Well, what a Tuesday it has been so far! A lot has been happening and I am so excited about the next couple of days. The next couple of days, I think, are going to be some of the most exciting make-or-break days of our future and we’re at this point where we’re just saying … “Bring it on!”
Challenges are yes, challenging, but exciting. There’s so much to be excited about and now, as we are on the cusp of so many awesome things, I feel like these are the days that will end up mattering the most. In the greater scheme of things, our hope today, is our success tomorrow.
And that’s why today of all days, I feel closer to this job and to all of you than ever before and that, I think, will never end.
I’d like to say thank you to everyone who has supported and participated in the #MyFPNominee Project insofar and I hope you’ll continue to nominate your favourite authors for the Monday Author Interview program. We still have plenty of time left to fill in every Monday of 2018 with an amazing author’s words, work and wonders. I hope you’ll join in on that journey and that we get to see you on the interview list too!
And now, with all the flowery things aside, onto #200WT! Wow, are there some things in this edition … it’s juicy, scary, (really, very scary, it feel like Halloween came early this year!) and utterly delicious. I can’t wait for you to delve right in!
So in honour of the gorgeous horrors that lie in wait, without further ado … I present the Terrifying Talents #200WT Edition!
By Lady Stabdagger
It was everything he dreamed it would be and more. Every crunch of blade against bone was music to his ears. For years the image haunted his dreams willing him to experience it for real but he just never had the opportunity before now. It was a pity really, she was such a pretty young lady but unfortunately for her she found herself in the wrong place at the right time. He had no inhibitions now; no one around to stop him. Of course he had his fun with her first before he got around to the torture. Her screams will remain with him for years to come; his dream finally realised. The feel of her flesh as he plunged his hands into her open abdomen was exquisite. No longer was this experience just a fantasy that happened in his own head night after night and it never will be again. He craved more. He wonder what his dreams would cook up next; he wanted to have every human experience possible. Today the experience of torture, tomorrow who knows. He will be ready. He disposed of the young lady; throwing her corpse to the pigs. Time to prepare for his next adventure. He took out a cloth and began wiping the slate clean for a new day.
By: Lady Stabdagger
By Joanne Karina Gray
He painted almost constantly. It was his hardest one yet.
Each color spoke to him, whispered in his ear to set his brush in their embrace and streak it across his canvas. He didn’t listen to them.
This was his masterpiece. He would go down in history for this one.
Up there with the other artists, he would be standing with the likes of Picasso or Da Vinci. He grew excited just thinking of it all.
His canvas had begun as a blank page in time. A clean slate just begging to be remade, and he was the Artist.
His brushes dipped and clanged against each other on the smooth construct of art he had created.
He thought of how he had come to acquire this canvas he painted on, he thought of the soft brush gliding against the painting, he thought of his child.
They were all his children, he loved them completely, not that anyone else would understand it. No one understood the type of love he had for each of his creations. He smiled softly and looked around his gallery, each creation rest against the wall, pinned by golden pins to keep them stable.
His dear beauties …
Each canvas was different, he knew this despite being confined to his house of cedar wood and smoke, deep in the forest behind the city.
There were canvases of sunshine, cherry blossoms, vanilla candles and colors of dusk. These canvases were sweet and innocent and could only take soft hues such as peach and rose petal touches to the surface.
There were canvases of marble floors, roman temples, black ink, and the smell of earth after rain. These types usually embraced the color of darkness, the heavy blacks and the cherished grays of stormy nights.
There were canvases of stars, little blushes that trailed all the way down, subtle touches. These canvases were the Artist’s favorite kind. They could hold so much color, they could hold his every feeling which he poured into their lifeless frame and they glowed when he brought them to life with his paints.
These thoughts danced their way across the Artist’s mind as he painted, stroking his small brush through the blood red paint he favored.
His strokes were calculated, each of them perfect and beautiful and mathematically measured to fit to every corner of his wonderful creation.
Outside there was a hoot of an owl and he was startled, his brush going skew and messing up his equations, his perfect design.
He was filled with fury and he dropped his brush, smashing his fist against the canvas so that stale blood mingled with the hectic red of his paint.
He breathed heavily. In. Out. In. Out.
One, he counted in his mind, taking a deep breath with the number.
Two, his conscience murmured, calming him down further.
Three, he took a deep breath and lifted his fist from his dear canvas.
“I’m sorry, darling, I lost my temper- but that’s over now. Everything can be fixed, perhaps you even look better this way.” He murmured lovingly, caressing his recovered brush against her smooth skin, marred only with the evidence of his anger. It didn’t do much to the canvas, she was already damaged but he found beauty in it regardless of her imperfections.
The canvas had been a ballerina laced with daydreams. She emulated fallen angels with her sweet smile. He told her, as he walked her to her car in the night, that she was art, heartbreaking, breathtaking, like a butterfly trapped by society. Shining shimmer pearl tears cascaded down her smooth cheeks, her love was her sacrifice but she would be remembered just as he would.
She was, after all, the canvas he adored so.
His canvas was finished. It had taken him a long time, longer than any of his others. But she was finished now and he felt tears trickle down his cheek to mingle with the splatters of paint against her skin.
She was beautiful.
He lifted his porcelain canvas tenderly and grabbed the tin of golden pins. His masterpiece would be the front row exhibit in his gallery.
