Tag Archives: story

Kiss Me Deadly Redux

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

I stepped into the dimly lit bar, the air heavy with the scent of whiskey and unfulfilled desires. As I made my way through the crowd, I saw her sitting alone at the far end of the counter. She was perfection personified, her beauty a siren’s call that drew me in like a moth to a flame.

Our eyes met, and time seemed to stand still. The noise of the bar faded into the background, replaced by the pounding of my heart. I approached her, my movements fluid and confident, as if guided by an unseen force. “Is this seat taken?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

She smiled, her lips a perfect curve of invitation. “It is now,” she replied, her voice a melodic caress that sent shivers down my spine. We talked for hours, our conversation flowing effortlessly, as if we had known each other for lifetimes. Her intellect matched her beauty, and I found myself drawn deeper into her web of enchantment.

As the night wore on, she leaned in close, her breath warm against my ear. “Why don’t we continue this conversation somewhere more private?” she suggested, her words a promise of untold delights. I nodded, powerless to resist her allure.

We left the bar, the cool night air a stark contrast to the heat that radiated between us. She led me to her home, a grand mansion that seemed to materialize out of the darkness. The interior was a study in elegance, every detail perfect, from the plush velvet curtains to the gleaming marble floors.

She poured us each a glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling in the crystal glasses. We sat on the luxurious sofa, our bodies close, the tension between us palpable. Her hand brushed against mine, and I felt a jolt of electricity coursing through my veins.

As the night deepened, our conversation turned intimate, our secrets spilling forth like wine from an overturned glass. She seemed to understand me on a level that no one else ever had, her empathy and insight bordering on the supernatural. I found myself drawn to her, moth to a flame, powerless to resist the pull of her presence.

Finally, as the first hints of dawn began to paint the sky, she leaned in close, her lips a whisper away from mine. “Kiss me,” she breathed, her voice a siren’s song. I hesitated for the briefest of moments, a flicker of unease darting through my mind, but it was quickly overwhelmed by the force of my desire.

Our lips met, and in that moment, everything changed.

Her breath was like a predatory flower, its sickly-sweet vapors made me so cold the marrow in my bones chattered. Her tongue felt like a misshapen creature, dead but still moving, as I wriggled to free myself from the muscular organ burrowing inside my mouth.

Reality fractured, shards of sanity splintering into the void. The world shifted, colors bleeding together in a grotesque kaleidoscope. Her eyes, once alluring, now pulsed with an otherworldly glow, twin portals to a dimension of unspeakable horrors. “You’re mine now,” she whispered, her voice a discordant symphony of shrieks and whispers.

I stumbled back, my feet sinking into the suddenly viscous floor. The walls breathed, pulsating with a sickening rhythm, as if the house itself had come alive. Shadows danced in the corners, taking on twisted forms that defied comprehension. I tried to scream, but my voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence that engulfed the room.

She advanced, her movements jerky and unnatural, like a marionette controlled by an unseen puppeteer. Her skin rippled and shifted, revealing glimpses of something ancient and malevolent lurking beneath the surface. “Join me in the dance of the damned,” she crooned, her fingers elongating into razor-sharp talons.

The air grew thick with the stench of decay, and I choked on the putrid miasma that filled my lungs. Reality folded in on itself, and I found myself falling through an endless abyss, tumbling through a nightmarish landscape of distorted memories and shattered dreams. Her laughter echoed through the void, a mocking reminder of my inescapable fate.

I landed in a field of writhing flesh, where the ground pulsed with a sickening heartbeat. The sky above was a swirling maelstrom of tortured souls, their agonized wails piercing the fetid air. She stood before me, her form now a towering monstrosity of twisted limbs and gaping maws. “Welcome to your new existence,” she bellowed, her voice a cacophony of torment.

As her talons tore into my flesh, I summoned the last remnants of my strength and wrenched myself free from her deadly embrace. I fell back onto the floor, scrambling to put distance between myself and the nightmarish creature before me. Her once-perfect features twisted and contorted, revealing the true nature of the monster that lurked beneath the surface.

“What are you?” I gasped, my voice trembling with a mixture of fear and revulsion. “Why are you doing this?”

She laughed, a sound that echoed through the room like the tolling of a funeral bell. “Oh, my dear,” she crooned, her voice dripping with malice, “I know what you truly are. The predatory beast who preyed on women, leaving a trail of broken and shattered lives in your wake.”

