#RomanticFridayWriters #Fridayflash - The Prince and Princess of Darkness for the New Horizons challenge.

Romantic Friday Writers is a blogfest every Friday co-ordinated by myself and Francine Howarth. It is a fun event, showcasing the work of many fine writers who write romantic flash fiction or poetry under 400 words. Click on the icon in my sidebar or the link at the end of my post to check out others participating today or join the blogfest yourself. You will be most welcome. We are also found on twitter. We are @RFWER A winner is awarded the recognition of being the week's Featured Writer.

#Fridayflash is a group of writers who write flash fiction under 1,000 words every Friday to no particular theme. Click on the #Fridayflash icon in my sidebar if you want to access more stories.  

My story today has been given new life from its first appearance as a twisted fairytale with a paranormal bent. I've cut it by half but hope I've still kept the edgy element.

The Prince and Princess of Darkness

‘Cindy, don’t go!’
‘I’m 18 years old! I’ll do what I want! I’m off to explore new horizons.’
Philomena and Persephone were thoroughly alarmed at Cindy’s outfit for the Prince of Darkness party – black, black and more black.
‘Cindy, this rave will be dangerous. There’ll be party drugs...’
‘What are you worried about girls? You’ve spent years working me like a slave while you had all the fun. Now it’s my turn to party. Nothing’s going to stop me now.’
Her stepsisters recoiled, horrified. Here was a stranger in silk and net, black beads, black stockings, black stilettos, black gloves…
‘What’ll we tell mother?’
‘Nothing. She’s always wanted me dead so there’ll be no problem.’
‘But…’
‘If you think I’m worried about your mother, forget it. My mum’s the only one I answer to.’
‘But your mum’s…’
‘Dead? You’d be surprised how helpful she can be.’
***
On the subway Cindy shrugged off the sniggering looks. She chatted to her mum. She’d visited her grave that afternoon. The little white dove that perched on the headstone had a note for her: ‘Come to the Prince of Darkness party! Best-dressed prize! A date with the Prince!’
When Cindy arrived the bouncers ushered her in like she was a foreign princess. She knew she looked amazing in her floaty black dress and sparkling black jewels.
The party was pumping when she entered the cave-like room. Everyone gazed at her, admiration on their faces. The Prince, who she saw leaning over the atrium, flew down the stairs and took her hand, leading her in the dance.
Cindy was puzzled. ‘Why, Prince, are you dancing with only me? There are many girls who are dying to dance. I see it in their eyes.’
‘Exactly, my princess. Their eyes are already dead, while yours blaze with light.’
‘Please not for much longer, my Prince.  I came for my date with Death.’
‘Is that what you want, my princess? To be with me forever after?’ He kissed her neck.
‘That is what I want my Prince. Mortal life has nothing for me.’
‘Come.’
The Prince knelt before her, removing her stiletto with its razor-sharp heel.
She welcomed his steely embrace and his lingering kisses. She hardly felt it when he pierced her neck with her heel.
Smart Prince. So much easier than biting.
She swooned at his hot breath as he tasted her divine life source.

©DeniseCovey2011

Word count 400. FCA.

Denise

#RomanticFridayWriters /#FlashFriday - On Top of the Mountain

On Top of the Mountain

On top of the mountain was where she wanted to be—leaving behind all her insecurities and unhappiness, her confusion over Tod.

The climb had been hard but the view Paradise.

She twirled round and round like a ballerina then fell in a dizzy heap.

‘Woops!’ She giggled, bathed in blue sky.

She was first.

She never got to be first.

She wasn’t even first with Tod. She knew he’d chosen her because she looked like his first girlfriend.

But today was the best day of her life.

Her confusion was lifting like the clouds on the mountain.

She’d hurried ahead of the walking group even though it was naughty. She was sick of their whining. Sure, it’d been a long climb but what did they expect? All the way from St Jean Pied de Port to this splendid mountain in Spain. What a pilgrimage. What a way to start over.

It was Roderick who riled her big time. He’d been a pain from day one, complaining about everything—the food, the weather, the organisation. 700 kilometres to go til they reached Santiago de Compostela. How could they put up with Roderick for that long? 

She was surprised the guide, Rafe, hadn’t sent him packing. But Rafe wouldn’t.  He was the nicest guy. She wished it was just her and Rafe, the two of them together. Wouldn’t that be cosy?

Ah Rafe. She pictured his built body, muscled by years of climbing. She pictured his black curls flopping over his eyes. How she’d love to twirl her fingers through those curls!

She put her water bottle aside and took in the blue sky, the mountain range, the haloes of whispy clouds.  But she was drawn to the valleys made dark by black shadows. What was it that made her always look down? Did she always have to see the dark side?

She breathed in slowly, savouring the moment. Ah, to be first at last! Would Rafe be impressed?

She heard grunting behind the scraggly bush where she’d propped herself.  

She moved the leaves aside and peered closer. She felt a clunk as her heart wound to a stop. Lying spreadeagled, a head wound gushing blood was that whiner, Roderick.

