Tag Archives: Paranormal

My Short Form Fiction In Response to Wednesdays Visual Writing Prompt


Her father had resolved the matter that night by nailing the window shut. He had no explanation why it was coming open when it was even difficult for him to move. He had walked around the house to make sure there wasn’t anyone messing with the girls. Finding no sign of anyone and no ladders, he went for his nail belt and called the problem solved. Unfortunately, none of the girls felt any better, and now their father knew something was not right under their roof. He recalled the real estate woman with her hand shoved through her sunroof window and waving goodbye “By the way,” she had hollered as she headed down the drive “the place is haunted!” Thank god the girls were out of earshot. He chuckled a bit when he’d heard it but now he wondered. Real estate agents were required to give full disclosure. She would be liable for any unpaid fees and rents on the house had she not told them.


Regardless of what Penelope had seen in the toy room, she wouldn’t be kept from playing there. With the house full of morning noise she felt better about braving the two large glass doors and the icy cold room. What her mother had said about the dead being unable to hurt the living helped. She guessed it was the idea that it was all so out of her control and unfamiliar that made it scary.

She glanced around the room and ignored the sense of unease that came upon her. She played with the dollhouse and listened to her sisters arguing over the tv, this seemed normal enough that she got comfortable with her surroundings.

The phooka stared out her from the large pile of toys where it had been forced to hide. Escaping through the portal at this point might only get him lost forever, so better to wait her out. At least these people weren’t prone to letting their animal roam this part of the house, but it was one of the worst, icy cold and making his nose want to run. He hadn’t been able to approach the young girl the day before because she had been frightened so badly by what he could only assume had been a ghost. He watched the terrified girl back her way out of the room feeling behind her for obstacles. When she reached the opposite side of the living room her skin had gone completely ashen, and she slid herself sideways down the wall into the kitchen where he lost sight of her. Yes, she was the one he needed to be talking to, the one he had been told would be here to help him.

He watched her play because he had no other option, he would wait a day or so until the right moment arose to bring her into his confidence.


The day went on fairly uneventful. Penelope spied on the boy across the lane while she wondered about the property and he actually came and introduced himself  – but only to be invited into their barns to play in the hay. He was a little younger than her and a bit of a smart alec, not someone she would readily choose to hang around with. He was kind of snobbish, like a know-it-all.

In any case, they had some fun jumping from the upper landing of the big barn into an old pile of dry hay that lay heaped on the floor. It made her nose tickle and her skin itch, but it was worth it. The boy stayed and played until Penelope’s mother called her in for dinner and he left for home not bothering to say goodbye. She decided she didn’t much care for him at all.

Dinner was a bottom round roast and the steam from it permeated the air with the smell of melted butter, roasted onions, garlic, oregano, and basil. There were medium sized red potatoes that were broiled with the roast, their skin just starting to peel and too hot to open just yet and butter. There was broiled celery which was the best smell of all. It was good to have a dinner like this after being so hard at play and the meal made her groggy.

The sisters headed straight upstairs when they finished, knowing they still had another hour to kill before they were expected to be in their beds. Penelope sat on her bed coloring in her notebook while Lorraine sat on her bed writing something. It was better to keep to themselves than risk the possibility of an evening squabble. They always fought and they always got yelled at – and they always tried to be good.

Victoria suddenly burst into the room clutching the doorknob with eyes wide “You guys have to see this!”

Penelope and Lorainne rolled their eyes in unison and padded across the rough boards to their sister’s room.

Victoria had entered first and motioned them quickly toward her bureau. “Can you believe it!” she whispered loudly “They did it all by themselves!”

On the top of the bureau was a plain piece of paper where a pile of crayons lay. The strange thing her sister was pointing out was the way they had melted and swirled altogether kind-of beautiful on the paper.

“You shouldn’t be playing with lighters like that!” Lorraine scolded.

Victoria looked perplexed and then angry “No duh Lori, I didn’t! I told you they did it on their own!” She grabbed the paper, peeling it from the wood and shoved it towards them. “There’s a ghost in my room, it melted these crayons just like it was opening the stupid window the other night!”

From the far corners of Victoria’s room, the shadows leaned in, stretching their long, tentacle-like arms out to embrace her. They writhed about in hunger, devouring Victoria’s fear and anger. She could feel the chill of them as their long reach wrapped about her. The color began to drain from her face “I’m telling you there is something in here!”

Penelope could feel the hairs on her arms begin to stand and the room went cold. She scanned the room quickly, her eyes darting over the dark mist in the corners behind her oldest sister. They were all but invisible, their presence managing to suck the life straight from the air they were breathing. Her head started swimming with the lack of oxygen.

