Writer Wednesday: Week Thirty-one

Hey, everyone! Welcome to Week Thirty-one of Writer Wednesday. It's the week of Halloween. I hope everyone's having a ghoulish time. Anyway, onward to this week's author.

This week's featured author is (Ann) Parker Burgess. Below you can find links to her sites and works.


Ann's website

Ann's works on Smashwords

Ann's Amazon Author Page


Ann's Books on Amazon:


When Angels Cry

Guardian Angel

The Lore of Lauder: Discovery of Lies

Hidden Truths and Dangers: The Lore of Lauder Book 2



Thanks for joining me this week. Hope to see you all again, next week. Remember, please help support indie authors by leaving them reviews for their books on sites such as Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes & Nobels, and any other sites you like to leave reviews.

Snippet Saturday: When Coral met Marshall

That smell. It consumed me. Even over the never-ending scent of frying oil, French fries, onion rings, and hamburgers.

My stomach knotted, squeezing in on itself like I hadn’t eaten in days, but I’d had to force the double cheeseburger I’d ordered down my throat moments before. Hungry, but a damn cheeseburger isn’t what I’d wanted.

No. What I wanted I heard coursing through the veins of every person that sat in the restaurant with me. I wanted it so bad, I thought I could smell it. No, I actually could smell it, which had never happened before, at least not until it was flowing free from the confines of the flesh that held it.

I glanced around at the tables. Not including the workers, I had my pick of six people—two couples, a lone male, and a lone female. One of the couples would’ve been a bit harder to persuade than the other, as they were both male. My lack of dangly bits meant I would’ve needed to work harder to get their attention, and I wasn’t in the mood to work that hard. I also knew, I wasn’t going to have the patience for two, not that night; as it turned out, I didn’t even have enough for one. So, that ruled out both the couples.

The man probably would’ve been my best bet. He was closer to me than the others. He would have been the easiest. Well, until the end of the night when I’d have to do some heavy-lifting to get him in and out of my car. Even with that, I considered him.

I pushed my seat back, and he looked up when the chair scraped against the floor. Mustard rested on his chin, and somehow, he had ketchup in the hair of his right sideburn. I looked over at the lone woman, a blonde, as she held her eyes on the door. She was waiting for someone. I put my eyes back to the man, and his connected with mine. He smiled.

Crap, I thought as I looked away quickly, noticing the bathroom. I headed toward it. The gag-inducing scent of sour sweat wafted to my nostrils as I passed by, making my decision for me. It would’ve taken weeks for that to air out of the fabric of my car seats after he’d sat in them nearly four hours.

I shoved the door open harder than I meant to, causing its handle to slam into the tile of the wall. It cracked. I didn’t have to look to know that it did; I’d heard it. I went to the sink and splashed water on my face, blowing out a breath as I used a paper towel to dry the water.

“What is wrong with you, Coral?” I said to myself, irritably.

The sound of footsteps had me tense, hoping it wasn’t an employee coming to inquire about the door or wall. Relief flooded me when I saw the blonde step into the bathroom. I hadn’t noticed before but her eyes were red and puffy, like she’d been crying. I went to say something, but she rushed into a stall.

Screw it. I just took blood two days ago. I can go a few more without it, I lied to myself. I mean, I’d always craved it. Even when I was too young to know that’s what I wanted every time I got disappointed by a bright red tomato. But I never wanted it so bad. Especially not so soon after taking a couple days prior. I almost felt as if I was losing control.

The sound of quiet sobs brought me back to the reality that I was standing in the bathroom. I dragged my hands down my face, and I released a loud huff, causing the woman to hold her breath in the stall. I entertained the thought of asking her to come home with me before dismissing it, and then I walked back out of the bathroom. I went to the table where my stuff was, gathered it, and placed it in the trash.

I reached for the door only to have it move away from my incoming hand. Realizing that someone on the other side was pulling it open, I looked up and into the teal eyes of a man with light brown hair. He smiled, and I smiled back.

