Storm Front- Friday Flash

STORM FRONT

By Melissa L. Webb

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Joy Westcott stood at the window. Streaks of light danced across the sky, heralding in a dark bank of clouds.  She shivered as the first rain drops struck the glass. They beat out a hypnotic rhythm, lulling her into false tranquility.

She breathed; condensation coating the glass where her foggy exhale touched it.  Stepping back, she checked the thermostat on the wall.  70 degrees and holding.  She tapped at it, convinced it was broken.

“It’s so cold,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around herself as her teeth chattered.  She moved back to the window, the lightning mesmerizing her as it tore apart the sky.

Thunder boomed overhead and the floor shook, quivering like a frightened child.  She glanced around as confusion fogged her mind.  When did the ground ever react to the sky?  The tremor grew stronger, then stopped, falling silent before the storm.

Joy gasped as the air chilled even more.  It felt as if she was on a tundra, exposed to the harsh elements instead of tucked away in her own home.

The lights flickered, then went out as another rumble split the sky.  She glanced at the emergency candles glowing in the gloom.  Thank goodness, she’d thought ahead.  Tonight wasn’t a night to be in the dark.  It wasn’t safe.

That thought surprised her. This was her home.  Her haven.  She’d always been safe here.  Why would one little storm change all that?

But, as she watched the clouds drawing closer, she realized it was true.  A prophetic shudder crept up her shoulders.  It weighed upon her as much as anything alive would.  It might be the last night of her life.  It might also be the end of every life in the world.

She pressed her face closer to the glass.  Lightning flared, turning the large bay window into a mirror.  Immediately her eyes moved to the reflected candlelight burning behind her.  In that instant, a figure moved, blocking one of the candles from view.

Joy gasped as the lightning died, once again gazing out onto her neighborhood.  Fear flooded through her, fast and hard, cementing her to that spot.  Something was behind her.

That was absurd.  She was alone.  All the doors were locked.  There couldn’t be anyone behind her.  Yet…she knew there was.  She’d seen it move.

A jagged gasp emitted from her throat as a slithering occurred behind her.  She wanted to turn, to see what lay in wait for her, but fear held her body tight.  It constricted around her as real as any solid bands.  She was helpless, nothing more than prey for whatever lurked behind.

Hearing a sharp hiss of breath, the room filled with darkness.  A scream ripped from Joy’s throat, terror crushing the sound into nothing more than a gurgle.  This was it.  She was going to die and she wouldn’t even see it coming.  Her mind raced.  Why her?  Why now?  If her life was going to end tonight, shouldn’t she at least be given that much?

Opening her mouth, she tried to force actual words past her lips.  “Did you blow out the candles?”

The slithering sounded again, moving closer.  “Yes,” a voice answered, barely more human than a garbage disposal.  “After all, it is my birthday.”

Joy cringed at its choice of words.  Something had been born into the world.  Something dark and sinister.  Something that shouldn’t be.  “What are you?” she asked.

“Hungry,” it hissed, moving close behind her.

Closing her eyes, she shook in despair, waiting for her demise as the storm raged on.

© 2015 Melissa L. Webb

Pieces of Her- Friday Flash

Pieces of Her

By Melissa L. Webb

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She pulled her fingernails off one by one, the flesh tearing as she pried them loose. She flicked them into the empty ashtray as she went. They clicked against the glass, hard, before setting at the bottom. The sound cut through the silence that hung heavily in the cheap motel room.

Her heart broke as she stared at the black painted pieces in the ashtray. They were no longer a part of her. It wasn’t fair; she had given up everything for him.

That wasn’t enough.

She still had to give more.

Teardrops fell from her eyes and she wiped them, leaving bloody smears in their place.

She sighed as she ripped the last nail free. She was doing the right thing. They couldn’t find his blood under her nails if she didn’t have them anymore.

© 2015 Melissa L. Webb

Problem Child- Friday Flash

Trunk 2

Trunk 2 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

PROBLEM CHILD

By Melissa L. Webb

 

I don’t know why I am even writing this. A man shouldn’t have to admit their failings, but I have a problem. One giant problem clings to me like a sack of bricks on my soul. I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t even know who to turn to. I just know I can’t bear it any longer.

Things didn’t used to be so bad. There for a while I even thought this was the good life. However, ideals are like sandcastles. They crumble and fall under the waves of reality.

My wife was the first one to point out the problem. I didn’t want to believe it. I couldn’t  But, under scrutiny, I realized I could not turn a blind eye to this awful truth. Our offspring was different.

He didn’t act like us. He didn’t think like us. He did things that shocked my very soul. I knew I had to find a way to get through to him, my demented son, Jeff.

His mother and I tried to raise him right. We tried to teach him the difference between right and wrong, good and evil, but he rejected everything we stood for because of his own sick and twisted desires.

He lives in our basement, even though he is now an adult. A man should be out on his own, making a name for himself and starting a family of his own. But, no. He doesn’t want to live that life. The right life. The life I and my ancestors have so painstakingly worked to provide him.

I am beginning to fear the dark things that lurk inside his mind. I dread going down to the basement now. The look he gives me chill me to the core, as does the way he snarls like a feral animal. It’s enough to make my soul weep. He hates me and it tears me apart inside.
How could I have raised such a deviant child? How can he bear witness to all our morals and traditions and throw them back in our faces?

He needs help, but I’m afraid it is more than what we can give. My wife thinks we need to send him away. Sadly, I am beginning to agree. The hope in my heart has died. He will never be like us and I fear that if he were to go out into society, he’d do something to harm the whole family.

And I can’t allow that.

Our life here is sacred and has been handed down through generations before us. Just because he wants to be “normal” shouldn’t be a reason to destroy everything we’ve worked for.

The others agree with my wife as well. Measures must be taken. The outside world must not know about us, for if they did, we’d have to stop our traditions. And hunting long pig is what we live for.

My wife is sharpening the ax as I write this. My deviant son has refused to make his first kill and now he must be sent away. Unfortunately, his death is the only way to keep the family safe.

I must go down to the basement, and face the look of hate in my son’s eyes as I pull him from the trunk I have kept him in. His torture was not enough to make him see the way. It is too late for him. I must hurry. My wife gets cranky when she’s waiting for the kill.