Review: Strange Times by Victoria Pearson

Strange Times: Sinister Stories and Tangled Tales by Victoria Pearson
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I'm a fan of Victoria Pearson's stories and collections, but this one is the best one so far. Some superb stories and tangled up fairy tales in this book.

Favourites are 'Blue and Green', which is a sci-fi dystopian tale about what might be our future if our planet dries up. ''Comfort and Protection' is another sci-fi where you really have to be careful what you pray for. 'It is Written' is a perfect new age, modern twist on Cinderella and what would happen if her fairy godmother was much younger. But the one that stood out the most for me was 'Terms and Conditions' which will make you wonder what you are really signing when you click through the accept button when buying something online. Really unique and dark - I especially liked the ticking of the clock - you have to read it to understand.

I could actually rave about them all individually, but those four were the stand out tales for me. And I also liked the micro poetry between stories.

There's so much to read and enjoy in this collection. I definitely recommend picking up a copy.

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Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 287

This week's photo prompt is one of my own. This is a marble rolling pin that was my mother's. It's extremely good for pastry making, but very heavy. And using it one day it occurred to me that it would make a very good writing prompt, for several genres. although of course mine tends to go darker. 

Content warning on this one: domestic violence - but maybe not quite what you think. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Driven Nuts

She pushed the marble rolling pin back and forth faster and faster, the soft pastry spreading out further across the table. Lucy’s mind was no longer on what she was baking, but on the night before. She’d let him do it again. She couldn’t keep on tolerating this.

She didn’t need to touch her face or look in the mirror; she could feel the swollen, throbbing lip and the bruise round her right eye, which would be a lovely purple by now. She’d taken away several mirrors since she’d been in this marriage. She didn’t want to look at herself, and see the betrayal.

She thought she’d be stronger and be able to stand up for herself; she’d always promised herself she would after watching her mother go through it. But here she was preparing dinner, making everything from scratch because that was how he liked it, because that was what would keep him happy and placated so she didn’t risk another night like last night.

He wanted children but there was no way in the WORLD she was going to let that happen. She’d hidden her contraceptive pills under the floor in the spare room where they had decided to polish the floor boards rather than carpet. He still left for work every day, giving her the privacy to take them. He might call several times to make sure she was still there and doing the things he expected from her, but he couldn’t see her – unless he’d put secret cameras round the house.

She paused. Had he? He might have done it while she was out at the shops last week. But if that was the case he’d know a lot more and she wouldn’t be standing here now; she’d be in hospital instead … or dead, because he wouldn’t take her to hospital; people were there and they would see her and know. People weren’t stupid, not if they saw the state of her face.

But they didn’t see her face; he wasn’t stupid either. He wouldn’t be letting her out for the next few days. She was already locked in.

She continued rolling the pastry and then flipped it over the roller, lying it across the dish, carefully pushing it in. Then she placed the greaseproof paper over it and poured the dried peas in, ready to blind-bake the shell.

Lucy took out the ingredients for the filling, and checked the contents labels. It sparked an idea. Nuts. He was allergic. It was one of the reasons she had to make everything from scratch. But there were some in the house, they’d come in one of those ready-made-meal boxes. She’d shoved them at the back of the cupboard, thinking she might snack on them at some point.

She took them out. Cashews. If she ground them up finely they’d be inconspicuous in the quiche. Her mind was already thinking up responses if he noticed a different taste. Maybe a new spice she was trying. And if he was allergic, it would mean a hospital visit … or even … nope she wasn’t going to go there; she didn’t want to get her hopes up.

She took the pestle and mortar out and started grinding the nuts. It was methodical and helped reduce her anger. She glanced at the clock. He’d be home in an hour and a half.

Once the quiche was in the oven, she washed up, putting everything away, and buried the empty nut bag at the bottom of the kitchen bin so it wasn’t visible when opened.

Lucy heard the key in the lock and immediately felt sick, her whole body tensing in anticipation of the pretence that everything was normal. When he came into the kitchen and leaned in to kiss her, she responded as expected.

