A.F. Stewart's Blog, page 69

October Frights: Last Call

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!
For today’s post you get a little spectral sci-fi. Where no one can hear you scream…


Last Call


I stood outside my favourite rundown bar. It being my favourite mainly because it was the only bar on this backwater planet. Above me, filling the tangerine sky, the screaming warships raced off to the front lines. Fighters, heavy cruisers, troop ships, they all headed to the battlefront. Not a good place to be. I should know, I just returned from there. I still had the grime, plasma burns and blood on my battle suit to prove that fact.I remember being there. I had memories of being in battle, exchanging plasma bursts with the enemy, advancing across the dust fields. I remember all of that. I don’t remember how I got back here.Shock, maybe? I’ve heard of battle fatigue syndrome. Could it be that what’s messing with my head?It didn’t matter, though. I couldn’t worry about it yet. The only thing that mattered was a cold beer, with a hard liquor chaser. Maybe New Alder Vodka. It had a fresh minty flavour, but with a kick that could knock you off your bar stool.Wait. How did I get inside? Oh well. Bring me the beer and the vodka.I sidled up to the bar and tried to get the bartender’s attention. He ignored me. Too busy watching the vid screen with some punk kid who didn’t have the guts to sign up to fight. Nobody respected soldiers anymore. I looked up at the program they were watching. It was the news. I noticed the headline flashing across the screen: All Presumed Dead at the Battle of the Incarnadine Dunes.Hey. That’s where I was fighting. How can we all be dead when—That’s when I saw the list of the fallen soldiers scrolling up the screen. That’s when I saw my name listed…I screamed. No one in bar noticed.Holy shit. It’s true. I was dead.I was dead.I guess I’m not getting that beer and vodka chaser.Damn.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved





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October Frights: Double Feature

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!

A little break from the ghosts today, although we do stay with the recently dead. Today’s terrifying treat is a two for one. A double tale take on the afterlife…


Waiting for You...
Darkness.It breeds fear in the mind. Most tuck it away or dismiss it as an overactive imagination. I know better. I know what lurks in that darkness, the things that hunger.I know because I’m one of them.One of the leftover dead.One of the Forgotten.That’s what we call ourselves, we revenants of once living things. Most of us are simply echoes of who we used to be. Mist and miasma held together by damaged emotions and need. The reality of what the living refer to as ghosts.There are others here as well, in this afterlife netherworld, things a bit more tangible, a bit more bloodthirsty. I don’t like to think of them. They are best avoided by the living and the dead.Yet, we all live in the darkness.That surreal place in-between the shadows. We are the cold touch on your spine, the whispered breath on the nape of your neck.We are death.We are waiting.We are waiting to feed…On you ~*~

