In keeping with the spooky season, I’ve decided to write another dark fantasy flash fiction piece about sanity, and the lack thereof. Sometimes it really is like you are watching yourself do terrible things. Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this, please share it with others and leave a comment below!

When I watched my mother’s head roll along the lush gold trimmed red velvet carpet, I realized the revolution reached its apex. Her wide blue eyes, once filled with joy and light, stared up at the ceiling. Her jaw hung open, and I wondered what the revolutionaries did to her before they cut her head off. I averted my eyes when I saw the sinew and flesh dangling from what remained of her neck.

Her crown rolled along the floor and rattled next to my feet. The dents in the gold leafed metal gave it a jarring beauty in an otherwise morbid setting. Three moon opals were vacant on the right-hand side, and one on the left. The tiny ruby embedded in the small crane etched into the centerpiece was missing too.

“She seems surprised at her demise, wouldn’t you say?”

My head shot up and glared at the throne. The once amazing gold and ivory inlay appeared bloody and sinister in the darkness, and the man sitting in the throne sat in it like a monster filled with his latest meal. I took a step toward the throne, but three men stepped from the shadows with swords in their hands; all pointed at my heart.

“You stole the kingdom away from my family, destroyed everything I loved, and now you taunt me with my mother’s demise. Why would you show me this nightmare?” I asked.

“Do you believe I wouldn’t show you my handiwork?” The figure in the shadows snapped his fingers. The three men standing in between us dissolved into the darkness. “You are a fool, and you deserve what I show you today.”

“You dare to address the prince in such a manner? You might be a master general, but you have no etiquette.”

The figure laughed, and the men near him echoed his morbid humor like diseased mynah birds. Rage boiled in my stomach, and I took another step. The laughter stopped, and someone gave me a warning by clearing their throat.

“I wouldn’t do what you’re thinking about if I were you.”

“Your threats mean nothing to me. I will die on my feet like my family.”

“It’s funny you should mention your family.” The figure snapped his fingers again, and another head rolled out from the darkness. I glanced down at the swollen head, well aware it was my father before the gray braided beard caught my eye. “It appears you are the last one left to defend your family honor.”

“My sister-?”

“If you could see the look on her face when I finished her off. Believe me, the dark gods would be pleased beyond belief at my efforts.”

“You monster!”
“You should know,” the man replied. He stood and stepped into the light. Before I crumbled to the ground and lost consciousness, I screamed loud enough to make my throat hoarse.

The man on the throne was me. I killed my family, and led the rebels to destroy everything I once knew. My innocence died today, and I will carry on distributing justice the way I see fit. I am the abused prince no more; I stand before you the fractured Doomed King.

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I wrote this thoughtful poem while grappling with life and all the different aspects. Of course I didn’t realize how important it would be later on in the day. Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this piece, please share it with your friends and leave a comment below.

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I was stumped for something to put up this morning until dark flash fiction piece came to mind from a thought I had last night. I figure with it getting closer to the “season”, I should write a few spooky stories. Thanks for reading, please share this with your friends, and leave a comment below

Someone wept outside my door for the third night in a row. They didn’t know who wept, but she wailed when the lights went out, and softened when the neighborhood turned them back on again. No one knew where she hid, or if they could help her subdue her sorrow.

No one knew except for me.

Her weeping kept me up, but for different reasons. I knew what happened to her. All I could do was listen to her painful cries. At times, I heard her footsteps across my pathway. The gravel ruffled, and her fingers ran against the wall. Her nails were so sharp then, but they sounded as though they were daggers tonight.

The same daggers used to stop her pain all those years ago.

I wondered when it would stop, the guilt she felt over my refusal. She pleased with me long ago that she was a part of my life. She thought I was being callous when I told her we must stop seeing each other. I thought she would understand the distance wasn’t due to my lack of love, but out of her desire to become more than friends.

She killed herself with the very same daggers that danced across my mind tonight.

So I lie here, waiting for her to be silent. I know her solid onyx eyes peer through the small slats of my window blinds. She believes she is doing mankind a favor by haunting our neighborhood. She wants to prevent someone else from loving me, so I can understand the denial of love.

A dead love, one unaware the fruit was stillborn long ago.

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I figured why not explore more of my sci-fi black budget buddies as they experiment on more things. The core came from a prompt challenge, but the rest presents itself from my diseased mind. As always, thanks for reading and share with your friends if you enjoyed this work!

The frog expanded its chest and croaked, the crimson eyes staring at the carrot dangling in front of it. Two people stood behind it, one taking furious notes while the other placed her left arm across her chest and her right hand pinching the bridge of her nose.

“You do know frogs don’t eat carrots, right?” The woman released her grip on her face and shook her head. “Why are you researching this again, Harry?”

“I’ve discovered something fascinating, Janet,” Harry replied.

“You mean besides creating an impressive way to annoy a frog?”

“No, don’t be foolish. We’re conducting that experiment next week.” Harry grinned at Janet before retiring to his scribbling. “No, we’ve injected this specimen with a growth mutagen and trained him to evolve on command.”

“What?”

“It’s true. We’ve made impressive progress in the aural response time of amphibians. It’s only natural that we alter their DNA to something more… profitable.”