When they sat down to eat, he crooned over the quiche, excited to eat it. She mentioned she’d tried a new spice so it might taste a bit different, but he didn’t seem to care as he cut himself a huge piece.

Lucy took a mouthful and couldn’t taste any nuts. Good. She watched him wolf down several mouthfuls, but nothing happened. Maybe he’d lied.

Then he coughed, picking up his serviette to cover his mouth. Then coughed again and again, unable to stop, his eyes opening in alarm as he looked at her. His hand went to his throat and he tried to speak but couldn’t.

Lucy sat wide-eyed, watching him choke, feeling strangely numb.

He attempted to stand and even grab for her, but she pushed her chair back and he fell to the floor.

He got his phone out of his pocket and thrust it at her. He wanted her to call an ambulance. Lucy took the phone and did so.

By the time it arrived, he had been dead for at least ten minutes. They tried to resuscitate him, but it was too late. The paramedics looked at her face, but no one said anything, or questioned the cause of death, which was clearly a nut allergy.

Lucy feigned ignorance, claiming she didn’t know he was allergic. An easy mistake. Accidental death was written on the death certificate. She’d got away with it. She wished she’d thought it was before.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 286

This week's picture prompt is all over the internet with no one credited for this specific image. I thought it had been altered, but it hasn't and might actually be a shot taken from the video on the creator's website. In 2006 artist Kimsooja, created an installation called To Breathe – A Mirror Woman at the Palacio de Cristal (The Glass Palace) in Parque del Retiro, Madrid. Originally built in the late 1880s, the greenhouse housed a collection of flora and fauna from the Philippines. Kimsooja transformed the Palacio de Cristal into a multisensory sound and light experience. A special translucent diffraction film was used to cover the windows to create an array of naturally occurring rainbows which in turn were reflected by a mirrored surface that covered the entire floor. Additionally, an audio recording of the artist breathing was played throughout the space to further enhance the experience. The exhibition is no longer running, but you can watch a video of it here. 

A perfect time to explore some of Tricky's future tales. The last Tricky tale was a couple of weeks back on Week 283. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Palm Tree

“What the bloody hell is this?”

Tricky spoke out loud but knew he wasn’t here.

It looked like some kind of giant greenhouse, but she wasn’t convinced it was real. The strange wobbly rainbow light at the windows giving her a clue.

Where had he brought her to? The bloody overgrown pompous oaf!

She walked over to one of the glass walls, and put her hand on it. It was solid, but the light on the other side of it moved in an ethereal way that made her believe this contraption was suspended in some kind of energy pool.

Or was it? Was that foliage outside? Were there trees? What illusion was he trying to pull here? And they called her the tricky one!

She walked over to the middle of the … she hesitated to call it a room because it was so big – she even tapped the poles holding it up and they felt solid enough. She plonked herself down on the floor and crossed her legs.

She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, imagining all that rainbow light filling her up. It felt powerful. Then she opened her arms and started to spin them in opposite directions, agitating the air, then when she felt it had reached a high enough pitch she brought her hands together fast and hard, the ensuing clap sounding like a whip crack and giving the desired effect; she heard glass shatter.

Tricky didn’t open her eyes, instead she repeated the motion, feeling her own bright yellow energy expand with the rainbow and when she brought her hands together the sound created a splash sending the energy out to all corners of the room. More glass broke and she felt it fall around her.

A breeze picked up and she opened her eyes to find one of the panels was completely gone and, as she had suspected, outside there was foliage, really dense and of plants that didn’t look familiar.

It was no longer about where she was, it was about when she was, because she’d never seen plants like this on the landmass.

Tricky climbed out and looked at the trunk of a tree that was smooth but yet divided into horizontal sections. When she looked up at the top of the tree it had a plume of large, long feather-like leaves. She’d never seen anything like it.

She laid her hands on it, and a warm bright yellowish green light rushed through her. She saw images of blue skies and colourful birds, and heat from the sun that she had never known. It felt marvellous. But there were no people in any of the images it sent her, and especially not her bloated hunter.