Welcome To Your Afterlife
“Welcome to the Afterlife check-in. Name please.”Dave stared at the tall, blond… man, standing behind the podium.“You have wings.”“Yes, yes I do. It is a common feature among angels. Name please.”“Why do you have wings, and—wait did you say angel?” Dave gaped at his hushed, mist-covered surroundings. “Where am I? The last thing I remember is a bright light…”“That would have been the headlights of the semi-truck that hit you. You died sir, and this is the Afterlife check-in. Now, can I please have your name?” A hint of exasperation crept into the angel’s voice.“Um, it’s Dave Tillman.” Dave watched the other man—no, angel—rifle through a very large book. “I’m dead? For real? This isn’t just a wacky dream?”“You are quite dead, sir. Here you are.” The angel stopped flipping pages in his book. “Oh my. This is unusual. A rarity indeed.” The angel closed his book with flourish. “It appears, sir, you have been granted the singular privilege of choosing your afterlife. Congratulations.”The angel moved from behind the podium and held out his hand.  “If you would come with me please.”The angel led Dave to what appeared to be a TV screen hanging in mid air. A remote materialized in the angel’s hand.“You’ve been given three options to choose from. Please watch the screen as I run them.”He clicked the remote and Dave looked at the images on the screen. The first scene showed a sunny beach resort.“I’m not too crazy about sun and sand. Next.”A click of the remote and Dave viewed a busy casino. “That looks okay. Maybe. What’s next.”“This one is our Happy Home Package, sir.”An image of a luxury home popped on screen, shifting to an interior shot of a living room boasting a big screen TV and a plush recliner. Several beers were visible on a side table.“Now that looks good. What else comes with it?”“The package come complete with a red Ferrari, a blond, well-endowed homemaker wife, no tedious chores or job, 1000 TV channels—500 of which are sports networks—and a billionaire’s bank account.”“Now that does sound good. I’ll take that one.”“As you wish.” The angel snapped his fingers.The world around Dave vanished, and he found himself inside a opulent home, just like the one on screen.Dave grinned. “Now what?”“Now you live out your afterlife, sir. Right here. Forever.” The angel smiled.For some reason Dave shivered.“Why don’t you look out the window, sir, at your new neighbourhood.”“Okay.” Dave moved and peered out the picture window. “It’s kind of quiet. Nobody around. Is that part of the package? No noisy neighbours? If so, I like that—wait, I think there is someone. Hey! Someone is out there. Someone’s running toward—”Bang! The window thumped and cracked as a body threw itself against the glass. Dave yelped and scrambled backward. Rotting hands fumbled against the pane, trying to get inside.Dave screeched. “That’s a zombie! A zombie! What-what is this? What’s going on?”“This is the deluxe Happy Home package, sir. Here comes your lovely wife now, with a plate of cookies fresh from the oven.”A tall, blond, buxom woman, with a rotting smile, and a pus infected face shuffled into the room. She did indeed carry a plate of warm cookies, wonderfully decorated with maggots.Upon seeing her “husband” she hissed, “Brainnnsss!” and dropped the plate. She made a beeline toward Dave, who snatched up a nearby chair.Fending off his “wife” with the chair, Dave shrieked, “Help me! Get me out of here!”“I can’t, sir. The rules you know.”“Rules? What rules?” He ducked his head as his “wife” swiped at his ear trying to get around the chair. More and more zombies were banging at windows and smashing at the front door. Slowly the glass and wood were starting to give way. “You have to help! This isn’t what I ordered!”“Oh, but it is. Did I forget to mention? I’m a fallenangel, and this is Hell’s Afterlife check-in. Happy eternity!”The angel disappeared in a haze of laughter, as the wood splintered on the front door and several windows shattered. Zombies poured into the house.Dave's shrieks were drowned in the ear-splitting, chanting chorus of "Brainnnsss!"

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved






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October Frights Drabble Wednesday: Ghosts

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!


Keep the lights on for this Drabble Wednesday, as October Frights brings us four more tales of ghostly phantoms…



Death Kindly Stopped
“Are you tired of running yet?”I looked at the kindly old man sitting on the bench beside me. Dressed in rather scruffy tweeds, he needed a good suit. “Do I know you? I feel like I do.”“We met once. Are you tired of running yet?”“Was I running? I’m not out of breath.”The edge of his mouth twitched. “Oh, but you are. Out of every breath. Forever. That’s why I’m here.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I’m Death. Are you tired of running yet?”I looked him in the eye. “No.”I start running again.
~*~ 



Harbinger
In a nameless town, a pale flower grows at the edge of an old cemetery.Velvet, alabaster petals kiss olive green leaves, swaying gently in the summer breeze. Its life spans a single day, once a year, before its bloom expires beneath the full moon.With mortality, its petals flutter to earth, crumbling into blood red dust, scattering its touch among the buried dead. Summoned, shades and spectres arise, and the once silent graveyard pulses with howls and moans, and the rattling of bones.In that nameless town, on this moonlit night, the dead come back to visit the living.
~*~



The Candle in the Lantern
The candle flame in the lantern flickered, as it did each night, shining its beacon from the tree branch where it hung. Below it the river gurgled, flowing eternally to the vast sea, and the deep scented wildflowers bloomed, even encompassed by the damp grey mist and coal black night. The clearing lay hushed, the air still, the glimmering light casting shadows over earth where few human feet willingly trod.For the candle burned to lure the unquiet dead, its wispy smoke a summons, a binding that restrained ethereal forms within the river glade and far away from the living.
~*~




