Archive for monsters

The Dorley Cycle VII

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories, The Dorley Cycle with tags , , , , , , on 12/04/2014 by Cindy Vaskova

TO START THE CYCLE :  Part I ; Part II ; Part III ; Part IV


Part V ;  Part VI




I knew that Dorley was incorporated somewhere in the 1600’s by some European fisherman and established as a town in the 1800’s, and all that it used to be in its earliest days was probably written down in one of the records in the archive. All the memories of my youth in Dorley are of struggling to spend a summer vacation in a fishy little town with a small harbor that held few solid fishing boats.

Inside the archives room was a metal shelf that ran from one side of the wall to the other and stacked some fifty yellow record boxes labeled with a red marker. There were a dozen brown boxes tucked into the corner of the room.

I knelt bringing my flashlight to those, first starting with their content.  I pushed the lid off of the first one and took out a thin file that bore the police department’s sigil. I went through three or four reports, all recent and all of minor violations from the outside regions. I pulled another box towards me. There was a moist scent soaked into the cardboard, the smell of old age and dark rooms and when I tore the dried glue and pulled the first file in had the same authentic stench of decay plastered onto it. There was a picture clipped to the first page. I brought my light to it, looking at a crime scene photo of a naked girl, arms, legs spread on the beach and a circle drawn around her. My heart sank as I recognized the markings on her body, dark, swollen all over her shriveled skin. They were identical to those of the two teens laid on the beach. I took away the light and stared into the darkness, rectangles and bright spots swimming before my eyes. The 86’ murder had fallen into my hands with a picture of the body of which the local lore spoke to have been missing and never found. I took the photo out and put it in my pocket without a second glance. The page underneath was smoke soaked and the ink was smudged in redoing the bleak writing, but I read the year all right, and the name of the girl – Anne Henderson, 17.  The rest of the file however was empty.

A voice above me hissed like a rattle snake in the quiet and the hiss sneaked to the pit of my stomach where it curled.

“The department archives got flooded couple of days ago, so some of the files were moved in here till’ the leak is fixed.”

I turned my light on Paulie’s face seeing the deep sores on his cheeks and the broken teeth in his limp mouth.

“Security will be here any minute. Got what you was looking for?”

I felt the picture in my pocket and nodded. All I needed was it, a verification that Dorley had secrets and someone was willing to sacrifice lives to keep them.

Outside the gulls were loud in their pathetic attempts to keep off the cold. The night had grown the wicked cold of the wind that came from elsewhere and it kissed my face in its harsh unwelcoming way, like a lover no more.

Whilst I shivered and cursed the change of heart of the weather, Paulie stood proud against the temperature, comforted in its embrace. I guess he was local after all.

“If you ain’t got a place to stay and do your thing while you’re here the place I rent in my room has an empty one just across mine.”

Paulie swallowed a big gulp of his frozen saliva and looked at me with his green eyes half-closed. He looked shit tired.

“I suppose I’m going to stay for a while after all, yeah.”

The building he led me into was one of the more luxurious, and few apartment buildings Dorley had built for the rich tourists that it never had. It looked less shiny today and with its glamour, its clientele had gone to waste.

“Landlord sleeps like a deadman, he’ll do you in the register tomorrow. I gots a spare key here in case someone comes and he ain’t around to serve.”

I was beginning to think Paulie was the Keymaster from Ghostbusters. Heck he even looked a bit like him.

“Paulie, do you know that murder from 86’ that was never solved? The upstate girl on vacation here?”

He gazed at me again with his sea deep eyes.

“I remember it. She was a pretty one, auburn hair and hazel eyes. Never found a body though.”

“Do you remember who led the investigation?”

“Chief of police Frank Wyman. Solid motherfucker.”

“He still around?”

“Chief then, chief now. He’s a righteous man and he’ll do his job.“

I nodded and bid him goodnight.

“It’s very strange how the mermaids got extinct and then the sirens stopped singing. I think scientists would say its total bull, but I go with the Old belief that the two species are very much important to one another, you know for their survival. This one guy in the pub said,” you want mermaid meat you gotta cut the tail with a diamond sharpened blade” and another said “behead the siren if ya want to use the feathers for the hooks.”