Lorraine was almost yelling at Victoria, claiming it was her fault the crayons had melted that way and that she was just trying to scare them. But she wasn’t, Penelope grabbed at Lorraine’s sleave, shaking her head in disagreement.

“Get out!” Victoria hissed at her sister’s “I don’t know why I bother telling you anything!” she had moved towards them, the weight of her body backing them out of the room. Slam!, went her door and it bounced back off the latch.

Penelope could swear that, just then, she saw a dark mass swirl behind Victoria and the slightest sound of a sinister giggle echoed in her ears. There was definitely something in that room. She knocked on the door with no success. Victoria was hurt that they seemed not to believe her. The tentacles squeezed tighter and she began to sob. “I’m sorry!”

Penelope’s faint voice traveled into the room but was lost before Victoria heard it. She was shaking and could only make out her own sobbing. Penelope turned on her heal and retreated back into her own room. The dizziness left her before she had cleared three strides toward her bed. These events were exhausting and had them all pressed tightly to the edge of their comfort zone.

She settled back into coloring in her notebook for the better part of an hour before Lorraine killed the light without warning. “Thanks!” she muttered under her breath.
She dropped her notebook to the floor and placed her pens on top of it. She hated when the lights went out and the dark came creeping in. The place seemed to fill with an uneasiness and she would always feel like there were eyes cast down upon her. It made her spine tickle and shiver. She pulled her blankets up tight to her chin. She could still sense the presence in Victoria’s room, it was like a despair that reached through the hallway and settled upon her. She prayed she would fall to sleep quickly.

The floorboards creaked and snapped as the old house settled, adding to her unease. And then came a feeling she couldn’t describe. There was a quickening of her heart and a cool rush of air on her face, her brow began to bead with cold sweat. Panic was upon her and her eyes darted about the darkness of the large room. Every crevice seemed to swirl in a deeper darkness. She began to count in her head, ninety-nine, and backward. It was a trick she had recently learned that helped to calm her nerves before bedtime. But she was struggling to focus on the numbers and instead peered frantically out into the empty space before her. Something was there just outside of her vision, she could feel it. Her skin went to gooseflesh and her ears began to ring as the old farmer stepped out from the closet grinning.

His frame would have been seen as a stitch taller than the doorframe. A black mass that pulled in the darkness around him, he leered at the girl, happy he frightened her. He hated her, hated them all. He spun the handle of his ax in his hand and stepped toward her, the floorboards creaked feeling the empty weight of him. His mouth went dry with a bloodthirst, he wanted to kill them. A slight breeze caught up his mass and he swirled apart, vanishing.

Penelope was frozen in a fetal position, terrified to move. A slight breeze brushed her cheek and she startled, sitting up straight, still gripping tightly to her blankets. Lorraine was already asleep when she whispered loudly to get her attention. She was alone with this thing and she could feel it close to her. She peered over the edge of the mattress to the space between it and the floor, she sensed it was hiding. She looked to her sister’s bed and it seemed like miles from her in the shadows. She wanted to jump to the safety she felt was there in the moonlight that spilled through the window. But she just sat there for what seemed like forever.

There was a pounding of her racing blood in her ears and she shifted uncomfortably on the bed. She peered down toward the floor again and could make out the shape of a large weathered hand as the farmer reached for her. The air was sucked from her lungs and the ringing raged even louder. She stood up straight in her bed in a flash and kicked off from the wall. She was too terrified to think but she landed squarely on her sister’s bed. She couldn’t hear her sister grumble in complaint.

Penelope’s eyes were fixated to that spot between her mattress and the floor. Her mouth went sticky and dry and her throat hurt liked she had swallowed a softball. She was freezing and numb. She climbed clumsily over her sister and sat with her back to the wall, shaking. the moonlight catching her face and arm.

She felt sick in her stomach… she had seen him.

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Untitled-1 copyPublished by M.R. Goodhew

Michelle Rene has been involved in the publishing industry for over twenty years as an author, copywriter, illustrator, and designer. She is an Indie Author Advocate who volunteers her time to give back to the Indie Author Community and is also a writing consultant.

As an author of non-fiction, Michelle Rene writes books to help independent authors develop their platforms, discover their brand, and create the right look that will draw readers to them. She discusses how to navigate social media and addresses marketing tactics.

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For the author who sets up their web presence independently and does not wish to hire a designer, her books offer a wealth of start-up information, graphic design templates, video tutorials, and give crucial insight to the designers thought process – which assists in the creation and design of the author’s platform.

Michelle Rene also writes fiction which falls under several genres. She is currently working on a book that involves conspiracy theories…you’ll be hooked…




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“Arrival” A Paranormal Thriller. – WIP by Suzanna Burke

I am totally excited to share this excerpt by author Suzanna Burke!

