#StitchedSaturday – June 22, 2019

#writingprompt #WritingCommunity #FlashFiction #StitchedSaturday #HouseofStitched

This Saturday’s writing prompt:

Max Word Count: 500

Min Word Count: 300

Using the image below, tell us a story. Then share the post and get others to choose their faves or participate with their own contribution!

(Picture credit: https://picsart.com/i/image-darkart-depressed-freetoedit-227153035028202)

12 thoughts on “#StitchedSaturday – June 22, 2019

  1. Chariots of Flesh
    Ezekiel Kincaid

    One of the most terrifying things about a demon is sometimes you don’t know they are there.

    Hophni lurked in the shadows. He craved a body. The darkness was his home, but it often bored him. There was no one to torment there. No one to inflect pain upon while he subsisted in the formless void. If he had flesh to inhabit, he could inflict greater suffering; torment. He could destroy and ravage. He grew tired of influencing. He wanted to possess.

    “The most entertaining thing about humans,” Hophni would tell his legion. “Is that they give you control, and they aren’t even aware of it. Their selfishness. Their hate. Their ignorance. Their sins and their blasphemies and abominations. Their heartless devouring of one another. These are our bridge. In their acts they think they find freedom, but in their acts, they find our chains.”

    Hophni stared at the chains which were gorged through his skin. Hundreds of them, piercing almost every inch of his demon hide. His eyes followed them to their last link. Each one was connected to a person who had given him control and influence.

    He guided them all, like a satanic puppeteer, using them to accomplish his plan and entertain his desire for dominance.

    Hophni smiled, his jagged, opaque teeth dripping with saliva. “My beautiful chariots of flesh.” He pulled on a chain, then yanked on another. Still another he guided off to the right.
    Weeping and screams echoed forth. The cries of hurt and agony resounded in the void. More lives destroyed, and Hophni loved it.

    Hophni couldn’t hold back the sensation. The craving was now too intense. He needed to find a body to possess. His lust for torment was unbridled.

    He inspected his chains again.

    “Who shall it be? Who shall become my chariot?”

    Then Hophni saw him.

    The man walked along a secluded street, the lamp from the light shining down on him. Hophni could smell the man’s heart. It was full of darkness and rage. Hate, sorrow, and bitterness bubbled forth. The man wanted to die.

    Hophni took the chain in his hand and pulled. He drew the man closer and closer with each movement.
    Then the man felt it. The entering of pure, unadulterated wickedness into his body. The last words he remembered hearing were, “My beautiful chariot of flesh. I will guide you into the bowels of darkness, where I will then shit your pathetic life out in pieces.”

    Hophni took hold of the reigns and they began their descent.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. #STITCHED SATURDAY – June 22,2019 Writing Prompt Short

    Friday Night Terrors
    by Ruthann Jagge

    Friday Night Lights used to be for football and sex. Winning games while the whole county cheered and then we’d party. Farm kids have to make their own fun and man we worked at it, lots of cheap beer and cellar-wine in the back 40! If you’ve never seen a bunch of hot teen girls dancing topless in the headlights of an old Ford truck to the current country chart topper you haven’t lived…they’d go crazy and we’d get lucky!

    They threw scholarships at some of us and our parents couldn’t get enough: “GO they said, make us proud! We’ll bring everyone up for Family Weekend and it will be great!” We even got to ride on a float decorated with crepe paper streamers in the Fourth of July parade right before we left that Fall.

    They didn’t mention that the guys were bigger. They hit a lot harder and when you hurt, you still had to play. The girls were mostly mean and you cried a little sometimes in that shitty dorm bed when your asshole rich-kid roommate was snoring. Coach would always have a little somthin’ somthin’ to get you by though so you made it work!

    A few of us kept trying and I guess we broke harder. Went from that cool guy to the “one who walked with a limp.”
    Lost the damn free ride and came back to Gran’s basement because home didn’t feel so good anymore. No one ran over to shake our hand at the gas pump, they just kind of looked the other way.

    Shit-burger slinging or Walmart for work. Friday nights were for getting fucked up these days: the girls didn’t smell so sweet, the ex blew up your phone non stop, and the highs needed to last a lot longer.
    Tricked out SUV’s rolled up now bumping crap-rap instead of cool old pickup trucks, we took whatever they offered with whatever was left in our pockets after the payday loan interest was paid. Not a lot left to lose, we needed them more than the kids needed shoes.