Now was the chance to get out of here. She thanked the strange tree for its help and energy and stepped away from the building into the undergrowth.

She pulled in as much of the energy around her as she could, simultaneously drawing in a breath and bringing up her own internal light, then she breathed out long and hard and started clapping her hands. She felt the air move around her. She reached into her pocket to her obsidian chips and picked a big one, then brought out a couple of grains of creasy. An image from a book she had read in her childhood popped into her mind, and she sprinkled the creasy onto the stone. A splitting sound revealed a large rip in the air in front of her, and a slither of moonlit bay appeared.

Not home yet, but it would do. She climbed through, clapping her hands hard on the other side to close it. Now let’s see if the puffed up git can follow me here, Tricky thought. She hoped to be safe for a little while.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 285

This week's picture prompt was taken by Alexa D Wilson over on twitter. It might seem like a strange choice, but to the horror writers mind it has a lot of intrigue. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Fertiliser

The spade was still there after all these years. It was worn and rusted, but the red on the handle was still apparent. It wasn’t much good for digging anymore, but it didn’t need to be; it had done its job decades ago, and now just stood as a marker.

Daphne felt a prickle down her spine and wondered if he was here standing next to her. She often thought he might be: judging her, hating her, despising her. Like he did back then when he was alive. Now she was old and frail, she wouldn’t have been able to stand up to him like she had done that day. When she thought back, she was quite impressed with how calm she had been when dragging his body down to his beloved vegetable patch. It had taken most of the day to dig him in under the turnips, and it had done wonders for the quality of the produce. Even now she could still grow prize winning marrows in it.

Everyone had believed he’d run off, and she’d let them. The state he’d made of her face that day had helped the story as they thought he had disappeared in shame. Ha! Shame; she wished. The one thing he had never felt humility about was beating her. Some days she was sure he took pride in it.

She was just grateful none of their kids had been born. That’s not how most women should think, she knew that, but she couldn’t have subjected them to him. They’d been better off born into a more stable family.

She’d never bothered with men after that, or anyone really. She’d enjoyed just having the place to herself and her peace of mind back. It took a lifetime to recover from all that trauma, and some days she was sure her brain wasn’t quite right, her memories would get foggy and she had moments when she was sure he was going to walk through the door again at any minute.

That’s why she’d come down here to the bottom of the garden, to check the spade was still there, a headstone of sorts, and see that nothing had changed. He hadn’t risen from the dead. And she’d pull up a few carrots for her tea and return to the cottage.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 284

This week's picture prompt is from Nancy Wallace. She created them and it's her own photo. I love them! Thought they were perfect for a prompt.  

A bit of fae life this week. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Fairy Hour

“Bring that one over here, Frances will want that one.”

“What the gold, with the moon? I thought we were reserving that for Wendy. You know how much she loves the moon and spends hours star-gazing.”

“Oh yes, that’s right. She still thinks someone is going to come out of the cosmos and save her from her life.”

 “Her father is a nightmare though; I’d wish that too if I was her.”

“True. But Frances will want a regal chair. You know how she is, expecting to be entitled to the best.”

“What about the red one with the crest on? Can’t get more stately than that.”

“Oh yes, that’ll work, I’ll put it up here at the front. The black one is for Janet. It’ll match her goth look, and help her disappear, which she likes to do. I sometimes wonder why she comes if she isn’t going to be present.”

“I think despite being shy, she likes to be a part of things, like we all do. That yellow one with the arms is for Rachel. It gives her something to hold onto as she sits down, now she’s so frail.”

“Her ageing has progressed so quickly! I hadn’t expected that.”

“Yes, we’re all in for the same. No fae will escape it. It’s a firm reminder to seize the day and make your dreams a reality.”

“That’s not always easy to do though, being that we reside in the dream world of the others.”

“It doesn’t mean we can’t try; that’s what these meetings are about after all. The youngsters can sit on the corks. And the white ones are for us, the hosts. The rest can manage on what is left over.”