‘Hey, Ciara what have you found?’ Rafe had arrived.

She shook her head. The cloud was choking her.

She never got to be first.

©DeniseCovey2011

Up! Up and Away!

If you have landed here, just letting you know that this blog is closed from June 09 to July 25. I am on the road again. Korea, France, Spain, Morocco, Andorra.

I have lots to do before I get on that plane, so will just be using L'Aussie Writing blog until June 17.

When I come back I'll have lots of stories to tell.

Happy #fridayflash and other flashy brilliance!

Denise<3

"I remember..." #Romantic Friday Writers and #Friday Flash

I remember when the sky stretched above me, high and blue. I remember it filtering through the branches in slivers of light.

You reached out your hand and took the picnic blanket, red and black, made of the softest wool. You shook it free from its folds, its tassels floating in the afternoon breeze, until it settled onto the thick grass.


Mesmerised, I watched the rise and fall of your arms, then you stepped forward, held those arms out to me.


There we lay, bathed in sunlight and joy, inhaling the sweet smell of the sea.


So wrapped were we in each other we didn't notice the air had become cool.


I turn and see the stranger who is no stranger.


The strength of him is like nothing I've ever seen. His powerful arms fling me aside as if I were a rag doll. My face is in the grass. I squirm to the side, my head thick and throbbing.


I hear Adoni grunt. The stranger is a madman. The two men struggle, but Adoni is no match for those arms, muscles like steel ropes, squeezing. Adoni is failing.


I fling myself onto the madman's back. I feel helpless but Adoni needs me.


Pulling, pulling, on the ropey arms. The stranger turns to me and I see eyes gleaming like underwater stones.


It is the moment Adoni needs.


"Rialdo!" he screams. "She's mine now. Let us be!"


The madman falls to his knees. I peer closer. It is Rialdo. I remember...but this is another Rialdo, a man undone by love, Adoni's and mine.


I drop to my knees and face him.


"Adoni speaks truly, Rialdo. Our love was of another time, another world."


"My world is bleak and black without you, my love. I have come for you."


"No!" I hear Adoni scream.


Rialdo's eyes burn red in the fading light.


"No!" I echo Adoni's scream, dread thrumming through me. "I must stay with Adoni. He is my life now! We have many years of earthly pleasure before us."


"I'm sorry my beloved, but I must take you with me this time. Now. You will be mine into eternity."


I remember the last earthly sound I heard. It was the rustling of the leaves in the trees at the edge of the forest and my name in the wind - "Elspeth! Elspeth! Stay!"

I hope you enjoyed my touch of paranormal flash fiction. 394 words this week! If you want to read more #RomanticFridayWriters stories, click on the picture.

If you want to read more #Friday Flash stories, go to #fridayflash hashtag on twitter or click on the image in my sidebar.

Black Angel #fridayflash

This post was prescheduled for Friday 13, the day of the Great Blogger Crash, so I'll try again this week. I'm sorry it's been so long since I posted a story. I've been off doing the A - Z Challenge, planning an overseas trip, writing, planning a new blog challenge (Romantic Friday Writers,) so some of my blogging had to go. This is a story I posted for #fridayflash a year ago. It's my way back into the routine. Many new readers will not have read it. I hope you enjoy it...

Black Angel

Black is my new favourite colour.

Your hair is the first part of you I see as I push you into the world. Amidst the euphoria and pain I am surprised to see a little head covered in black. Sure, it is messed in little curly strands, mixed with blood and fluid, but when the nurse washes you and hands you to me wrapped in a shawl as soft as fairy down, your hair is a halo of black fuzz. As I gaze at you I fall in love. I hold you close and kiss you and blow soft puffs of air across your head, catching my breath in wonder.
Art is blonde and I'm a redhead. Go figure. But I love your black downy fuzz. It goes so well with your bright red wrinkly just-been-born skin.
I'm ready to leave the hospital when I get a huge shock. You’ve gone bald. My God! Your beautiful black hair is no more. No one warned me about this. How can this be? To go from fuzzy black to bald overnight. Obviously I hadn’t read the baby books closely enough. Is there something wrong with you? No, I'm told. This is quite normal. Normal, I huff, no one told me I was going to have a bald baby. I hug you close, mourning the loss of your baby locks. It looks like I’ve given you a zero cut with Art’s clippers. It’s ok, I'm told, she won’t stay bald for long.

Within a week your hair grew back, but this time it wasn’t black, it was blonde.

And blonde it remained, except when you were sixteen and you and your friends decided to go goth at a pyjama party. When I picked you up, there you were, one of six gorgeous girls with charcoal-black hair, thrift-shop black overcoats and black Doc Martens, laces trailing like old spaghetti. My mouth was open, ready to tear strips off you, when I realised that you hadn’t gone black, you were…
…red, see Mum. I wanted to be a redhead like you. Whaddayathink?
It’ll grow back, I say, a bit at a loss.

