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Karen Payton Holt

~ author of 'Fire & Ice' vampire series – an epic ride into darkness.

Karen Payton Holt

Tag Archives: flash fiction

Flash Fiction: The King Is Dead.

12 Saturday Jul 2014

Posted by Karen Payton Holt in Flash Fiction

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Tags

flash fiction, Writers carnival team challenge.

This week’s Writer’s Carnival team challenge was to write a short story that begins with the following sentence: My life will never be the same…

    <><><><><><><><>
My
life will never be the same again, once I reveal myself. I clung to the final moments of anonymity. The sunlight pouring in through the imposing window slanted across the flagstone floor, banishing darkness to the farthest corners of the castle’s cavernous great hall.

I had become accustomed to staying in shadows, sacrificing my happiness on the altar of revenge.

I’m no longer in hiding. For twenty four hours a day, the linen binding around my chest which flattened my breasts helped in creating a safe identity. The tunic I wore molded my shape to that of a youth. I bided my time and wielded my knife. Borrigan berries gave me a euphoric feeling of fearlessness, and four knights died at my hand. Drinking mead and ale until they could barely stand made them easy pickings, and they never considered that the enemy could be inside the castle.

Taking another step forward, I could see past the stone pillar. He sat at the banquet table alone. Although his face was streaked with dirt, pools of blood sat in the creases of his throat. The smell of battle hung in the air. Blood. The stench of melting fat and charred skin was a familiar one, as the bonfires raging in the courtyard burned the vanquished to prevent disease.

Red wine stained the aged wooden tabletop like dried blood. My vision blurred as I remembered my father’s fatal wound pumping blood between my fingers, despair seeping through my soul.

“I failed you, Arienne. Stay safe, Thomas…”

Thomas had helped me, fitted me out in squire’s attire and showed me how a ‘man’ walks. But not anymore. I wore a gown for the first time in six months, the bodice pushed my breasts up into the ripe swell of a maiden. Although, I could not disguise fingernails broken and stained with dirt, nor the callouses on my palm where the hilt of my dagger had spent so many hours in my hand.

I set a smile upon my artfully painted face, the dash of olive-colored henna on my lids accenting my green gaze. Pinching my cheeks to redden them, I stepped forward into the light.

The knight’s head snapped around. The goblet in his hand toppled over, the dregs of ale flooding the table. The scowl etched on his face deepened as he surged to his feet. I fell back a step as he strode forward, his fingers digging in as he gripped my shoulders and pulled me into his body. I yelped as the muscular band of his arm around my body crushed my lungs and his mouth covered mine. His tongue dipped in between my lips, seeking mine, his kiss hard and insistent.

My knees shook as a light headed feeling weakened my body. I grabbed his leather tunic, my knuckles white as I held on tight. His own breathing sounded harsh as he settled his hands on my shoulders and, holding me away, studied my face.

“I thought you were dead. When the King’s equerry brought news, he said the ladies in waiting and you…”

“Merek, they raped and slaughtered every female.”

The muscle in his jaw twitched. “They paid for their treachery. I’m sorry I could not save your father. So how…?” Taking my hand, looking down, he turned it over and studied the bruises and straight edged cuts in my calloused skin, and understanding dawned. “You pretended to be a squire?”

I smiled. “I looked too young to be a knight.”

As if noticing it for the first time, he ran his fingertips ran through my short, rough cut hair. He smiled. “This will never do My Lady.” Suddenly dropping to one knee and pressing his forehead to the back of my fingers, he said, “The King is dead. I swear allegiance to my new Queen.”

For the first time in six months, I took a breath that did not hurt. I had thought my life would never be the same again, and I was right.”

Flash Fiction: Scarecrow’s Quest.

08 Tuesday Jul 2014

Posted by Karen Payton Holt in Flash Fiction, Humor

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

flash fiction, Writer's Carnival Team

This was another Writer’s Carnival Team challenge where we had to include a scarecrow, a rubber duck, and a blind donkey in a flash fiction story. This one came out a little weird, but I can’t say I’m surprised at that. (Word Count 762)

<><><><><><>             <><><><><><>
The gritty soil whipped around my face as the vortex gradually unfolded from around my body, unveiling acres of farmland spread out before me like squares on a patchwork quilt. The tangle of twigs inside my head shuffled into some kind of order and, without looking down, I knew I was still a bloody scarecrow.

