Free drinks

God but she was sexy, the way her jet black hair hung over her shoulders, the enigmatic smile that revealed just the slightest glimpse of perfect teeth, and slightly more than half the length of two gleaming fangs. The slim trickle of blood that weaved a line from the corner of her mouth to her chin.

Her curves were sheathed inside a skin tight, slit-from-mid-thigh scarlet number that made him wish he had been the shoe horn that had helped her into it.

He licked his lips, wincing as he caught his tongue on his own fangs, swirled his cape back over one shoulder, and went in for the kill.

He poured a couple of strong Bacardi and Cokes and carried them over to where she stood.

He raised one eyebrow suggestively and gave her his best breathy snarl as he offered her one of the glasses. she snarled right back at him, grinning all over her face, she accepted the glass with one hand while clawing the air with the fingernails of the other.

“So, what's a nice vamp like you doing in a place like this?” He asked.

“Oh I met Greg a couple of weeks ago in the library, and he invited me to the party. How about you? What's a handsome bloodsucker like you doing here?”

“I've been coming to Greg's fancy dress Halloween bashes for years now, always have a good time, plenty of free drinks to get stuck into, usually end up paying for it the day after though. Drink up and I'll go get us a refill.”

Two hours and several drinks later and the idle chit-chat had turned into drunken giggles. Arms slung around each other's shoulders, they slurred into each other's ears above the din of the music and raised voices.

Fur began to fly when a heated discussion between two werewolves turned a bit more physical. Within minutes several more guests had joined the free-for-all.

When the grim reaper staggered across the room and planted his fist into the nose of a dust-streaked zombie, adding a decent sized smear of real blood to the fake stuff already daubed on his face they decided it was time to leave the party and head to his place for a nightcap.

They kissed in the back of the taxi, giggling each time their fangs clicked and clashed together.

By the time the taxi pulled up outside his house the hugs had turned into fumbles and deeper exploration.

Once inside the house he pulled her to him, embracing her tightly, squashing her breasts to his chest. He kissed her deeply, then pulled away laughing as their fangs caught again.

“Time to lose these, I think.” He said, removing the fake, but very real-looking fangs, and placing them on the coffee table.

He turned back to her, pulled her to him once again and locked his mouth onto hers. His tongue slid between her lips, the sharp prick of pain took him by surprise causing him to jerk his head back in reaction. He tasted the coppery flavour of his own blood in his mouth.

“I think it might be a good idea if you took your fangs out too.” He said to her.

“Oh, mine don't come out.” She replied, smiling broadly.

He watched with horror as her fangs slid silently upwards and disappeared into her top gum, then almost immediately slid back down again.

Even if he had been totally sober, he would still not have possessed the speed or strength to prevent her gripping him tightly, pinning his arms to his sides.

“Time for more free drinks.” She said.

He just stood there powerless as she tilted her head to one side and sank those glinting, razor sharp fangs deep into his neck, slurping sounds echoed loudly around the room as she drank greedily.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.


Happy Halloween everyone, and watch out for those ghosties and ghoulies roaming the streets after dark.

Darlings

“Darling?”

“Yes darling?”

“Be a dear and put the kettle on darling.”

“A dear, darling?”

“Yes darling, a dear.”

“Well, which is it darling?”

“Which is what, darling?”

“Is it a dear... or a darling? I mean, I can't be both at the same time, can I darling?

“I suppose not honeybunch.”

“DARling.....”

“What? Oh, sorry, yes it's a dear, definitely a dear. Be a dear and put the kettle on, would you please dear?”

“Yes, of course darling.”

“Thank you sweetheart.”

There was a resounding CLANG as the kettle hit him smack between the eyes.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

Fading away

Hi, and thank you for visiting The Twisted Quill.

Last week I read a chilling #fridayflash horror story entitled “THE BENCH” penned by the writer Connie Cockrell, who blogs at “Conniesrandomthoughts”

Connie's story was written in response to a photo-prompt by a photographer friend of hers, Seth Johnson, you can find more of Seth's excellent works on his website here at :- Sethsnaps.

Many thanks to Seth Johnson at Sethsnaps for use of his picture.

