  Horror/Scary
This week: Edited by: W.D.Wilcox  
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We don’t know the days that will change our lives.
Probably just as well.
There’s no glimpse of what will come. It just happens. One moment you’re driving along looking at the cruelest April of your life, thinking about a carpenter from Nazareth who stupidly got himself crucified, and then BAM!
Or maybe, you'll be sipping at that first cup of morning coffee when a major stroke grips your chest leaving you partially paralyzed and half your memory gone.
The fact is, we just don’t know. There’s no warning. Never is. One minute everything’s same-old-same-old, and the next, you’re hooked up to some damn machine in a hospital or something.
The truth is, we never know when Mr. Black is gonna come calling.
This is a mistake. This is also how lives change forever.
Today is one of those untrustworthy days, when it looks as if spring might really be coming, but instead there’s a bit of nastiness just up ahead. Of course at this point, you have no idea how nasty a day can get; no idea that perhaps you’re going to finish this one in a hospital room, smashed up and fighting for your goddam life.
You’re probably thinking it’s just another day under an everlasting sky, same-old-same-old, but this day could be different; this day there could be no warning. Then oh man, why is the world so hard? Why are there so many edges for your fingers, so many metal parts eager to grab for your guts?
Change comes upon you sudden and unannounced, as it always does; if change needed permission, it would cease to exist. We don’t know the days that will change our lives.
Probably just as well.
Until next time,
billwilcox
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Gripping Tales Of Terror & Horror (And Other Words That End With -or)
Excerpt: “Oh, Jackson. Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”
Before I could answer she leaped into the air grabbing the ceiling over my head and crawled on all fours like a lizard out of the room. I spun on my heel and followed her into the living room. She saw my pursuit and turned to hiss a reptilian curse at me. I paused by the kitchen to grab a knife from the countertop. Nancy scurried to the corner of the room where what remained of Herman was and dropped to the floor. I approached with the knife held behind my back. She was biting at the corpse tearing away mouthfuls of meat.
“Nancy, what’s going on? What is this?”
She chewed on the meat in her mouth and swallowed. I saw her neck swell as the meat passed down her throat.
| |  | Jack it (13+)
Some deals ARE too good to be true....3rd place winner storypassers short story contest
#1529424 by M. Kizer  |
Excerpt: Greg unzipped each of the two side pockets and plunged his hands inside. Glancing to his left, he once again relished in his reflected image. The jacket looked great on him. He pivoted at various angles and admired his new possession, hands in, and out of pockets. His fingers brushed lightly against something soft, jammed far into the corner of the pocket of the left hand side. With some considerable effort, Greg managed to retrieve the object and liberate it from its dark confines.
Crumpled and beaten within the jacket’s pocket for who knew how long, the tiny shred of white paper he pulled free was febrile - almost cottony. He uncrumpled it. No bigger than half a match book, the words - ‘operty of Clyde Robins – Do Not Touch!’ - were scribbled in blue ink across the small tattered piece of material. Greg realized what he was holding was the tag, long since torn from the stitching of the pocket’s lining. A small portion was missing, the jagged edge cut off part of the first word, but it was easy enough to decipher. He rolled the tissue-soft scrap of material back into a ball and tossed it back into the box full of packing foam without another thought.
| |  | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1304626 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: I stay with Amy until the very end. With every second, she grows colder and number. The tub is so red now that it looks like she’s bathing in tomato juice. Later her parents will come home and find her. They’ll pick her cold, naked body out of the water. After they drain the tub, they’ll have to get on their hands and knees and scrub the blood out of the porcelain. And they’ll blame themselves. For not paying attention. For not loving her enough. The guilt will plague them for the rest of their lives. Whenever they hear Chopin, they’ll see the dead stare of their daughter’s eyes. They’ll remember the feel of her cold, wet skin.
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#542528 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: From the time I was four years old I hated him.
He seemed to live on the faded, rose-patterned sofa. His sparse white hair was always frizzed with electricity, and his eyes, magnified by thick lenses, seemed as large as golf balls. His left eye was a watery blue; his right eye a milky clot of cataract-clouded iris. His nose was bulbous, pitted, and shiny with an oily sheen.
I saw him once, when he didn't know I was watching, press the pad of his thumb beneath his nose and push upward. Thread-like snakes of yellowish pus oozed from his cratered snout, covering his nose as if with a blanket of dirty snow. He wiped one side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger, gathering up the eruption of blackheads and pimples into a single wad the size of a pea, then lifted his finger toward his shriveled mouth.
| | | Invalid Item
This item number is not valid.
#1470271 by Not Available. |
Excerpt: I first noticed the strange back pains, on my twelfth birthday, when Aunt Ithea came to visit. It began with a sharp tingling sensation just under my shoulder blades and gradually grew to a pesky agitation in my skin. I tried to ignore it but it felt like a five pound housefly kept landing on me. Not even rubbing my back with a hairbrush could eliminate the annoying itch. I remember thinking: I wish I had a friend to help me.
Excerpt: Harold Petersen had a bad habit—a dirty secret that made him feel good—little girls. He had other bad habits, but it was this one that he loved—the one he couldn’t quit—the one that got him killed.
Harold was forty-seven-years-old, paunchy, and balding on top, which he cleverly covered by changing the way he greased and parted his hair. He wore thick glasses with a strip of masking tape wrapped around the frame at the nosepiece where they were cracked and broken. He buttoned every button on his shirt, all the way to the collar, and wore his pants above his beltline so that his failing white socks showed.
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Elaine's Beary Limited*~
Submitted Comment:
Wonderful. This was a good newsletter. The short part of a story you added sent cold chills down my back. I loved it. I also liked the information you put in on writing horror from the imagination.
-- Thanks Elaine. I was just trying to show that ANY situation can be turned into horror if you look at it in a different way.
Acme
Submitted Comment:
And...? Oh, Bill, you can not leave me hanging on that beach... write it up in a static and send me a link  .
-- But Acme, there is no more. It was just an example of using a mundane situation and twisting it into something scary. Why don't you take over from there and tell me what happens next. |
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Horror/Scary: April 08, 2009 Issue [#2992]
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