My straw neck crackled as I looked skyward. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Like a crazy carousel, I found myself in this field more times than I could remember. My dry hands felt scratchy, which of course, they were, as, tugging on the rim of a tattered straw hat, I pulled my shoes out of the mud. What did you think? Of course scarecrows need shoes.

Dust plumed into the air as I trudged across the dry cracked earth towards the farmhouse.

To be a man again was all I wanted. Some buck’s party joke this turned out to be. The fortune teller whose crystal ball I shattered had cursed me as an ‘unfeeling idiot’. I guess, in this part of the quest, a scarecrow was the closest fit.

She’d said ‘I must take a close look at myself and ‘see’ the error of my ways. The last test was a ‘sink or swim’ challenge.

I’d worked out the sink or swim bit pretty quickly. I patted my pants pockets, relieved when I felt the firm duck-shaped bulge. A rubber duck. At least the fortune teller was not resetting the day completely. I collected the duck when I found myself whisked back as a mascot in a shopping mall. Man, that chipmunk-costume head had been heavy. Except, for me, it wasn’t a costume. I really became an eight foot tall chipmunk. Stealing a rubber duck from the toy store was not easy with kids circling my legs like sharks.

I gladly jumped through every hoop she set, and here I was on the last quest.

I’d lost count of the scarecrow days I’d endured. I must be missing something. I shed a storm of broken straw as I vaulted the gate. This was bullshit. I knew the answer to this challenge must have a beating heart, if I wanted mine back.

I’d tried every animal on the farm. Every. Single. One. My clue from the fortune teller was, ‘you’re looking for a heart… nothing more, nothing less, a pure heart’.

What then? A frigging princess. I wasn’t about to take another human into the vortex. That’s why I was never human… we wouldn’t make it.

I scanned the farmyard, ticking off all the animals I’d already taken back. Cow, pig, even the sheepdog. The barn door shifted as the one hinge hanging onto the wooden frame creaked.

I crept inside. In the far corner was a small grey donkey. His nostrils flared. As he tossed his head, I caught the glimpse of milk-white cataracts in glistening eyes. Was this the ‘heart’ I needed to rescue? I didn’t have one inside my straw chest, but still, sadness seeped through me.

Closing in slowly, I reached for his rope halter. I didn’t want to scare him. I patted the blind donkey on a quivering shoulder as I whispered, “It’s okay, I won’t hurt you.” I hoped this was true. I tightened my grip on the harness as the hurricane of wind whipped up, realizing the vortex was taking us back.

I closed my eyes against the dirt and chaf blustering into my face and, when I opened them again, I was in the dimly lit room where gossamer scarves draping over the lights gave the room a rose-colored glow. The donkey had disappeared and I felt weirdly heavy.

The jingle of bracelets moving on a bony wrist drew my attention. The fortune teller was smiling. That had not been a good sign so far. My shoulders sagged. I dreaded the words she would utter.

I jolted in surprise as she said, “Quest completed. You are now a man once more.”

I scanned the cards laid out across the green baize table, reminders of the three tasks I had completed. I frowned. Heart, soul, and mind.

“If the donkey was heart, and helping the child escape from the maze was soul…. how is the rubber duck the mind?” I asked.

The fortune teller grinned, her black beady eyes glittering. “The donkey revealed your pure heart, the child, your kind soul, and the maze focused your mind. The duck was just for my amusement. To see you stuck as an eight foot tall chipmunk for three days was just hilarious.”

Repaying The Compliment.

28 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by Karen Payton Holt in Horror, Short Stories

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

flash fiction, Horror, Prompts

The challenge on Writer’s Carnival this week was to use the prompt ‘GETTING INKED’. Write a story of 750 words or less, ending in the sentence ‘And that’s how I got the tattoo’. At just over 1,100 words, I failed… hey ho.

*WARNING – MATURE CONTENT – STRONG LANGUAGE*

I rested my elbow on the bar and let my attention slide around the nightclub.

With one hip hitched up onto a barstool, my bare legs looked about a mile long and I knew it. Shit, where is he? Scanning faces was proving to be a pointless exercise in the shadow cluttered basement. The bass of the music vibrated the floor beneath my stiletto, and breathing clean air seemed to be a thing of the past, the odour of salty sweat so strong I could taste it. The decision to arrange my thick hair into a pleated up-do was a blessing in the cloying heat.

