Have you found yourself stuck in the middle of a particularly bad writer's block? Need a dose of inspiration? Or are you simply looking for some creativity to kick-start your newest novel? Then look no further!
Paranormal Prompts aims to bring you...
Hello everyone and welcome to our brand new prompt! We'll be featuring a picture prompt. Remember that you're free to interpret the prompt in any manner you see fit, be it literal or figurative. However, there should be a clear link between your entry and the prompt provided. For more information, check out our guidelines below!
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Thank you everyone for those fantastic stories! Here are the two winners for this prompt. Please keep in mind, they are in no specific order.
Momma said I was born under a waxing moon. It was midnight when I came into the world bloody and soundless like somethin' a nocturnal beast had caught for a night-time feast. When I asked her 'bout the day and time, she said she didn't remember but there were flowers on the ground. I 'posed it was spring but momma shook her head and said it was months after the harvest.
Momma carried on drinkin'. She'd swig from a bottle then look out the window, weeping when the moon was waning. "The light goes out. And then..." She'd look at me with bloodshot eyes. "...they come with their dirty hands and yellowed teeth."
"We're the last ones left," momma'd say as she sat in her chair rockin' back and forth –ax on her lap. Her eyes would be glued to the window and she'd be waitin' to hear them come near our farmhouse.
I'd watch a roach, as big as my fist, skitter over the toe of my five-dollar shoes. "Wish poppa was here," I'd whisper – partly to her, partly to the bloodstains on the floor.
But poppa was gone. Six years later so was momma. Now I'm alone. I've got nothin' to remind me of her but a new stain and an ax that feels as heavy as any burden I've ever carried.
"Did we sin, momma?" I ask as I gaze out the window. The same blasted skitterin' plays on repeat. The same roach walks over my shoe. There is no reply.
The moon is fading. The night is coming. I hear them before I see them. Their feet crunch over the brittle stalks of wheat.
Their voices are a cacophony, a horrid symphony.
But I've killed their kind before and I'll kill 'em again.
I clutch the ax, my eyes burn red. They near the run-down house I've always called home. Inside I am safe. Inside, so are they.
My bones morph – I hear 'em crack and mend instantly. My skin stretches and my wings sprout. I have become what I truly am.
I stand at the threshold and smile wide until rows of razor fangs glisten with spit and blood."Come I get me." I raise the ax and cut them down like we used to harvest the wheat.
-KHUNBISH-I paid a pretty penny for the antiques. It wasn't in the millions but it set me back many thousands. A once in a lifetime for me that would pay off later. The bidding was intense. I was way out of my league, yelling at my laptop as the tapping battle ensued. The Thirteenth century Mongol tribal helmet with its battle ax, would be a million dollar inheritance to give Charley. I prepared myself for battle and took home the prize, which I would proudly display in my grand entry hall. God, it was menacing. Exquisite but dark looking. Charley's night terrors began just three days after I placed the helmet in its mahogany and glass display pedestal in the cavernous front hall. Night after night, the blood curdling screams would awaken me. Something in his closet. A bad man with no head. Charley moved to my room. I could not see the shadowy figure Charley had described. My mind is consumed by this when a loud ram echoes through the house. Charley screams. Moments later another slam. They echo like a battering ram, shaking the walls when Charley catches his breath and a sound erupts from his tiny lungs I will never forget. It continues every single night. "ENOUGH!" I scream into the night. I was going to have my home back. My peace. My child's sanity. With the ancient ax in both hands, I drag it behind me, past Charley in the doorway whimpering. The iron head of the ax slices a jagged scratch along the Italian marble in the hallway. I grab the helmet and head to the door. It creaks as it opens revealing darkness before me. On the driveway, I lift the battle ax over my head, crashing it down on the helmet. "Mommy?" The endearment startles me and I turned to see Charley standing there on the porch but looks like he is at the end of a tunnel with a small circle of light around him. I run towards him in panic but like a poof of smoke he disappears and I fall on the steps in a crumpled mass of trembling exhaustion screaming his name into the dark night.
