Savage Hunt (100character)

The savage hunt over, the cost of failure alone kept the elves in check as they gripped their toys in gore stained fingers.

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This is was written as a Christmas themed 100 character story. It was difficult to write such a concise story. It initially an idea for a longer story where the elves had to go out and hunt the wild toys and bring them back for Santa to clean up and use for presents. Looking back at it, I'm not sure it comes across that way.

Hunger (100 Words)


They pressed against the glass doors, their wild eyes searching for their prey. The madness had spread through the population, infecting more people than the experts had anticipated. I took refuge behind the counter, hoping its meager defense would be enough.

“Remember your training.” urged Paul, which was easy for him to say as he retreated to his position out the back.

Inevitably the doors opened and the hoard surged through. I panicked, and in that instant I forgot everything I had learned over the past few days. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

The Holiday Sales had begun!


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This story was broadcast on the Drabblecast Podcast #420 'Comfort and Joy'

Walkers in the Mist (100 words)


They walked the water's edge when the mist rolled in from the sea. Without fail they stalked along the inaccessible beach. I called down to them, but they did not hear, or chose not answer. Despite being forbidden, or perhaps because it was so, I would watch from my perch on the cliff. That was until the day I fell, and was swallowed by crashing waves.

Despite all I have learned from the dwellers in the deep, I am still bound to the mist, and when we are carried in from the sea, I too must walk the water's edge.

In the dead of night


  It was the dead of night, the lights were out and I lay in my bed waiting for it to begin. 
  It began, as it always did, with the faintest of sounds; like a rough hand brushing over wallpaper. Except it was not brushing over the wallpaper, but under it.
  These sounds became more frequent and were soon punctuated by a scratching sound at the end of each stroke. It moved from wall to wall and across the ceiling. It traveled from room to room, growing fainter for a while until it returned. It was always drawn back to where I was.
  Its movements became frantic, like clawed hands scratching behind the walls.
  Then came the voice. It sounded far away like from the bottom of a deep well, yet I know it was intimately close. It spoke incoherently, but the meaning was perfectly clear.
  It wanted out. It wanted through.
  The scratches were replaced with the thudding of open palms, then the pounding of fists. The tempo increased until it resembled a continuous rolling thunder racing around the walls and ceiling of my room.
  It searched for a weak spot, rattling hanging pictures, unsettling dust from swaying lampshades.
  Then silence.
There was a build up of pressure in the room, a gathering of energy, followed by a creaking, warping sound nearby. I looked up and saw a hand-print swell from the wall above my head. I sensed the tremendous effort exerted as the wall stretched like latex and the hand slowly reached into the room, groping blindly, clawing at the air in an attempt to tear its way through.
  I watched as cracks formed at the fingertips. I waited, holding on for as long as I could. I felt my fear of it swelling in my chest, merging with the anticipation of what I was about to do. Just before it was too late, I reached out to the ancient figurine on my bedside table and brushed my fingers over its grotesque shape. I caressed its otherworldly features and recited forbidden words. The figurine became moist and warm to the touch, it twitched and pulsated under my fingertips.
  Mystical glyphs appeared on the walls and ceiling, shining in an unnatural, violent light. I watched the arm spasm from one rictus pose to the next, like a flailing limb viewed under strobe lighting.
  I felt the presence recede back to its dark, hollow prison, and a smile spread across my lips. I finished reciting and the words echo faintly around the room as though repeated by a thousand voices, voices that lulled me into a deep, restful sleep

Black Rain, Rusting Heart



Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I watched Eli sleep, his hulking body in its usual position, face down on the makeshift bed with his arms draping over the sides. He always lay on his stomach, I guess he found it more comfortable that way. I climbed up and lay on his back with my ear resting between his shoulder blades so that I could hear his heart.
  Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I closed my eyes, lulled, as always, into a state of serene calm by the rhythm. His fever was running a little high today, a contrast to the chill of the room. Without meaning to, I fell asleep.

  I dream of better times, the early days before the infection. I walk through a field from my childhood. It is full of tall wild flowers, their colours form a rainbow blanket as far as the eye can see. I remember thinking angels were painting with such fervour that the colours had splashed down to the earth. Eli and I stand holding hands, mine swamped in his, my head barely reaching his chest. We are silent, not needing to say anything as we take in the vista. I lean against him, comforted by his presence. All is right in the world. All is as it should be. 
  I try to deny the dark clouds as they begin to stain the horizon, but I am powerless to halt them from spreading out, reaching closer. A gloom spills across the land beneath the advancing clouds, like a foul stain that leeches the colour out of the world. I tug on his hand, trying to pull him away from the approaching storm, but he stands firm. I could no more move him than I could a mountain. The clouds bring with them heavy black raindrops that fall in a deluge. The sound is a deafening roar when it reaches us, and we are instantly drenched. To my horror, the flowers touched by the rain have become rusted cogs on top of copper stalks, their petals jagged and sharp, threatening to bite deep as they sway violently in the hot, stifling wind.
  Eli falls to one knee, and the black rain coalesces and moves with a purpose across his body. It flows up to his head, in through his ears, his nostrils, his mouth. He gags, then vomits the foul liquid onto the ground before him. The liquid pools, increases in volume and then rises to cover his feet, moving slowly but purposefully up, up, up, until it flows into him again. He cannot fight it. His gags become gurgles that make me want to retch. The black rain leaves me alone to weep and watch him convulse on the floor. There is nothing I can do to help. 
  Time stretches out and all I can do is watch Eli suffer. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the storm is gone. When he picks himself up, he is not the same. He walks with a stoop and drags his left foot slightly. As we travel along the road home we pass the working fields, and they are all affected by the horrific blight. We see the workers in the fields have also changed. The once strong and proud workers are now stooped and rusting automatons. Just like the flowers, they have become something less, something wrong, something corrupted. Eli stumbles, barely able to walk any more, and his breathing comes out in a wheeze with the occasional rattle.

 Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.

  I woke from the dream to the familiar sound of his heart. I slid off his back and moved over to my workbench so that I could consult my textbooks and notes. I double checked the surgical tray and put on my tool-belt. I moved to his side and unscrewed a panel on his lower back. Tears welled up and I clamped down on the surge of emotion. Before I began, I had to clench my hands into fists to try to stop them shaking. I paused and listened to the sound that always calmed me.
Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump. Shhck-thwump.


I am pleased to be re-launching the Reality Fractured Blog. I have removed all previous posts and will be posting reworked stories and new stories in their place. Most of these stories will be Speculative Flash Fiction, short stories mainly of a dark theme, but spanning many genres.

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I've enjoyed writing them.

Please leave a comment to let me know if you liked the stories.
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