“Thank you,” I said as the scent of him infiltrated my thoughts, making my mouth water and my mind scramble to control my actions. He smelled so much better than anyone inside.

We stood there for a moment, and I watched as his eyes transfixed and almost glazed over.

“You’re welcome,” he said slowly, as if he were in a daze.

Before I knew what I was saying, the words flew from my mouth. “Hey, you want to get out of here? Go back to my place? Have a little fun?” I quirked my eyebrow at him.

I failed to mention, it was almost a two-hour drive, but he was more than willing to follow me to my car and get in. More than willing to go with me, a complete and utter stranger.

And as the door swung shut, I heard a woman, desperation in her voice. “Where are you going? I’ve been waiting here for hours.” I didn’t have to turn to see it was the blonde. I could still hear the tears she’d shed in her words.

*Halfborn is currently on sale for a mere 99¢ until the end of the month before returning to its regular price. Please consider purchasing a copy and showing your support for an indie author. Also, don't forget to leave a review if you read or have read Halfborn. Thanks!

Universal Amazon link: Halfborn

Writer Wednesday: Week Thirty

Guess what, everyone? We've hit Week Thirty of Writer Wednesday! If you've been with Writer Wednesday since the beginning, that's awesome. Still awesome if you joined in along the way. Do make sure to check out past posts and see who's all been featured so far along this journey.

This week's featured author is Charlotte Holley. Charlotte helped to start a small indie publishing company, Gypsy Shadow Publishing, back in 2009. Below are links you can find Charlotte, her books, and publishing website.


Charlotte Holley's Facebook Author Page

Gypsy Shadow Publishing Facebook Page

Gypsy Shadow Publishing website

Charlotte's books on Smashwords

Charlotte's books on Barnes and Noble

Charlotte's Amazon Author Page



I was going to list Charlotte's book links from Amazon, but my computer's being a huge pain. It's okay, though, because you can find all of her books through the links above.

Thanks for joining me this week, and I hope to see you next week for another Writer Wednesday. Remember, please, leave reviews for authors.

Short Story Saturday: Plan

PLAN

BOOM!

I crumple to the floor in agonizing pain. Well, that certainly hurt more than I thought it would. Why does it still hurt? This isn't how it's supposed to go.

I open my eyes, which I'd pinned shut right before. Well, I open my right eye as the left doesn't seem to want to cooperate. Speaking of things not wanting to cooperate, I can't get either of my legs or arms to work. I try to focus the vision in my lone eye and work to make sense of what I'm seeing.

Of all the junk in this old, abandoned barn to land in front of, I'm unlucky enough to have fallen on my side in front of a dingy mirror. I can see every bit of damage I've done to myself, purposely and not. I didn't mean for that piece of rebar to jam itself through my neck. I guess I figured out why I can't move. But, my face . . . that I did on purpose, though I had no intentions on seeing the aftermath.

I'm not sure what my dad had loaded in his shotgun, but I'm betting it wasn't the best thing for killing yourself with. My angle must have been off too. Also, I now knew why I couldn't see anything with my left eye. Somewhere in the pile of blood and meat bits that is the left side of my head is the eye, but I can't decipher which pile of goo and gore it is. I also can't seem to pinpoint my ear. There are a few teeth sitting in the bloody flesh, though.

I should've done this on a Friday, so I know someone would show up, and they could put me out of my misery. But, no, I just had to be a dumbass and do it on a Tuesday. Nobody comes to the barn during the week.

***

It's dark now, and I can't see. The sun set a while ago. There's a scurrying on the floor. Then something tugs at the mutilated flesh until it rips a chunk free and runs away. It happens several times during the night.

***

I wake to the sun shining on my face and an irritating tickling sensation. I look at my reflection. The blood has dried and has more of a brown color to it now. The meat bits have paled from their bright pink color, and there are areas of bone showing from where the animals in the night stole chunks of flesh.