The Painting in the Hallway
Do you ever have that feeling? The one where you’re positive someone is standing behind you, but no one is there? I get it all the time, in the front hallway of my mother’s house. Whenever I stand next to that creepy painting of my grandmother. It’s probably my imagination, like the way the portrait’s eyes follow me as I move.Still, I don’t like the feeling.I don’t like the thought of being watched by someone I can’t see.It frightens me.But do you know what really scares me? It’s this sensation of someone’s hand on my shoulder.


© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved





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October Frights: Dark Poetry Corner

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!

Today, for October Frights, I bring you phantoms and apparitions flitting through cyberspace in verse…





Spectres
Shadows, filmy greycaught in worlds betweenLost whispers gone astray,shadows filmy greySouls that hoped to staynow wander sight unseenShadows filmy greycaught in worlds between


© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
~*~



From the Corner of your Eye
Movement flickersin your periphery visionMovement flickersas your pace grows ever quickerfrom haunting souls of excisiona wrong turn, fateful decisionMovement flickers

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
~*~



Ghosts in the Hall
Waning sunlight glintsthrough the cracked glass,a dirty window pane.Light flickers againstthe lengthening shadowsin the empty corridor.A layer of dust swirlsfrom an unseen waft of air,and a faint whispermurmurs a hello.

From Colours of Poetry© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved
~*~



Midnight
Underneath the nocturnal moonstir ghosts of sanguinary secretsamidst the edges of sober realitywhile an onyx raven takes wing
Voices sing a shadow’s knell,that melody of blood and grave,to hail the stygian souls, ascendwhile an onyx raven takes wing
Spinning the dusty devil’s danceabove hoary and martyred bonesRise, oh, rise, you hellion spawnwhile an onyx raven takes wing
Come the thunder, crack the earthin cackles of breath born laughter,dredge forth those deathless screamswhile an onyx raven takes wing

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved







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October Frights: An Ocean View

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!

For today’s post, we stare at the sea’s undying horizon…


An Ocean View
It sits atop a craggy cliff, a small old stone crypt, at the end of a winding stairway carved from the rock itself. The land around it has grown wild, sitting idle from years of neglect. Few have ventured there over the years; only the brave or the foolishly curious.The wind at the top blows cold, and often, rustling the overgrown grass and the ever spreading wildflowers. The sound of the ocean echoes, as it laps at the cliff base, and the seaborne horizon stretches out in an eternal panorama. There is a peace up there, far from the confusing world and its progression into the future.The surroundings suit her, the woman buried there.For it is her bones that keep company with the wind.
It is her ghost that haunts the cliff every moonlit night.Just a whisper of ethereal gossamer standing at the cliff’s edge.Many stories scatter and abound, about the ghost. The one most often told spins thusly…Her name was Rose, and she died at eighteen, back when corsets were the rage, and ladies sat demurely in the parlour for tea. Rose boasted a sweetheart, a local sailor, and was promised in marriage upon his homecoming from sea. But sadly, the wedding never came to happen. On a moon soaked night, not far from the shore, her betrothed’s ship floundered on the rocks and sank. Broken-hearted and in despair, Rose threw herself from the very cliff where she was later to be buried.A sad tale indeed. Sadder still when you know the rest.For you see, her ghost still waits for him. Waits every full moon, until his ship appears on the horizon. Then she stares, onto that eternal horizon, and watches her love sink under the waves once more.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved





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October Frights: Departed Fortune

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!