The redheaded phase only lasted a few months, then the blonde was back but with a red tinge. I wondered why you didn't go black like your friends who kept their black hair, their overcoats and Docs, then added piercings, tatts and attitude, but I was pleased you didn't take it all on board.
How I loved your long strawberry-blonde curls. You were a Botticelli angel come to life. My heart did somersaults just looking at you, lying there in your dark room at night, clutching your red teddy bear, your hair wavy on the black satin pillowcase with its single red rose.
Art was beside himself, terrified every time you went out at night. He'd pace the floor, look at the clock, look out the windows.
I prayed.
Art always hated your friends, especially Jack with the black mohawk, stiff as a weapon. You were Art's little angel. He never wanted you to grow up.
He got his wish.
Who would have thought that you'd be caught between Jack and Art's hatred? Who would have thought you'd take the fatal blow? Oh, Art...Art...Angel...Angel...
Here you are, lying so close to me on your four-poster bed with its black drapery. But tonight your beautiful strawberry-blonde hair is hidden from me. Except for one curl, caught in the zipper of the slick black body bag.
Black is no longer my favourite colour.

I hope you enjoyed my story. I'd love to hear from you...

Denise

Sitting at a typewriter opening veins...

There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein. -Red Smith

That's what I'm doing for the next month, opening veins. Sorry, I won't be posting, but I will visit occasionally. I'll be back early April.

I have a lot of writing to do before I embark on my month-long sojourn in mid-June to Paris, the Dordogne, S.W. France, Andorra, San Sebastian Spain, Bordeaux, Morocco, Paris...

Sorry if you came to read my #fridayflash but I'll have plenty of stories when I return...

Broken Hearts Blogfest

Thanks to Dawn Embers for hosting this blogfest. For my entry I have taken an extract from my WIP Ruby and edited from 1000 words down to a little over 500. Much sharper now.

I'm publishing here as I'm hosting Roland D Yeomans on L'Aussie Writing, so sorry for the extra click! If you haven't visited me here before, it is where I post my short, sharp stories so it is quite apt.

Now read and enjoy:

She was about to put the key in the door when she saw him. He was leaning against the wall of her cottage, his open shirt catching the breeze.

‘Michael,’ she whispered. ‘You’ve come.’ Kiss me.’

‘He lifted his head, words tumbling, pouring into the space between them. ‘I had to Ruby. I couldn’t just walk away, let it end like this. I thought we were doing great.’

‘We’re heading in different directions. We’ve too many conflicts.’ I love you my captain.

He turned towards her. She studied the moonlit ocean. What could she say—she didn’t want them to break up either, but was there any choice?

He was close enough to reach out and touch, but to Ruby there was a huge chasm between them and a violent current raging down that chasm, forcing them apart.

He stepped across the imaginary divide, surprised her with the lightest of kisses. His lips felt warm, so warm. Michael. Michael. Michael.

She opened her mouth to speak but her bottom lip trembled so much she couldn’t.

He took her in his arms. He ran his hands down her body and she couldn’t help it – she gasped with pleasure. His fingers found the soft ruffle of her thin summer top, then lightly brushed her bare shoulder. Michael, that’s not fair.

Her trembling fingers touched his bare chest. She put her arms under his shirt, and tugged him close. She lay her head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, loving the male scent of him.

She stiffened. Jumped back. What am I doing?

‘What?’ Michael murmured, ‘Don’t stop.’

‘We’ve got to stop.’

‘You can’t mean that?’ his voice sounded ragged, his breathing heavy.

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You know it’s a bad idea. It doesn’t change anything between us. It only makes things harder in the long run. Better a clean break. Now.’ She stepped back, the chasm cracked open again.

‘I don’t understand, Ruby. I love you. I want to be with you.’

And I love you too, Michael.

‘Go. Quickly.’ Her voice broke on the words, her tears flowed, her whole body revolted.

He looked at her for the longest time. He held out his hands. Ruby nearly gave in. He dropped his hands, his face bereft.

‘I don’t understand. Why do I have to walk away? Surely you feel it too? Don’t you love me a little?’

Not a little, Michael, I love you desperately. But she didn’t say that. She lied.

‘No, I don’t love you. I’m setting you free. There are things you have to do with your life and I’m not going to hold onto you and prevent you from following your dreams.’

‘What are you talking about? You are my dream. There’s nothing I want to do that would come before you.’

‘Are you sure about that, Michael?’

He ignored her question.

'If I have to leave you tonight, Ruby, I won’t come back.’

Ruby stood before him, body shaking, tears falling, resolute.

No words.

A terrible silence.

A chasm neither could breach.

His eyes, blue as the ocean he was returning to, searched her green ones. Ruby tore her eyes from his searching gaze. He reached for her face, knuckled her tears, turned and walked away.

Ruby watched him leave, hot tears streaming down her face.

She unlocked the door to her Marie Antoinette suite. It suddenly looked ridiculously romantic to someone who’d just turned her back on love.

THE MIDDLE

©DeniseCovey2011

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