His words bubbled up and he laughed with his teeth clasped together. His eyes were mere dark slices that stretched along the sides of his face. I thought again how much I hated the tales and how much those people loved them.

“They will come you know.”, his hiss pierced my ears and itched down my system, putting needles in my guts.

He closed his door and locked it.

I sat on my bed feeling the cold wool cover, not wanting to get under it and shiver through my nightmares. So I left as quiet as possible, patting the inside of my jacket for the Smith & Wesson feeling its weight reassuring. I hoped chief Frank Wyman was a solid motherfucker as Paulie had said.


to be continued 4/25/…

The Dorley Cycle V

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories, The Dorley Cycle with tags , , , , , , on 29/03/2014 by Cindy Vaskova

To start the cycle: Part I ; Part II ; Part III ; Part IV





Behind the police line its dark, an infinity seeping out of a black hole,somewhere in the back of my head; it’s stretched to all sides but ahead, where the projectors illuminate the sand and the camera flashlights blink two at a time. And I am standing in that infinite darkness, body cold, but mind ablaze, insides burning up as an infection spreads and consumes me into blindness far thicker than the night, and so much wider than the sky; I dwell in it, floating without mass as only dead fish do. Raging is the memory. Painful is the comeback.

And I have comeback to Dorley, my universe, my anchor.

My eyes are pools which drown the image of the two deformed corpses laid side by side. I recognize a pattern, a similarity in the atmosphere. Can they not see it?

I pulled aside from the bystanders peeping for a look at the macabre scene making my way through police officers pushing watchers and reporters away. I had seen enough.

“Can I get you something?”

The bartender dragged his rusty voice over my ears and it felt like razors twisting inside my brain. I flinched and closed my eyes letting the mental attack pass away before pulling a ten dollar bill and passing it to him.

“Scotch, single, whichever brand.”

He nodded and took the money, shooting me a suspicious glance. Bartenders always do that, especially when they have a guy looking like me sitting at their bar. I felt his eyes glide over the scars on my forehead and smirked to myself for having grown a thick beard to somewhat conceal the ones on my cheeks.

My flaming senses began to calm and I relaxed my shoulders, breathing out the built up tension. I was succumbed to my thoughts, sunken to my past, and then again, I was back in Dorley. I was excused for having any mental breakdowns. I felt a void like a draft come inside me, blowing away my confidence to specks of dust. After two years of nothing and growing fond on the idea of it all being big bullshit, here it was again, the unmistakable sign that Dorley was a whirlpool spitting out monsters.

The glass was put in front of me and I took a sip. Even if the majority of the town was changed to fit the seaside resort criteria, the Old Side had kept the same shitty charm it used to have before, only now having the society in a tighter circle made it twice worst to be around. The absurdity of the place now collided with the surrealism of it.

I took in my surroundings not really remembering being inside this bar. The people clinging like moths to light, sat with their beers and their card games, heads bobbing up and down, dirty nails scratching sun-kissed faces. Sailers, fisherman, laborers, the lot of them. It seemed to me, having a classy hotel and a Ferris wheel pier made no difference to them. It didn’t work for me either, only set a slight unease; I knew there were winged and fishtailed humanoid skeletons lying at the bottom of the sea. So much for vacating safely. But they didn’t know.

There were times I wished the construct of my thoughts couldn’t reach past a barricade of the deepest ignorance. I was initiated by the revelations forced on me into something I didn’t and still don’t fully understand.

But thedead boy and girl, those two strange carcasses were my new enigma; they were pieces of my puzzle and they fitted in perfectly. They welcomed me back to my mythos. Whatever had done that to them was speaking to me and I would be rude to not respond back. I would slaughter again.

I emptied the glass, grabbing my jacket.

“What’s with the sirens outside?”

I looked up half thinking the bartender had gone all soft on me, but it was a middle-aged man dressed city-like taking the sit next to mine. A man in a checked red shirt, shuffling a deck of cards had called him up.

“Someone died I hear.” He said as he took his drink and untwisted the beer bottle’s cap.

“Yeah? Local?”

