Miranda Kate Week 140: Provisions

Picture 1


Picture 2


Miranda Kate’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Provisions

Daniels was pleased that they had moved everything over by the time the sun had cleared the horizon, although it reflected the depressing reality of their situation – there wasn’t much to take. All their personal belongings and kitchen stuff, including food, was comfortably packed into one truck. Gas and tools took up only half of the other.

“Shall we swing by Rylies on our way?” Rod asked. He was driving one of the trucks, Daniels the other.

“Yeah. Did you see any wood or kindling stock piled in there? And I want to get some tarps too if we can find them.”

“There was a whole section we only skimmed ‘cause we couldn’t carry more. I’m sure there were – bags of coal too.”

“Yeah we’ll need plenty of them too. I want to fill the back of both trucks nice and tight. It would be a waste otherwise, plus we won’t risk losing anything if we swing about too much.”

Brandon joined them at the back of the half-empty truck. He handed Rod some rope to help secure the load they had just packed in. Daniels looked at it.

“We could do with some more rope too - can never have too much of that.”

Rod nodded.

They went back inside where Abby and Janice had rounded everyone up, and got them ready for the trip. The little kids, Sandy and Dylan stood clutching their teddy bears and looking excited, while Daisy and Kyle, who were not yet teenagers, look less motivated. They all stood in the lounge, waiting to be told where to go. Bobby and Steve joined them, having been up with the adults and running stuff in and out along with Pansy and Damon. Daniels addressed them all.

“Okay, I’m driving truck one, meaning I’m leading up the mountains. I’ll take Janice and her kids, Daisy and Kyle, and Hanson, Harris, and Brandon. Roderick’s driving truck two, so he’ll have Abby with him and her two Sandy and Dylan, along with the youngsters, Bobby and Steve and Pansy and Damon. Is that okay?”

Everyone nodded.

“Now, we’re gonna swing by Rylies, the wholesale store on the way, and I don’t like the idea of any of us being split up, so I suggest we all go in, including the little kids, is that okay Abby?”

“That’s fine by me.”

“Good. Okay, let’s get gone.”

They all filed out to the trucks, which had been left idling to get the heating systems going, and climbed in.

The trip to Rylies was uneventful. They got into the store easily as the others had the day before, and found plenty of what they needed - plus a little more.

The sound of music had spooked them all, as its eerie, sad tone had echoed round the silent warehouse, and brought them all running from the different sections to the central display where they found Damon playing a violin. It had come off a special display of musical instruments, which had been the special the month before the clearing.

When he stopped playing, Damon looked at Daniels, and said, “Is it okay if I take this Wes?”

“It sure is son, and Pansy, grab one of those guitars, I used to play a little when you were younger, if you remember.”

“Sure do, daddy,” she said, as she passed one over to him from the display.

“So did I,” said Brandon, as he picked up another.

It brought a smile to their faces to remember fond times, and gave them hope of recreating them again in their new home.

Everyone pitched in to take their fresh haul out to the trucks, excited to be on the move. And they were packed and strapped, and ready to go in record time, as they set off for the mountains.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

You can read more of my writing on my blog - Finding Clarity - at http://purplequeennl.blogspot.nl/ or join me on Twitter @PurpleQueenNL

#DailyPicspiration

RL Ames Week 140: This Old House

Picture 1


Picture 2


RL Ames’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: This Old House

It’s been empty for years. The walls are bare, cracked, and peeling, but they still hold within them the memories of what once was.

There’s nothing but moth eaten curtains hanging on the dirty windows now, but you can almost imagine how they used to move in the breeze of a warm summer day.

In the kitchen, there was once a great oak table. It easily held ten people, and often did. There were dinners, card games, family meetings: all held around that table. Now it’s just an empty patch of cracked and stained linoleum, the flower pattern long since outdated.

Stained and moldy carpet covers the floor of the living room now, but once it bore the tread of a worried father pacing the floor, anxious for his daughter’s safe arrival home.

Up the stairs, the third one still creaks, there’s the old bathtub. It’s chipped and stained beyond repair now, but it used to be the most magnificent gigantic swimming pool, complete with rubber ducks, tug boats, and a little diver who kicked his legs and swam all the way from one side to the other.