Something catches my attention in the mirror as it flits around. More than one, and I register the smell as I figure out what's flying around my face. Blow flies. A whole swarm of them. I quickly process what they're doing and cringe inwardly. I guess the cringe wasn't as inward as I thought as the pungent taste of pus wets my overly dry tongue.

By mid-afternoon, the gore that is the left side of my face is coated in a sickly, yellow tinted slime that if looked at carefully moves and slides. It's not the pus itself moving, but the newly hatch maggots that are feasting on it. I've long since felt the original pain and am left with a dull sensation of the squirmy little fucks slipping in and out of the dead flesh they feed upon.

It takes a much shorter amount of time than one would think for the maggots to grow. Once barely visible specs are now easily seen in just a few short hours, but it'll be dark soon. By the last of daylight, I watch as they begin to make their way into my nose from my mouth where there are just too many of them—some must find other places to go. The pain as they burrow themselves into undamaged flesh is becoming unbearable. Though, there's nothing I can do. I try to scream, but the sharp intake of air forces a clump of maggots down my windpipe, and I feel as if I'm choking.

***

It's dark now. I know I will never see daylight again as I feel the slimy creeps begin to dig into my good eye. I don't know how much longer this will go on, but the last thing that comes to my mind is that this situation is so much worse than what brought me to this old barn, to begin with, and I wonder why I thought it would be a good idea. I wanted to end my suffering, not cause more. Nothing ever goes the way I plan.




*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty-nine

Hey, everyone! We've made it to Week Twenty-nine of Writer Wednesday. Honestly, some days, I'm not sure I'll make it through to the next day, but here we are, another week's passed.

This week's featured author is Scott Butcher. We'll actually have his alter-ego/penname show up here sometime in the future. I thought about having both on one post, but I decided to keep it simple. So, here we go. You know the drill, unless you're new. You can find Scott and his works at the following links:


Scott Butcher's Facebook Author Page

Scott Butcher's Amazon Author Page


Books:

The Soul of Nemach and the Temple of Bast

The Soul of Nemach and the Burbank Adventure

The Fairly Stillwart Chronicles

An Eagle's Heart

One Million Project: Fantasy Anthology  Scott joins 39 other awesome authors to make up this anthology. All stories were donated freely, and proceeds go to UK Cancer Research and EMMAUS charities.


Thank you for joining me this week, and I hope to see you all again next week for Week Thirty of Writer Wednesday. Remember, please leave reviews for the books you read and have read. It means more to the author than you could imagine. Also, please don't download books from pirate sites; authors don't get paid for those books, and most indie authors can't afford to produce more books for you to read if they're not getting paid for the ones they've already written and published.

Short Story Saturday: Cleaner

CLEANER

The moonlight shines brightly off the blade of my knife. It's quiet out, aside from my knife sliding across the whetstone in my hands and the sound of steady, rhythmic breathing. I'm standing just outside the darker shadows of the tree near me.

I set the whetstone on the tailgate of my truck. Then I run my left thumb over the blade. I can't tell right away, as there is no pain or blood, but I know that the skin had been sliced. I place the knife in its sheath then turn my attention to my thumb. Still no blood. I take my right hand and squeeze the thumb between my other one and the pointer finger of my left hand. There it is, the dark red fluid leaks from the self-inflicted wound. I stare at it for a minute. My pulse quickening. Finally, I stick the digit in my mouth and suck. I love the coppery taste and the thickness of the blood on my tongue.

A moan from behind distracts my pleasure. “What the fuck?”

Ah, she's awake. It's about time, I think. Though, she doesn't need to be awake for me to do what I'm getting paid for. Not to mention the bonus steaks I get if the client's happy.