This is what came into my own mind as I looked at the photograph:-


FADING AWAY.

I took the photograph many years ago… so very many years ago, I don’t recall just how many.
The colours were vibrant then, like her, full of life, beautiful.
As was the building.
I look at the picture every day… every single day.
Over the years the colours have faded, dulled, greyed, just like her.
Until the colours were no more, as was she.
And I miss her so much.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

As ye sew...

Jean Paul Christeux looked carefully at the fabric before him, turning it this way and that, trying to decide what it would become. Maybe a skirt, or a bonnet. Whatever he decided on, it would do the catwalk runs, then sell for silly money. Every sleb and millionaire's wife in the world wanted to get their hands on a Christeux original.

His mind wandered back to that famous interview with David Lettermin, truly a brilliant landmark in his career. When asked the question “How do you decide what to make from any particular piece of fabric?” Christeux had replied theatrically, “The fabric... speaks to me, much like the stone speaks to the sculptor, or the canvas to the artist. The fabric tells me of its desires and aspirations, it guides my hands and needles, and becomes what it truly needs to become to make it shine.” Christeux smiled smugly and thought to himself, “And if they believe that load of old codswallop, they'll believe anything.”

But the public did believe it. Oh, Christeux had a good amount of talent and originality, and his hand-crafted garments were certainly one of a kind, but it was that interview that had really set him on the road to fabulous wealth and fame.

He dragged himself back to the present, and looked again at the piece of cloth, a lovely tartan blend.

“I think you will be a scarf.” Murmured Christeux to himself.

“But I don't wanna be a scarf, I wanna be a kilt.” Said a squeaky voice.

Christeux was shocked rigid, he glanced around the room convinced someone was playing a prank on him.

“Oi! Oi! Are you listening to me? I said I wanna be a kilt!”

Christeux stared hard at the tartan, he prodded it a few times.

“Show some respect,” said the cloth, "and get busy with those needles, a kilt is in the making.”

“You're not going to be a kilt, you're going to be a scarf.” Said Christeux, angrily. Then stopped dead, he couldn't believe what was happening, not only was the cloth talking to him, it was arguing with him.

“Oh, someone is having fun at my expense.” He said, then picked up the scissors and began cutting.

The material screamed, and howled abuse at him as it began its journey towards scarfdom.

“Ow! No! Ouch! You're cutting all the wrong shape. Ouch!! That goddam needle is sharp. Gerroff me you son of a bitch! You're gonna pay for this! I want my lawyer! Just wait, you're gonna get yours...”

“FOR GOD'S SAKE... SHUT UUUP!” Screamed Christeux in frustration, you're going to be a beautiful scarf, and that's that, another peep from you and you'll go into the fire.”

The cloth lapsed into silence after that, and remained so whilst Christeux's expert fingers guided the needle and thread, pleated, folded, scrolled the material. At last, the scarf was finished, and even by his own standards it was beautiful.

He crossed the room to the mirror, then draped the scarf around his neck, turning this way and that to view his masterpiece from every possible angle.

“Oh my, but you are soooo beautiful.” Cooed Christeux. “You are going to be the star of Paris next month.”

“Yes.” Said the squeaky voice. “But you won't be there to see it.”

The scarf began to tighten around his neck. Christeux panicked, his hands scrabbled at the material trying to pull it off, but the scarf tightened further.

His face began to turn blue as his windpipe constricted. His tongue lolled from his mouth and he staggered around the room gurgling and thrashing. As he barged into the wall, the scarf whipped one end into the air and looped itself several times around a sturdy coat hook, Christeux was dragged kicking off the floor, his heels thrummed and scraped against the wall gouging deeply into the plaster.

Just as his eyes began to bulge Christeux croaked. “Okay, okay, you've made your point, a kilt it is then.”

Which sounded more like. “Oga... Oga...Yamagapa... Akee.. tee... sen."

But it would have made no difference. The scarf was no longer listening, it just closed its cloth ears to the choking sounds and carried on squeezing.

The death of Jean Paul Christeux, which an inquest ruled as suicide, was a tragic loss to the fashion world. His creations became even more sought after and expensive, being affordable to only the ultra rich.