And the big bedroom, the one at the end of the hall, once held a majestic four poster bed. It’s gaunt and sad now, but there are hints of what once was. There are still whispers of the pillow fights and scary stories that were told under the cover and safety of giant homemade quilts.

The porch is a mass of rotting wood now, but it was once the scene of many an afternoon tea party. The overgrown weeds stretch across the once pristine lawn, but at twilight, if you squint your eyes just right, you can see the zipping and zooming of fire flies who dance, just out of reach of chubby little hands.

When the wind blows drifts of snow across the yard on a winter day, you can almost feel the cold bite of snowballs that once whipped through the air as they were released by tiny mitten-covered hands.

The old house sits, neglected and forgotten now, but it knows. It remembers the family it raised. Their lives are forever etched in it’s old bones and in the very soul of this old house.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

RL Ames spends her time chasing after her almost four year old son and sneaks in time for writing whenever she can. She can be found at rlames.weebly.com

#DailyPicspiration

J M Blackman Week 140: Fixed

Picture 1


Picture 2


J.M. Blackman’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Fixed

She is barbed wire. Necessary. Useful. Hard. Sharp. And yet you always want to test the sharpness, though you know it could hurt, though you know it could cut.

You want to try her barriers, though you can clearly see them. You want to try and slip between those lines, despite the fact that you know you can't fit. Despite the fact that you know it isn't a good idea.

You keep pushing against her as if she'll change, as if she'll give.

But the only thing that happens is that you keep scratching yourself. Keep cutting yourself.

You are not a wire cutter. And she is barbed wire. She will not change.

Perhaps if you were wind and water you could weather her; but you're only a man, smooth and warm and squishy.

She is barbed wire.

Necessary. Useful. Hard. Sharp.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

J.M. Blackman is a Language Arts teacheri and a feminist. She endeavors to review nearly everything she reads and is a happy wife. She's a SFF enthusiast, loves dark humor, and has an unhealthy need to protect the image of Batman.

#DailyPicspiration

Mark Ethridge Week 140: If It’s Just A Dream, Let Me Dream (Part 4)

Picture 1


Picture 2


Mark Ethridge’s Picture Choice: One

Title: If It’s Just A Dream, Let Me Dream (Part 4)

I didn’t ask if the suits worked during the flares, I knew they shielded their wearers from the solar radiation of the flares.

“We are ready when you are, General!”

“I’ll need you to distract them.”

One of the blue beings laughed, “We have a plan for that.”

I knew the best time to act was during the flares, when others like me would feel safe, protected by nature. I knew that’s why I had the suits. Oddly enough, they were zip on suits, made of type of plastic. They were not metal. Once I pulled one on, and zipped myself in, I saw a series of control panels on the display.

I remembered.

There was a war within my people. A widespread war. On one side, they fought as God’s Chosen, believing it was their God-given right to rule the universe, and do whatever they wanted to other worlds, and other people. “They are animals. Non-believers. They are in the way of God’s work.”

On the other side, my side, we fought to defend life. All life. Not because we were God’s children. We fought because life was life and as such, sacred. We fought because life was a gift, one to nourish, protect.

It was one of my nightmares come true. I’d always imagined a time when the people of the church and the rest of us could no longer live in peace. It was always started, as history always said, by religion. A hundred worlds had fallen. Untold billions had died. By the hand of Christians. God’s people.

We’d tried to stop ourselves using peaceful means. Negotiation. Laws. Economics. Nothing worked. Religious intolerance overrode every action we took, everything we tried. And the bloodshed continued, world after world. “In God’s name.”

Lacking any other option, we’d gone to war. With ourselves.

It was a war for the soul of our people. A war with no winner. There could only be losers. And death. Never ending death. Until one side destroyed the other, or both sides died out. And in either case, the stars would be filled with our blood

“I’m guessing they took her to their base.”

Blue nodded.

Their base. How typical of them. Mow the surface flat for square miles all around. Build houses, and stores, and whatever they wanted to build. Destroy the life of the area. Stand boldly against nature, protected in armored buildings, as if that were normal. Don’t blend in with the world. If what you wanted killed all life on the planet, it was the will of God.

And they’d be armed. Of course, they were well armed. It was their God-given right to carry weapons of every kind. We’re not talking guns. Guns were so 21st century. Everything was a smart weapon. Designed to kill, with on-board intelligence that continuously refined its aim, guided it to its target. God’s people had nearly mastered the art of murder.