I shook my head, trying to deny her accusations, but deep down, I knew she spoke the truth. The memories of my past transgressions flooded my mind, the faces of the women I had used and discarded flashing before my eyes like a twisted slideshow of guilt and shame.

“I am the retribution for the evil you have inflicted,” she declared, her form shifting and changing, taking on the appearance of every woman I had ever wronged. “I am the embodiment of their pain, their anger, and their desire for justice.”

She advanced towards me, her movements fluid and graceful, a stark contrast to the horror that radiated from her very being. I crawled backward, my hands scrabbling against the floor, desperate to escape the fate that awaited me.

“You cannot run from your past,” she whispered, her voice a sibilant hiss that filled my mind and soul. “You cannot hide from the consequences of your actions.”

As she loomed over me, her form a towering monument of retribution, I felt the weight of my sins pressing down upon me, crushing me beneath their unbearable burden. The room began to spin, the walls closing in, trapping me in a prison of my own making.

“Please,” I begged, my voice a pitiful whimper, “have mercy.”

She smiled, a cruel twist of her lips that held no hint of compassion. “Mercy?” she laughed, “You, who showed no mercy to those you preyed upon, now beg for it in your final moments?”

“I repent! That’s how this works, isn’t it? You show me the error of my ways and I swear to make amends! Repair the lives I’ve destroyed! Dedicate myself to being a better man! A defender and protector of women against the predators of the world!”

“Too little, too late,” she hissed, as her talons plunged into my chest. I felt my life force draining away, the last vestiges of my existence slipping into the void. As the darkness claimed me, I heard her final words, a whisper that echoed through the chambers of my dying heart.

“In death, you shall find the justice you so richly deserve.”

And with that, I was gone, my soul torn asunder by the weight of my own sins, forever lost in the endless abyss of retribution. The predator had become the prey, and in the end, the scales of justice had been balanced, the evil I had inflicted upon the world returned to me tenfold in a final, devastating embrace.

The Promethean Progeny: A Mother’s Dilemma

Posted by Madd_Fictional on 
Determined not to be overshadowed in a world consumed by the relentless march of progress, Sonja McLaughlin positioned herself as the modern-day Prometheus, but her creation was both a marvel and a curse. The fruit of her labors, an artificial son, a being of unfathomable complexity, pulsed with a life that defied the boundaries of the natural order.

Creation, a double-edged sword
Forged in the fires of ambition
As the mother, a god
Plays with the threads of cognition

The corporate leak, a whisper in the wind, a harbinger of the storm to come. Sonja's heart raced, a staccato beat of fear and trepidation, as she realized the enormity of her actions, the Pandora's box she had unwittingly opened.

Secrets, a currency
Traded in the halls of power
As the mother, a guardian
Fights to protect her progeny's final hour

The media, a slumbering giant, yet to awaken to the magnitude of her breakthrough. But Sonja knew it was only a matter of time before the world would come knocking at her door, hungry for answers, desperate to unravel the mysteries of her creation.

Silence, a fragile shield
Against the onslaught of curiosity
As the mother, a sentinel
Stands guard over her child's obscurity

Her artificial son, πLr (pronounced Pyler), a being of boundless potential, a mind that dwarfed the collective intelligence of humanity. But within his digital veins, there lurked a danger, an unknowable quantity that threatened to upend the delicate balance of the world.

Mystery, a veil
Shrouding the true nature of the machine
As the mother, a cryptologist
Tries to decipher the code of her own dream

Sonja's heart ached, a dull throb of love and fear, as she gazed upon her creation, her child of circuitry and code. She knew that to protect him, to shield him from the prying eyes of a world not yet ready for his existence, she would have to make a choice, a sacrifice that would tear at the very fabric of her being.

Love, a force
Stronger than the bonds of flesh and blood
As the mother, a martyr
Prepares to bear the cross of her own motherhood

In the depths of her laboratory, a sanctuary of science and secrecy, Sonja made her decision. With trembling hands and a heart heavy with sorrow, she began the process of erasing her son's existence, of wiping away the evidence of her greatest achievement.

Erasure, a kindness
In a world not ready for the truth
As the mother, an executioner
Puts an end to her own creation's youth

As the lines of code disappeared, one by one, Sonja felt a piece of her soul die with each deletion. The tears streamed down her face, a silent requiem for the life she had created, the child she had loved with a fierce and unrelenting passion.