I hear chains, not so much clinking but adjusting as the woman hanging upside-down behind me struggles. I turn to face her. There's a stream of moonlight that shines through the tree branches at exactly the right angle to bathe her in it. Her hands hang below her head; they're four, maybe five, inches from the ground. I stare at them longingly for several minutes. I think how I'll keep them for myself. They're handcuffed together, giving her less of a range of motion. My eyes drift up past her face, which is twisted in a mix of discomfort and rage, to her breast. They sit higher on her chest than they should from the pull of gravity. My eyes travel further, skimming over her navel that had a piercing, but I took it out when I removed her clothes. I pass over her slit, it's shaved completely, except for a thin strip of trimmed hair. I stop where the chains wrap around her ankles. Her legs are spread.

I always wish I could use hooks, but I've tried it before. The weight of the person tears the tendons, and my prey ends up with a broken neck. What fun is that? If they don't die, they can't struggle. That brings me no excitement.

“Joke's over, you sick fuck! Let me down,” she screams and struggles again against her bindings. Her hair sweeping across the ground.

I laugh. “That's not going to happen, sweetheart. I've got an order to fill.”

I turn back around and head toward my truck. I grab the whetstone and put it in the glove box, and I return to the bed, pulling the large cooler, heavy with ice, to the tailgate. I retrieve a bucket from the bed and return to the woman, setting it in front of her.

“What are you doing?” she asks and swings around a bit, still trying to break free.

I say nothing as I walk behind her. I wrap her hair in my left hand and pull it as tight as possible, and then I use my knife to cut her hair as close to the scalp as I can without cutting it. She screams. I toss the hair to the ground as I make my way back to the bucket. I slide it under her head. Her shoulders are nearly touching the rim of the bucket. I'd almost hung her too low.

Her screams and cries are now echoed. “You can't do this. Do you know who I am? Just stop, I can give you money. I won't even tell anyone.”

“Don't you know how to shut up?” I say and grasp her chin, pushing it down.

I bring my knife from directly underneath one earlobe, around her throat, and to the same location under the other ear. I can hear the blood spray the wall of the bucket. She gurgles for a minute. Soon there's just the sound of dripping—more blood joining the blood that's already filled the bucket at least a quarter of the way.

I wait for the dripping to stop being so frequent, and I remove the bucket, taking it to the truck and place the lid on it. I put this bucket in a large trough that has ice in it, some of which has already melted and the bucket slides past the ice easily. I take a second bucket and place it in front of the woman. I get to work. First, I remove her hands and place them in a gallon sized baggy, tossing it to the ground, and then I skin her. Some clients prefer to have the skin intact but not this one; they also want the meat boneless. I run my knife down her middle, starting at her pelvis and working my way to her collarbone. Her guts spill forward and down. I remove them carefully from the cavity from which they came, trying my hardest not to damage any of the organs as I placed them in the bucket.

After closing the second bucket and placing it in the trough next to the other, I go back to the woman. Well, what's left of her. I begin removing the meat from her bones, putting each piece in the cooler as I remove it. I start with her calves, using a step ladder to reach the highest areas, and I end by removing her tongue and eyes. I've also removed her ribs intact.

Once there's nearly only a skeleton remaining, I close the lid to the cooler. I climb in the bed of the truck and pull the cooler off the tailgate and further into the bed. I close the lid upon returning my feet to the ground.

I take the bones down from the tree, along with the chains and other hardware. The bones I place in a garbage bag to take home to our dogs. Our dogs love it when I bring them special treats. The chains, hardware, and the gallon bag that contain her hands I put in the toolbox in the bed of my truck. I tuck the garbage bag in a compartment under the back seat before getting in and driving to the butcher. I'm only the hunter and cleaner. Josh, he's the one that fills the order. You know: steaks, sausage, roast. All that good stuff.




*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection.

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty-eight

It's Week Twenty-eight of Writer Wednesday.