We had our defenses, and our weapons. All based on energy and quantum mechanics. We could turn the air dense, like stone, so their weapons never reached their targets. We had our own weapons, every bit as deadly as theirs. And they had their defenses, every bit as capable as ours. Conventional warfare run wild, pushed to its extreme, to its limits.

We planned our assault on their base, the distractions, the feints, the traps. With me slipping in, using my ability to blend in. I’d locate her. I’d free her. We’d escape. And God’s children would go berserk as they hunted us. They’d destroy everything in their path.

No one knew how many of God’s children would die in the traps we’d have set for them. We knew they’d be coming. We counted on it.

With our plan in place, it was time to eat, and rest.

That night, I slept in a bed, in the caves. Normally, my wife would have slept with me. The next night she would, or I’d be dead. Either way, God’s Children would pay dearly for what they’d done to her, and to the people of Blue’s world.

I slept. And waited. It was almost time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Mark woke up in 2010, and has been exploring life since then. All his doctors agree. He needs to write.

#DailyPicspiration

Samantha Lee Week 140: Masks

Picture 1


Picture 2


Samantha Lee’s Picture Choice: Both

Title: Masks

We all wear masks, some even more so than others. We have to; it’s a simple fact of life that we conform the truth of ourselves to fit the circumstances of any given situation. We’re polite and formal with strangers, easygoing and friendly with acquaintances, respectful and honest with family. We cut ourselves into pieces and recreate who we are, becoming collages of truths buried amongst lies. Sometimes…sometimes I wonder if any of us remember who we really are.

I look at the woman in the bed. She’s beautiful, every contour, every line so perfect you’d think she’d been sculpted by divine hands. Her skin is so tanned its golden hue seems to almost glow against the dark silk sheets and her blood red hair comes off like rubies on black velvet. When she’s awake, when she’s out in public for all the world to see, she wears brightly coloured gowns and stands out like a sparkling jewel amongst any crowd. Her energy all but vibrates around her, her aura an almost visible inferno around her. Asleep…asleep, she’s delicate, fragile, her vibrant energy buried deep within her and contained. It’s one of the greatest lies I’ve ever witnessed.

This woman…she has so many masks. I’ve watched her, studied her, for what seems like centuries now, and I’m still not sure I know who she is, who she really is.

Today she killed a man. She reached her hand into his chest, closed her fingers around his heart, and pulled it out. It was over in a matter of seconds, his body crumpling at her feet. The heart…it actually beat – thump, thump, thump – in her hand before she let it fall to the floor to join his body. She held out her clean hand and her guard gave her a handkerchief to wipe off the blood, her face remaining calm and dispassionate the entire time. Then she walked back to her throne, bounced back into her seat, and smiled as she asked for the next person seeking her audience to step forth.

Once, I watched her order an entire city burned to the ground. She'd been angry, so very, very angry; the city had learned of a troll under one of their bridges, blamed it for their run of recent bad luck, and dragged it out into their city centre to be drawn and quartered. This after having left it tied up for days while the citizens took turns torturing it. The troll had been gentle and compassionate, had never hurt anyone, and, worst of all for the city, had been a friend of hers. She...she's never been very good at grieving. Case and point: after the city was turned to cinders, she ensured all the adult citizens endured deaths as painful and humiliating as his had been, and then cursed their children and all their bloodline to come to wander eternity without ever finding another home.

Ruthless, merciless, and absolute, she swiftly and decisively eliminates any threat to her people with extreme prejudice, accepting no arguments or excuses. What's worse, she learned first hand long ago that death is far from worst fate to endure and her punishments reflect this.

When she was a child, I witnessed the day she came into her power. She was at the ruins of an ancient temple which, unbeknownst to anyone, turned out to be haunted. Enemies of her father, planning to capture her and use her as leverage against him, ambushed her entourage at the ruins. Her bodyguards were killed and her handmaidens brutalized while she hid, curled in a ball on the lap of a seated statue. Over and over, with no one left to hear her, she whispered "Don't let them hurt me. Don't let them hurt me." When the rebels found her, she scrambled back as they reached for her and screamed, the sound echoing through the ruins, the terror vibrating through the stone so deeply that to this day still it echoes there. Following on the fading tail of that note came the erupting wave of her power, a chilling blast that swept out, searching, probing, hunting, trying to find what it needed - what SHE needed - to survive. And it found him - the ghost of the ruins - a djinn who, millennia ago, had been savagely killed where once a palace temple had stood. It took his spirit, gave him flesh, and summoned him to her defence. He slaughtered the rebels, their weapons and magic useless against him, then sat with her until her father’s guards arrived to bring her home.

