super-short tales of terror: again

It started as a mark.

By lunch, it burned, snaking past her wrist to wind ‘round the elbow and onto the bicep.

At day’s end, it spanned shoulder to shoulder, a wide band of flaking grey weeping crimson and cream.

Come morning, she stood,

swallowed head to toe,

in the bark of a ravening tree.

***

If anyone ever asks me how I get past writer’s block or get myself ready for the day, I’m gonna lead them to these 55-word shorts.

I love ’em.

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super-short tales of terror: the sequel

 

Dainty girls break too easy.

Which is why, after the effortless snapping of bones

and easy tearing of too-tender flesh,

he craved a Stout Girl.

One with meat on her legs, a heft to her stride.

Pudgy arms, thick wrists.

Yes, that’s the ticket,

he thought

as Stout Girl bashed his head with a brick.

***

Just another little something I wrote – a fairly complete, hopefully intriguing story with a 55 word limit – while loosening the ol’ writing muscles for the day’s work.

I do think I’ll compile these into a collection someday. 🙃

super-short tales of terror

I’ve knitted a shroud.

Or perhaps sewn is the right word.

Dollar store linen and bone-white thread beginning at my purple feet, past my arthritic knees and swollen stomach, onto my weeping breasts and blackened throat.

My knuckles knitting my sins into seclusion and shadow

where,

once the smell becomes toxic,

I will be found.

***

See? You don’t need a ton of words to tell a good, creepy, screwed up story. Fifty-five words – maybe even less – is sometimes all it takes.

Perhaps I should publish a collection. 🤔