Bloody Valentine Horror Event – Cracked Glass

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Cracked Glass

Slamming her head into the window, he hears it shatter with a resounding crack. “Look what you made me do? You think I’m made of money, huh?” She cringes as his boot comes up, landing in her gut. Gasping for air, spitting up blood and the remains of her meal, she reaches for a piece of the cracked glass; stumbling and unsteady. “What? You gonna stab me now? F’ing tramp!” She drops the sliver, tries to apologize, but the rage in his eyes is beyond reason. She curls in on herself to protect her already battered body. Instead of the expected kick, he slams his elbows down onto her bent neck. The crunch of bone is unmistakable.

~ Nina D’Arcangela


© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela

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The Bloody Valentine Horror Event

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Stop by A.F. Stewart’s Bloody Valentine Horror Event going on today from 9am – 4pm on Facebook for featured author discussions, books, links to other participating blogs, and plenty of Bad Love!

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Bloody Valentine Horror Event – Swept Away

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Swept Away

Dwindling twilight; a summer breeze. He hands her a chilled glass of wine. She smiles, thanks him, sips the dry fruity liquid and blushes. He returns the smile, sips from his own glass and looks out over the lapping water of the bay. Taking her hand, her leads her down the steps, across the patio and opens the gate leading to the surf. Slipping off her shoes, she steps through the gate and onto the cooling sand. He follows. Hand in hand they stroll to the water’s edge. Leaning down, he places a chaste kiss upon her forehead, her cheek, her moistened lips. They walk in silence, letting the water caress their ankles.

Rounding the tip of the inlet, the water is much more aggressive, the waves coming ashore with more force. The open ocean lies before them. They’ve always dreamed of sailing away together, escaping the drudgery of day to day life and living as nomads on the sea. They walk for what seems hours, both glasses long since drained, both sets of feet tiring of the sand. She smiles in the moonlight and nods the way they came, indicating they return home. Never one to deny her, he smiles his agreement. They turn, begin the trek back; the tide is coming in. She veers towards the gentler sand; he tightens his grip, holding her in place. She glances up, sure he has misread her cue. His face is shadowed, but seems harder, less indulgent. She tries to pull her hand free; he doesn’t allow it. He draws her further into the water; she tugs back, still believing he is playing. The moonlight slants across his face; she sees no mirth in his smile, but an ugliness she didn’t know existed. She begins to panic; he drags her toward the undertow. Being the stronger swimmer, he doesn’t fear the water at night; he relished the fight of the high tide. She swims only when the sea is calm, terrified of the unseen depths. Waves begin to crash over them; she sputters; he grins. Turning with an iron grip on her wrist, he drags her out into the inky blackness.

Eight days crawl by; he still clutches the swim trunks the police believe he was wearing the night he returned home, unable to find her. The detective sits on the opposing deck chair, tells him there is nothing more they can do. He begs, he weeps, he pleads for them to understand she would never enter the water at night alone. The detective understands, is sympathetic, but must still inform him they are declaring her lost at sea. The only item found thus far is her swimsuit that washed ashore. He identified it himself she reminds him. He is shattered, a broken man, the love of his life lost. The detective apologizes once more and excuses herself. The police presence withdraws from his home, his life, his world. He is the affluent one; there is no reason to suspect foul play. There wasn’t even a life insurance policy to question; she never had one. Playing the part of the grieving widower, he ceremoniously lays her to rest at sea; their friends all mourn his loss.

Three months later, he sails into port; she waits for him in the lavish bungalow they purchased on the French island of Réunion. They’ve had no contact in the months between. For two estranged lovers, it has been an eternity. They reunite; he pours each a glass of wine; she asks if there was suspicion. He tells her of his hysterics, burying his wife at sea, the long journey to reach the island. She asks again if he was suspected of having a hand in his wife’s death. He laughs as he answers that while he did indeed have exactly that – a hand in his wife’s death – they never suspected a thing. She asks how that could be. He smiles, places his wine on the table and cups her face while reassuring her the plan was flawless. Convincing her older sister to marry him, then gift him her wealth was a stroke of genius; it placed him above reproach and set them up to share a lifetime of extravagance. She’s the one he loves. The wedding; a ruse.

She smiles in return; she’s been swimming these waters for quite a while. She knows which underwater caves have air pockets, and which don’t.