She has a mate. He's a vampire prince she met when he tried to assassinate her. Repeatedly. Over several decades. Gradually, a sort of affection took seed between them and, with time, grew and flourished, becoming love. The tipping point happened in New York City. He was chasing her over the rooftops, throwing knives at her back as she leapt and spun and danced through the air, her laughter trailing behind her like silk on the wind. Every once in awhile she'd catch his knives and send them spinning back towards him, her twirling motion so graceful she didn't even break stride. Then another assassin decided to take advantage of the distraction the vampire provided to slip ahead of her and stab a blade through her abdomen. As the other assassin moved to slice a second blade across her throat, her vampire saved her, snapping her attacker's neck and pulling her back from the roof's edge. I can still remember the smile she gave him as he frantically tried to apply pressure to her wound, still hear her tone, pain-laced though it was, as she told him, "I thought me dead was the goal here, slayer." His panicked laughter as he told her he wasn't through with their game yet...it was far from fairy tale perfect but it made her smile, made her laugh, made her...happy.

She would never admit it, but she loves attending the lavish balls she's expected to regularly throw. She loves getting to wear the elegant gowns and the fancy hairstyles, loves being able to dance with her mate, loves getting to watch her people indulge themselves, be happy. She'd have them go on forever if she could. She loves cooking, which is ironic given that she doesn’t need to eat, but she enjoys taking this and that and creating delicious meals for others to consume. She can play both the violin and the cello, what she is allowing her to move the bow more swiftly across the strings than any human could, achieving sounds you wouldn't have thought the instruments possible of. She loves to work at her computer, writing code and hacking firewalls just for the fun of it, says it relaxes her. She rearranges furniture on the spur of the moment, sometimes going so far as to redecorate to get the look right. She has cats - a half dozen fairy cats and a dozen more of various breeds from lions and tigers to Siamese and tabbies. They're around her constantly and she delights in spoiling them rotten. She trains - both in martial arts and with weapons - with her wraiths, brother, and mate. She goes out into Faerie and simply plays, freely using her magic, embracing all that she is like a wild bird at long last set free from its cage.

She's linked to her people; she is the source of all magic, all power for her people, and shares in their feelings, be they physical or emotional. She knows every thought, every secret, every action. She knows when they've fallen in love, when they're frightened, when they're hurt. She goes to their weddings, attends their births, mourns each of their passing. She comforts their children in the dark, promising them to keep the monsters at bay. She soothes them in their grief and wrath, protects them when they're vulnerable, and never - NEVER - holds their nature against them, accepting them for what they are without reservation or judgment. She's angry with them - so very, very angry with them; they stood idly by and allowed such horrible things to befall her. She's there for them, always, but when it was she who was trouble, she who needed help and protection, in their fear they did nothing, just idly sat by, then blamed her when she couldn't take anymore and lashed out. Doesn't hold it against them though. I would.

But then night falls and she's simply...this; the vulnerable, delicate little doll asleep in her bed. Her wraiths leave her at night; they cannot bear to watch what's coming, to stand near her and know there is no way for them to help her, to soothe her. Her mate's away on one of his mission, trying to build up his syndicate to compete with his mother's coven. Her brother, her friends...none of them know about this, about what happens at night when the darkness creeps in and the shadows deepen. It begins...it begins like it always does, with a moan. She starts to twist and turn and kick and roll, her moans turning to screams as she called for a father murdered long ago and begged for an end impossible for her. I wonder sometimes if she realizes that, gripped in the claws of her nightmares, her glamour slips. The scars of her past - the jagged cuts, the smooth slices, the web-like burns, all of it - are laid bare, the illusion of her perfect beauty gone, the reality of her marred and damaged skin revealed. She...she has so many. Claw scratches - now four parallel scars - slash across the left side of her face. Burns are random patches on her sides and legs. Her back bears the marks of repeated lashings. Her torso is a network of incisions, the result of repeated vivisections conducted, the torturer claimed, for science. She...her nightmares were earned, are justified. Her scars...they're not just on the outside.

