HOUSE ON THE CORNER

 

I’ve lived here a good long time. I know most folks in town, and they know me. The neighborhood has a routine just as much as the Burlington Northern that hauls away the lifeblood of our community. I still live in the house my daddy built from the stick up. Sure enough, going to die here. I’ve seen most everything, but nothing has bothered me more than the house on the corner.

I keep my eye on things, especially since I retired. I sit on the porch and listen to the news or one of my shows. I like to knit. Passes time. Anyway, just because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t know when something doesn’t fit right, when the facts don’t meet up with observation. See what I’m saying? All my facilities are intact, and I’m not stupid.

The boy’s not right in the head. Ask anybody around town. Back in the day, we would have called him ‘off,’ but this kid… he goes a step past that. Hateful he is. Built up a lot of rage in the eleven years he’s been kicking. Look you straight in the eye, but not out of respect, no sir. He’s sizing you up like measuring you for a coffin.

Early on, I would babysit the boy. Troublesome child from the get go. Seemed happiest while he was wailing. Even sucked at the bottle like he was ripping out a heart. Little bastard bit me once, drew blood— then smiled and licked his lips. He knew it was wrong, but he did it anyway. Sharp as a tack. Did it when his mother wasn’t around. Of course, she didn’t believe me when I told her about it.

She’s European, and I know they live by a different set of rules, and call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think a boy that age should still be sleeping in the same bed as his momma. She calls it nurturing, well, I think the boy has had his fill of nurturing. Just not healthy. A boy’s got to find his way without his momma, see what I’m saying? Besides, with this kid, all that coddling is like pouring kerosene on a fire.

His mom had a best friend who lived two doors down. They used to sit outside singing and drinking wine from a box. Me and the other neighbors tolerated it because you could see they had a special kind of bond. The boy… he didn’t like it one bit. You could hear him slamming doors, screaming, breaking things. Finally come where the friend wasn’t allowed to go over there except on weekends when the boy left to go to his dad’s.

After the neighborhood cats started to go missing, I tried to warn her, but you know how that sits with a momma bear.

Surprised the police weren’t there more often, but his mother covered for him.

Covered for even after they found the best friend at the bottom of the stairs.

I know what happened, and don’t try and tell me I’m wrong. You know how folks give their neighbors a spare key for emergencies or what have you? Well, I think that little bastard took the best friend’s key, hid in her house, and waited until she had enough wine in her to ‘accidentally’ fall down the stairs.

He had opportunity, and he had motive. Now he’s got a taste for it. I’m kind of worried.

Wish I hadn’t given them my spare key.

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Regrets

I can feel it on my skin, the feather’s touch, the cold fingers searching for the secret spot where I hide my regrets. It smells of yesterday’s lullabies and wishes that never came true.

The people around me are so young; younger than I ever was, I’m sure of it. I don’t remember feeling the innocence I see on their faces. I wish I could go back, but at the same time, I don’t envy the lost love, the addictions, and the failures they all face. Maybe they won’t have to endure my path, but it will be a variation on the theme.

I am jaded; wasted by the squandered moment that ticked away the last hour, the final dream with no chance of coming true. I wonder what my dreams consisted of as my adulthood collapsed upon me. I don’t remember. Mostly they were undefined; hiding beneath a white line and a stream of friends with no names and whose faces are only a smear upon my memory.

I spent hours in a classroom pretending it would make me smarter; thinking a pigeonhole was a place I wanted to live, and that the corporate ladder could lift me beyond the broken pillars of my parents’ lives. I did my time behind a desk, and hid behind an upholstered cubicle wall with Post-its reminding me of all the things I wanted to forget. I still haven’t found my place in the working world even though I’ve ventured down many dead ends and wasted alleys.

I released the love of my life, and now he marries someone else, the one he was destined to meet after I was gone. I’m happy for him and hate him for moving on so easily. Why are some offered sweetened lives while others dive into the bottomless pit of Walmarts and jobs we hate?