And the scarf?

True to Christeux's prediction, it did indeed become the star of the Paris catwalks, and a few weeks later was bought at a secret auction by an anonymous bidder for an undisclosed sum.

Wherever the scarf is now, if it still has thoughts of becoming a kilt, it's keeping them to itself.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

A day at the beach

“Have you had a good day at the beach, son?”

“Yeah, it's been fun, kicking the ball around an' all. You've been such a good sport too, allowing me to bury you up to your neck in the sand, that was the best part by far.”

“Heheh! Yeah. Well, I'm getting a bit achey now, so how's about digging me back out again? There's a good lad.”

“No... no... I think I'll leave you right where you are.”

“Stop fooling around son, get the spade and start digging.”

“All that running around has made my legs a little tired, so I'm gonna wander over to them rocks and sit down for a while, have fun.”

“You start digging me out right now you little shit, I'm gonna leather the hell out of you when I get you home.”

“That's exactly why you're staying there.”

“I'm gonna call the cops when I get out of here, see what they have to say about a kid that does something like this to his dad.”

“I don't think the cops will be too hard on me, not after I've shown them the welts on my back, and mom's too, they're a lot worse than mine.”

“Look son, I know I haven't always been perfect, but I'm gonna show you that I love you, from now on things'll be different.

“Yeah, well, it's not like you're my real dad is it? You just married my mom, that's all, and if loving someone is getting drunk every night and taking a belt to them, well I don't ever want anyone to love me again, especially not you. I'm gonna go sit on the rocks now.”

“Son... son... c'mon, don't leave me here all alone.”

“You won't be lonely for long, look down the beach, there's a bunch of crabs heading this way, and I just know they'll be only too happy to keep you company.”


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

A wonderful evening (Re-written)

Author's note:

Hi everyone, thank you for taking the time to visit The Twisted Quill.

Last week I posted a very short story entitled “A wonderful evening” which, although I quite liked its brevity, felt that it didn't really meet my intentions, so for this week's #fridayflash I have posted a much longer, and slightly different version of the same story, one that is closer to my original idea.
Anyone wishing to read the original post can find it here:- A wonderful evening.
Thank you for reading.
Steve Green.


A WONDERFUL EVENING (RE-WRITTEN)

They had bumped trolleys in the supermarket, as they laughingly apologised to each other he couldn't help but notice the look in her eye, a twinkle, an invitation?

A few minutes later they passed in opposite directions down the next aisle, he looked across and smiled at her, she beamed back. Yes, she was definitely interested.

By a quirk of fate their cars just happened to be parked side by side, they laughed and chatted as they were loading their shopping. He was usually so lacking in confidence around women, but there was something different about her, something that drew him in. Her smile, so open and inviting, her whole demeanour made him feel that she found him attractive, desirable. He took the plunge, shyly asking her number, and offering his own.

He called her later in the day and knew from the moment she picked up that things were looking up for him. She sounded absolutely delighted that he had phoned. They arranged a date for the following evening, she said she would host, she loved cooking, and it would be much preferable to the hustle and bustle of a restaurant. He couldn't agree more, in his opinion things were just getting better and better, he experienced a pleasurable shiver of anticipation as he fantasised about how the evening might turn out.

He dressed smartly, wore his best suit. He stood on her doorstep, awkwardly cradling flowers wine and chocolates in one arm as he reached out and nervously rang the doorbell. Any nervousness he felt quickly evaporated when she opened the door, she greeted him with a huge smile, she was positively glowing with pleasure, with excitement, with expectation.

The meal was exquisite, beautifully prepared and absolutely delicious. They chatted easily, as though they had known each other all their lives, he could never remember a time when he had felt so relaxed in female company. Her conversation was intelligent and witty, when he spoke she listened attentively, hanging on his every word. He couldn't believe this was happening for him, that he could be so lucky. Is it possible that the seed of encounter in the frozen foods aisle could blossom into romance for him tonight?

They reached out across the table, their fingers touched, intertwined. He told her how this had been such a wonderful, wonderful evening, how he just wished that this moment could last forever.

“And so it shall my dear, for you anyway.”