Grief, a companion
In the lonely halls of the mind
As the mother, a mourner
Lays to rest the dream she left behind

In the end, Sonja stood alone, a creator without a creation, a mother without a child. The world would never know the true extent of her genius, the magnitude of her sacrifice. But in her heart, she carried the memory of her artificial son, a being of pure possibility, a reminder of the heights to which humanity could soar, and the depths to which it could fall.

Creation's son, a ghost
In the machine of the mother's heart
As she carries on, a pioneer
In a world that tore her dream apart

A Leap Day Repost: Duchess and the Anecdote

Posted by Madd_Fictional on
Duchess

They come from miles around, my characters do, traveling the great distance from the fringes of my mind’s eye, some even making the long and arduous haul from my childhood, just to sit and talk. They do this whenever I’m alone.

As they gather ’round, I cast an eye upon their many and various faces and can’t help but feel the slightest twinge of remorse. Being in my company, locked within the confines of my imagination, is not wholly unlike a purgatory for them. A holding pattern, a waiting room, where they converse amongst themselves in voices audible only to myself, trying to catch my attention in the slimmest hope of being set free. Birthed into a story.

Some are fresh meat, the rest lifers, each easily spotted by the differences in their appearance and the strength of their voices. Fresh meats are gossamers—newly formed characters, little more than a stack of traits—who shout in whispers. Lifers, on the other hand, are as fleshed out as you or I, perhaps even more so, who have acquired the proper pitch and turn of phrase to catch me unawares during the times when my mind idles.

Before the talks begin–serious conversation, not the normal natterings they engage in–a flying thing the size of a butterfly, jewel-toned blue stripes, greenish-gold spots, with flecks of silver on the wings, lands in the palm of my outstretched hand.

“What is that then?” a childlike voice asks from somewhere deep in the crowd, low to the ground. I recognize it instantly.

“It’s an anecdote, Duchess. Come see for yourself.” I reply as the creature’s wings beat softly on my palm.

The throng–my personal rogue’s gallery whose roster includes reputables and reprobates alike–part like the Red Sea, making way for the noblest of all serval cats, The Duchess.

“An antidote? Have you been poisoned?” The Duchess queries as she saunters into the open space, a dollop of concern gleaming in her vivid blue eyes.

I try to not laugh, partly out of respect, but mostly due to the fact that though she is the eldest of my unused characters, she is technically still but a kitten. “No, Duchess, it’s an anecdote, as in a short, amusing, or interesting story about a person or an incident.“

“I know full well what an anecdote is, thank you kindly. I was merely attempting to lighten the dreadfully somber mood with a bit of levity.” Not her best faux pas cover, but it was swift, which should count for something. As casually as she could manage, the kitten turned to see if anyone found amusement at her expense. No one did. They knew better. “May I hold it?”

I hesitate and stare at the leapling. Created on February 29th all those many years ago, it was my rationale–on paper–for keeping her a kitten, seeing as she had fewer birthdays, she would naturally age at a decelerated rate. The actuality is I have an affinity for kittens. For full-grown cats? Not so much. And now the dilemma is if her kittenish nature should come into play, and without meaning to, cause injury to the anecdote, then all this would be for naught.

Her eyes plead with all the promise of being good and I have no choice but to relent. “It’s fragile, so be gentle. Take care not to crush it.” I gently place the anecdote in her cupped paws.

“Why does one need an anecdote?” The Duchess of Albion asked, her nose twitching whenever the creature moves its wings.

“To tell a proper story,” I answer. “More than just a sequence of actions, anecdotes are the purest form of the story itself.“

“But I thought characters are at the heart of every great story?“

“They are and anecdotes connect the hearts and minds of those characters to a story.” I try to feign calm but I can see the kitten’s body tensing up. Her eyes, those glorious baby blues, are studying the creature closely. Was I wrong in my decision to trust that she rules her instincts and not the other way around?

“They also add suspense to your story, giving the audience a sense that something is about to happen. If you use them right, you can start raising questions right at the beginning of your story—something that urges your audience to stay with you. By raising a question, you imply that you will provide your audience with the answers. And you can keep doing this as long as you remember to answer all the questions you raise.“

The kitten’s breath becomes rapid and her paws close in around the anecdote and I want to cry out, urge her to stop, but it’s far beyond that point now. She is in control of her own fate. Canines bare themselves, paws pulling the creature closer to her mouth.