“Deirdre, are you sure? They might end up fighting over the gold ones. You know how the youth currently believe gold has some kind of special power.”

“Oh true. Maybe we should have them, then. I wish they did have some special power; we could use it to get out of this awful cellar and find a nice garden.”

“Indeed, we could! But as I said last time, when light breaks in from up yonder we need to go for it!”

“Yes, but it means the others are coming, so we have to hide. Such a conflict!”

“Do you really think they would notice us? They don’t believe we exist so why would they?”

“You say that but Bart got swiped by one of them when he tried. His loss was huge. He’d been one of the strongest leaders we’d had.”

“Prunella, if we don’t try soon we’re all going to lose our lives down here. The youth at least deserve a chance.”

“I know. Anyway, look they’re coming, it’s time for the meeting, so let’s see if we can come up with a plan this week.”

Review: If it Bleeds, Stephen King

If It Bleeds by Stephen King
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

There was a time I'd give everything Stephen King wrote a 5 star, but recent years have felt a bit hit and miss. It's the same with this collection.

I sometimes get the feeling he's emptying his draws of shorts he's written years ago & used as inspiration for novels. I felt this with Mr Harrigan's Phone, as though I'd read it somewhere else; similar characters maybe or story setting. I enjoyed it but it felt like a ghost of another.

If It Bleeds is a spin off of the Mr Mercedes Series, following what happened to Holly Gibney after The Outsider. It was again good as in some ways it explained The Outsider, which for me wasn't one of his best books. It was also a character I didn't really engage with, although this time I felt we got to know her better.

The Life of Chuck was the most bizarre of all of them. A three part sort of drama that kind of interlinked but not completely for my liking. I like bizarre but it didn't work for me. It reminded me of Hearts In Atlantis with 3 stories that almost interlink.

And the last, Rat, was a typical writer focused tale from Stephen, enjoyable but not new. Maybe when you've written a much as he has it's hard to create new.

I am still a Constant Reader & I still love his writing & the way he developes characters & gets me hooked. I hope the next one will be a rave.

View all my reviews

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 283

This week's picture prompt was created by French digital artist Cyril Rolando. They call this one Nine Lives. They have made some incredible pieces and some have been seen on Mid-Week Flash before a couple of times: recently on Week 278 and Week85.

This week, I delved into Tricky's world after weeks of starving myself from her world. It was a delight! But I don't feel this will add anything to the current storyline, but it throws up ideas for another story line and maybe series in her world. Last time I wrote about Tricky was Week 273. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

A cat in time

‘But they’re attached to his tail?’

‘Yes, I have to do that otherwise he’ll get lost and never find his way back to our time.’

‘But he can’t tell time; he’s a cat!’

Tricky eyed this young upstart who clearly thought he knew more than she did.

‘You really don’t know much about cats, do you?’

‘Well, I assume—’

‘Never assume anything,’ Tricky interrupted, ‘about anyone or anything. First rule is get informed, talk to those that know – get yourself a cat and find out exactly how intelligent they really are, and how helpful they can be to you.’

‘Yes, but they’re a feline; they don’t have the mental capacity of us humans.’

Tricky burst out laughing, shocking the poor boy into silence and wiping the smugness off his face.

‘Oh that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. You’d like to believe that, wouldn’t you? Not done much studying about what happened before The Shift, have you? I suggest you go and do that, and then maybe get yourself a cat, or spend some time with Nathan, and find out exactly just how far down the evolutionary scale of “intelligence” we really are.’ Tricky was still giggling to herself. ‘Oh my, you youngsters may have talent but it seems to deprive you of the reality that you are not superior to anything, that in fact everything is symbiotic. You need to learn to work together WITH everything, that it complements you and your abilities, that it’s not there for you to use how it suits you.’

Her young student looked duly chastised. She wondered if she’d been overly harsh.

‘You have exceptional abilities in time manipulation. To be honest, I’ve not met another who can do what you can, besides myself—’

‘There’s Gandalf,’ the naïve one butted in.