I eased on my sit, pulling out another tenner and gestured to the bartender.

“Can’t say. They won’t say. Would be in the papers though. It’s down by the old fisherman’s cabins.”

The checked shirt man nodded and went back to his game.

“Though what I hear is, two kids got overdosed on something.”

“You reckon some junkies?”

I eyed the guy.

“What else would it be?”

“Murder.”,  I filled in.

The city man said nothing, only took a large gulp from his beer, but I could feel the fat card player’s eyes on my back.

“There haven’t been a murder this side of town since 86’ boy.”

I spun on my chair giving my full attention to the checked shirt man.

“What happened in 86’?”

“Well”, he mashed up the deck of cards once more, “some local youngsters fooled around with upstate teenagers on a camping trip here. They were suspected of, what they call it…yeah, ritualistic murder, but they were never convicted. Some poor gal went missing, but I don’t think they ever found her too, only some weird markings on the beach. So that’s that. But Dorley is a good town with good people. There are no murderers here.”

The door of the bar slammed behind me. What a pleasantly fucked up seaside town Dorley is. I left here, fleeing in fear and anger, and I returned terrified of what I might find instead of closure. And oh, I need closure. 

They took a wrong turn, they all did, including me and they deposited into this scheme bones and blood. Years and years the defense of their isolation had kept the eyes of the world from their deeds. The people of Dorley. Could I believe they didn’t know?

Monsters (Part two)

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , on 29/06/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

A bit late with this entry, my apologies. I hope I deliver with this conclusion.

Part one


Part 2


As a breath on glass, -
As witch-fires that burn,
The gods and monsters pass,
Are dust, and return.

(“The Face of the Skies”)”

―George Sterling,

The Thirst of Satan:Poems of Fantasy and Terror 



“I think I brought memory to life. Did I Neil? Could I?…”

As I stood before my door Tom’s words came back to me and I asked myself what he meant.

“Did you Tom do something horrible in the past that came back to haunt you today? Could you have done something bad?”

I cursed me for doubting my friend.

My hand hesitated on the door lock. I turned to watch the lights of the departing cab with a tinge of disappointed. I wished I had stayed in it. Maybe tell the driver to keep on driving around town until the dawn comes and saves me from the questions solitude and darkness tend to evoke in one’s mind.

I didn’t feel like being home tonight. Not alone.

I sighed and opened the door.

The lights, as I switched them on, welcomed me with a vague, nonchalant gleam.

I prepared myself a quick dinner – macaroni and cheese with tomatoes – and watched the news, only for the voices to keep me company and distract me from the ones in my own head.

A young blond reporter spoke of a chain accident on the interstate. Five people were dead and a dozen injured. She looked frightened as if her life was the one depending on good Faith.

I turned the TV off and stared at my face in the black screen. Was that fear written on me as well? Fear of what I saw back at Tom’s apartment?

Once more my thoughts were taken back to the filthy living room turned into a studio and the paintings aligned staring at me.

I wondered what imagination dreams of such horrid creatures? What sort of agony makes the artist reach so deep in his soul, in that part which is unknown and foreign to him?

“Why, Tom?”

I had to know.

“How can I help you Tom when you told me I couldn’t understand. Why is that? For what am I so blind?”

I rubbed my eyes and poured myself a large glass of golden liquid. Even after a few drinks no answers showed to solve my mystery and cease my worries.

I decided sleep may be my remedy.

I went asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and no longer after that a dream came to me, one that left me moaning and twisting in the bed; a poor mess of sweat and sheets.

I didn’t see myself present in it, but it felt as if I was the host, my body, soul and mind combined to offer a field for the events developing. I felt utterly exposed to some invisible invasion from outside, a fearful breeze of rotten nightmares.

The scenery was bleak and confusing but it reminded me of the cover of a book I used to own as a child. But the golden crops, the morning sky were different– they painted themselves in dark rusty-brown, before the sky cracked and only blackness was left, so vast and loathing it raised my curiosity of what lies beyond.

I remembered there were children painted too, playing and laughing but instead of them something else was celebrating under distant sounds of drums and horns.