    Funny how fast those bright light memories turned into dark nightmare shadows that just dragged us around like stray dogs until eventually all those the Friday Night Lights went black.

    Liked by 2 people

  3. The Bargain
    Becca Mitchell

    Madison kept her head low as she walked through the cool dark city. She felt a tug on her back and she stopped. The young couple ahead of her kept walking toward her, they reminded her of herself once.They were young, hopeful, full of promise, and innocent, the perfect taste for one of them.
    “Madison Elliot? The artist? What are you doing on this side of town.” Madison didn’t respond, she didn’t look away anymore when she found the victims. She didn’t look away when it lunged from behind her and attacked the couple in front of her.
    The black powdery skin of the creature glistened with the innocent blood and its wide white eyes stared at her. “Care to partake?” It offered with a wide toothy grin, Madison looked away “You already have blood on your hands.” It cackled at her and laughed. Madison felt the tears fall and she looked away as it slurped and loudly smacked its giant mouth.
    She drowned out the sounds of soft crying and stifled screams by recalling that night long ago when she made the bargain and was chained. The night she agreed to find blood and souls for the creature to eat in exchange for success. When the starving artist she once was begged for her chance to shine at any cost.
    Shutting her eyes against the crunching of bones and the soft groans of the dying young couple she hoped once more. “Maybe it will get its fill? Maybe tonight will be the last…..its already been twenty years, maybe this will be it…….maybe?”
    The pull on their invisible tether shook her thoughts away. All evidence was literally licked away clean by the creature. It sucked on its clawed hands and spoke softly “more, more blood!” Shutting her eyes and slumping her shoulders she continued to stalk the streets silently and slowly. Just as she had all these years and she would for many more.

    Liked by 3 people


    The first rule of survival in any circumstance is ‘Don’t touch weird shit’. No other time is this rule truer than when the weird shit in question is of the not of this fucking world variety. Some people never understood simple concepts, like said ‘first rule’. They all ended up dead, and unlike the buffoon standing next to me, my plans for the day included living.

    Why in the fuck is he kneeling down and reaching his hand out to touch the pile of weird shit? It resembled a giant pile of boogers and ground beef held together by snot. What can be the appeal of wanting to touch this? Oh, and did I mention it’s huge? I want to stop him, but my brain locks. It’s a paradox, and I ponder: Is “Why am I an idiot?” going to be the last thing to burn through his mind before death? Or “Oh, shit!” is he too backwater dumb to admit it? The odds were high the idiot was denying his way into the latter.

    The jellied mass of pulsing red, green and yellow goo grew tendrils and shifted. The entire thing pointed at the idiot. The stupid fucking look on his face as whatever it was engulfs his arm verifies my assumption. It strikes like a snake, swallowing his extremity and consuming the rest of the body. In the time it took me to inhale and exhale, the idiot doesn’t even have a face to make the stupid look with any longer. I secure my grip on the gas lantern I’m holding. The weird shit has absorbed every bit of the idiot. One moment he’s a dumbfuck. The next? His donation has made the weird shit even weirder.

    I don’t know what this carnivorous weird shit is, but I know one thing about it. It fucking hates fire. I’m clued in when the lamp sparks, sending a cherry ember onto the pile of weird shit. It sizzles and bursts into flame.

    And the shitpile screams.

    The shriek pierces through the forest around us. I drop the lantern on the weird shit. It bursts into flames, and the Banshee wail returns. A flare burst explodes from the spark, immolating the weird shit in record time. As the fire spreads across the mass, the squeals became more intense, growing to a crackling pop.

    “For fuck’s sake, shut the fuck up, already!” And then, it abruptly stops.

    Smoke rose off the now black and viscous goo, wafting into the sky, mimicking the alien behavior the pile of goop exhibited earlier. It grows and lurks, stretching out behind me, attaching itself to my own shadow. I turn my back and walk away, the shadows move with me, one leading the other. The smoke steers me to the next alley, the next secluded spot. Guiding me along, leading it to its prey, the next idiot dumb enough to touch it.

    But it won’t ever be me. I knew better than to touch the weird shit.

    Liked by 3 people

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