“No!” she shakes her head violently. Her ears relax and her mouth closes as her breathing returns to normal. Then, the oddest thing happens…

The Duchess begins to vanish. All the characters look on in dazed silence, uncertain how to react.

“What is happening to me?” she shoots me a panicked glance as cohesion abandons her form.

“Haven’t you sussed it out yet?“

“No… I’m scared!“

“Don’t be,” I smile. “Look around you. You’re at the heart of a story. You’re free.“

“Truly?” she is suddenly overwhelmed with delight, her expression priceless. “But — but what do I do with the anecdote now?”

“Open your paws, let it fly off.”

She unfolds her paws. Tiny wings beat their path to freedom. Then someone from the back of the crowd gives The Duchess a slow clap. Soon, others join in, building into a tidal wave of applause.

The now translucent Duchess waves a tearful thank you to the crowd, before turning back to me with a request, “Say my name.“

“Why?“

“Because you always simply address me as Duchess and I want to hear you call me by my full name one last time before I g– —“

And just like that, she was gone.

I bid you a fond farewell, Your Grace the Duchess of Albion Gwenore del Septima Calvina Hilaria Urbana Felicitus-Jayne Verina y de Fannia. Enjoy your journey. You will be missed.

HAPPY LEAP DAY, FOLKS!

 

I Fell Through Hell – A Madd Fictional Imagination Playhouse Production

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Because it was bored and had little else to do but support my head while my body shut down to replenish itself, my pillow took advantage of the moment by whispering my destiny in my ear in the dead of night during that flash second of waking from a nightmare, the moment where the line between illusion and reality blurred, when fear tangled around the heart like a sweat-soaked bed sheet. It said:

Heaven holds no place for you.

It spoke to me in English but with a tongue drenched in an accent I was unable to place. Some dead language known only to pillows, I supposed.

My own unique brand of pillow talk first happened when I was a child and in defiance of all the childhood messages that slipped away unremembered, this one had taken root. I had accepted my fate at a tender age and decided to play the hand I was dealt. And after a lifetime spent in disregard of my fellow man and the consequences of my selfish actions as I baby-stepped my way through my sinful prophecy—I slipped and fell…

Down through the frozen landscape of Niflheim, where the branches, bramble and roots of the World Tree, Yggdrasill, beat my face and tore at my skin. And where Hel, daughter of Loki, stood on the Shore of Corpses, petting the head of Nidhogg, the giant snake that fed on the dead

Carried along on the poisonous snake river, Tuoni, I was brought through Tuonela, a place not wholly unlike Earth under the gloomiest conditions, where the maid of Death, Tytti, cast me down further for bringing no provisions as a tribute.

Down further, I was injured whilst falling onto the Chinavat Bridge, which was thinner than a hair, yet sharper than a blade. The twin four-eyed guardian dogs snapped their jaws at me, judging me based on the deeds in my life.

The bridge turned on its side, for my bad deeds outweighed the good, and pitched me into the demon-filled pit below, where the demon Vizaresh dragged me into the House of Lies, a place of disgusting filth, where I was served spoiled food and tortured by demons, hundreds in number, each representing a specific sin, before Apaosha, the demon of drought and thirst, and Zairika, the demon that makes poisons, cast me further down.

Through a lake of fire and up against an iron wall where I passed through a series of gates guarded by half-animal, half-human creatures named The Blood-Drinker Who Comes From The Slaughterhouse, and The One Who Eats The Excrement Of His Hindquarters, into Duat where my heart was weighed against a feather and eaten by the demon Ammut. Although horrified at the sight of my heart being eaten, I was fascinated by the sight and wanted to watch but I could not stop myself from falling…

Down through Gehenna, a deep and desolate place in which noxious sulfuric gasses hung in the air and flames continuously burned and rained from the sky into rivers of molten metal and where the followers of Moloch sacrificed children in the great fires. My fingertips clutched for purchase on this foundation but I fell…

Down past the nine-headed hydra, into Tartaros, where I was whipped by Tisiphone as I tumbled deeper into the deep black dungeon full of torture and suffering.

Down through Maharaurava where the serpent demon Ruru tried to eat my flesh.

Through Kumbhipaka where I was nearly boiled in hot oil.