A creature of scales and claws, multiple eyes, tongues and limbs descended from the blackness, towering above all and with an echoing roar of its billion mouths it shattered grotesquely and collapsed into monsters that scattered and possessed each piece of the dying ground; the spawns danced with rhythmic moves, but all I could see was a savage ritual of grunts and roars; the nameless ones caught in a symbolic moment of fierce copulation; a collision of bodies furry, wet and muscular. Some, I observed from my nowhere position, carried human parts and with disgust I had to watch as their sharp tongues lick thirstily the dripping blood and their mouths bite, tore and swallow down large pieces of red flesh.

This was a feast upon humanity. A celebration of prevail and conquer. It smelled like defeat, like losing all hope and I felt even greater fear emerging from each direction, cloaking the dream, the inhabitants, the revelations.

My childhood nightmares were there before me, but somehow altered, changed. More vulgar and shameless, more brutal and willing to kill my vision and memory of how monsters were supposed to look. Those were…

“No, monsters aren’t real. This is just a dream” spoke Tom’s voice but I knew it was I who thought so.

But these spoken in the subconscious words disappeared with the increasing throbbing of the drums. The melody so ancient and ethnic called me to come forward; an invitation of the sort you don’t simply turn down even if your whole being is trembling with fear. I felt myself do as told, and I tried to suppress the urge to touch skins, horns, furs and prove them real, proclaim them living and breathing and here. I hesitate…do I want to?

They are not real. I know that. They can’t be.

I push myself away; a far and rapid withdraw from this degeneration of the soul.

I woke up weak and destroyed from the dream. My head pounded with pain.

I didn’t enjoy this demented reflection of yesterday’s events, mostly because there were shadows which I didn’t see but felt. The art in Tom’s paintings had crawled into my sleep and hid underneath my pillow to invade my dreams and observe just as me.

Observe what? Me?

I reminded myself again it was simply a nightmare. Fiction of the mind.

Then what was that feeling of doubt nesting low in my belly making me uncomfortable?

Had I gone mad even for a second to believe monsters are real? To believe that those portraying Tom’s sickness are stalking me in my dreams and insist I participate from aside in a spectacle of horror?

God, I sounded like I do.

“Remember you believe in something once you’ve seen it and touched it” told me Tom’s whispering voice.

-   Hold on Tom, I’m coming.

I dressed and called a cab.

With a few begs my Arabic guide of city streets and ugly alleys drove faster and kept silent.

I decided on any cost to get Tom out of his place and buy us a plane ticket to Mexico or somewhere further.

Up ahead there was a construction site and the street was closed by large orange signs. My impatience overpowered me; I paid and jumped out of the car to run the last two blocks.

I dashed between faces and grimaces without my eyes registering any gender, age or race.

All I could think of were those monsters closing their rope of insanity around Tom’s neck.

When I got there a large crowd had gathered outside the entrance of the building. I spotted an ambulance and two police cars.

The officers were just starting to close the perimeter circling it with the “Cautious” yellow tape.

I maneuvered myself deeper into the whispering and gasping audience.

I needed to get to Tom’s apartment.

-  Excuse me? I need to get to apartment 8, Tomas Byrnes lives there, he is a friend of mine. I was supposed to meet him today. Could you let me pass?

The officer which I had just spoken to opened and closed his mouth, seemingly experiencing difficulty to offer me an answer.

-   I’m sorry sir. I’m afraid that will be impossible.

-   It’s very important officer. Can’t we arrange something?

-    I don’t think you understood me sir. Mr. Byrnes was found dead in his apartment an hour ago. My condolences on your loss.

-   Oh… – was all I could say, and then I mumbled – thank you.

Perhaps I had heard him the first time but was too shocked to realize.

I turned and walked away without feeling my feet touch the ground.

The monsters had won. They had found out I wanted to save Tom and had taken him away from me. They mocked me in my dream and showed me what future awaits those who deny belief in something so obviously real. I didn’t acknowledge them and they punished me by provoking my friend to implant their vision in me and make me question their authenticity.

“Oh Tom, please forgive me for running away. I was so scared and foolish.”

I stopped.