‘His name is Douglas Bottle.’ Tricky was pleased to see that raised a smirk. ‘And yes, he can do what we can do. But beware, do not engage him in any way, should you come across him. He is out for his own gains and to take from others.’

‘So he’s still out there.’

‘I assume so.’ The boy opened his mouth to speak. ‘Yes, I know, I just told you not to assume, but in this instance I can’t glean any information from anywhere that can tell me otherwise.’

‘He’s not here in this time, then?’

Tricky pulled a face. ‘I can’t be sure. I don’t think so, but I haven’t spent a lot of time focused on finding him – not without reason. The rest of his cohorts are gone, so he’d be foolish to return.’

‘But there’s a chance we could come across him in another time.’

Tricky didn’t want to consider that, but it had to be faced. ‘Yes, we could. So again, I advise caution in everything you do.’

She felt he’d understood the seriousness of the situation and resumed the lesson.

‘Okay, so as you can see various clocks run in different ways due to the time dilation when he follows me through portals, hence the selection. They give Rasputin the opportunity to track where, and more importantly, when he is for his return. But as you know there are no guarantees, and although clocks can be useful, the best way to judge is looking at landscape. The trees will always know too. How you getting on with engaging them?’

‘I don’t have your knack yet, Tricky. One of the oaks gave me a bit of a shake down the other day. I’m not sure what I did wrong.’

Tricky suspected he wasn’t polite or grateful enough. Many of his generation seemed to be missing that particular gene, and unlike humans, trees didn’t change their attitudes or culture, they remained fast and true.

‘I’ll go through it again with you later. First I wanted to see how far you got with your assignment, did you manage to create a portal?’ She knew he had, because he hadn’t sealed it off properly, but she wanted him to tell her in his own words.

 

 

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 282

This week's picture prompt is from Richard of Hollins over on twitter - although he is more often found on Mastodon now. He takes some great pictures on his dog walk, worth a follow if you are on either place. 

It took me a while to find the ending for this one, but I think it works. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Mine

She tucked it in tight making sure the blankets weren’t lumpy underneath. The drawer was the perfect size to keep it in, and she pushed it closed, hoping that it would be okay in there. It had to be; she didn’t want to lose it too. It was hers, and nothing was going to take it from her.

She quickly cleaned up the small space she had created for herself in the den. There wasn’t much in here, just the little camping bed and the set of drawers she’d found. It had taken her all day to drag them here from the edge of the woods.

She would have to go and forage for some food soon, and top up her water; the little stream she’d found was perfect, but she had to be more careful this time. It was deep and fast.

She heard some twigs break outside and froze. They were looking for her. They didn’t think she could look after herself properly, but she could. She might be young, but she could fend for herself. She didn’t need that much, just shelter and some food.

There was another crunching sound. Oh god, they were out there, how was she going to get food now?

“Brady? You need to come out, honey.” Her mama.

 “No, I won’t. You aren’t having it!”

“Sweetie, you need to come home, your mama is worried sick.” Her dad.

Oh no, they were both here. Brady backed up into the den.

Their faces appeared in the opening.

“Brady, you can’t live here.” Her dad was looking around at her belongings.

“I can and I will.”

“But it won’t be good for you and the baby.” Her mum had her arms out. Brady resisted their warmth.

“You just want to take it away.”

“No, honey, we don’t. We want to help you and support you.” Her mum crept closer. She reached out a hand to Brady’s shoulder.

“Where is the baby, Brady?” Her dad was trying to be gentle but she could hear fear in his voice.

“It’s safe, where you can’t get it.”

Her parents glanced at each other. She knew that look; they weren’t happy. She backed up further feeling the edge of the bed against her calves.

“Just tell us where it is, sweetie. Then we can all go home.”

Brady could feel tears prick her eyes. She didn’t want to go home. Home meant they’d be angry and shout at her.

Her dad edged closer to the chest of drawers, she rushed over and stood in front of it.

“Brady, let me take a look.” His tone wasn’t so sweet now.

“I don’t want you to.”

“We have to, honey.” Her mum’s voice was so soft, she just wanted to run into her mum’s arms but she wouldn’t.

