Flash Fiction No. 87



Charcoal bags. She flushed her face with ice cold water but they didn’t shift away. Not make up, then; just lack of sleep.

Silver gleamed in sawn-off light. She sluiced the blade in the icy torrent, destroying the evidence beneath the tap. The water ran red before paling as it circled the plug hole. It was important to keep your instruments clean.

Towel on metal rubbed away the damp markers until water stains were non-existent. A slip and her thumb wept crimson, lips surrounding the wound to stem the flow. She put the weapon away. Carefully concealed, it was more useful than any other ally.

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Flash Fiction No. 78


The Love of Tragedy & Beauty

Serrated metal rakes bone. I grit my teeth, swallowing down the pain and closing my eyes real tight. The bone vibrations reach right into my shoulder blades as I grip the knife harder. Blood glistens on steel.

I am sweating, but I must complete my task.

Breath heaving in my chest, I shake off the pause and keep sawing until I almost pass out. Then I realise I must stop again. I must breathe. I must let the oxygen reach my near-mortal lungs.

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Divine Hell Fiction: Heresy


“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured, anointing his forehead with the red liquid. It dripped down to his lips and he closed his eyes.

They all told him that it was perfectly natural. This was the right order of things. He ought to enjoy it.

Savour it, even.
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