Running from September 15th through October 15th. Winners will be announced on Halloween.
AFTERWORD: THE BLOOD-SOAKED CONFESSION OF A TORMENTED SOUL ¡Dios mío! The writer’s torment is not merely eternal—it is a CURSE that burns through the very marrow of one’s bones, a relentless demon that feeds upon the soul like a ravenous beast! This is no simple journey, mi querido lector—NO! This is a war waged […]
How This “Aswang” Story Grew Its Horrible Wings! Read More »
Before either could get their bearings, the creature in the cage popped up on their feet, yanked their body so violently that the connected tubes pulled apart, pushed the door wide open, and jumped on Dad quickly and ferociously. The creature began biting into Dad’s neck and extremities, tearing at his clothing and flesh as he yelled out in agony. In the distance, Paige saw Emily holding a broom handle against a tiny gray button near the light switch. The girls were in horrified shock, but they couldn’t look away. Something felt familiar, almost majestic about what they were seeing. As the monster fed into their father’s flesh, its body began filling out, becoming more human with each bite. The cracks in the monster’s skin and sunken parts around the ribs and face began filling with the same greenish glow that Paige had seen before.
The Lost Parents of the Cul-de-Sac Read More »
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Welcome to the Happy Hearts Family Read More »
“Mina.” He said to me calmly, his analytical composure returning to him. “That night… when Dracula forced his blood upon you…” Abrupt. Tactless. My heart sank, the memories that haunt me every night flooding back to me in the light of day. Jack knew me well enough to see the fear as it crept over my face. “Its fine. Everything is fine, there’s just a hypothesis I can’t shake.” “Hypothesis?” I murmured, barely audible. “His blood, it may have had some unexpected… lasting… effects.”
Mina after Dracula: Blood of My Blood Read More »
Barbara blinked in a haze. In these scenarios usually no survivors are found. But she had been found mud-caked and nearly frozen to death in the bitter Alaskan wilderness. Barbara Keniston was the only survivor of a group of four scientists, one field guide, and a journalist who was doing a report on Arctic wolves
They lay naked in bed, fingers and limbs intertwined. A deep orange light pours through the window bringing with it the dog days to come and the sounds and smells of the alley below. A man rummaging through the trash, spilt garbage and empty beer cans all around him, a cigarette pushed between yellow teeth. A car honking at a group of teens smoking weed as they scurry through the alley, they hurl curses and middle fingers at the driver before continuing on to find relief from the heat. In a small bedroom overlooking the hustle of the alley below Elizabeth brushes her fingers across Hunter’s chest, drawing shapes from the sweat droplets forming.
When he turned to face them, his face was covered in gashes from the metal shards that clawed at his skin from biting into his coworkers’ bikes. Most of his team passed out from horror; some had to be held back from beating his face in, and a few others tried to sue. Once again, his diagnosis saved him.
I could feel their desires for success. They were ambitious to be sure. But the ends were always the same: money, sex, and power, never realizing their ambition was nothing more than misplaced desire for acceptance.
Nobody could have prepared me for the side effects. I took the first dose as a Nor’easter hit, the colloquial name for a big old storm, buffeting the cheap windows of my studio apartment, letting in a little whistle of cold air as the burning fluid was injected into the pinched bit of stomach fat. […]
When Mira was small, her mother never said I love you. She said, Finish your plate. She said, Don’t waste what feeds you. Years later, when her mother’s body thinned to transparency, Mira began cooking for her. At first, she thought it would save her. But hunger, she learned, was not a thing you filled. It was a thing that filled you. After her mother’s death, Mira cooks to remember. When her own blood drips into the pot and she tastes it, she finally understands what her mother meant. The more she feeds, the hungrier she becomes. (A lyrical horror story about inheritance, consumption, and the hunger that devours love itself.)
From a full length novel called Not My Bowl Of Rice, A telenovela/cookbook
THE CURSE OF BLOOD AND WINGS: A TALE OF SISTERLY BETRAYAL Read More »
It was more than work. It was her way out. Out of sleeping on her cousin’s couch, out of endless VA paperwork, out of remembering every goddamn thing the uniform didn’t protect her from.
I didn’t seek out this life, or rather lack thereof, but was cursed with it, so to speak, as a consequence of my arrogance and curiosity. I have always been the type to desire what I can not have, and knowledge, when guarded, becomes the object of ultimate desire.
Note- sorry its short i hope you liked this short story also if you read the name of the chapters together it leaves a foreshadowing note which i thought was cool. -rowdy also this was made possible with the help of kind people who looked over the first version so thanks to albert moss, austin curtiss, alex (jay) cantrell, eli garret, erin brown, joyanne maske, luckas jordan and last but not least rex conner.
my entry- the unfaced man Read More »
She felt all the love that Tarek had offered flow through her, a warmth coated her belly, and she crawled, slipping thorough what she knew now was blood on the sheets, toward her creature.
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