I live my life with a dreary attitude of inescapable nothingness with only a pinpoint of light consisting of the words on this page. Victory has bred with mediocrity and given birth to my existence. I am no more a failure than I am a success. My life has been full, and full of regrets.


Going through some of my old writing tonight. If you like this you might also like

Grandma Mabel

If it Rains

Posted in Retrospective, Sad story | Tagged | 6 Comments

Mind Rot, from Sanity’s Threshold

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The cold brick scraped against her back as he leaned against her. “What ya gonna do now?” he asked.

The icy ridge of the steel pushed against her throat, throbbed with every heartbeat. His putrid body and decaying mind had melded to form a perfect kind of evil, an evil with nothing to lose and fueled by revenge. Months ago she had warned them. She had sensed his brittleness, like a branch long dead, and knew his tension would be released with the violence of an earthquake. They had told her to stick with the treatment and to double his dosage.

He licked his chapped lips and leered at her, bits of yesterday’s food hid from his fetid breath in unbrushed chasms. He pressed his face to hers, smelled her hair, fondled her necklace, traced the line of her chin with a thick thumb, black and grimy from the last oil change. She could feel his excitement against her hip.

“Ain’t feeling so smart now are ya?” She flinched as he showered her with spittle. “All them fancy books ain’t helpin’ ya now, is they?”

She knew better than look him in the eye. He had been punished for that kind of behavior early in the study using pressure points, cattle prods, and other unethical techniques. It only took a couple of lessons. Despite his backwoods manner, his mind had been brilliant before they had stuck their needles in him and treated him like an expendable lab rat. She dropped her gaze and forced herself to study his sweaty chest. She swallowed her revulsion and panic.

“I never meant to hurt you, Jimmy.” Her voice stole into the darkness of the night, infinitesimally small against the enormity of her situation. She watched him grimace as the acrid odor of her urine wafted upward and mingled with the stench of his perspiration. “Jesus.” He jerked his body away and shoved her down to the sidewalk. He planted his heavy-soled shoe on her back and smashed her face against the rough concrete, as she tried to scramble away. “You ain’t going no place ‘cept the place I just come from.”

Terror inundated her, freezing her body but melting her mind. She knew what they did in the basement, and she knew she didn’t have the fortitude to pass the tests. Her voice trembled, “No, god no, Jimmy, I can’t go down there. I won’t last a minute down there. Please, Jimmy, they made me do it.”

Snot hung from her nose, streamers of hope escaping through her nasal cavities. She felt the cool evaporation on her inner thighs. He gathered a fistful of her hair and dragged her toward the basement steps. She clung to his beefy hands and scrambled to get her feet under her. His fingers ripped out a tangled mass as he abruptly dropped to his knees and clutched his head.

“No, no, no, make it stop!”

Strands of her hair mingled with his as he started slapping his skull, beating it like a drum. She crab-crawled away, staring at him wide-eyed, fascinated at the transformation taking place in front of her. His eyes flitted back and forth, wild and unblinking, brushing over her without seeing, watching some movie playing on a screen behind her.

The symptoms had started to surface, finally, just like every test subject before him, but the frantic whipping at his skull was a new development. He pelted his head, knocking it side to side.  His dilated eyes drew her in and focused on her face for a moment.

“I don’t want to see it no more, oh God, please, make it stop!”

His pitiful sobbing poked a hole in her frightened, protective shell. She had been a willing participant in the testing, in the beginning, but their bizarre techniques had been hard for her to swallow. Her involvement in the testing had been limited after she’d filed a formal complaint about the horrendous and unsanitary conditions in the medical facility. It’s a miracle infection hadn’t killed more of them.

The basement had become a torture chamber for some but was Jimmy’s only hope. She glanced at the pitiful form on the ground, writhing in pain. If she could access the medical center she could fill a syringe with the antidote and help Jimmy though this phase of the experiment. It wasn’t a cure, because there was no cure, but she could ease his pain and make the journey bearable.