“You don’t have to do this.”

I dragged my attention away from the sea of gyrating bodies and looked into Ryan’s frowning face. “Yes, I do.”

Running his meaty hand over the back of his neck knotted his bicep. “Let me take care of the prick.” His fingers were warm as they reached for mine. I didn’t resist as he drew my hand forward, extending my arm. My pale skin glowed in the glare of the bar’s backlighting. Ryan’s finger stroked over the crook of my elbow where my tattoo of a metal needle appeared to extrude from my vein, the ascending shaft becoming a green stem bearing leaves, which twisted around my upper arm. Sprouting small flowers as it crossed my shoulder blade, it reappeared over my shoulder, meandering down and disappearing beneath the fabric of my tight dress.

“This was a bad idea,” Ryan muttered.

Raising a brow, I pointedly looked over the tattooed sleeves on both his arms featuring snakes and demonic faces.

His voice roughened as he said, “You know what I mean, being bait.”

I gently disengaged the fingers he had woven through mine. “Please, don’t worry.” I smiled. “You’d never get to him. They call them ‘bodyguards’ for a reason.”

Straightening and tugging the bar cloth from his shoulder, he picked up a glass and began polishing it. “You’re right.”

“Just get Sampson to hit the light show when you see him. I’ll take it from there.”

Easing down from the stool, my swaying stride took up the beat of the music as I crossed the room and moved on to the dance floor. The heavy thrum vibrated through my chest as I picked up the pounding rhythm. Raising my arms above my head, my hips followed the circling flow of my body. The lifted hemline of my dress bared acres of silk smooth leg, exposing the tattooed stem spiralling down around my thigh, ending in a rosebud behind my knee. Letting my head drop back, I pretended to zone out.

I registered the flow of figures moving between the scattering of round tables beyond. With my stomach churning, I waited. Suddenly, the tempo of the light show changed, a rainbow of harsh color bursting into life. He’s here.

My skin crawled, damp heat chilling my flesh when I caught sight of him. The tightness in my chest felt as though the tattooed stem was real and applying choking pressure to my body and limbs.

Fluid grace deserted me as the flashing colored lights passing around the room picked out his features. Lounging back, with an arm extended along the padded backrest of a curved bench, he was just as I remembered. Shit, this is it. Deliberately leaving my dress riding high, the shadow darker between my thighs, I crossed the room. His eyes glittered as they stared at my crotch and I knew he was wondering what, if anything, I wore underneath.

My hips rolled as I slowly walked over. Sliding my knee down into the space between his spread legs until it rested on the seat cushion, I pulled on his tie, leaning in and whispering, “I’m not a fan of underwear.”

He grinned as his hand closed on the back of my thigh.

“Not here.” I eased smoothly away from his stroking fingers, my sensual appraisal promising excitement.

His breath hissed as, turning around, I gave him a tantalising glimpse of my barely covered ass and it took all my willpower not to look back as I sauntered away. Glittering sparks erupted behind my eyes and I realized I’d forgotten to breath. Pull yourself together.

The metal bar of the fire exit chilled my palms as I shoved the door open. The evening air tightened my skin into goosebumps, and I shuddered as I felt his warm hand slide round my midriff. The heat of his body smothered my back. I swallowed the bile in my throat and turned in his arms. His hand gripped my backside as I shuffled him sideways, out into the alley, letting the heavy door thump shut.

“Outdoor girl, then. Thought so, by the flower tattoos. Nice.”

His wet mouth sucked my neck as I pushed him back against the wall.

“You haven’t seen the best part,” I whispered.

He stopped clutching at my body, his hands dropping to his side as he leaned back into the wall. His voice catching in a tight throat, he said, “Show me.”

My fingers closed over the zipper tab sitting in the deep V between my breasts. I stared into his face as I slowly pulled it down, enjoying the moment when the tight mask of lust faltered.

“What the fuck.”

Stroking my hand up over his tense shoulder, my sharply manicured nails dug into his flesh.

“Shit,” he hissed, his hand gripping my wrist, the force making me wince. “What are you? A psycho bitch? No one would want to touch that.”

I took a step closer. “But you did, once.”

