Tweet
Below is a short story I've written. It will be included in my new ebook, WIP Title: Scream and Scream Again, to be available on Amazon Kindle. I've got around 25 short story ideas, with 19 of them finished. I'm hoping to be done in a month or two and then it can sit next to my other two novels already on Kindle.
Let me know what you think?
Petrified, Joseph lay under the bed, his right arm extended across his eyes, pressing down hard. He grimaced, his other arm over his chest as if shielding him from something.
The small room stank; a mixture of stale sweat, sex, copper, and burnt flesh reached his nostrils.
Silently, he gagged, his body going through the motions of retching without a sound. He didn't want to draw attention to himself.
He squeezed his eyes tighter still; hoping the act might also close his ears, and drown out the noise he heard. A sound of rushing, pulsing blood pumped through his ears, followed by the sound of ripping, tearing flesh. Another noise pierced the darkness of his temporary sanctuary as he heard the sound of a blade squealing against gristle and bone. Sinews gave way, went ping like a poorly-made and dried-out rubber band, snapping immediately.
He knew the dying fire was only a few feet away but still he shivered.
Luckily the screams, the muffled cries, the pleading and the crying out had stopped. With eyes still closed, he heard heavy leather boots tip-tap across the bare timbers of the floor, almost inaudible, then a dull thud. Then came the sound of ash and embers dislodging, resettling, and burning flesh, fat and muscle sizzling, popping under the extreme heat of renewed flames.
The hideous smell reminded him of a funeral he'd once attended; the cremation of his father when he had been only six-years-old.
Lost in his memories for a moment or two, Joseph was at peace.
Something touched his face. He flinched, the urge to jump and scream out.
Silence now filled the room as he lifted his arm away from his face, dropping it to his side. He opened his eyes. Above him was a sea of crimson. Blood seeped through the horsehair of the mattress, was forming into tiny droplets that clung to the animal fibres for what seemed a lifetime. Gaining mass, the plasma hung on before weight and gravity brought them crashing down. Another droplet fell, dripping onto the lapel of his jacket, the scarlet liquid's final journey coming to an abrupt end.
Joseph shuddered. He had to get out of here.
For some time, he waited, trying to clear his mind. He imagined himself as top-man of the market down on West India Docks, the workers and customers both extending him their respect. It was yet another harebrained idea.
He berated himself for his own insolence.
Light shone through the small window as the November morning greeted London. Everything seemed better in the daylight, not nearly as ominous as in the dark.
Now was as good a time as any.
Tentatively, like a reprimanded and beaten puppy, Joseph crept away from his refuge, careful to keep his eyes to the edge of the room only. The fire had all but died out by now, the charred remnants barely visible. He warmed his hands there for a second, rubbing them vigorously, not wanting to turn around.
But he had to.
He must.
Slowly, he did an about turn, his head first, then his shoulders. He faced the room, his back against the wall supporting him, bolstering his resolve.
Blood lambasted the walls. It was as though someone had invited a team of hyperactive and convulsive painters into the room; the painters having only a single yet immense pot of paint and in one colour only; that of a deep cherry-red.
He looked down at the bed.
Entrails filled the room, hewn skin and muscle dotted the few surfaces, either randomly discarded or carefully placed. Mary's eviscerated body lay supine on the mattress top, her legs stripped of flesh, her visage and body meticulously cut away.
Sobbing and quivering, he stepped to the bed and took hold of her hand. She had been his angel, his everything. Now she resembled a faceless demon.
But she was more than just dead; she had been destroyed, annihilated.
Why he'd hidden under the bed after he'd dealt to her, laying there like a frightened little boy, he didn't know, but he knew he had to leave, now, or be found out.
As in the act of love-making, he kissed her hand gently, then placed it over her stricken form.
"I'm sorry my sweet. I didn't mean to do it," he said, stepping out of the door.
He locked the door behind him and slipped through Miller's Court, entering Dorset St at a brisk pace.