~ Nina D’Arcangela


© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela

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Visit A.F. Stewart’s

The Bloody Valentine Horror Event

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Stop by A.F. Stewart’s Bloody Valentine Horror Event going on today from 9am – 4pm on Facebook for featured author discussions, books, links to other participating blogs, and plenty of Bad Love!

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Bloody Valentine Horror Event – Gentle Breeze

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Gentle Breeze

Wrapping my arms around you, your long locks caress my face in the gentle breeze. I reach up and stroke your hair back into place. I smile down at you, your clear blue eyes taking on an aquamarine glimmer in the brilliant rays of the sun. Leaning forward, I place a gentle kiss upon your full lips. They’re frigid beyond belief, not with lack of desire, but from the coolness of the autumn season. Wrapping the blankets tighter around you, I cuddle in closer, hoping to share my own warmth with you. You are all that matters to me. Was that the twitch of a smile I see? I laugh with joy as I hold you closer, trying to warm your cold body. I talk of plans we have for our future together, delight in allowing my mind to wander the exotic destinations we’ll travel to as I describe them, knowing an eternity awaits us. My head upon your breast, I speak of such things for hours.

Looking up into your eyes once more, I see peace and tranquility there. I see my future reflected in those beautiful glistening orbs. Again, I arrange your wind-mussed hair, make perfect your countenance, for you are perfect, and I’ll see you no other way. As I run my fingers through your luxurious blonde mane, my thumb brushes your cheek rougher than I would like. The smudge of your makeup reveals a bruise upon your creamy flesh. I kiss your cheek, I apologize profusely for hurting you. More makeup smears as my lips move over your skin. My brow creases as I look upon you again. Something is not right. Lifting myself to one elbow, I stare into your face… I begin to scream.

***

“Damn, man! Why do they keep letting her do this to herself? It seems cruel, if you ask me.”

“The Doc says it’s a form of therapy. She can’t come to grips with what she’s done. He thinks bringing her here and letting her lay on the grave might save her. More likely to break her for good, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know, man, it seems twisted. I know she was convicted on an insanity plea, but is this any less fucking sick than keeping your dead girlfriend propped up like some frigging Jenny doll in your bedroom?” He snuffed out his cigarette, “I mean, damn. Look at her. It’s like she’s really holding the dead chick the way she cups her arms… and the talkin’, it’s like she’s really talkin’ to somebody. Then the screams, man – I hear those fucking screams in my sleep every night. Why make her relive it over and over again? I think the Doc gets off on letting her dress up and do this. Why doesn’t he just give her some of those anti-psychotic pills everyone else gets? It’s been like five months now, right bro?”

“Shit, man. Don’t ask me – I just work here. There she goes, running toward the street again. I’ll get her this time, you just have the restraints ready.”

~ Nina D’Arcangela


© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela

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Visit A.F. Stewart’s

The Bloody Valentine Horror Event

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Stop by A.F. Stewart’s Bloody Valentine Horror Event going on today from 9am – 4pm on Facebook for featured author discussions, books, links to other participating blogs, and plenty of Bad Love!

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China Girl by Nina D’Arcangela @WiHMonth @Sotet_Angyal #WiHM8 #Film #women

China Girl

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Perfect poise, that’s all I ask: lips, crimson red; rouge, just a touch; skin, creamy alabaster. I’d prefer a dark brunette for balance but I suppose a chestnut will have to do. Yeah, yeah – that one.

Have a seat, dear, right over there. Yes, right there – sit still. No, I don’t want you to move. Don’t move, don’t blink, don’t fidget. Good. Now, shutter your eyes slightly… yes, just like that. Splendid: your shape, your size, your pallor, it’s all good; but not your leg. Huh? Yes, it’s lovely, but we don’t need it. I’m sorry; did you say something, again? You do realize that when you speak, your face moves, right? Did no one tell you to sit quietly and look the part, not try to play it? No, don’t answer that; answering is the same as speaking. Of course I realize you’re not an idiot – please, can we just get through this? Please? Thank you.

Okay, smile brightly for the camera; after all you are the leader lady… What? No, not leading lady, sit back down; what are you jumping around for? Sit, please? Thank you. Come on now, you’re entire expression just soured.