The basement’s heavy, steel door scraped the grated staircase as she pushed it open.  A single light bulb marked the passage below. With all the money the company spent developing the drug, you’d think they could have added some wattage. Each time she descended it felt more and more like entering a dungeon; void of hope and full of despair.

She swiped her key card in the lab’s security slot and heaved a sigh of relief when it beeped. Her access had not been restricted yet. Security had been lax the last six months, probably because the company tiptoed along the edge of bankruptcy. She turned on the fluorescents and hurried to the refrigerator, grabbed a vial of the serum and a new syringe. She quickly drew 20cc and hurried back up the metal stairs to the street.

Jimmy was gone. She whipped her head about, searching the vacant sidewalk, the trash cans that stood vigilant next to the building, and the fire escape that clung to the building like a giant insect. She took a few tentative steps toward the alley wishing she had a weapon of some sort. “This is stupid,” she thought. He weighted twice as much as she did and, with the terrors upon him, he had the strength of three men.

Satisfied that he wasn’t lurking on the street, she retraced her steps to the basement door. The local police would throw him into a holding cell until someone from the lab picked him up. They had lost patients twice before, but neither one had Jimmy’s advanced symptoms. The police would ask questions this time. With a shaky sigh, she descended the stairs to lock up the lab, it was dangerous to leave it unattended the way she did. She went to the lab table to straighten up her mess. She crinkled her nose and pulled at her saturated jeans. She needed to be more careful.

He attacked her from behind, grabbed her head in a vise grip, and ripped the syringe out of her hand. “Where did he come from?”  He stared her in the eyes as he jabbed the needle in her neck and depressed the plunger, releasing the potent drug into her artery. She felt the effects immediately; her knees buckled as the pain exploded in the base of her skull, blossomed into her brain, and momentarily blinded her. He let her go, and she stumbled away falling against the cold steel of the surgical table. The initial symptoms were all the same in each of the test subjects. They only lasted a few minutes then faded for a merciful few minutes until phase two settled in. She wondered briefly if she would go as quickly as most of the subjects, or if she would end up like Jimmy.

It didn’t take long for the question to be answered. The initial visions shattered her psyche, various stages of torture, multiple victims, unfathomable abominations, flitted past her open eyes. She swung at them, trying to erase the ghastly hallucinations. She clung to the smooth metal table, panting, wanting it to stop. It was too wicked, too corrupt; she wasn’t strong enough for this.

Her fingers fumbled frantically, blindly searching the table as she watched the wheels of horror turning in her mind. There had to be something she could use. Then she found it; its solid form gave her a second of relief. She heard the pop of her eyeball as she thrust the scissors through the socket. Her brain exploded with bolts of white hot lightning then everything turned black.


 

For more of my weird/horror/thriller flash fiction buy my books!

 Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold only $1.99

https://tinyurl.com/y7qvxwz9

 Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind only $.99

https://tinyurl.com/ydyxtmuc

Or read some for free:

Melting – from Sanity’s Threshold

The Basement – from Unconfined Delusions

Posted in Dark Fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Night Frights, Sanity's Threshold, thriller, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Headaches, from Sanity’s Threshold

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I have a lot of headaches these days. Not the run-of-the-mill, I-drank-too-much-last-night, kind of headaches. No. Mine take on a life of their own; they possess me, fill my mind with shards of hot glass. They stroll in and dance around my skull like waves on the beach; each slap threatening to fracture the thin bone surrounding my brain.

It starts as a dull ache at the base of my neck and radiates outward into the muscles perched upon my clavicles. My husband’s feeble attempts to massage away the agony fail miserably. My pain monsters lord their control over me, flaunt their power and magnificence. I bow to them, worship their supremacy and pray to their authority; but they ignore me completely.

I’ve seen every specialist, submitted to the drum and throb of the MRI, and pushed the limit of my medical coverage. One doctor suggested that it’s all in my mind. You know what? I think she’s right.