I stumbled across her profile on Amazon and made my way to her website when I was tempted by her blog post about a bit of Paranormal. I was hooked instantly and thought you would love it too! I love her style, great writing 🙂


Welcome to my new work in progress! “Arrival” A Paranormal Thriller.

I will be featuring an excerpt from “ARRIVAL” my latest work (In progress)  each week. I have listed this as a paranormal/thriller. I have yet to decide if I should add Dystopian to that genre list.

Your thoughts and comments would be greatly appreciated.

Here we go! (No synopsis)

CHAPTER 1 Excerpt 1.

“Arrival” by Suzanne Burke

The blood was pooling now; the pools becoming rapidly drying rivers in the oppressive heat of early morning.

It caked the whitewashed walls in grotesque patterns, like Picasso on a bender.

The team moved softly, unaffected by the stench of death. As ordered, they were sending  ‘activation’ messages to those of the ‘Breed’ that stood watching the carnage without expression.

The other onlookers, the ‘Nontells’ were deemed irrelevant. As always they would do as instructed; unaware, unafraid, robbed of free thought.

Diago Ortega was a Nontell. He watched the Breed team carefully, fascinated as always with the teamwork without words that they excelled at. The poetry of movement between them was a beautiful thing to behold. His brain took a snapshot of the moment, storing it in his photographic memory along with the rest of the horror.

It was only when his own part in this nightmarish scenario was played out that he would stop long enough to reflect. For now the bodies were still warm to the touch; death had not yet visited for long. Dismemberment was carried out in routine order. Diago had a fleeting gratitude that his team did not need to decapitate the body. Taking the limbs was sickening enough.

His face reflected no horror. For he had witnessed far worse.

Why did the the Breed insist that all Nontells leave the room once forensics were underway? Why did the Breed always clean the gore themselves, when they had an army of Nontells to do it? It made no sense.

Why indeed were the ‘Breed’ at all times, the last ones to remain on the scene, and the first to arrive?

Diago tried unsuccessfully to stem the tide of his suspicions. The ‘Breed’ could read his thoughts, he was certain of it; all that kept him safe was their egomaniacal assumption that a ‘Nontell’ would have no thoughts worthy of reading.

He sat. He pulled a beer from the ice-box and drank it down fast; it cleared the bitterness from his palate … for a time. Alcoholism was rampant within the Nontell enclaves; it had been since the ‘Arrival’; in fact, the Breed encouraged it. It was the one thing that the Nontells were permitted to excel at.

Diago remembered well the days before ‘Arrival’. Those days before were forbidden to recall, never to be spoken of. The Breed had succeeded overwhelmingly well in quelling their humanity. But not for all. Not for him.

The memory played out in the theater of his mind,  sweet, sweet, memory … of the days when laughter was spontaneous, tears were permitted, and joy was anticipated with delight. Days of sunshine and superman, dogs and children, doughnuts and coffee.

Years of striving to attain a place. Working, long, discouraging, deadly hours; holding on desperately for those times of returning home, to the love of a partner who valued your contribution to their world.

‘Arrival’ had irreversibly altered that sacred pattern.

The ‘Breed-Master’ had declared the days before “Arrival” as a pestilence to be diminished and swept from memory.

It was so ordered.

Diago Ortega chose to disobey.

As did the others …  they would arrive soon.

The other Nontells, the ones with enough humanity remaining to dare to be different; to question, to seek the truth … and perhaps more importantly, to locate within themselves the courage it would take to act on what they discovered. Small pockets of them had begun forming, always alert and always at risk.

Diago waited,  allowing his thoughts to drift, permitting visions of yesterday’s to enter once more.  They blazed with unfettered passion, he could feel the heat as he suffered again in the light.

The loud pounding on the door startled him. He jumped up, spilling the contents of his beer over an already dirty shirt. He glanced around quickly as if a method of escape would magically appear, it did not …  He located and grabbed his old gun, tucking the Glock firmly in the waistband of his jeans. The pounding continued and his heartbeat accelerated, all his focus now on that door.

They others had a prearranged signal and this wasn’t it.

To be continued….

I do hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Those that read this, will be the first to do so.

Source: Welcome to my new work ‘under construction’ “Arrival” A Paranormal Thriller. An excerpt will be featured each week.

Craig Boyack – Guest Post: Short Story Writing

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I really appreciate the invitation, and the topic challenge. I never really put much thought into how I came to write short form stuff. It kind of evolved, but reflecting upon that, hopefully, leads me to a good article.

Once upon a time, I wanted to write a novel. I picked up my iPad and started typing away with no idea what I was doing. I had no idea what the rules were, or that they even existed. Looking back, it was one of the most enjoyable experiences of my writing career.