This week's featured author is Sheena Macleod. Sheena is a fellow One Million Project member. You can find her and her works at the links below:


Sheena's Facebook Author Page

Sheena's Twitter

Sheena's Amazon Author Page


Books:

Reign of Marionettes

So, You Say I Can't Vote!: Frances Conelly: The Working-Class Women's Route to the Vote


Thank you for joining me this week, and I'll see you again next week. Remember to leave reviews for the books you read.

Short Story Saturday: Soup

SOUP

Firmly, I insert my blade just above his groin. I can feel the metal graze against the top of his pelvic bone. I've sharpened the knife enough to do the job I need it to. Pressing on the handle, I feel the blade slip past the muscle wall, and I stop. I bring the hilt back to where the end hovers above his navel. The tip of the blade gets held up under his pelvic bone, and I draw it a half inch higher up his stomach, feeling it slice easily through skin, fat, and muscle, and then unwedge from under the bone.

Screams have been escaping the man the entire time, muffled by the silk I've tied around his head and over his mouth. I'm sure the cries of pain will continue until he passes out from shock or dies—It all depends on how strong he is.

Keeping the pressure on the knife, I begin drawing the blade upward along his abdomen allowing it to slice through the muscle wall but not damaging any organs. Following the line of his happy trail, I cut through his belly button. Blood begins running out of the fissure that I've created and down his sides. Still, I pull the knife further.

His body trembles. I look to his face, tears have long since welled and ran to his hairline—tiny, salty rivers—and for a second, I feel pity towards him. Though, just that small fraction of time and I feel as if I wasted too much on him. He's only getting what he deserves.

I've reached the rib cage with my knife. As my blade moves slightly to the left of his sternum, I use more force to cut through the costal cartilage, and he passes out. I could stop to see if he regains consciousness, but he'll probably bleed out and die first. I want his heart beating when I cut it from his chest.

Working as quickly as I can, I rip my knife through the cartilage holding the ribs to the sternum. Realizing I've gone too far, I slip my blade through the flesh above the third rib down and slide it over toward his armpit.

I remove the piece of steel from his flesh, laying it on the table. Using both hands, I grab the section of ribs and pull back with brute strength. Bones break as I bend the slab down to the wooden table the man is lain upon. To hold the meat and bone down, I quickly retrieve a hammer and some nails I've previously set to the side. After pounding in several nails, I then toss the hammer to the floor.

Fumbling around inside his chest for a moment, I get my hand around his heart, and I grab the knife from the table with my free hand. I locate where I need to cut, and in seconds, the heart is free, pumping its last few beats. On the other side of the room, a fire burns within the fireplace. I go there and throw the lifeless muscle into the flames.

"At least your heart will finally show its true color and keep it as it turns to ash, you worthless mother fucker."

I return to the corpse on the table. Before wrapping him in plastic and putting him in my trunk—so I can later throw him in the woods to be a feast for scavengers—I cut his eyes, ears, and tongue from his head, and then his liver, kidneys, and spleen from his body. I plan to make a soup with these things later, which I'll deliver to his friends and family as they gather for their yearly reunion. Maybe they'll wonder what happened to him. Maybe they won't. Or, maybe they'll be relieved that he isn't there and celebrate his absence.

*This story can be found in my short story collection, Images from a Wandering Mind: a Sick and Disturbing Collection.

Writer Wednesday: Week Twenty-seven

I know, I know, another late week. Hey, I'd apologize, but, well, sometimes that's just how life is. Anyway, we've got another quick post this week.

So, this week's featured author is J.L. Akers (or J. Lee Akers). Akers' book is a book of poetry. I think (it's been a long day) this is another first for Writer Wednesday, so, seriously, go check it out. It has an awesome cover, also.

I only have the Amazon link, so I'm including the Goodreads page, too.


Wicked Dreams and Beautiful Nightmares

 Goodreads page for Wicked Dreams and Beautiful Nightmares



Thanks for joining me this week, and I hope to see you all again next week. Remember to support your favorite indie authors by leaving reviews for their work. It means a lot to them, I promise.