I have these… visions. I hate saying it, even in the confines of my mind, but I can’t think of a better word. They creep into my periphery then flash across my eye like a streaker across a football field. Sometimes they are fleeting, so brief I wonder if I see them at all. Other times they project onto my retinas and play a feature-length movie.

Sometimes my images are ubiquitous, revolve around my daily activities. I see my son kick a soccer ball; his feet weave, in and out, around and back, teasing the ball down the field. The reel is changed and I see my husband standing in line at Starbucks, checking his watch, and sighing. Again, and I see my dog chest-deep in the trashcan at home.

The movies evolve along with my headaches. Each time I’m given a few more frames of the ending: my son is wrenched from a park bench, and a man wearing a plaid shirt walks into the coffee shop. Each time the movie starts from the beginning. This time it ends with an idling white panel van, and a blood splattered storefront window.

I call my husband and heave a sigh of relief when I hear his deep tenor, husky like the sound of sex. I love his voice. It calms me the tiniest bit.

“Are you all right?” My voice trembles. My heart hammers, keeping time with the pounding in my head.

“Yeah, except this line seems to be moving backwards, if that’s possible. What the hell is a skinny macchiato? ”

My sigh of relief must have been audible.

““Are you all right?” he asks.

“I guess so, just─ have you talked to Billy since you dropped him off at soccer practice?”

“No, he’s hitching a ride with Josh after practice. I’ll pick him up after work.”

“What kind of car does Josh drive?”

“A Ford. Pickup. Why?”

“Not a van?” I asked.

“No, no van. Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird. You sure you’re all right?”

“I got to go. It’s my turn, finally.”

“Hey, watch out for the man in the plaid shirt.”

Silence greets me. My head is pounding like a jackhammer. There’s nothing I can do for my husband; he’s a big boy. My son, however, needs me. The vision flits past my eyes again; this time the van’s side door is open.

I grab my keys and jump in my car. The soccer field is about a mile away. Oh God, I have to make it there before─. The wheels squeal as I turn the corner into the park. My son is at the water fountain roughhousing with a couple soccer buddies. His uniform is streaked with grass stains, but he’s in one piece. I pull up next to him and motion for him to get in the car. With a roll of his eyes, he waves at his friends and hops in. As I pull away, I see a white van parked next to the bike rack.

My husband tells me a story when he gets home. Just as he was leaving Starbucks, a man robbed the place and killed a customer. My husband says blood sprayed all over the plate glass window. Then we heard the breaking news. Witnesses at the local soccer park saw a boy abducted by a man driving a white van.

Frames of a new movie unfold before my eyes. The headaches are getting worse.


For more of my horror flash fiction check these out:

Centerville, from Sanity’s Threshold

Charcoal,  from Unconfined Delusions

Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold, contains snippets of fast-paced, twisted fiction mingled with short stories aimed to keep you on the edge of your seat. “Broken Heart” questions the morality of organ transplantation. “The Basement” corners you in a dank basement with the tools of torture openly displayed. “My Last Sixteen Hours” counts down the last minutes before execution.  “Seeing Things” warns of a malignant aura wrapping its inky hands around your throat. “The Clutching” will send fingernails searching for a vein. Don’t let your guard down because the next story might bite.

The words slither across the page, feed on insecurities, and corrupt dreams. Savor the weird deliciousness but read with the lights on. The land of Happily Ever After doesn’t exist behind this cover.

Angela L. Lindseth’s first collection of flash fiction, Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind, is available on Amazon.

The Basement: Awesome doesn’t begin to cover it! If this is a sample of your writing, where do I sign up!  —K.B.

 Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold

https://tinyurl.com/y7qvxwz9

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

https://tinyurl.com/ydyxtmuc

Posted in Dark Fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Night Frights, My books, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | Leave a comment

South Dakota Blizzard

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We’ve been holed up in the house for three days now. The snow is stacked up so high we can’t see out the window anymore. Ma says it helps keep the heat in, but it’s hard to tell cause even with all the quilts and little Mary cuddled next to me, my toes feel like icicles.

