Sunday, February 5, 2017

Flash Fiction story for Women in Horror Month

It's February and Women in Horror month. I wish we didn't need it, but we still do. It's getting better, it's changing, but slowly. I edited FRIGHT MARE-WOMEN WRITE HORROR, an anthology of women writers and to my surprise, it made the preliminary ballot in HWA. I wanted to shine a light on the disparity between stories in anthologies and magazines where the number of male slots and female seemed off balance. Ten male writers and two female? It wouldn't be a problem if it didn't happen over and over and over again. Now women are being targeted to be discriminated against by a President who seems to have no respect for women. There's a lot of work to do and vigilance to keep. No one, male or female, should support discrimination in any form. That's what WiHM is all about.

Now for the fun stuff. Want to read a flash fiction story I wrote? It's 420 words. I hope you enjoy it. I am not a political animal, but I've always stood up for the abused, downtrodden, and people who live in an unjust world. I come from a long line of strong women personalities. As a writer, I have little impact, but what I do possess goes for justice and equality. For everyone.

It's Super Bowl Sunday. Take a little five-minute break and read a story. It might do you good.

Billie Sue Mosiman
Copyright 2017

Knocking my head against the tree makes it feel better. Makes me think hard. It all escapes me if I can’t think.

Blood pours from my scalp into my eyes, but I can see. Still see it. Sara taking the knife into the bathtub with her. Coming home from the fields to call and whistle and laugh that she might be hiding, then finding her floating in bloody water. Lost my laugh, lost my breath. Pulled her to me and wept bitter tears that she couldn’t last out.

Knocking my head on the tree again, silence in the forest, no birds, no animal to be my friend. In the distance the thunder of warfare. Artillery fire, the bombardment of canon, and jet strafing.

I don’t care. Why care now when I’m all alone? I told her, Sara, we’ll be all right here. We’re far out in the country, nothing but cattle for miles. You’re having our baby, Sara, I’ll protect us if they come, I swear it.

She was no fool. She knew there was no way out. We couldn’t leave the country, our proud country gone to hate and ruin. We had nowhere else to flee and hide. We were one couple in the middle of rangeland. All the other ranchers had gone off…somewhere. I told her we were perfectly safe here. Who would want us? Who would hate us that much?

Getting off the tractor once I saw the jets overhead, I hurried to the house and meant to make light of it. We’d survive maybe if we went down the trapdoor to the small area I’d built under the floor. I’d convince her this was nothing. We were as safe as anyone could be.

The war sounds neared and I turned from the tree to see the advancing army. They marched behind Jeeps and kept their gazes forward. They could see my house now and veered that direction.

I wiped the red fog from my eyes to watch. Relentless, like cockroaches, swarming, they rushed the house. All they’d find was Sara in the bathtub floating in her own blood.

As for me, I meant to outrun them, cut their throats in the dark, and disappear again. It was their fault my Sara couldn’t last out.

I could. I could outlast eternity now I had nothing to live for. I was bloodied, but not dead. Not caring if I died, I’d make a formidable enemy.

Slipping into the thick trees I hurried away.

I’d be back in the twilight darkness.

I’d be back to avenge my darling.


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1 comment:

  1. Provocative in its sense of gloom that many in the US are feeling right now. The tug to let go, give in to our sense of hopelessness, and not care what happens anymore weighs heavily on my heart.