Sunday Photo Fiction: The Horsemen’s Head #flashfiction #amwriting #SleepyHollow


Thanks to Alastair Forbes for hosting SPF. 

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Credit: A Mixed Bag – Alistair Forbes

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Ichabode Crane was observing the dim forest when he noticed the bald head buried beneath the tree of death. Each morning it was Ichabode’s job to discover what the headless horseman had left behind from his nights decapitating helpless citizens.  

Today he found two headless corpses half-buried. He shivered thinking of the literal trail of blood that often followed the horseman. 

Though Ichabod was a medical doctor, he’d never found any heads attached to the bodies the horseman discarded. His heart pounded and he began to sweat as he clawed the head from the ground with his fingers. 

The hair felt dirty and greasy. The waxen skin was warm and he was sure the head had soulless eyes beneath its lids. While he stared, Ichabod’s hands shook. The blood running from the head’s eyes, suddenly, caught his attention as they began to open of their own accord. 

Coal eyes with pupils as red as poppies, alerted Ichabod this head belonged to the horseman. Ichabod drank from his trusty flask, whiskey and opium to numb him. 

But perhaps he drank too much. When he awoke, the head lay on his lap and Ichabod rested against the horrid tree. The moon exposed him and his opium veil faded. He felt too alert. The head’s mouth fell open revealing carnivorous teeth. 

Soon, the thundering footsteps of the black horse and the armed body of the headless horseman could be heard. He screeched as the horseman took one slice at his neck, but then, Ichabod offered the horseman the head. 

The horseman dropped his sword and went to his knees on the ground. He took the head in his gnarled hands and placed it on his neck. The horseman growled, a sound of rage in a demonic tongue. 

He gazed at Ichabod, “Run, go now. I will spare you for returning my head. Everyone else in Sleepy Hollow will join me in death.” 

Ichabod had never considered himself a coward but he ran anyways, never peering behind him as screams filled the night. 

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©Mandibelle16. (2017) All Rights Reserved.  

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Flash fiction for Aspiring Writers: “Demonic Beauty”


Enclosed in the bar, eyes magnify; temptress in red, silk sliding on skin.

Sway in her hips, a tease of the senses. Men breathless consent, adoring sin.

Striding with ease, heels ruby with diamonds. Naked shoulders shimmer, anticipating.

Treading softly, fallen in red fire, elusive, and beguiling; illusion of flames sating.

Moving her hips, licking cherry red lips; coal glimmer in demonic eyes.

Sensations burning, engulfs her body; seething, writhing, building her disguise,

A vestige of power; she’s the tyger enticing, an allusion to Eden, of poisonus lies.

Decisive, sauntering closer, flicking hair, tar-black as the ash before Lent.

Peer into eyes, a glimmer of gold, metal men grieve for; silence, fire scent.

A vision, a curse, a whisper in vain — animating, the instrument on stage, 

Notes dance, music bleeding; breathing sweat, the melody of the enraged,

Fire rings, smoke engulfing; watch the woman despair, her voice entrances, beware–

Beauty enraged, a witch, incaged; performing she’s the beast, on stage no cares.

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http://www.pixebay.com
 

Thanks to Priceless Joy our wonderful host of FFfAW.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: “The Sacrifice.”


“So, um Simon, what are we doing here?” I asked my friend. 

“Well, we’re going to a Baptist Church,” Simon says.

“I’m Lutheran, and we aren’t into speaking tongues and overly emotional praise music.” I tell Simon. 

“Well maybe, Baptists feel that emotional singing demonstrates their belief in God. Besides you only go to Church a couple of times a month, Miranda.”

“Doesn’t change my beliefs,” I tell Simon. “I learned and chose to believe in Jesus. I don’t agree with everything the Lutheran’s believe, but on the important matters I do.” I sigh, “let’s hope the Pastor doesn’t talk for two-hours.”

In the sanctuary I’m struck dumb. The people in the pews are dressed in black robes. There is a man on the alter with a fancier black robe and signs on his religious scarf. The signs look demonic, to my horror. I turn to leave and Simon grabs me.

” You told me they were Baptist — not Satanists!” I cry.

Simon smiles mischievously, “Satan requires a sacrifice from us and she needs to be one of Jesus’s flock. She’s you Miranda.”

“I believe in Jesus and I will go to heaven because of my Faith when I die. Get your hands off me Simon, I’m not dying today.”

Simon’s face is pure evil. “You’ll be with your Saviour soon, and you’re not going anywhere. The sacrifice ritual has begun.” 

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Al Forbes

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Thanks to Alistair Forbes for hosting SPF.

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©Mandibelle16. All Rights Reserved.