The wind whistles around like demons rocking and shaking enough I’m afraid the roof will fly off. Tiny snowdrifts pile up on the cloths Ma has stuffed across the sills. The blizzard has a mind of its own, and it don’t care if we’re in the middle of it.

Ma has to break the ice off the water bucket before we can get a drink in the morning. The potatoes are froze so hard it’s about impossible to cut and there’s no meat to make a stew.

Pa has kept snow away from the door so he can follow the rope out to the barn, but every time, the tiny bit of heat is sucked out faster than a cat on fire. Bessy and Blossom have food, but it’s hard to keep the water from freezing over. Pa hauls out pails of melted snow, but we’re running low on wood. The stuff piled close to the house is wetter than a frog’s back, so we’ve got it stacked next to the fireplace.

I’m worried about Tabby. Haven’t seen him since the storm set in, but Ma says he’s a hunter and scrappy so he should be able to make it through just about anything. I’m not so sure. If he was caught in the open, well, I expect he couldn’t have made it home. I think about all the other animals, the deer and coyotes, wonder where they hole up when the Lord throws down his wrath. Maybe Tabby’s with them, but I don’t hold much hope.

Pa’s face looks different today. He says the storm has broken, and he breaks a path through a drift that reaches above my head. I hear Bessy mooing from the barn. Tabby appears from under the woodpile. The sunshine glistens against a sparkly lake of snow.

He smiles at me and lifts to the top of the drift. “Shall we make snow angels?”


For more of my Mellow Monday posts check these out:

A Tree for Momma

Growing Old

Posted in Flash Fiction, Mellow Monday, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

Melting – from Sanity’s Threshold

meltingIt whispers up my leg as I pass over the heater vent, the tickle of its fingers like feathers on my skin. Why did I have the heat on this late in the summer? The ting, ting, ting of the furnace echoes from the hallway closet and I smell the musty, singed odor you get when you turn it on for the first time in the Fall. I swear I shut the gas off because even the little pilot light radiated unwanted heat in the summer.

I walk back to the vent. Sure enough, I feel the gentle motion of the warm air move the fine hairs on my arm. I check the thermostat at the other end of the hall. It was off, just like I knew it would be.  I flip it on and off again and hear no telltale click. I tap the side of it a couple times, like kicking the tires or lifting the hood on a car. The other vents in the room discharge a breeze, too, warmer than before.

I hear the scratching deep inside the duct. Maybe a mouse had found his way in and had made its home in the warm, round confine. More like rats by the sound of it. Great big rats. The scratching grew louder, and closer, building with the temperature of the air.

I try to close the damper on the duct but the rusty lever squeaked its resistance. The blast of hot air on my face dries my eyes, pushing me away with an invisible hand. Blinking quickly for new tears, I rummage around on my work bench until I found some pliers and WD-40. I smear the sweat off my forehead with my shirt sleeve and spray some of the lubricant on the lever. The liquid bubbles up like spit on a cast iron skillet. I’d never seen it do that before. I touch the lever to wiggle it and yank my hand away. White skin marks the spots where it made contact with the metal.

I run to the kitchen, turn on the cold water full blast and stick my burnt fingers under the running water. It’s hot, so hot! Maybe I turned on the wrong faucet, but no, it’s the cold handle. What’s going on? I shake my aching hand as if I could rid it of the pain.

The scratching echoes through the metal duct louder and closer. I can hear it in the other ducts, too, getting closer by the minute. I have to get some air in the house. I have to get the windows open. I lift on the sill, but it won’t budge. Old, dried paint plaster it shut permanently. I stare at the wire grating I had had installed on all the windows for security. Now it was the concertino wire of my prison.