“Weaponizing evolved frogs?” Janet scowled at Harry and rolled her eyes. “What is wrong with you black budget guys anyway? Weren’t you testing beaver anus toppings last week?”

“Our subject survived with minimum illness and limited mutations, though he did carry some over from the previous experiment.”

“Whatever, don’t care. What’s the deal with Sir “Hops-a-lot”?

“Ah, I’m glad you asked. You see, when an external vibration at the right pitch is applied to our specimen—”

Janet picked up a small bell by the handle and sighed. “You mean ringing a bell.”

“No, not yet!”

The bell rang, and the frog morphed into a large humanoid with slick green skin. It flexed, rolled its fist, and punched the professor in the mouth. The thin scientist sailed across the room and slammed against the wall. The mutant snapped the carrot in half and threw them at the assaulted man.

Guards opened fire on the mutation while Janet knelt next to the unconscious Harry and patted him on the shoulder. “I told you frogs hated carrots.”

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This sorrowful poem was written when I believed someone close to me was dying. I now share this with you and the world. If you enjoyed this, please share this with your friends and leave a comment below.

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This creative writing flash fiction piece was from a prompt I used while waiting for my laundry to finish. Since it is the political season, it is good to mix up a dash of politics into a serious piece. I hope you enjoyed this piece, please share it with your friends and comment below. Thanks for reading!

The coffee pot shattered on the tile floor, spreading out like blood. The woman who once held it stared in a catatonic state, her incoherent mumbling matching the clattering of plates and cups on the table.

A short man behind the counter shot an icy glare at the waitress and sighed. “Darla, what you doin’? Coffee don’t brew itself!”

Darla lifted her trembling hand and pointed at something. “It’s… it’s…”

“Yeah, I know. This here is the future governor. He’s th’ famous actor, th’ one that got all nude in front of th’ cameras and everything.” The short man’s glare morphed to a smile. “Darla Clarene, are you thinkin’ about that man’s toilet area?”

She pointed at something in the sky. An explosion rocked the diner again, this time knocking off the dishes from their tables. “Bombs. The planes are dropping bombs!”

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This fantasy flash fiction piece started out as an observation of a small woman and an unruly dog. Then, I decided to get silly. Thanks for reading this piece. If you enjoyed it, please share it with your friends and leave a comment below

Her frail body struggled to keep the pace her hound set. He escaped her leash an hour ago, and she heard his baying in the distance. She leapt over a large rock. Her knees buckled, but she managed to stay on her feet. Her long blonde hair wriggled from the kelly green hood she wore, dangling over her eyes and obscuring her vision.

She stopped at an oak and blew the strands away and scanned the tree line. Dusk settled over the forest, casting the autumn color alight in ambers, reds, and browns.

“Dumb dog. If I ever catch you, I swear you’ll be on guard duty at the palace for a month.”

A sharp yelp and whimpering bled through the trees. Her eyes shot up to the sky, and she mouthed her apologies to the heavens. Her heart raced along with her footsteps, dodging branches and leaves with deft ease.

She entered a clearing and saw the dog lying in the center of the glade. Her hands shot to the dagger on her hip, and she took a step back. “Marcus?”

A green hand clamped over her mouth, and a stout arm wrapped around her waist. She thrashed her legs, but she couldn’t escape the iron grip on her body. The odor made her queasy.

“Princess make good eat,” the creature whispered.

“No, we don’t eat the princess,” another voice replied.

“But she tasty. Royal good food.”

A figured cloaked in living shadow passed them and stopped a few feet away. He glanced over his shoulder and pointed at the dog. “Go eat.”

“Dog taste bad.”

“It’s a royal dog.”

“Grot not have royal dog. Mustard good?”

“Not until we bring her highness back to our lair.” The cloaked man turned, revealing solid amber eyes and a pale face. His smile made her ill, and she vomited against the hand holding her mouth. Grot removed his hand and wiped it on his body.

“I’ll have you know my father-“

Grot clamped his hand over her mouth again. The amber man sighed and rubbed his temples with his index fingers. “This will be a long hostage negotiation. I should have hired gerbils for henchmen.”

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I wrote this metaphysical poem thinking about the fading dreams of my past and how changing your view can make things far more interesting. Thanks for reading this piece. If you enjoyed it, please share it with your friends and leave a comment below.

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This modern thriller microfiction piece was inspired by a couple throwing a Frisbee on the beach and what might happen if they were pressured into it by the threat of lives ending. The way they threw the thing, we all would have died within a minute. Thanks for reading, and if you enjoyed this piece, please share it with your friends and comment below.

The plastic disc soared through the air, beeping with every revolution it took. The couple throwing it to one another struggled to keep their footing on the sandy shore, squealing whenever the Frisbee banked to the water. The man scrambled for and caught it before it could touch the ground.

“Sorry!” The woman ran toward her lover, but stopped when her anklet beeped. Electricity arched from her foot and traveled up her body.

“No, you promised you’d stop shocking us an hour ago!” The man scrambled to his feet, paused when the disc chimed, and scanned the cliffs for something.

“I wouldn’t bother looking for anyone to save you. This is a private beach.” The voice said from speakers attached to their anklets. “The only agreement I made was not to shock you to death. Now, keep throwing the Frisbee, or it will detonate and take out your precious New Harbor City.”

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