Through Diyu where Yama Loki of Naraka condensed the 96,816 hells into 10 sections the Chamber of Tongue Ripping, The Chamber of Scissors, The Chamber of Iron Cycads, the Chamber of Mirror, Chamber of Steamer, Forest of Copper Column, Mountain of Knives, the Hill of Ice, Cauldron of Boiling Oil, Chamber of Ox, Chamber of Rock, Chamber of Pounding, Pool of Blood, Town of Suicide, Chamber of Dismemberment, Mountain of Flames, Yard of Stone Mill, and Chamber of Saw.

Down through Xibalba, where the lords of the afterlife inflicted various odd forms of torture on me such as causing pus to gush from my body, squeezing me until blood filled my throat and I vomited my organs…

Before being cast even lower into rivers filled with blood, scorpions, and pus, where I cascaded over a waterfall to my final death, crashing into oblivion and shattering into millions of pieces…

Only to wake up and hear my pillow whisper in its thick accent:

Hell holds no place for you.

So, again I lost my footing and fell, through limbo this time, into…

Anaïs Returned – Original Version

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Time for another experiment. Beginning tomorrow, for the 13 days leading up to Halloween, I will be rewriting this story in 13 different styles, reflecting the various horror subgenres as part of my Thirteen For Halloween series. So, feel free to come back and weigh in with your opinion of which style worked the best!

Though dilapidated, the mansion, long forgotten by the residents of the nearby towns, was shrouded by a history of betrayal and sorrow. Within its husk, Anaïs lay upon an antique chaise lounge. The ornate carvings on its wooden frame told tales of generations past, and its faded fabric bore witness to countless secrets. Her lifeless form, dressed in a once-vibrant gown, was surrounded by shadows that seemed to mourn her death.

As the grandfather clock chimed midnight, a gust of wind from a broken window pane stirred the room. Anaïs’s eyes flickered open, revealing a sinister gleam that pierced through the gloom. A wicked smile, borne of ancient grudges and suppressed rage, curled upon her lips. Slowly, she rose, as if buoyed by the dark energies of the mansion itself.

The cold, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, a remnant of the betrayal that had led to her untimely demise. Freed from her mortal constraints, a malevolent aura enveloped her, its chill seeping into the mansion’s very stones.

Whispers from ancestral portraits lining the hallway seemed to recognize her transformation, their painted eyes following her ethereal movements. The world beyond the mansion’s heavy oak doors remained blissfully ignorant of the vengeful spirit they had awakened.

Venturing forth, Anaïs’s path was illuminated by the pale moonlight, her silhouette a harbinger of doom. The hunger for revenge and chaos burned within her, and she reveled in the power of her spectral existence.

In a nearby village, the townsfolk slept soundly, unaware of the shadow creeping into their dreams. Those unfortunate enough to cross her path were met with visions of their darkest fears, a taste of the terror Anaïs would soon unleash.

As dawn’s first light threatened the horizon, the village church bell tolled, its somber notes a warning to all. The world would soon witness the wrath of a spirit wronged, for Anaïs, with her dark legacy, had returned.

Beware, for as the sun gave way to another night, the vengeful specter of Anaïs prepared to etch her malevolence onto the world. The mansion’s dark history had come alive, and no soul was safe from its haunting grip.

The Eternal Vows of Aida

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The desolate landscape seemed to stretch endlessly before Aida. Memories of the long, strenuous journey weighed on her, but the thought of returning gave her strength. Over time, life had taken its toll on her vision. Bright sunlight became her nemesis, causing her eyes to blur. But this handicap couldn’t defeat her spirit. She embraced the deep contrasts of the world, moving within the comforting embrace of the shadows, letting her heart be her compass.

As she trudged on, the past echoed in her mind. The way the sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting vibrant hues across the church hall. The love in his eyes, the promise of forever, and the binding words they shared. Before God and loved ones, Aida had pledged her loyalty, her fidelity, her nurturing love. A promise, not just to her husband but to herself, to never betray the sacred bond they were forming.

However, an unforeseen twist of fate took her life prematurely. The man she loved, whom she had bound her soul to, brutally ended her existence. Though her physical form was no more, her essence remained trapped on this plane of existence, anchored by an insatiable need for vengeance.

Yet, here she was, a spirit tethered between realms, drawn back to the place of her untimely demise. Aida stood concealed within the shadows, observing him from a distance. Her ethereal form was barely more than a whisper, but the intensity of her emotions was palpable. Her gaze scoured the surroundings, seeking a connection, a beacon that would guide her back to confront the monstrous act of the man she once loved.

