Posts Tagged ‘Nightshade’

sheep-and-car

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for all her work and organization. You can visit her site and read through the other Flash Fiction postings at:

http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2014/05/14/16-may-2014/

For those who are new, Rochelle shares a photo prompt to which several #FridayFictioneers compose a 100-word flash of fiction. Come, the carnival of screams awaits.

Here’s my contribution:

Not What You’re Thinking

The heat was high, the day long, and the night would be even longer. Willy minded his control panel and his lazy eye gazed across the grounds as the gate opened. The flood of prospects spilled into his world.

He swallowed his welling saliva with savoring anticipation.

Willy hadn’t shaved, hadn’t even bathed in two days but he paid it no mind because here they came, these bewitchers, each manicured to perfection, so fresh and nubile. He felt that little tingle and his mind drifted to pleasures and lust and pain and screams.

Yes, tonight would be a good night.

 jKb

Two nights prior Nightshade’s Carnival of Screams had rolled into this very quaint Virginian town. With this carnival comes worse horrors than ‘ol Willy. He’s quite a docile soul when things are right. Mostly he takes tickets and smiles and operates the spinning cups. But like many, he is darker in some places, deeper place, secret places. I think you’re putting the pieces together. So, it’s not what you were thinking. It’s way, way worse.

 

FLASHFICTIONFRIDAY PROMPT WATERTOWER

Thank you to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for all her work and organization. You can visit her site and read through the other Flash Fiction Friday postings at:

http://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2013/07/03/5-july-2013/

For those who are new, Rochelle shares a photo prompt to which several #FridayFictioneers compose a 100-word flash of fiction. Come, see the devil in the church.

Much thanks to Mr. Bradbury, I feel like a thief.

Here’s my contribution:

Carnival Of Screams

It was from this vantage, high up where the belly of the water tower only yesterday marked the town of Bristleburg, five teens had climbed to watch the sun dissolve behind the Blue Ridge. The cork pop of the dandelion wine seemed to bring forth a queer gurgling of engines and mechanical music. These children bore witness as the Nightshade Carnival of Screams arrived.

The top hat man who’d called himself James was festooned in ink and knots of scarred tissue. Despite the appearance, his velvety voice soothed and beckoned, aroused and titillated the town-folk.

He’d charmed them all.

Almost.

jKb