The people walking past me game me curious looks at my motionless figure. I looked in their eyes to seek some recognition, some response or understanding.

But they didn’t know of the storm in my soul and the guilt in my heart. They didn’t understand the fear in my mind and couldn’t explain the tears running down my cheeks.

But I knew what I’ve done.

“I can feel it. I have let the monsters in”

Monsters (Part one)

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , on 22/06/2012 by Cindy Vaskova


Part 1

 “Yes, my dear child, he would undoubtedly tell a terrified toddler tremulously seeking succormonsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.” 

                                                                                            ― Rick Yancey

The Monstrumologist



I used to have nightmares as a kid. My father used to come into my room, sit on the edge of my bed and gesture me to come closer. Then he whispered “Tommy my boy, there are no monsters in this world. They don’t exist. And as long as I’m here, they never will.” I believed my dad, but a part of me still reached out to that part of my mind that believed in the monsters as well. The monsters stayed hidden at first, only under my bed or in my closet but after a while they got used to the surrounding, made my home their home and began creeping outside my door, and I saw their faces. Oh, God their faces! They lurked in every dark corner of every room.

Then, they were real.


* * *

9/8/2011 Chicago, Illinois.


You reached the voicemail of Tomas Byrnes. Please leave your message after the tone: BEEP!

“Hey Tom, its Neil. This is probably the tenth message I’m leaving. Where are you man? I’m worried.

Call me back when you get this. Hope you get this.”

-   No answer?

Ann stood on the doorway, dressed and ready to leave for a weekend at her sister’s place.

I shook my head.

-   He’ll call. He’s probably working on a painting and doesn’t want to be bothered.

I agreed with her with a fake smile.

I knew Tom for long enough to know that there is something wrong with this absence of his.

-  I have to go. I wish you could come with me Neil. You need some rest. And some fun.

-   I know. That’s why I’m staying home to finish the project. After that I’m all yours.

She placed a warm kiss on my lips.

-   I’ll be back before you know it.

* * *

As soon as Ann left I called a cab and gave the driver Tom’s address.

I rested my forehead on the cold window and listened to the roar of the engine trying to shut off the fears in my mind. My eyesight traced the curves of the scenery. The weather was changing fast. Summer was preparing to leave for another 10-11 months and in her place autumn was starting to manifest with colors gloomy and dead.

I wondered what had happened to my dear friend Tom.

Had he faded just as summer, turning into a pile of rotten leafs blown by the rainy wind?

I shivered.

Minutes later my yellow carrousel from urban Chicago left me outside a four storey building of gray concrete and narrow balconies staring at a “Fletch and Skim” bookstore, a second hand clothes shop and a closed Chinese restaurant. I always wondered why he chose to live in this neighborhood.

I paid the cab driver and proceeded.

Tom lived on the second floor.

I took the stairs in one breath.

The bell was dead so I pounded my fists on the wood and raised my voice to call his name.

He opened the door; the ghost of someone who looked like my friend but who wasn’t. He was paler, wearing a stained white t-shirt and a worn out bathrobe covered in spatters of dried paint.

-   Neil? Hey. I didn’t expect you. – His voice was no more than a whisper.

-    What happened to you Tommy? Are you sick? I tried to call you a dozen times.

He tried to put on a smile.

-    Really? My phone must be off. No I’m fine. I just have a lot of work to do. Painting you know. It’s a bit of a mess inside but come in.

He disappeared in the darkness and without a hesitation I followed.

The windows were tanned; only fragile bits of daylight entered to shine across the room but it was enough for me to observe. Dishes with leftovers of food were lying on the floor next to scattered clothes.

The air smelled like paint and dust, and it stuck in my nose and tongue, the smell pushing its way down my throat.

The sofa was occupied by a canvas still unfinished but familiar to me, and aligned on the wall facing me were a few paintings I had never seen before. I stepped closer shocked by the nature of the forms, the dance of the brush, the colors most of all. I was terrified and confused.

-   Do you like them?

I averted my eyes.

-    What is this Tom?