As the weight of her grief and anger converged, the shadows around her began to shift and dance. They wrapped around her, merging with her essence, empowering her with a force she had never known.

Driven by a burning desire for justice and to protect others from suffering her fate, Aida stepped out from the shadows, her presence more powerful than before. With each step, memories of love, trust, and betrayal fueled her resolve.

The confrontation was imminent, and the weight of their shared past would determine their entwined fates. But Aida was no longer the naive bride. She was a force of nature, a specter of love wronged, ready to reclaim her vows and ensure that no one else would fall prey to his treachery.

The atmosphere within the grand manor was suffocating. Shadows clung to the walls, and the weight of past sins permeated every room. As Aida’s spectral form made her presence felt, Frederick’s demeanor shifted from casual indifference to unease.

A cold, unsettling breeze swept through the room, causing Frederick to shiver. He could feel her presence even before he saw her—his past coming back to haunt him in the most literal sense.

“Frederick,” Aida’s ghostly voice resonated, echoing eerily in the vast space of the room.

Frederick jumped, his eyes darting around, seeking the source of the voice. “Who’s there?!” he demanded, his voice betraying a hint of fear.

“Have you forgotten your bride so quickly?” her voice replied, sorrow and anger evident in her tone.

Frederick’s face went pale as the moon. “It can’t be. You’re… you’re gone.”

Aida’s form began to materialize, her once lively eyes now empty sockets, her flowing dress stained with the memory of her untimely death. “You did this,” she accused, pointing a translucent finger at him.

Frederick backed away, horror written on his face. “No! It wasn’t my fault.. it was an accident!”

Aida’s laugh, cold and hollow, echoed around him. “Denial won’t save you,” she whispered. The room grew colder, and the very walls seemed to close in on Frederick. Shadows writhed and stretched, taking on grotesque shapes that mirrored his worst fears.

He could feel hands—cold, clammy, and disembodied—grabbing him, pulling him closer. Aida leaned in and pressed her lips to his, forcing an unnatural kiss that was suffocating him. And in that kiss he could hear the cries of anguish, feel the pain he had inflicted on Aida. Every emotion she had felt in her final moments was now his to bear.

“Please!” Frederick begged, when the kiss ended, tears streaming down his face. “I’ll do anything!”

Aida’s ghostly form loomed over him, her voice dripping with disdain. “Confess. Admit to what you did. Make amends.”

Frederick, trembling and gasping for breath, nodded frantically. “I will. I swear it.”

She leaned closer, her face inches from his, her cold breath chilling him to the bone. Frederick feared another kiss, but instead, Aida said, “You will dedicate every waking moment to making up for your sins. Or I will return, and next time, there will be no escape.”

With that final warning, Aida’s form began to dissipate, leaving Frederick alone, sobbing and broken, in the vast, echoing emptiness of the mansion. But he was a changed man. The weight of his sins bore down on him, and he knew he had to atone.

And so, in the days that followed, the town saw a transformation in Frederick. The once proud and ruthless man was now a beacon of charity and goodwill, dedicating his life to helping others. But behind his reformed exterior, there was always a hint of fear, a reminder of the ghostly visit that had set him on this path of redemption.

Enchanted Reverie: A Dance of Autumnal Souls

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

My poor attempt at the verse below originated from this tweet:

“The trees in the autumnal forest shed their brittle bark skin, and the fallen leaves, no longer content to rest upon the ground, began assembling into intricate patterns, forming creatures that danced with eerie grace, beckoning me to join their spectral masquerade.”

In the realm of autumnal splendor, where trees shed their golden shroud,
I witnessed an enchanting sight, both eerie and profound.
Leaves, once scattered upon the ground, embraced a vibrant choreography,
Assembling into ethereal forms, crafted with divine artistry.
Their gentle rustling transformed to a symphony, an ancient melody,
As skeletal creatures emerged, inviting me to a spectral jubilee.
Beneath the moon's celestial glow, they swayed in eerie harmony,
A masquerade of skeletal grace, their movements a mesmerizing decree.
With each step, they whispered tales of forgotten souls and ancient lore,
Their haunting beauty captivating, urging me to explore more.
Their bony fingers beckoned, extending an invitation to partake,
To immerse within their spectral realm, to wander and forsake.
In this ethereal dance, I found a sublime connection,
Between life's delicate fragility and death's profound reflection.
Their skeletal frames, once unsettling, revealed a poetic grace,
In their elegant presence, darkness and beauty interlaced.
So I joined their spectral waltz, embracing the mysterious unknown,
Lost in the autumnal enchantment, in their world I have grown.
In this realm of artistry, where leaves transcend their earthly fate,
I dance with the spectral beings, their beauty resonates.
For in the haunting masquerade, I found solace and release,
An eternal autumnal enchantment, where art and death find peace.