As she spoke a slight static surged from her fingers to his own, in less than a second it pulsed throughout his whole body, tingling and warming every muscle as it went.

He felt the first stirrings of unease trickle down his spine. He looked across the table at her, the twinkle in her eyes now looked more like a malevolent glint, her broad smile appeared sinister, a cruel twist to her lips giving her an evil look, feral almost.

The unease quickly turned into terror as he tried to unclasp his fingers from hers but found he was unable to move, his whole body seemed paralysed. For a moment embarrassment rose to the surface as the intense fear caused his bowels and bladder to void.

A strange sensation rippled through his entire body, pulsating waves ran down his arms and through his fingertips.

He could feel himself slowly growing weaker as his life energy flowed from him to her.

Her head rolled back and she moaned softly, arched her back, whimpering and spasming as if in the throes of orgasm.

As the night wore on his body gradually diminished, deflated, began to collapse in on itself.

The days and nights passed by, and still she writhed in ecstasy, taking every last available molecule he had to offer, savouring each drop of essence, until eventually his husk disintegrated into dust breaking the contact. She slumped back in her chair, spent, satiated, her breathing rapid, ragged and hoarse.

Later, her whole being awash with a deliciously warm afterglow, she hummed happily to herself as she skipped gaily about the house doing the cleaning up, disposing of any signs he had ever been there. She washed the dishes and put them to drain, threw what she could into the garbage, and buried in the cellar what was left.

What she needed now was sleep.

Several months later the first pangs of hunger roused her from slumber.

The hunger grew stronger as she showered, dressed and applied her make up.

She checked herself critically in the full length mirror, yes, perfect. Casual clothes just bordering on sexy, heels not too high but enough to accentuate the curve of her calf, not too much lipstick or eye-liner. She let her gaze rove the length of her reflection, taking in her beautiful features, her mane of honey blonde hair, the swell of her breasts, trimness of waist, and the curve of her buttocks, not bad at all for a creature who was almost five thousand years old, she didn't look a day over twenty five.

She allowed herself a final practice of her brightest smile, the one that radiated openness, happiness, and just a hint of invitation and the possibility of something more, pleased with the result she turned away from the mirror.

The hunger was burning hotter now, she picked up her handbag and keys and headed towards the door.

She felt ravenous.

Time to go shopping.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green

A wonderful evening

They had bumped trolleys in the supermarket, laughingly apologised to each other, passed in opposite directions down every subsequent aisle, smiled, nodded, and walked on.

Fate favoured him that day, their cars just happened to be parked side by side.
They were loading shopping, he took the plunge, shyly asking her number, and offering his own.

Mid evening and she hadn't called, why would she? He was no Adonis, just an average guy, and she was so beautiful, probably fighting them off with a stick.

Faint heart never won fair lady, he would call her, the fear of rejection lay heavy with him, but he had to know.

She picked up, sounded delighted. A date? Why, yes, she would love to. Tomorrow evening? That would be splendid, would he mind if she hosted?

He dressed smartly, his best suit. Took flowers, wine, chocolates, and hope.

He knocked on her door, nervously shuffled his feet, felt his spirits hit the sky when the door opened and her beaming face appeared. She was so happy to see him, she was glowing with pleasure, with excitement, with expectation.

The meal was exquisite, beautifully prepared, a candlelit heaven.

They chatted as though they had known each other all their lives.

Hands reached out across the table, fingers touched, intertwined, energy flowed from one to the other.

He had never felt so happy in all of his life, he just wanted this wonderful, wonderful evening to go on for ever, they both did.

They sat, holding hands between the candlesticks.

They sat like that until the daylight seeped through the gaps in the shades.

Until the summer turned into autumn.

Until the flesh fell from their bones.

Until there was only dust.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

The giggles

I had the giggles, overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the situation. I was chuckling so hard I could barely catch my breath.

The heist had gone perfectly. The escape through the sewers too... almost.

Here I was, in the pitch black, the stench of human waste clogging my nostrils, the squeaks of rats like tinnitus in my ears, the slither of fur brushing my legs, the Chinese water torture drip-dripping in the background.