-    My new Art. I just woke up and knew I had to paint them. I probably never told you this but when I was a kid I had nightmares. My dad used to calm me down and tell me monsters don’t exist. You’d say he was right. I thought so too. But they are real. Always were. Like you and me. Listen. I…I had a revelation. – His eyes glimmered with an ill sparkle – I needed to paint my monsters to prove myself they are fake but then they became real. I think I brought memory to life. Did I Neil? Could I? Look at them. You believe in something when you can see and touch it right? Right? … But you are afraid.  – He had tears running down though I couldn’t tell if sadness or joy had provoked them. He spoke so fast and his mood changed with every word. His voice raised and then faded again   –   God Neil… if only you could see them as I do! They are beautiful. – He stopped – I need to finish another one…You must go.

-  Tom you need rest. Come with me. Let’s go away for a few days. You can paint later.

The look in his eyes then crushed me with its coldness.

-   If you understood. But you can’t Neil can you? Go now. I’ll be fine.

As I descended from his apartment I thought about the monsters on the paintings, and their faces starring at me as I went away; in the cab on the way home I thought about Tom not being Tom anymore.

What had happened?

To be continued….

Freak Town: Never visit at night

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , , , on 30/03/2012 by Cindy Vaskova


Freak Town: Never visit at night

A wild whistle, southern melody chased the trash on the street alongside the wind. Doors closed and locked, windows shut and sealed; lights off, voices down, the kids quick in the beds under the blankets - that all for the ordinary people.

Four boots stood a step away from the entrance of the town. Nice boots. A pair of sneakers silently aligned with them.

-   This does not look like a town where people live, does it? – The sneakers asked which for obvious vocal reasons belonged to a girl.

-         Not at all. More like a ghost town - answered the second pair of boots, husky male voice.

-         “Freaky Town” if I’m to be asked - interrupted them both the first pair of boots, a voice belonging to a person obviously pissed off.

-         Well anyways, let’s go in. It’s almost darkened. Might find some directions.

Not a sound welcomed them as they walked the dusty road separating the short buildings. Barber shop – dark and closed, pub – dead and empty, police station – not a presence at all, bakery – no sweet smell of bread, grocery – no car outside, no man carrying in fresh veggies.

No dogs, no cats, no birds. Nor a rattle snake.

The town seemed as if fallen in a deep sleep; a coma trapping it in some sort of vacuum. It didn’t appear to have been habited for a long, long time.

-         So a ghost town it is. I wonder how many of those are scattered around the state. People chased away from their homeland by the rough weather and the lack of supplies. – said the husky one

-   Or they all died here forgotten by everyone. Dehydrated perhaps. – suggested the sneakers.

-   Maybe some masked gang killed them back in the day? – asked again the husky voiced one.

-    Shut it you two! Listen…- the tenor had stopped and had a look on his face showing a highly concentrated expression.

But he was right. There was something to listen to. Somewhere up ahead the road the silence was disturbed, torn apart and tossed down in the dirt.

Music echoed in the distance, sounding like one of those rave parties minus the massive light show…ehm scratch that. Now that the sky was totally dark and the stars were vividly visible three lasers - a blue, a green and a red danced on the it.

-   What the…? – the trio started moving again, this time faster, driven by the mad curiosity of finding out who play’s music in a ghost town.

All of a sudden there were no more buildings belonging to the town but a large, empty field where the biggest open air Monster party was happening at the moment.

The strangers stood with open mouths and unbelieving eyes watching this freaky situation.

And how else could you watch such a parade.

Bug creatures danced holding glow sticks; horned monsters with fluorescent painted nightmare faces were shaking their tails; slimy six-legged thing with sunglasses seemed too wasted to move; purple three breasted female giant slow danced to a bat creature drinking something from a cat skull and smoking well weed; a giant DJ spider with green paint was spinning four different records from a quickly made stage, dropping sick beats for his fellow dream murderers to shout and dance to as if entranced; an alien was making out with a two-headed lion, giraffe, bull thing by his space ship; a reptile monster flying in the air was throwing down all sorts of insides from cattle; and even the horror version of cookie monster was here! Thousands of children’s and their parent’s childhood worst nightmares were having a party in the middle of nowhere. And no one knew.