I go closer, kneeling beside her, wanting to offer comfort but unable to do more than watch, bear witness, and remember. Remember nights long ago - so very, very long ago - when she'd cry out for me and I could go to her. My mother, she told me that comfort bred weakness, that strength needed to be forged through pain and suffering successfully endured. My mother, in other words, was more than a little cold. I was, I'd like to think, more compassionate in my views and, consequently, more pragmatic in my practices. I would comfort my daughter, soothe her nightmares. I would race with her through the forest, play hide and seek with her in the palace, practice magic with her in our gardens, teach her swordplay in the ballroom. She used to love archery but her eyesight...after she came into her power, she couldn't see as well, couldn't aim accurately. She was heartbroken; her wraith - the djinn from the ruins - started teaching her knife-throwing not long afterwards.

I don't know if my empathy bred weakness, but for almost a century, my daughter knew happiness, knew laughter, knew joy. I knew. I knew that monsters would come, knew that her years would fill with torment one after the other, knew that the darkness would swallow her whole and set to shredding her with its claws. Before she ever took her first breath, I knew how one day her voice would grow hoarse from screaming, how one day her mind would snap under the deluge of constant pain. I knew. I even understood it was necessary. But...but I wanted her to have something more, something bright and full of joy that she could cling to in her darkest moments, something to remind her that the hell she endured was but a perversion, to show her that life could be so much more than what it had become for her. My daughter...my darling girl...

Her cat - a fairy breed she found half-dead as a kitten centuries ago - leaps up onto the bed. He nudges her with his nose until she shifts enough for him to slip in next to her, shifting his size from domestic kitty to something larger, something wilder. She sighs and snuggles against him, her glamour rippling over her once more, her peace restored for tonight.

So, yes, we all wear masks, some even more so than others. We have to; the truth of who and what we are...if everyone saw it, if it was laid bare for all the world to see...it would destroy us. And so we hide, we bury deep our secret selves, and we present to the world what the masks we need to. It's, to put it simply, survival.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

You can read my blog - Calliope's Domain - over at calliopedomain.blogspot.ca

#DailyPicspiration

Lizzie Koch Week 140: Innocence Lost

Picture 1


Picture 2


Lizzie Koch’s Picture Choice: 2

Title: Innocence Lost

What if you die?” Casey asked her father. “Who’ll protect me then?”

“I’m not going to die Casey,” Fynn reassured.

“That’s a stupid thing to say. Everyone dies.” She stared at him, noting a flicker of defeat belying his self assured, firm expression. “I need to start protecting myself because one day . . . you won’t be able to.” She spoke softly. Arguing and shouting at her father never worked.

“Promise me you stay close. Do as I say.”

Casey smiled, taking the rifle.

This was Casey’s world now. She had to learn to fight and defend instead of babysitting the kids. She’d killed her fair share of Biters; it wasn’t easy . . . at first. She had to shake the thought there was anything human left about them. Once she did that, there was no more hesitations.

Raiders were different.

There were two types of human; Survivors or Raiders. Casey’s group were Survivors, trying to make a community, to settle in one place for as long as possible. Defending against Biter’s was easy. It was the Raiders who made surviving difficult.

And they were fast approaching.

They never negotiated. They never showed mercy. They took what they wanted and destroyed what they didn’t. Including people.

“Keep your eye on one target. Don’t change your mind, Don’t hesitate,” Fynn whispered as they bunked down behind the barricade. “You boys OK?” he asked AJ and Jack. They were in Casey’s class at school. It was their first time on the front line too. They nodded.

Silence crept across the camp. Her trigger finger trembled. Waiting was the worst. It seemed like an eternity but she knew the Raiders were waiting for the sun to set which wasn’t long as streaks of red blazoned across the sky, bidding the sun farewell.

“And remember,” Fynn said, “shoot to kill.”

As he finished, the silence cracked. Casey couldn’t decide whether the Raiders were clever or stupid. Raiders preferred quieter methods of killing which meant getting in real close. Up against a bullet; no contest. But noise attracted any nearby Biters and the Raiders were vulnerable. It didn’t seem to bother Casey’s father as he fired shot after shot. Her head felt like it was splitting. She couldn’t concentrate, her eyes ached as she tried to focus on a target. Right in front of her. Stooped and moving quickly, the target was in easy range. She tried to block out the surrounding mayhem, the shouts as AJ was hit in the shoulder.