He finally looked into my face and his slack jaw dropped open. I slipped the four-inch metal spike from my hair, letting the weight of it tumble down. In a smooth fast action, I drove the needle-sharp point into the side of his neck, using the heel of my hand to ram it home. The blood sprayed like water from a blocked faucet, the splatters cold against my flushed skin.

Stefan Ashworth, Internet site developer, psychopath, and tattoo fetishist, slid down the brickwork, the rough edges grating over his body until he came to rest sitting on the ground. His head flopped over, and, if it weren’t for the claret waterfall staining his shirtfront, a passer-by would think he’d passed out, drunk.

I smiled as my fingertip smeared through the wet droplets scattered over my bare torso. The stem running down over my shoulder ended in a cluster of dew drenched rosebuds. The centre point of each one framed a puckered scar dug into my flesh where, the first and last time I had met Stefan, he buried a blade in my chest five times and left me for dead.

Pulling up the zipper, I turned on my heel and repaid the compliment. And that’s how I got the tattoo.

Flash Fiction: Morrigan’s Curse.

08 Sunday Jun 2014

Posted by Karen Payton Holt in Flash Fiction

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

flash fiction, readers carnival, writers carnival

Morrigan’s Curse is my first attempt at ‘fantasy’ genre fiction.

The prompt demanded I use the words : stagger, lake trout, conflict, success. Maximum word count : 500. This came in at 496.

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The Swordlord staggered up the bank, his grip on the hilt of his weapon turning his knuckles white. The wet leather tunic pulled tight across his muscular shoulders as he gasped for breath. Reaching for the support of a nearby tree, he twisted around.

Pushing wet hanks of hair back from his face, ignoring the water running down over his cramped features, his gray gaze scanned the water’s surface where the sun scattered a carpet of glittering diamonds.

Daring to look away, he dug his fingers into the holes torn in the leather at his shoulder. They came out smeared with blood. Damn, Athlean, he almost had me. He took a steadying breath, his eyes glowing as the fizz of anger heated his blood. The capillaries in his skin glistened like threads of copper wire. The water on his skin boiled.

At the sudden sound of rushing water, his head jerked around. His jaw twitched as he raised his sword, feet braced ready for conflict.

From the churning water, the creature reared, towering above the Swordlord. The pallid membrane covering it’s bulk glistened, the distinctive lake trout speckled marking on its flesh bore witness to its fate.

“You took my life, cursed me.” Strings of slime-like saliva hung from the gaping mouth, his rage spraying the words. “You hoped for success, Gharient, but now…” The pearl-sheened eyes gleamed. “The potion runs through your blood, too.”

The Swordlord raised his blade. “You failed, Athlean.” He stamped his boot. “Here, on land, you are nothing. You sealed your fate when you drowned my daughter.” Gharient took a step closer, his glare discharging a lightning strike which cut through the air between him and his enemy. The fish eyes blinked rapidly and then were welded open as the jagged blaze bored into his mind. The flaccid lips twisted as the scene of Morrigan’s death burned into his retina. “Never forget, if she had died by flame I would condemn you to Hell.” He spat on the ground. “The lake is your prison for eternity.”

The ice-white blaze of his glare dimmed as Gharient grinned. “You live with what you did, and know this, my warriors slayed your brethren. There is nothing of your bloodline left to avenge you. You are nothing.”

“And yet, you could not stay away.” Athlean bared the ridged blade of his jaw, blood staining the white-bone spines on either side of the cavernous bite.

Gharient laughed. “I have what I came for. Morrigan lives inside your head now, as her suffering has long screamed through mine.” He turned away, the sword slipping from his grasp. Bending to retrieve it, he stopped. Straightening, spreading his fingers, he stared at the webbed membrane clinging to them. “No…”

Harsh laughter behind him faded into the spluttering gush of water. Turning back, ripples racing across the lake’s silver skin were all he saw as his flesh began to chill his bones and breathing air began to lacerated his throat.

‘Fire and Ice’ vampire series of five novels.

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Recent Posts

  • Weirdly Scary
  • Author Logo?
  • How Do You Measure Success?
  • Audio Text Reader?
  • CHASING A RABBIT

Recent Comments

Darlene on My indi-author spotlight…
Jacob on A Change of Pace
ellenbest24 on Repaying The Compliment.
Karen Payton Holt on Repaying The Compliment.
ellenbest24 on Repaying The Compliment.

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