But if they did, and could see how their worst fears, the real monsters break dance, do the robot or shuffle, they would think they’re still dreaming. Or are insane. Or both.

The bass was too loud for the three humans to speak to each other. Sneakers made a step back but her back hit something solid as rock. She turned to face a stone creature with a plastic cup in hand and flaming eyes eating her alive.

The music stopped. The eyes of the night, the spies from under the beds and inside the closets, the books and movies inspirations for generations turned to the travelers; their burning monster eyes were mocking; the terrifying black faces blending with the night smiled to them with sharp grins showing rotten, smelly teeth, which the monsters licked with long and sticky tongues that dripped saliva, and tasted the fresh and juicy human flesh willingly walking on their party. Small giggles to maniacal and perverted laughs and screams made the trio shiver and pray.

-  You shouldn’t have come here at night humans. – The golem took a sip from his tequila filled cup and slowly with disturbing pauses introduced the three to his understanding of laughing. Emotionless.

They screamed from the top of their lungs and made a run for their lives.

An explosion of more laughs and roars chased after them. The music started again.

This party wouldn’t end until early morning. And only with its closing time this freaky town had an exit. Thus leaving plenty of time for hunting.

Flash Fiction today with two stories!

Posted in Flash stories, Short fiction stories with tags , , , , , , on 20/01/2012 by Cindy Vaskova

It’s Friday and time for some flash fiction ! 

Today there are two non-related  stories  in one post! But they actually do have something in common…hmm.

Enjoy :) 

 Dogs bark when diggers dig

“Do we have to do this?”

Rover gave him an angry look. Monroe had been asking pointless questions like this for over an hour now. Rover held his nerves trying not to shout at him:

“Yes, we have to. Now shut up and give me a hand. It’s not going to end sooner if you just stand there, hands in pockets.”

“But…” Monroe’s lazy voice spoke again.

“No objections! What’s wrong with you?!  Rover whispered to him through gritted teeth. He was this close to yelling at him.

Monroe sighted, rolled eyes,  pulled up the sleeves of his sweaty shirt, grabbed the shovel and started digging again.

The night was black as usual and mostly silent, with a bright moon, shining upon their digging experience.

A dog barked somewhere far, far away, but some fellow canine followed him in that dreadful idea, and then another, and another, and another one, some distant, some closer until all their cries in the night synchronizing into one barking crescendo.

Monroe always thought when dogs bark like this they chitchat on some very controversial topic judging by the woof’s and grows.

The two men didn’t pay any notice to that just continued digging. They had to make sure all those bodies they’ve buried along the years are still deep down in the ground. Rover and Monroe surely didn’t want any guests from the past at their doorstep. With the whole zombie infection running through town right now you never know.

They had to know.


*            *             *


I know how he feels every time the door gets opened and the cold night air comes into the warm and loud café. It touches his skin with icy tongues; cold fingers run on his back and the wind feels like a frozen kiss on his neck.

I can see him shiver and shake his shoulders to chase the cold away. Then he sips some of the hot chocolate before him, and I can tell it warms his entire body for a second, hot liquid rolling down his throat.  But it’s too hot and it burns his tongue, so he squeezes his eyes from the short steaming sensation. He orders a glass of water, hoping it would cool him a bit, and it does but still the taste in his mouth remains somehow flavorless with the next drink of chocolate. It pinches the tip of his tongue. He shakes head ignoring that, and continues to have his conversation with the rest of the people at the table.

Interesting, but he doesn’t notice me staring at him, licking my lips, biting them. He doesn’t feel me like I feel him. He probably can’t.

I hear his heartbeat, pulse after pulse; I feel his warm and sweet breath; the vibration of every thought he has before transforming it to speech. I feel them like my own.

I only come here because of him, two times a week, every Wednesday and Friday, exactly at 20:00 PM. No one knows me, and I know no one. I am only another girl in the café, sitting alone at my corner table with a cup of cold, untouched caramel macchiato.

But it doesn’t matter. I pay no attention to such things like loneliness, or cups left full. And I especially don’t care nor need him to know me or notice me, in order to eat him. I sit here just because I simply like observing my pray, before feeding myself with it.

And oh, how yummy he looks!



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