter, the other hidden in his left hoodie pocket. Mike’s eyes stared at the covered hand, watching for any tell-tale sign of a sharp edge. The boy spoke. Adrenaline shot through Mike’s veins, a slight convulsion rippling through his organs and setting him trembling. He pushed the button. The attendant turned. Mike asked for a packet of Marlboro. The attendant flinched, and the world got a whole lot louder.

THE END

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Dark Distractions is Two Years Old Today!

My blog is officially two today, and just like last year, I thought it would be interesting to do a post that is more for me than anyone else. A post that will let me see what I did in the last year, and how that improved on the year before. It will also include some shout-outs and thanks, as I didn't do it alone.

The year before last I wrote 43 blog posts. This past year I did 75. I’m pleased that I almost doubled my output, even though I know quantity is no assurance of quality. I will aim to double it again this year.

I went from around 25 Twitter followers to around 300. I’m not chasing numbers as it’s all about quality followers, not just slack-jawed “I’ll follow you if you follow me’ers.” Twitter is nice but I don’t think I’m social enough to really take full advantage. Even so, my goal for this year is to pass the 1000 follower mark.

My blog traffic went from around 2,000 hits to around 21,000. It’s nice to see some traffic, even if a lot of it is just automated bots and crawlers. I think this year my goal will be another 10X increase to around 200,000 hits.

I managed to get an article into every edition of the Geek Syndicate Magazine, and thirteen articles/reviews for the website. I will aim to continue that level of contribution to the magazine (as it is beyond my power to make it come out more frequently) but I will try to increase my website contributions.

I wrote 9 film reviews for the Generic Movie and TV blog before I decided to part company with them and put my effort into my other areas of interest. I did have a look at letterboxd but think that I will just keep the odd film review to my blog.

I wrote 17 pieces of flash fiction for #fridayflash. Fridayflash is a great community of writers and it has only really been the second half of the year that I have been able to fully take part and commit to publishing a story each week. I think it has helped my writing a good degree to have something weekly to aim for.

I entered 5 competitions gaining various places/mentions in each, which won me a free ebook (Grey Matter Press) and my stories featuring in 3 print and ebook anthologies (Darker Times). I had only entered one competition before these, and that was before this blog even existed. I am committed to keeping the competition entries flowing as I feel that they are the main way to gauge my progress and, if won, the main way to get my name out more. It was also very nice to be able to hold my work in printed form, something physical to show for the effort. On a larger note, I aim to plan and complete a novel of some kind in the next 12 months.

I joined the Horror Blogger Alliance, which has led to three review requests from people that found my blog and asked me if I fancied reviewing their books/films. 

I was given a Liebster award by Steve Green which was very kind of him. It wasn’t my first but the first one I was able to accept. Paul Dail gave me my first but it came at a time where I couldn’t meet the criteria for accepting it and so it fell from my mind. I appreciated the gesture though.

One low point was that I did sign up to do NaNoWriMo but just couldn’t get started with it. I had a couple of ideas for novels that I wanted to follow and the indecision ended up putting too much pressure on me so I just let it drop.

As usual, I would like to thank my good friend Paul Brewer, who has tirelessly commented on my posts when I'm sure he has had much more interesting things to be getting on with. Thanks as always Paul :).

Thanks to everyone who knows me, reads my stuff and lets me know that I am not writing in a vacuum.

Casey.

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