She couldn’t help the tears now; they were streaming down her face. “We don’t need you. We’re fine. Please go away!”

“Brady, we can’t do that. We need to look after you both.” Her dad put his arm round her. She tried to remain strong, but she couldn’t. It was too much. She cried into his shoulder.

Her mum joined him and he moved her into her mother’s arms. As soon as she was in them, he pulled all the drawers out. In the bottom one he found it.

“This is your Jemima doll. Where’s the baby, Brady?” The fear in his voice was palpable.

Brady couldn’t speak. She couldn’t say the words. They were going to be so mad.

Her mum lifted her chin up off her shoulder. “Honey, you need to tell us, so that we can all go home.”

“You are going to be so mad at me!”

“No, sweetie, we want to take care of you.” Her dad joined her mum and put his arm round her. “But we can’t do that until we have the baby too. Tell us where to look.”

“It didn’t fit in the drawer, so I put it in a basket. But when I was at the stream the basket fell into the water and it floated away. I couldn’t catch it.”

Her parents gave each other that look again. She knew they were going to start shouting any minute.

“How long ago was this, Brady?”

“It was last night, mama.”

They stared at each other. They looked scared, but they didn’t shout, not at her or each other.

“Come on honey, let’s go home.”

“Do you think it’s okay, mama? Do you think someone has found it, like they found baby moses?”

Her mum stared at her dad. “I don’t know, Brady, maybe.”

“Let’s get home, then we can make some phone calls and find out.” Her dad pushed through the trees ahead in a hurry.

Brady was just glad they weren’t shouting at her.

Dead Lake is FREE this week! Grab it now!

Happy Valentine's Day!

A treat for my readers: Dead Lake, the first in Tricky's Tales series, is #Free until midnight Thursday.

Download it now!

(click on the picture below)

#postapocalyptic #paranormalfantasy

#paranormalfantasybook #DarkFantasy #freebooks

Sometimes it pays to be tricky

Damn and blast! That rancid piece of excrement, Carter, has had her ransacked out of Clancy!

Tricky returns to her cottage to find it turned upside down. An action that means she’s got three days to leave the district or face punishment. Randolf Carter, head of the district, is spreading lies and suspicion about her kind, making life difficult. But it wasn’t just an ordinary ransacking – they were searching for something.

Using her gifts, Tricky traces the energy left by the men and spies another creature’s energy among it: a jackdaw. Swift and wily, it’s pinched her precious gemstone, a piece of black obsidian. But at whose bidding? Communicating with birds is a rare ability and she knows all who possess it.

Tricky wants her stone back, but coming up against people like Carter won’t be easy, especially when he’s got one of her kind in his employ. But she’ll handle it, oh yes she will. She'll just have to be careful and a little bit tricky. Good thing she is then, isn’t it?

Adept at working with energy and time as well as communicating with trees, Tricky is lured into something bigger than ownership of a gemstone, and finds out that sometimes it pays to be a little bit tricky.

Dead Lake is a dark paranormal fantasy novel set a few hundred years from now in a post-apocalyptic world. After a massive shift of the tectonic plates decimated the world and its population, life on the remaining landmass has returned to simple living, with money, rulers and religion no longer tolerated.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 281

This week's photo prompt is from Steve Hutch aka CdLCreative, an English photographer who shared it for the #SundayPixBlue them on Twitter. He said, "Blue Door and rusty bolt, Dreamland, Margate." a place on the coast of England. 

I've ran way over with this one, but the story couldn't be reduced any further. it came out well. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Rescue

Erica climbed the stone stairs up to the apartment. She’d never known a working elevator in the building even though she’d been raised here, and years away hadn’t improved things. She approached the old apartment. The paint on the front door was the same, just more chipped and worn. She banged on it – there’d never been a bell or a knocker.

She heard the heavy footsteps of her mother and it opened a crack.

“Hi, Mum.”

“Oh Erica, you came. Good.”

Her mother gave her a half hug. No matter how much time had passed she hadn’t grown any warmer. She looked baggier in the face and scrawnier, but those hard dark eyes hadn’t softened.