Listen, sweetheart, I ask you not to move, you tilt your head; I ask you not to speak and you hurl insults. Please, doll – just turn back toward the lens. Thank you; yes I understand that you are cooperating with me. Now honey, sit still, look at the camera and smile. Will you at least try to look pleasant? Do you know how many technicians will have to look at these frames over and over again?  Fine, turn sideways; a three-quarter will do. Quite the drama queen you are, or rather, would be, if sitting here wasn’t an indication of where your career is headed. Cheer up, toots, you’ll live in celluloid infamy – even if the public never knows it. Hey, that’s a very un-ladylike gesture to make at me!

You think that sneer is making it onto my reel? Go back to pouting; I can at least work with that.

~ Nina D’Arcangela


© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela

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Okay – I know this post is a little tongue-in-cheek and lacks horror, per se, but it does address a very interesting role women played in the days of analogue film making – and some of those films were horror. If you don’t know what ‘China Girls’ or ‘Leader Ladies’ are, and you’d like to read more about them, check out this link to an interesting article published by Atlas Obscura.

The image used as the prompt for this piece is from Rebecca Lyon/Chicago Film Society where you can find more information, and an impressive selection of images relating to ‘China Girls’.

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Stop by my other blogs for more Women in Horror Month content!
Spreading the Writer’s Word – A new Horror Flash-Fiction from a different female author daily in February!
The Road to Nowhere – Horror movie picks by The Damned staring strong leading ladies daily all month long.

And don’t forget to visit the Women in Horror Month official web site
for more great 
WiHM8 events and posts!


Bloater – Pen of the Damned Flash Fiction @PenoftheDamned

The Mission: Pick two of the five words and write a 100 – 150 word flash piece incorporating them. Here is mine.

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Bloater

Menthol, that’s all I smelled. The bloated mass before me waited patiently. I picked up the scalpel, the fluorescent light humming above glinted off its metallic surface. The Y incision made, I peeled back the outer layer of skin exposing globules of fatty residue and further decomposed tissue. Thick yellow fluid oozed from the gangrenous edges of the incised flesh. The second stroke sliced through muscle, invaded the stomach cavity; the gaseous release hissed in competition with the fixture overhead. The half-digested, half-rotted contents within were easily discernible. Next, I moved to the throat and began a vertical slit in the esophagus. The small, elongated objects lodged in the upper esophageal sphincter left no doubt; they were human fingers. Removing my mask, I glanced at the chart, confirmed the preliminary findings.

Cause of Death: suffocation due to blockage of the systema respiratorium.

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Visit PenoftheDamned.com to read seven other interpretations of the same word-prompt: Damned Echoes 4


© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela.

 

 


Good Grace

A drabble written for a Pen of the Damned photo-prompt. For this piece, I am both photographer and word twister… 😉

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Good Grace

The metamorphosis begins with the lick of first dew. As Mother’s milk rains down, do we not feel the fracture, the impending breach; do we not begin to break under her ever present gaze? To hold fast we strive, yet a fool’s errand that. Mother will have her way, with rod or lash; we will obey. Extruded beyond time, a limit reached, one gives way with a whispered screech of banshees yet unheard. For as the coil rips asunder, so does the edge tip; the ferry no longer granting safe passage, we no longer the guardians in Mother’s good grace.

Head over to Pen of the Damned to read the other
photo-prompt flashes in this collection.



© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela.

 

 


Revelation

A word prompt flash that required the use of two of these words…

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Revelation

Like the maelstrom that swept in her tide, she swirled with a tempest of fate. Those before her attempted to flee; begged forgiveness for their evils. Misunderstood lives, unappreciated deeds, this lot unaware the veil had thinned solely to allow their pardon. Gleaming ebony skin that smoldered of embers left to flame, she bore down upon them with brutality unknown to these worthy heathens. Necks twisted most unnatural, bodies rent of their companion cog and spokes, these children of misdirection now granted reward for actions unprovoked yet savored by that which waits. As claws struck and teeth ripped, screams wailed the song of souls unburdened. Mother to the immoral, sister of the dishonest, beacon for the misguided, she stilled as the slop of her task struck a final note. More would come, born of those who kneel in perverse fealty. In the interim, the void of silence stirred her home.

 

Visit Pen of the Damned to see what the others members crafted with the same set of words. 😉



© Copyright Nina D’Arcangela.

 

 


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