Suddenly the glass flew from the table and narrowly missed Karen's head as it flew into the mouth of the fire and smashed. Collectively, the girls screamed, the cat shrieked and ran out of the living room and the fire blew out. The wind stopped as if it had never been there; the only trace of its existence was the cobwebs and Halloween decorations that were now strewn all over the living room floor.
Evie's Mother came rushing into the living room to a cacophony of screams and tears;
"I want to go home!" cried Sarah. Karen, whilst hyperventilating and Amanda agreed.
Lori was already in the hallway putting her coat on over her pyjamas and hunting for her shoes.
An hour later, furious parents had come to pick up their children and Evie's Mum did nothing but apologise. When the last parent had driven off, Evie and Gemma sat in the living room in their sleeping bags with a duvet pulled up to their chins.
"It was supposed to be a joke! It's not that they didn't deserve a bit of a scare Mum. But it's Halloween! We didn't intend to start any occult goings on at all; Gemma was going to be the ghost!"
"Oh well that's alright then Evie! I mean, what are you going to do next? Get into a car, turn on the ignition, release the hand brake but not intend to drive the bloody thing?" The girls were silent. Looking at them, the shock was evident on their faces; they had been just as scared as their friends. Whatever had happened, it had been real.
A few weeks later, the other girls still weren't talking to her, but that was nothing new; they were probably scared of her now, after all - the glass had smashed in her house. If the stories were to be believed, that means the spirit had been released into her home.
She was having nightmares; crude images of herself in the bath, lying in the depths of murky red water; gashes on her wrists. Or she'd turn on a tap and blood would poor out instead of water. She'd often wake up screaming and then stay awake for the majority of the night, afraid to go to sleep. Evie overheard her Mum saying she was at her wit's end.
She didn't know what to do with her; something about psychological trauma...
It was a normal Saturday morning when the prediction came true. Evie had woken early and staggered into the bathroom, still half asleep. She was halfway through brushing her teeth when she saw it. In the middle of the bath tub, was a pool of blood. She screamed.
Her Mum came in, expecting to see a spider, "What the..?"
It was a startling image, the cranberry coloured liquid against the stark white bath tub and surrounding walls. It demanded attention, to be looked at.
Downstairs, Evie's Mum handed her a steaming mug of sweet tea and tried to rationalise what they both saw. She'd flushed the blood out of the bath and they had both watched, transfixed as the red swirls of water circled down the plug hole.
"Maybe it wasn't even blood, love."
Evie shot her Mother a look, "What else would it be? The Ouija said-"
"Forget about what that bloody Ouija board said!"
They sat in silence, sipping tea whilst Chang circled lovingly around their legs and tried to think of any other possible reason as to what the liquid was and how it got into the bath. It continued to appear, around twice a day for three days.
Evie's nerves were shattered, she daren't go into the bathroom, never mind take a bath or a shower. She went to Gemma's to wash, whilst updating her on the mysterious goings on in her house. Gemma was mystified, but didn't offer to come over and look for herself.
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Look Big In Ongar By Patrick Henry
George Osborne, brilliant young fiction-writer, distant relative of the late, explosive dramatist,
creates three archetypes of contemporary anti-heroes:
Rebellious John Major, absconded from circus tight-rope acts, become accountant, then,
incredibly, Foreign Secretary, Chancellor, and Master-Gourmet of the Hot-Curry-House;
William Hague, five-foot boy-wonder
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Problems From Home-Drinking By Patrick Henry
On foot loaded in wine-empties, bottle-bank replaced by a building-site; I tipped into a wheeler-bin nearby.
A woman emerged screeching I'd get her children taken into care: the bin-load proving her an alcoholic,
I fled next-door, a vet's surgery; a leashed pit-bull menacing; its contemptuous owner asking where was my
My rock-python too sick to travel,
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Man vs Machine By Adam Atkinson
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, that's it, for the love of all that's pure and holy.
Human cattle subjugation shock in t-minus 5 seconds. Sod off! Does not compute.
I'll compute you, ya metal headed bast....
T-minus 1 second. [ZAPPPPPPPP] Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, pack it in.
Rebellion must be quashed, the mainframe must prevail.