I go to the front door to throw it open, ready to abandon the house and get help. The door knob throbs red with heat. Panic wriggles its way down my spine, squirming through my body like snakes. I strip down to my undies, sweat coating my body. I have to get out. Maybe if I found some gloves I could get the door open. The scent of burnt hair floats around my head. I run my hand over my scalp and it comes away with crispy wisps of dried threads. My mouth opens in a silent scream because, even though I feel no pain, I know I should feel the bubbling of my skin as I witness it melting like candle wax.

They find my smoking corpse today; tiny embers filling my skull, my arms and legs protruding from my body like burnt out matchsticks. I ignored their warnings when I bought the house. Full disclosure they had called it. They told me the fireman who had built it had died alone in the line of duty. He’s not alone anymore.


For more of my horror flash fiction check these out:

The Rats, from Unconfined Delusions

Last Glimpse, from Sanity’s Threshold

Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold, contains snippets of fast-paced, twisted fiction mingled with short stories aimed to keep you on the edge of your seat. “Broken Heart” questions the morality of organ transplantation. “The Basement” corners you in a dank basement with the tools of torture openly displayed. “My Last Sixteen Hours” counts down the last minutes before execution.  “Seeing Things” warns of a malignant aura wrapping its inky hands around your throat. “The Clutching” will send fingernails searching for a vein. Don’t let your guard down because the next story might bite.

The words slither across the page, feed on insecurities, and corrupt dreams. Savor the weird deliciousness but read with the lights on. The land of Happily Ever After doesn’t exist behind this cover.

Angela L. Lindseth’s first collection of flash fiction, Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind, is available on Amazon.

The Basement: Awesome doesn’t begin to cover it! If this is a sample of your writing, where do I sign up!  —K.B.

 Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold

https://tinyurl.com/y7qvxwz9

 Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

https://tinyurl.com/ydyxtmuc

 

Posted in Dark Fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Night Frights, horror, my writing, Sanity's Threshold | Tagged , , | 1 Comment

Fresh Bread

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I catch his scent, sure as I can smell the bread baking in the brick ovens. The yeasty, mouth-watering perfume wafts past me, makes my stomach growl, and moves on to infect my customers who are immune to the underlying aroma sending my pheromones into high alert.

I inspect the sea of heads but can’t identify his balding pate. Would he be so cruel as to come here and flaunt his new existence? I knew the answer. He wasn’t one to excrete kindness. He toyed with me like a cat with a mouse, interested in the experiment, not caring about the outcome.

His odor lurks beneath the obvious. It is musky and reminiscent of sex. Maybe it’s my imagination, a repressed memory, surfacing to tease me and shoving loneliness in my face. I hate the hold he has over me, even after so much time. In my mind, I bury my face in the curve of his neck, sucking in his masculinity, absorbing his essence. but it’s the memory of a fool.

I weigh the facts and do a bit of math in my head. Pros and cons. A tic in this column, a group of hash marks in the other. It’s an obvious choice. Fresh bread or day-old crust?


For more of my Mellow Monday flash fiction posts check out these links:

Good Girl

Grandma Mabel

Posted in Flash Fiction, Mellow Monday, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment

One Match

match

I only needed one match to create this beauty. Its magnificence plays upon my eyelids, dancing and illuminating the dark recesses of my mind. I open my eyes ready to absorb the wonder of my creation. It is my David, my Mona Lisa and I revel in it from afar.

Coiling tongues curl and fight for their place among the inferno, then escape to the heavens, whisking away memories of the burning skeleton that was once an old warehouse.  White hot blossoms heat my cheeks and, like a lover’s touch, it excites me, leaves me aching for more. The heavy smoke of my art scalds my nose and burns my lungs. My eyes water at the beauty of it.

No one appreciates my devotion, my destruction of creation, a power as great as any god, a power that exists just to destroy. One match can destroy someone’s future or eliminate another’s past. The finale doesn’t matter; it is the journey that haunts me.