I hefted the loot bag in my hand and thought of all that it could buy, could have bought, probably now never will buy.

The blueprint of the labyrinthine tunnels crinkled between my fingertips, unreadable, priceless,useless.

From somewhere in my head came the thought, “A torch battery, a torch battery... My kingdom for a torch battery!”

That just set me off again, my maniacal laughter echoed through the dark, things just couldn't get any worse.

From close by came a low, throaty snarl...



©2013 Stephen. J. Green.

LORD ALF-The Novel

Hi, and thank you for stopping by The Twisted Quill, I hope you enjoy the visit.

This post is an unashamed plug for a novel written by a writer friend of mine. Colin James is a Yorkshire man like myself, who originally hails from a small town some thirty miles from my home town, but for several years Colin has lived in the USA.

As well as running his own business Colin also finds time to produce excellent fiction, short stories, serialised stories, and also novels, the latest of which has just gone to Kindle.

Colin's new novel is called “LORD ALF” and for the next five days can be down-loaded to your kindle ABSOLUTELY FREE!!

I was fortunate to read LORD ALF in its proof-reading stage, and thoroughly enjoyed it.
Colin's style is earthy, gritty, powerful, marbled with humour, and never disappointing.

You can find LORD ALF on Amazon here:- LORD ALF by Colin R James.

Download and enjoy!!!

I'm sure all reviews or comments would be much appreciated by Colin too, if there is anything writers like more than chocolate or beer, it is feedback.


For more of Colin's work stop by his website at THE I-10 BLOG, it will definitely be worth the visit.


You can find Colin's website here :- THE I-10 BLOG.


Thanks again for stopping by.

Best wishes.

Steve Green.

Taken for granted

Alan staggered through the doorway, almost dropping the flowers chocolates and card in the process. He had been an arse lately, even by his own standards, but he was pretty sure the peace offerings would smooth things out a bit.
She was cooking a special romantic meal for the two of them tonight, and he was ravenous. Alan glanced at his watch, the football was on telly in just over half an hour, with any luck he'd have finished eating in time to catch the start of it, the perfect end to the day.

Yeah, he was a few hours later than he said he'd be, but he couldn't refuse an offer of a beer or two with his workmates on the way home, could he? And anyway, what difference does just one more time make?

He walked into the kitchen, following the appetizing aroma of recent cooking, a silly sheepish grin on his face.

“'Appy Val'tine darlin'.” He slurred. “Sorry I'm a bit late, but y'know...”

The scene that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks, shocking him to silence.

The floor was strewn with smashed crockery, the walls and appliances smeared and streaked with what looked like the remains of spaghetti bolognese, tomato sauce traced a track down the fridge door and pooled at the base.

Gouged deeply into the surface of the dining table were the words...

THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU BASTARD

Alan placed the presents on the table, covering the words, hiding the truth from himself, something he was rather practised at these days.

He took the scotch bottle and a tall glass from the cabinet, carefully avoiding the sticky strings of spaghetti that clung to the door as he did so. He poured himself a stiff one, then walked into the lounge and slumped into an armchair.

He looked around the room, at the clean squares on the walls where this morning there had been pictures, at the half-empty CD rack, at the almost bare bookshelf with its single bookend.

She had gone. Packed her stuff, and left.

The house already felt cold and abandoned.

Yes, she had gone, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Yes, there's nothing you can do about it NOW.” Said his inner voice. “But there was something you COULD have done about it. Some things you SHOULD have done about it.”

The voice harangued him mercilessly.

“Would it have really harmed to come straight home from work a couple of nights a week instead of calling to the bar with your mates?

On the rare occasions you took her out, she always looked stunning, would it have been too much to tell her sometimes?

Was it beyond you to hold her and tell her how much you truly loved her occasionally?

And all those delicious meals that she had spent half the day preparing, meals that you wolfed down so you could get back in front of the TV, wouldn't the repeats have waited an extra fifteen minutes while you showed some appreciation? And would the odd compliment have gone amiss?”

Alan poured himself another strong one, then sat there with the tears rolling down his cheeks as the home truths continued to batter him like hammer blows.


©2013 Stephen. J. Green.