The final product sucked, but I didn’t know that at the time. I kind of wandered from one cool idea to the next without much of a game plan. What I wound up with was quite a bit like a television series. The same characters engaged in tiny vignettes that were kind of cool. Archaeologist might look at those one day and decide they were my first short stories. (They certainly weren’t a novel.)

I’ve always loved short form stuff, and in many ways prefer it to a novel length work. Time is a big factor for me, and I really dig a story I can complete in one session. Prior to that first “practice” novel, I read lots of Poe, O’Henry, and magazines. I enjoy some of the ones dedicated to short stories, like Hitchock’s, Ellery Queen, and others. It never really occurred to me to write my own.

From magazines, I wound my way into comics. I think this is a wonderful way to tell a story, and there are some great graphic novels out there these days.

My Blog, Entertaining Stories, had been live for about a year when October rolled around. I wanted to do something on my blog that felt like Halloween. I enjoy reading a kind of micro-fiction called Creepy Pasta. I thought I might try my hand at that.

I did some snooping around, and someone has a website by that name. I probably have no legal worries, but didn’t want to step on anyone’s toes either. Who knows, that person might someday prove to be an ally in my self publishing journey. I came up with the name Macabre Macaroni instead.

I posted a complete story per week during October, and my blog stats spiked. One of them was the most popular post I ever made for a long time, and it’s still in my top ten. I decided the short form still had fans somewhere out there, and did a bit of digging.

Traditional publishing shunned the short form. Oh sure, some of the biggest name authors can get away with a book of short stories, but for the rest of us it’s pretty limited. Amazon changed all that for us. These days, novellas, novelettes, short stories, and even poetry are making a comeback.

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I’m a big believer in challenging myself, and include a personal challenge in all of my novels. It might be unnoticed by the reader, but it forces me to grow and improve. I approached short stories with that mindset. I’ll never know if I can write one until I write one.

I scoped out my competition, and many of them offered a single short story for 99¢. Others were writing a series, and offering a prequel for 99¢. I decided to offer a book full of short stories, and micro-fiction, for 99¢. It seems like a better deal, and it sells pretty well for me.

I searched for the rules once again, and there aren’t many. Sites offer up word count for the various lengths, but none of them seem to agree. Therefore; I reject their reality and substitute my own. I break it down this way:

  • Flash Fiction = one paragraph
  • Micro Fiction = a decent blog post. 1000 words, pushing my luck at 1500
  • Short story = 5000 to 30,000 words
  • Novella = 30,000 to 80,000 words
  • Novel = 80,000 words and up

It used to bother me that there are holes in my list. It also bothered me that novelette didn’t find a home. Today, I really don’t care. The actual story is more important than the pigeonhole it goes in. As a self publisher, I don’t have to conform to a bunch of categories that different websites define differently anyway.

My short form tales are also proving grounds for me. I called the first book The Experimental Notebook for a reason. Short form allows me to experiment with new things. I recently wrote one that I’m pretty excited about as a big monologue. It would never work as a novel, but I think it’s a great short story. I also wrote my first epistolary style story as a short story.

At some point, I’m going to put out a second Experimental Notebook. The first one sells well, and I’ve gotten some wonderful reviews. It can also be looked at as a gateway drug into my novels. Someone might take a 99¢ chance, and decide one of my novels might be fun.

I write speculative fiction, and for me the fences are pretty far apart. My stuff varies from paranormal to science fiction, and the occasional fantasy. This gives me plenty of room to keep things fresh, and the short form stuff does the same.

I hope I’ve encouraged some of you to take a chance on short form. As writers, you can try new things without dedicating months to a project to see if it works. Now you can use those cool ideas that won’t carry an entire novel. As readers, you can enjoy a complete story on your commuter bus, or coffee break.

If you’d like to check out some of mine, you can read The Experimental Notebook of C. S. Boyack here: http://a-fwd.com/asin-com=B014S2BA4U

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A speculative selection of micro-fiction and short stories. These were designed to be short reads for your commute, coffee break, and other times when readers are pressed for time. This book contains a bit of science fiction, some fantasy, and paranormal stories. 

I’m excited to see short fiction returning in popularity. I hope you will enjoy these stories as much as I did.



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New Character Painting – 001

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I started this sketch two days ago and just finished the painting this morning. I am using a new technique that makes the painting process a whole lot faster. The entire project took about six hours. I’m hoping that with this particular artistic style, I will get more commissions to do Young Adult Book Illustration.

I really like this character. I don’t really know what inspired her. I decided I was going to start drawing a new character every day to improve my skills.

I might make this painting a story prompt and give her away as a prize for the best story about her. What do you think?


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