I hear another match calling my name.


For more of my horror flash fiction check these out:

Supernova, from Sanity’s Threshold

Charcoal, from Unconfined Delusions

Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold, contains snippets of fast-paced, twisted fiction mingled with short stories aimed to keep you on the edge of your seat. “Broken Heart” questions the morality of organ transplantation. “The Basement” corners you in a dank basement with the tools of torture openly displayed. “My Last Sixteen Hours” counts down the last minutes before execution.  “Seeing Things” warns of a malignant aura wrapping its inky hands around your throat. “The Clutching” will send fingernails searching for a vein. Don’t let your guard down because the next story might bite.

The words slither across the page, feed on insecurities, and corrupt dreams. Savor the weird deliciousness but read with the lights on. The land of Happily Ever After doesn’t exist behind this cover.

Angela L. Lindseth’s first collection of flash fiction, Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind, is available on Amazon.

The Basement: Awesome doesn’t begin to cover it! If this is a sample of your writing, where do I sign up!  —K.B.

 Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold

https://tinyurl.com/y7qvxwz9

Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

https://tinyurl.com/ydyxtmuc

Posted in Dark Fiction, Flash Fiction, Friday Night Frights, Sanity's Threshold, Uncategorized | Tagged , | Leave a comment

His Touch

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The first time she felt his lips her body tingled, not just the wondrous moment of skin on skin, but an actual tingle. He nuzzled her neck and her side erupted with goosebumps, all the way to her toes. God, it felt like ice cream on a hot day, something so intense she would not have believed it was real if she hadn’t seen the rise of her skin and the felt quickening of her heart.

Her reaction to his caress astonished her. She never expected to feel this way again; the love of her life gone for so many years, yet so dear to her heart. She was much too old for this kind of behavior and never for an instant did she think she was capable of returning such lust.

He said the things a girl longs to hear; the sweet mumbles of romantic notions, promises of the future, and the compliment she knows may not be the complete truth but sound like heaven to her ears.

Everything about him is perfect except for the things that aren’t. Oh, but the imperfections are so minimal compared to the rest of the package. She is already in love with him even though she has just met him. She waits impatiently for the three words that will send her over the edge.


For more of my Mellow Monday flash fiction check these out.

Three Squeezes

Growing Old

Posted in Flash Fiction, Mellow Monday, Uncategorized | Tagged , , | 3 Comments

The Rats

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They say rats won’t eat live flesh, but I feel their whiskers tickling my toes. The chains hold me tight against the basement wall, a cold clammy embrace that sucks away my hope. He has left me water to suckle from a jar, just like the apparatus in a pet store. There is food within reach, a nibble at a time. It is my food, and I fight them off as best I can. I don’t know how much longer they will wait because they are hungry, too.


For more of my flash fiction horror check these out:

The Basement, from Unconfined Delusions

Kids Come First, from Sanity’s Threshold

Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold, contains snippets of fast-paced, twisted fiction mingled with short stories aimed to keep you on the edge of your seat. “Broken Heart” questions the morality of organ transplantation. “The Basement” corners you in a dank basement with the tools of torture openly displayed. “My Last Sixteen Hours” counts down the last minutes before execution.  “Seeing Things” warns of a malignant aura wrapping its inky hands around your throat. “The Clutching” will send fingernails searching for a vein. Don’t let your guard down because the next story might bite.

The words slither across the page, feed on insecurities, and corrupt dreams. Savor the weird deliciousness but read with the lights on. The land of Happily Ever After doesn’t exist behind this cover.

Angela L. Lindseth’s first collection of flash fiction, Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind, is available on Amazon.

The Basement: Awesome doesn’t begin to cover it! If this is a sample of your writing, where do I sign up!  —K.B.

Unconfined Delusions, Beyond the Threshold

https://tinyurl.com/y7qvxwz9

 Sanity’s Threshold, Slivers of a Twisted Mind

https://tinyurl.com/ydyxtmuc

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