When Erica stepped inside it was like going back in time; nothing had changed. It even smelled the same, although now there was an underlying tone of decay.

“Where is he?”

“You know where.”

The sick knot of dread that had been in her stomach since her mother had called, twisted a little bit tighter.

She walked in through the lounge, (pristine, but worn) and through the kitchen to the blue door.  It looked no different from when she used to be pushed through it. Maybe some more scratches had appeared and the bolt was more rusted. It reminded her why she’d fled this place, but she wouldn’t let it intimidate her anymore.

She yanked the rusted bolt and, despite its decrepit state, it let out a resistant screech. She opened the door and peered into the dark pantry, instinctively reaching for the frayed light string. A bare, weak bulb attempted to illuminate the space. It was enough for Erica to see her father sitting there in his underwear.

“Dad, I sent you that phone so you could get out of here, not let her take it off you and keep abusing you.”

He blinked, and smiled at her. “But where was I going to go, love?”

“To me!”

“Oh.”

In that moment Erica realised the decades of abuse from her mother had reduced him to a child-like state.

“Dad, you’re to come with me now!”

“Don’t be silly, she won’t let me.”

“I’m not giving you a choice. Go and get dressed and I’ll deal with her.”

Her dad stood up and she ushered him into her parent’s bedroom beyond the kitchen. She went back out to the living room and found her mother watching daytime television with a cup of tea.

“I’m taking Dad with me. You can’t keep doing this to him!”

“What? No! You can’t do that! You were meant to come and talk to him, stop these stupid thoughts of his!”

She stood up and stepped into Erica’s personal space in a threatening way, but Erica had been away from her long enough not to be cowed by her anymore – in fact she stepped forward causing her mother to take a step back.

“They’re not stupid thoughts; he’s a full grown man that can make his own decisions. He’s my dad and I’m sick of you abusing him, like you did with us when we were kids. You drove my brother into the grave; you’re not taking my father!”

Her mother flinched at Erica’s words, but it didn’t deter her.

“You always were a nasty, evil child. I knew that the second you were born. You deserved to be shut away, just like him.”

Her vicious words no longer had an impact on Erica.

“You’re messed up in the head. I’m happy I got away when I did, and now I’m here to take my father.”

Her dad hovered in the hallway, having snuck through. Her mother rushed to him, grabbing and pushing him back into the living room.

“You’re not having him! He’s not going anywhere!”

Erica looked on in horrified amusement. She knew her mother would put up a fight, but she wasn’t about to play tug of war with her dad.

“I think Dad can make up his own mind. Dad, do you want to come with me or not? Now’s your chance.”

“I … I erm … I …”

“See? He doesn’t,” her mother said in a smug tone.

“I do,” he said.

Her mother froze for a second, stunned, and he quickly stepped away towards Erica, who was closer to the hallway.

“You can’t go! You can’t leave me!” she screamed at him.

“I can and I will!”

Erica had never heard her father stand up to her mother before, it made her heart soar.

He rushed towards Erica. Her mother’s scream escalating as she ran towards him, her fists raised, planning to bring them down on his back. Erica took a swift step forward and grabbed her mother’s wrists, startling her and catching her off balance. Erica pushed, sending her mother flying backwards into the room and onto the sofa, where she sprawled inelegantly. Erica took the opportunity.

“Come on, Dad, let’s go.” Erica walked quickly into the hallway and opened the front door,

Her father glanced at her mother for a second, indecisive, then turned and rushed after her, slamming the door behind him.

They hurried down the stairs, fearful of being chased, but there was no sound of the door opening or screams following them. When they got into her car, they sat for a few seconds, out of breath, stunned they had made it, but Erica didn’t waste time and started the engine, pulling away from the kerb to the new life they would forge together.