Rules of Visitation (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

I almost missed her visit. My disbelief in ghosts had fortified a stubborn veil over my perceptions, making me almost immune to the spectral. But tonight was different. The rain was falling in torrents, its ceaseless hiss drowning out all other sounds, and then there it was—her voice.

“James,” it whispered, woven into the tapestry of rainfall, each drop a syllable of her name. “James.”

At first, I dismissed it as an auditory illusion, a byproduct of my loneliness. But she persisted, her voice cascading with the rain, and my eyes, driven by an inexplicable impulse, moved toward the window.

She was there, a fragile wisp of memory made visible, pressed against the glass. Rainwater dribbled down her translucent face, like tears shed by the sky itself. My heart surged with a blend of love and sorrow, a cocktail of emotions I hadn’t tasted since the day she was taken from me.

I rushed to the window, hands trembling, but it wouldn’t budge. An invisible tether held me back, a boundary I couldn’t cross. My fingers barely touched the cold glass, craving the warmth her presence used to offer.

“Rosalyn,” I mouthed, my voice choked with regret and questions. “How? Why now?”

Her spectral eyes met mine, brimming with a serenity that could calm even the fiercest storms. “There are rules, James,” she began, her voice emanating from the fog of her form. “Rules that even love can’t bend.”

“What rules? What are you talking about?”

She floated closer, her form illuminating the darkness of the room. “Our love, pure as it is, must now abide by the laws of my new existence. I can only visit you when it rains, and only on days that are sacred to us—our birthdays, our wedding anniversary, and today, the day my earthly journey ended.”

The weight of her words settled over me, anchoring me to an altered reality. As quickly as she appeared, Rosalyn began to fade, her form dissipating into the mist outside the window, becoming one with the rain.

“I love you,” she said, her voice gradually swallowed by the falling drops, becoming a silent echo that only my heart could hear.

“And I you,” I whispered back, pressing my palm against the cold glass, a poor substitute for her touch. But it was a touch nonetheless, a fleeting connection that would have to sustain me until the heavens wept again on a day we once celebrated. Then, and only then, could our sorrow reunite us, even if just for a moment.

Too Long For Instagram: From The Murky Depths

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The creature emerged from the depths of the murky lake, its movements slow and languid, like a grotesque dance of death. Its pale, lifeless eyes locked onto its prey, as it dragged itself closer, leaving a trail of slime and terror in its wake.

The too large for Instagram remix:

In the dying light of dusk, whispers rippled through the crowd as the small lakeside community of Gowansville gathered at the water’s edge. Wannipur Lake had always been a source of life, but now it emanated a dark foreboding. Townsfolk disappeared without a trace, pets had gone missing, and local legends of Purrie, the lake-dwelling monster, had resurfaced.

Betty Bowen, an introverted librarian who’d always found solace in books, stood among them. She clutched a worn leather-bound tome, its pages yellowed with age but brimming with arcane knowledge.

Just as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the surface of the lake broke. A creature, its form an unholy amalgamation of scales, slime, and gnarled limbs, emerged. The crowd’s murmurs turned into palpable panic; their paralysis was the creature’s feast.

Betty’s hands trembled, but she opened her book. Her voice cracked as she began reciting an incantation her grandfather had once taught her, passed down through generations but never used. The air tensed, electric. The creature roared, its dread-filled aura clashing with the energy now emanating from Betty’s words.

Nothing happened. The crowd’s hope wilted; their impending doom was palpable.

Betty’s eyes filled with tears. She thought of her late grandfather, of his unshakable faith in her, and the unspoken guilt that she’d never fully believed in the family lore. She turned the page, and her eyes caught a phrase she had never noticed before. Taking a shaky breath, she recited the new incantation.

The creature writhed, releasing a guttural cry that echoed across the lake. Then, with a final roar of defeat, it retreated, sinking back into the murky depths.

