This piece was submitted for a challenge given by Indie Writers Monthly. It had to come in under 200 words. The final product is 199.
Welcome to my world... Check out some of my writing below. These pieces were written for flash fiction contests... one of which won and was published in Indie Writers Monthly - Horror Edition. Enjoy! - Elizabeth
author, actress, screenwriter
The prompt for this first piece was to write a story in which all the children have simultaneously begun drawing the same thing. The story had to be under 500 words. This comes in at 496.
Girls Night Out
© Elizabeth Fields, 2014
(previously published in Indie Writers Monthly, Horror Edition 2014)
Jen woke to a jolting sensation. She could tell she was moving. Was she in her friend’s backseat? She opened her eyes wide and tried to adjust to her surroundings. Nothing. Where was she? Her hand went instinctively to her pounding head. Nausea took over. Her hand dropped behind her and touched a felt-like material. She put both hands up to feel behind her; her elbows hit something solid. Her hands touched her tiny surroundings as she tried to determine where she was. She started to panic. It wasn’t a backseat. It was a trunk.
She couldn’t remember what happened. She was dancing with her friends; they were drinking. The mysterious yet cute guy at the bar brought her a drink… That was all she remembered. She screamed; tears streamed down her hot face. She screamed so hard the lining of her throat tore. She clawed and banged at the trunk.
The car slowed; finally coming to a stop, halting her cries. She lay still, trying to think of a plan; trying to think of reasons why; then pleading. She promised to never act so carelessly again. Just let her live through this.
The trunk opened.
“Hello again, beautiful.”
We Light The Way For Him to Come
©Elizabeth Fields, 2015
Susan Nash somberly approached my desk and handed me her drawing. The other children sat, quietly moving their crayons across their papers. I looked at Susan’s work, not sure what she had created. It was a series of sharply drawn symbols I’d never seen before.
“This is very interesting, Susan. I like it very much, but what is it?” I asked carefully. Her face remained sullen. She stared intently at me, almost through me. Susan was normally a very energetic child. “Susan,” I continued, “are you alright?”
“He’s coming for us,” Susan said.
“We light the way for Him to come.” She turned and went back to her seat. She pulled out another sheet of paper and started drawing again.
I rose from my desk and walked toward her. I could see that she was beginning to draw the same pattern she’d just given me. The children sat in silence. Their hands moved feverishly over their pages. I looked down at Billy Marsh’s paper. Though left handed, his right hand moved quickly as he produced the exact same image Susan had created. Confused, I walked through the rows; at each desk, I saw the same image. The kids, expressionless, emotionless, all worked to draw the very same thing. Drawing after drawing, I saw the same image pouring from their crayons.
I went back to Susan. This had to be some kind of prank; some sort of latent April Fools’ Day, get-the-teacher sort of prank. For nine year olds, I must say it seemed pretty elaborate.
“Susan, who put you all up to this? Is this a joke?”
She didn’t look at me. She kept coloring.
“He’s coming for us,” she repeated.
“We light the way for him to come.” She looked up at me, just for a second, then returned to her work.
“We light the way for Him to come,” the children repeated together.
“This isn’t funny,” I scolded. “Okay, art time is over.” I grabbed Susan’s sheet from her desk. She began a new one.
As they sat and drew, they began speaking again in unison.
“Pain is His love.
We are of His blood.
We light the way for Him to come.
We light the way for Him to come.”
“Stop this! Now!” I demanded. They continued, chanting over and over. Their hands moved faster as the images multiplied on their papers. A dry lump arose in my throat. Adrenaline coursed through my body. Was this real? Not sure what to do, I ran into the hallway. I found Mrs. Mulligan there, outside her classroom, crying.
“Mrs. Mulligan,” I said. “What is it?”
“The pictures,” she said, shaking, “the children.”
Then I heard it. The chant surrounded us in the hallway. All the children, in all the rooms, the same words. Louder and louder it grew.
We had no idea the horrors that awaited us, and there was nothing we could do to stop it. It had already begun.