Review: Wardings by Kev Harrison

Warding by Kev Harrison
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I enjoyed this short story from Kev Harrison. It's a supernatural tale relating to witchcraft and the occult, throwing in demon possession and witch hunters too, with nice ties to rituals and folklore. It's packs a scary punch too. I read it over three nights, worried that it would give me nightmares, but fortunately I slept like the dead - although in this book that might not be so restful. It gives beating hearts a whole new perspective, especially if black.

Grab it if you dare.



View all my reviews

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 280

This week's picture comes from Andy Poplar, who makes these incredible bottles, at Vinegar & Brown Paper - do have a look, there are loads of others, also household bottles. Brilliant idea. I can't find this pic on his site, but I suspect it used to be there as it dates back to 2017 (when it was first shared), and the page people link to is not found on his company site. I wonder if he sold this as a print as he does some of them. I love the colour contrast and the reflection in this one. 

This one went dark - like the bottle. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here. 

There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.

Corrosive

Debbie popped the cork on the funny shaped bottle of port and poured another large one into the glass. Her buzz was beginning to fade and she needed to refresh it. She gulped down half the glass and poured more in.

She was sick of being the one that made all the compromises. She did all the things he wanted to do, but he never did the things she wanted to do.

‘I’m not interested in the things you’re into,’ he would reply. ‘I don’t care about the things you care about.’ 

So why the fuck am I with you? she would think to herself. And indeed, she did wonder why she kept on tolerating it. Was it hope that one day he would turn into the lover she’d thought he was going to be? Was it the safety he’d provided? A roof over her head, a warm bed, and no expectations – emotional or physical. But the longer it went on the more resentful she felt, and the more angry she’d become.

Debbie hadn’t been angry when she’d met him. She’d been carefree and living her own life, enjoying her independence. But he’d been fun and sociable, and she felt comfortable with him, which had drawn her on. And she’d hoped that maybe this would be the one.

And he sort of had been for a while.

Then he’d started to do more and more of his own thing, and caring less and less if she joined him. Eventually they were living separate lives and just sharing a house. And the longer it had gone on, the more frustrated she’d become. And the more she’d tried to talk to him about it, the more he had stonewalled her.

She’d fly into rages and he’d shut down and fuck off out the front door, saying, ‘I’ll be back later when you’ve sorted yourself out.’

She’d been so furious she’d sometimes fucked off herself, making sure she wasn’t back until after he was – but he didn’t care; he’d be in bed snoring his head off like any other night and pretend the next day like nothing had happened.

And recently he’d been particularly belligerent and offhand, treating her with disrespect and distain, contempt in every eye roll and sigh. She’d ranted a few times at him already this week.

Debbie downed the last of her drink, drowning the spark of rage that tried to ignite, dowsing it with regret. It felt like heartburn – quelling one fire and creating another. She sat up and pushed her fingers against her diaphragm as though that might cure the unpleasant sensation.

She should have left years ago. It hadn’t been good staying, not for her or for him. They’d both tolerated more than they should. She wasn’t quite sure why. Hope maybe, or having already put so much time in – neither of them were quitters.

But they should have been, oh how they should have been.

She glanced over at him still sitting at the dining table. His eyes had glazed over, but the lids hadn’t shut. His head turned slightly as though watching telly, but he wasn’t. His mouth had dropped open too, as though amazed at something on the screen. It had opened when he’d gasped in reaction to the fork being shoved into his throat.

He’d uttered those dreadful words in such a condescending tone, she’d just lost it.

‘You are so fucking irritating; you turn everything into an argument, so tiresome. I just wish for once I could eat my fucking dinner in peace!’

A dinner she had cooked; a dinner she’d bought the ingredients for; a dinner she would clean up after, as though he was the only one working in this household.

It had been the final straw – or in this case, fork.

She popped the little cork on the bottle and poured another large glassful – not that she needed it. What she needed was a plan. What was she going to do? Disappear or call the police? She’d be on the run for the rest of her life. If she confessed how long would she be in prison for? Is there any way she could make them believe it was an accident? She was drunk and hadn’t called for an ambulance straight away … she could say it was shock.

Fuck. She took another swig of port and glanced at him.

‘Yeah, you get the last laugh, too.’