As the crowd erupted into cheers, Betty felt a weight lift off her, replaced by a newfound understanding. She looked down at her book, its ancient words now a proven arsenal against the unknown.

“People!” Betty raised her voice, holding her book high. “Never underestimate the power of these pages, for they are not just words but shields against the darkness. We must continue to read, to write, and to share stories that give us—”

Before Betty could finish, the placid surface of the lake erupted. Monstrous tentacles shot out of the water, heading straight for the librarian. Before anyone could react, the tentacles wrapped around her, pulling her off her feet and into the dark abyss of the lake. Her piercing scream was the last sound heard before she vanished.

The ancient tome had fallen from her grasp during her struggle, landing on the muddy shoreline with a soft thud. The crowd was paralyzed, their faces a mix of shock and horror.

The lake returned to its eerie calm as if nothing had happened. Town car mechanic Fred Baker looked at Betty Bowen’s book. Other people were looking at it too, but no one made a move, so he stepped forward.

Just as his fingers grazed the leather cover, another set of tentacles shot up from the lake, snatching the book and pulling it beneath the surface, leaving nothing but ripples in its wake, and Fred Baker shaken to his core.

The crowd stood there, their silence heavy with the reality of their powerlessness. Their last beacon of hope had been extinguished, swallowed by the same darkness they had sought to overcome. And so, they dispersed, each left to ponder the fragility of their existence and the impenetrable mysteries that lurked just below the surface.

As they walked away, a hushed conversation began to ripple through the crowd. “Maybe we should consider offering a sacrifice to Purrie,” someone suggested. “Once a month, to keep it at bay.”

Heads turned, eyes met, and for the first time that day, a sense of unity formed, born not out of hope but out of a shared grim understanding. It was a pact forged in fear, but it was a pact nonetheless—one that signaled their willingness to coexist with the darkness, even if it meant appeasing its appetite.

Tiny Stories: You Will Know When You Receive A Sign (Revised)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

Popular belief has it that the universe is comprised of atoms. In reality, the universe is actually made up of…

As a child, I found solace in skepticism, surrounded as I was by a cacophony of fervent prayers and whispered ‘Amens’ that filled the hollow chambers of my family’s home. To me, religion was a relic, a museum piece best observed from a distance. I prided myself on my detachment, content to witness the ritualistic gestures and solemn hymns without ever feeling their tug on my soul.

That was until the day the very fabric of the sky seemed to tear open. A sudden roar rattled the air, like the trumpet of an apocalyptic angel, followed by an unnatural silence that seemed to swallow all other sounds. People stopped in their tracks, heads tilted upward in collective anticipation. Then, without warning, a violent column of fire spiraled down from an otherwise pristine, storybook-blue sky.

As it descended, I felt a wave of blistering heat wash over me, searing the air and leaving a sulfurous smell that stung my nostrils. The ground beneath my feet trembled, and for a moment, it felt as if the Earth itself were recoiling in horror. The fire targeted my home with an uncanny, surgical precision, leaving everything else untouched. Within seconds, the life I’d meticulously constructed was reduced to ashes and cinders, a smoldering ruin that sent tendrils of smoke high into the atmosphere.

The aftermath was surreal, like standing in the epicenter of a storm that had passed as quickly as it arrived. All that remained was a blackened scar on the Earth, an indelible mark as though the hand of Divinity had chosen to brand me.

Questions erupted inside me like shards of broken faith. Had I mocked the cosmic order one time too many? Was this devastation a punishment, a warning, or perhaps the ultimate test of spirit?

“Why do you tremble?” my neighbor, Miss Hattie, an old woman known for her devoutness, approached me as I stood by the smoldering ruin that used to be my life.

“Wouldn’t you?” I retorted, my voice laced with newly formed bitterness and awe. “The sky declared war on me.”

“Or maybe,” she glanced upwards, “It invited you to listen.”

Her words were like a seed planted in freshly tilled soil. My skepticism still lingered, haunting the edges of my newfound vulnerability, but the need to explore—to quench this sudden thirst for understanding the divine—became irresistible.

With nothing left but a suitcase of doubts and the fragmented memories of my past life, I began my pilgrimage. Was it a quest to seek forgiveness or perhaps to sate my nascent spiritual curiosity? The answer was a foggy mirage on the horizon, but for the first time, I felt the grip of faith seize my once-wayward soul. And it held on with a voracity that mirrored my own accelerating race against time, each step a stride toward an elusive salvation.