She was placed in the middle of the others and he fell to his knees in front of them, weeping like a baby as his finished work was revealed to him.
They were all angels, fallen from the heavens and he had found them and painted the celestial words across their skin.
He was a true Artist and he knew it. His gallery proved it.
Each vision of midnight beauty, each of these wonders he had been gifted with were beautiful, his children and he loved them unconditionally.
He loved them when he heard the whine of sirens outside his gallery.
He loved them when those- those uneducated people hammered on his door.
He loved them when they burst in and shackled chains around his wrists.
He loved them to infinity even when he closed his eyes for the last time, much like all those artists he had admired, they had all ascended to the heavens and it was his turn now.
He was happy.
There was a jolt of pain and then he was blissful and unaware.
Author: Joanne Karina Gray
Run for your death
By Lord Stabdagger
Robert had never been happier. Finally, after several years of hard work his life was exactly where he wanted it to go. In the morning he starts his new job and by the end of the year he’ll be set for life.
He stands in front of his wardrobe mirror admiring the new suit he’ll be wearing, totally absorbed in his own self worth, when all of a sudden, “Good morning,” came a voice behind him.
He turned to find a tall elderly gentleman dressed in tweed, sitting on the end of his bed, casually smoking an old fashioned pipe.
“Who the hell are you! How did you get in here!”
“Oh don’t worry about me, I’m simply here to deliver a message.”
“Get out or I’ll call the police!”
“Police? Don’t be ridicules they won’t help you. Nobody will, but perhaps I can help you to help your self.”
“Who are you!”
“I have many names, but usually people refer to me as the Grim Reaper.”
“I haven’t got time for this!” He went to grab the old man, but wasn’t there.
“Exactly,” said the old man, leaning against the wardrobe, “you haven’t got time.”
“What? How? What?”
“You’ve only got until eleven thirty six tomorrow morning.”
“I’m going to die at half eleven tomorrow morning?”
“Thirty six, yes.”
“And how may I ask am I going to die?”
“You’re going to jump off peak cliff.”
“What the bloody hell for!?”
“Because the alternatives are far more gruesome. You’d be far better off jumping from a great height.”
Robert laughed and the old man smiled.
“Tell Brian I’m going to kill him!” said Robert.
“Brian? Do you think this is a prank?”
“Well of course it’s a bloody prank! You’re no more the Grim Reaper than my late Granddad!”
“So you’re not convinced?”
“No. I am NOT convinced!”
“I see. Would you rather, I looked like, this?”
Moments later Robert was as white as a ghost and frozen to the spot. The old man lent against the wardrobe with his arms folded sporting a smug grin. “I’d sit down if I were you,” he said. Robert slowly sat on the bed. “Why?” he asked, “but, why?”
“I know. I disagree with is my self. I tried to argue your case but they decided your time is up.”
“The powers that be. My employers.”
“Look, I don’t make the rules I simply collect the reapings. But there is a plus side to all of this.”
“You get to choose how you’re going to die. Personally, I’d go with the cliff.”
“Why? What’s the alternative?”
“Tomorrow morning there’s going to be a series of potential disasters that for you will prove quite fatal.”
“Now lets see, two motor vehicle accidents, a gas explosion, a stabbing, the fall of a heavy object, and an electrocution. If you don’t take my advice, one of these alternatives will be your downfall.”
“Why is the cliff any better?”
“It’s a thousand foot sheer drop. With your nervous disposition you’ll be dead before you hit the rocks.”
“But why me? Why now? I’ve just –”
“Yes I know. A young hard working man, just got your life in order, a prosperous future ahead of you, terrible waste.”
“This isn’t happening. I’m asleep, I must be!”
“You’re not asleep.”
“Then I’m hallucinating!”
“Then, then, I, I must be,-”
“You’re wide awake and fully aware. This isn’t a dream. You’re going to die tomorrow morning and I strongly suggest you exit via the cliff.”
“But, I don’t want to die.”
“Nobody does, except for a small minority.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do for me?”
By Lara Savine
People spoke of dreams as flights of fantasy, mere moments in the ever-evolving, learning, feeling mind. Nightmares were dark moments, but moments nonetheless.
My psychiatrist’s rhetoric was true. Confront your nightmares head-on and they won’t frighten you anymore. They’re all in your head and in your mind, you are the master.
My nightmares terrorized me. Until I took up the sword of my psyche and I terrorized them. They weren’t nightmares. Yes, they were in my mind, but they were as real as I was.
I learned how to conquer them; bend them to my will.
The day they shoved me into a white room with iron bars, I screamed so hard, I coughed blood. I begged them to let me go. Let me out. I wasn’t the bad one. I wasn’t anything but a girl, lonely, scared, locked in her mind with only her demons for company. They never listened.
They never cared.
I was broken.
That night, my soul was so raw from the betrayal, my demons sprang out from me.
They knelt to me; cowered from me, afraid.
But they asked me how they could serve me.
I told them to find the ones who locked me in here. Find them, and show them the pain and terror I’d endured my whole life.
I remember my laughter as the asylum rang with dying screams; as the haven for all tortured souls became the hell of those who put us here.
I remembered how just it felt; being the nightmare I finally embraced.
Author: Lara Meone Savine