Taking little or no notice of him, workers were already filling the streets, keen to earn a precious few pennies in the hell-hole that they called home: The East End.
Top-man? Maybe not, but I really must find myself a new job.
THE END
Let me know what you think?
Petrified, Joseph lay under the bed, his right arm extended across his eyes, pressing down hard. He grimaced, his other arm over his chest as if shielding him from something.
The small room stank; a mixture of stale sweat, sex, copper, and burnt flesh reached his nostrils.
Silently, he gagged, his body going through the motions of retching without a sound. He didn't want to draw attention to himself.
He squeezed his eyes tighter still; hoping the act might also close his ears, and drown out the noise he heard. A sound of rushing, pulsing blood pumped through his ears, followed by the sound of ripping, tearing flesh. Another noise pierced the darkness of his temporary sanctuary as he heard the sound of a blade squealing against gristle and bone. Sinews gave way, went ping like a poorly-made and dried-out rubber band, snapping immediately.
He knew the dying fire was only a few feet away but still he shivered.
Luckily the screams, the muffled cries, the pleading and the crying out had stopped. With eyes still closed, he heard heavy leather boots tip-tap across the bare timbers of the floor, almost inaudible, then a dull thud. Then came the sound of ash and embers dislodging, resettling, and burning flesh, fat and muscle sizzling, popping under the extreme heat of renewed flames.
The hideous smell reminded him of a funeral he'd once attended; the cremation of his father when he had been only six-years-old.
Lost in his memories for a moment or two, Joseph was at peace.
Something touched his face. He flinched, the urge to jump and scream out.
Silence now filled the room as he lifted his arm away from his face, dropping it to his side. He opened his eyes. Above him was a sea of crimson. Blood seeped through the horsehair of the mattress, was forming into tiny droplets that clung to the animal fibres for what seemed a lifetime. Gaining mass, the plasma hung on before weight and gravity brought them crashing down. Another droplet fell, dripping onto the lapel of his jacket, the scarlet liquid's final journey coming to an abrupt end.
Joseph shuddered. He had to get out of here.
For some time, he waited, trying to clear his mind. He imagined himself as top-man of the market down on West India Docks, the workers and customers both extending him their respect. It was yet another harebrained idea.
He berated himself for his own insolence.
Light shone through the small window as the November morning greeted London. Everything seemed better in the daylight, not nearly as ominous as in the dark.
Now was as good a time as any.
Tentatively, like a reprimanded and beaten puppy, Joseph crept away from his refuge, careful to keep his eyes to the edge of the room only. The fire had all but died out by now, the charred remnants barely visible. He warmed his hands there for a second, rubbing them vigorously, not wanting to turn around.
But he had to.
He must.
Slowly, he did an about turn, his head first, then his shoulders. He faced the room, his back against the wall supporting him, bolstering his resolve.
Blood lambasted the walls. It was as though someone had invited a team of hyperactive and convulsive painters into the room; the painters having only a single yet immense pot of paint and in one colour only; that of a deep cherry-red.
He looked down at the bed.
Entrails filled the room, hewn skin and muscle dotted the few surfaces, either randomly discarded or carefully placed. Mary's eviscerated body lay supine on the mattress top, her legs stripped of flesh, her visage and body meticulously cut away.
Sobbing and quivering, he stepped to the bed and took hold of her hand. She had been his angel, his everything. Now she resembled a faceless demon.
But she was more than just dead; she had been destroyed, annihilated.
Why he'd hidden under the bed after he'd dealt to her, laying there like a frightened little boy, he didn't know, but he knew he had to leave, now, or be found out.
As in the act of love-making, he kissed her hand gently, then placed it over her stricken form.
"I'm sorry my sweet. I didn't mean to do it," he said, stepping out of the door.
He locked the door behind him and slipped through Miller's Court, entering Dorset St at a brisk pace.
Taking little or no notice of him, workers were already filling the streets, keen to earn a precious few pennies in the hell-hole that they called home: The East End.
Top-man? Maybe not, but I really must find myself a new job.
THE END
Comment