My life is shit.
I mean… Godzilla, all the Godzillas in fact, even the awful ones.
King Kong. The Kraken. Frankenstein, Dracula, The Mummy.
The Werewolf, The Wolfman, whichever one you prefer.
All these guys; now they were monsters.
But me?
Jesus, talk about the short, feces-encrusted end of the stick.
Allow me to set the scene, or at least a scene, if I may.

You’re driving along a winding country road in the small hours, in heavy rain, when your car breaks down.
Of course, it does. That’s how these things go. We all know that.
No other cars pass for ages, your phone has no signal, blah blah blah.
Against your better judgment, but right in line with what seemingly sane people do in these situations, you leave the warmth and safety of your car and decide to go looking for someone who can help. Or a phone. Or someone who can help by giving you a phone.
To keep dry, you leave the road and take to the cover of the trees.
Obviously.
You come across a path.
Hey, it might lead somewhere, right?
Oh, and it does.
It leads you right into the lair of a creature the likes of which you could never have imagined, not without the help of mushrooms.

Continue reading “Flash Fiction: “Shit Monster””

Somewhere close, way too close behind them in the traffic, a horn honked.
Twice.
“That wasn’t what I think it was, was it?” said Beth.
Kevin shifted in the driving seat. “Jesus. Couldn’t have been.”
Beth killed the radio.
Kevin checked his mirrors.
They chanced glances left and right, looking at the occupants of the vehicles around them. Their expressions were all fixed with the same disbelief, the same incredulity.
The same fear.

Continue reading “Flash Fiction: “Serenity””

The supervisor got into the elevator without a word, leaving Megan slack-jawed on the fifth-floor landing, the mop slowly sliding from her grasp.
Surrounded by glass walls, the eyes of all the self-obsessed ants sitting at their desks in the open plan office beyond were on her, crawling all over her like even smaller, hungrier insects, desperate to know what had been said. As if seeing her gorilla of a supervisor pointing his finger in her face for the last five minutes with his other hand on his considerable hips, as if he were her father scolding her, didn’t give them enough of an idea.
It was partly her own fault this had happened.
But mostly theirs.

Continue reading “Flash Fiction: “The Cleaner””