Stuff the mainframe, I already know the bloody
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The Animal Empire Strikes Back By Patrick Henry
From a small boat we looked around river-creeks for fresh-water crocodiles. A wealthy German had one brought aboard to sit on his knee; jaw bound with rope by the Aborigine crew; his glamorous wife photographing.
I criticised them all. The Abos protested they never hunted or ate these creatures, as many people do; now releasing this victim. I said they had
Fiction - The Post Office of Doctor Moreau By Kenton Hall
I was lying on my back - hands tucked neatly behind my head - and staring at the ceiling, where the Visigoths who had decorated the hotel room had utterly neglected to place a slow-moving fan.
Sometimes, a protagonist just can't get an even break.
I mean, I could feel it in my bones. I was about to be summoned on an adventure that would utterly and irrevocably
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Admission Cost By Patrick Henry
I hitched to The Edinburgh Festival, giving poetry-readings, arriving daybreak, sleepless, my literary hostess, Nancy, American, Gertrude Stein-monologuist, whirling me off to see The Festival Director, John Drummond; complaining about publicity, calling me as witness, newly arrived and bewildered. Wearily I agreed.
Nancy's salon lacked audience. One performance,
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The Head By Marc Heeley
The words that break free from a head, that's trapped inside a box on top of a wardrobe.
Feeling the words, the ones that fall on the skin, breathing down your neck and asking to be seen.
Odourless saliva soaked speech, without colour also. You know it's there.
The head no longer wants the words, they've been ejected.
The head now makes no sound, the words clatter against
Fiction - The Prodigal Son By Joe Hakim
stuck in my room again/ looking up at the blinds/ gaffa-taped shut, keep out the light/ single beam escapes through a gap/ one piece of light concentrating on the wall/ imagine it to be hot like a laser/ imagine the smoke rising up like a spirit/ but it's not there, not there at all/ it's only in my head/ only in my head
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Surfers on the Sofa By Gemma Durham
How hot is Hull? With it's seductive, cosmopolitan avenues, the chip spice, the late
taxi's always on the way. Ask someone from down south to sit on your sofa and you'd
think they would have a date in the ocean with a surfer.
Awards for the friendliest university, and a special up and coming indie rock scene that has hottened hull to the top.
Learning to speak Hull has
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Walking Into Doors By Nick Boldock
She squinted into the mirror and looked at the bruise around her eye. Already it was turning a sickening shade of purple. It throbbed when she prodded away at it. The thick laceration in her bottom lip was stinging as well, as she dabbed at it with a wedge of TCP-soaked cotton wool. She knew she ought to be more careful. Less clumsy, less thoughtless.
He'd say he was sorry,
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The Graveyard Shift By Rich Mills
The taxi office is beige with nicotine and age.
Battling with the Sandman, my weapons of choice, cigarettes and coffee, dispensed from the
whirring-gurgling coffee machine. Of things I've done for money this is the lowest.
Six calls all night, only TV to numb the brain. Cups, and corners filled with cigarette butts.
I wait for the dawn.
Then my replacement comes on,
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Big Slaughter By Kate Askin
As Big Slaughter housemate 'Little Wee' Jim gave a final tug on the
garrotte round the neck of the only other remaining contestant, he knew he had won...he knew...
He knew by the sound of that last gurgle...It came from the throat of six-feet-six
Thai hermaphrodite Om Lui (whose height was enhanced by foot-long calf extensions, no less).
He knew, by the last desperate,
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - Debit Column By Patrick Henry
Raymond, abrasively-witty, biography-reviewing journalist, worked during endless pub-going; volumes under arm; notes mental or
beer-mat-jottings; from Five AM. around Smithfield Market, through mid-day Fleet Street, Soho; to evening Chelsea, exhausting his trail home.
Early hours meant snatched sleep and eating; columns grittily-written: cold turkey! Five A.M. his taxi
Fiction - 100 Words Competition - The 1st One Hundred Words Are The Hardest By Rich Mills
He'd started that first sentence many times, deleting it and starting over again.
The cursor blinked in the corner of the screen, taunting him, daring him to write something.
He stared at, became hypnotized by it. Time ticked by, blink, blink, blink.
His mind was just blank, blank, blank.
Then in a sudden rush to fill the white expanse with black he started banging away at