Her breathing steadied.

She squeezed the trigger.

The target crumbled. Still.

No one noticed. But Casey did. She couldn’t lift her eyes from the body, lying a few feet away. She didn’t notice the gunfire peeter out until an uncomfortable silence descended.

The Raiders were gone, leaving their dead.

“You did good,” Fynn said, resting a hand on Casey’s shoulder. “Real good.”

She was about to reply when a faint groaning echoed through the dark, over the boundary.

“I’ll check it out. Stay here.” Fynn scrambled over the boundary with Jack. Casey watched as they dragged a body back, where Casey had hit her target.

“Is he still alive?” she asked as the man groaned.

“Barely.” Casey looked on as her father stripped off the man’s headgear, revealing a young face who, if things were different, could have been in the same class as Casey. She felt sick. Her first kill wasn’t a kill and it wasn’t a man. “We’ll get him to sick bay.”

Casey wasn’t allowed in but Jack gave her his belongings to search through. There wasn’t much. A few sticks of gum, a bottle of water, a roll of money which was useless in this new world and a tatty music magazine. He liked the same bands she did.

A hand gently shook Casey awake. She had fallen asleep, clasping the magazine. She looked up into her father’s tired face. “I’m sorry Casey. He didn’t make it.” His arms wrapped around her, no longer able to shield her from death, from pain. The last shred of her innocence died with the boy.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

I dream of sharing my work with the big wide world one day as a published author. Right now, I share flash fiction with a wonderful community of writers and friends. If you liked this story, then why not visit my blog at http://40somethingundomesticateddevil.blogspot.co.uk/ for more. Thank you. Love Lizzie x

#DailyPicspiration

Laura James Week 139: The Collector (Part 3)

Picture 1


Picture 2


Laura James’s Picture Choice: Two

Title: The Collector (Part 3)

Hector was struggling. It was taking far longer than he wanted to get his brothers room ready for the collection. It didn't help that he could only enter the room when both his parents were out of the house and these days they rarely left together. Even if they did it was never for more than a couple of hours which was hardly enough time for his plans to progress very far. His resentment was building to breaking point.

He had become so good at avoiding his parents that he was surprised when they approached him at breakfast. "It's the anniversary next week." Hector stopped stirring his cereal and looked at his mother. Anniversary? What the hell was she talking about? He raised an eyebrow. "Your father and I don't feel we can be here. The pain will be too great." Oh now he got it, next week was the anniversary of his brother's death.

Sitting back in his chair he crossed his arms waiting for her to continue, sickened by the way she was clutching his father's hand, still grieving for her favourite son. "We're taking a break. Heading to the holiday home," his mother shrugged "better memories, you know."

They were leaving him alone. Elated Hector concentrated on not letting his joy show, his mind already working out how much he could accomplish while they were away. He was so focused on his plans that he missed what she said. "Sorry, what was that?"

"We don't want you to be alone, he was your brother after all." His father said, "So, your grandparents are coming to stay."

All Hector's plans tumbled away in his mind. His grandparents. He was disgusted. The simpering old fools would never leave him alone, his plans were all for nothing. He would never realise his dream. Pushing back from the table he stood, "Whatever, I'm going out."

He slammed the door and headed into the garden. When he had started down his current path, his life had purpose now he began to wonder if he had been kidding himself all these months. Maybe this was a sign to give up. It was getting harder and harder to keep his dream alive. He stopped in front of a tree, anger and frustration spilling out through his hands as he punched the tree over and over. Not noticing when his knuckles became broken and bloody, not feeling any pain when bits of skin were left on the hard bark.

The constant pounding of flesh on wood helped clear his mind. Anger spent he had a new plan. He would act the perfect grandson until his parents left and then he would create new bloody memories commemorating his brother's anniversary. They were old. They had lived a long life. No one would miss them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Like what you just read? Have a question or concern? Leave a note for the author! We appreciate your feedback!

Based in Dunfermline, Scotland, Laura is obsessed with all things horror and spends her time writing flash fiction which she hopes, on occasion, really scares her readers. Feel free to stalk her on twitter, @lejamez

#DailyPicspiration