We go a little bit mystical and magical for today’s ethereal post…



Departed Fortune
“A coin, sir, a small token for your fortune?” The small gypsy woman held out her hand.The man gaped, bewildered. Garish red, gold, and purple emblazoned their hues on his eyeballs. Vivid chroma assaulted him, from her gilt beaded, violet shawl, to the crimson and mauve tent that fluttered in the wind behind her. He would have sworn it had not been there a moment past.“Would the gentleman care to have his fortune told?” She wiggled her fingers attached to her still outstretched palm. “Only a penny.”“I—I would love that.” The man clapped a hand atop his mouth, shocked at his words. He thought fortunetelling mere hokum. Yet, he dug in his pockets for a penny. Oddly, he found none.“I seem to be without coin. Peculiar. I know I had some when I left this morning.”The gypsy smiled. “No matter. I accept other forms of payment. Come.” She beckoned and the man followed her into the tent.The small interior held only a small, round table and two wooden chairs. The gypsy settled into a chair, and pulled a small metal trinket box from her skirts. She plunked the box on the table and waved a hand carelessly at the perch opposite her.“Have a seat, sir.”The man sat, and blinked at the woman from across the table.“I am Esma. Your name, good sir?”“I am—I am…” The man’s body shook, his mind a jumbled blur. “I don’t seem to recall.”“Ah. It happens. Do not fret, sir. All will be revealed soon.” Esma smiled, but the man did not feel reassured. He felt afraid.“If you would let me see you palm, please.” He dutifully held out his hand, face up. “Yes. It is as I feared. Such a sad tragedy. So quick. Your sort often have disarranged memories when it is sudden and unexpected.”“My sort? What do you mean, my sort?” The man bristled, sensing insult.“Why, the wandering dead of course. Ghosts, spirits, shades of the former living. Those that haven’t the wisdom or the will to move from this life to the next. Such lost souls.” She shook her head, then smiled. “But such a boon to me. I collect lost souls, you see.”She lifted the lid of her box.Inside swirled a tiny vortex, infinitesimal in form and eternal in shadow. It held scream and silence, rage and calm. Voices cried, voices sang, and all called to him. He reached out his hand, dangling his fingers over the timeless eddy in a box.“That’s right, touch it. Add your essence to the collective. Join all those adrift souls.”The man lowered his finger, caressing the edge of the box’s heart. It felt cold, and then—Smiling at the now empty chair, the gypsy closed the lid of the box.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved




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October Frights: Homecoming

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!

For today’s post—Sometimes your loved ones refuse to stay dead…



Homecoming

Strange worlds whisper in the silence of the night.Listen and you will hear. Listen in the fragile hours when breath and consciousness still and drift, when the wind snakes along moonbeams and the shadows spew their secrets upon the cold earth. When the unseen becomes visible, no longer lurking beyond your senses.When things abandoned and forgotten return home.
I’m coming home.
Decaying roses petals cover the garden path, a desiccating pink and white carpet of broken life. He planted new bushes. I suppose he needed a plausible reason to dig my grave. He chose my favourite roses. A nice macabre touch.It’s odd standing three feet away from where your murdered body is buried. Even odder staring through the garden window at your husband, your killer.He’s sitting at his desk, in that pretentious antique chair he loves, working at his computer. Or maybe emailing his girlfriend.He thought I didn’t know. But I did. He thought he could get rid of me. That murder was quicker than divorce. He was so wrong. He’ll never be rid of me now.I slide through wall of the house as if it didn’t exist and float in front of him. His skin turns as white—well, as white as a ghost.“Hi, honey.” Blood drips on to the floor. For some reason that happens when I speak. Maybe because I choked on my own blood after he shot me in the chest. “I’m home. Did you miss me?”He screams.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved





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October Frights Blog Hop: Ghosts Beneath the Sea

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!
For today’s post on October Frights, we embark on a deadly sea voyage…






Ghosts Beneath the Sea

“Have you ever seen the phenomenon called fairy lights? I’ve heard tell it’s a luminescence glow floating just below the waves.” The pale, frail-looking woman smiled at the grizzled sailor, and waited patiently for an answer.“No, miss, though I’ve heard stories. That’s what I expect they are, just stories.”“Yes. I’ve heard them as well. Water sprites, mermaids, sea monsters, and the like. I’ve heard the scientific explanations, too. Phosphorus seaweed, bio-luminescent crustaceans, fish waste.” She shook her head. “It’s all quite erroneous.”She looked at the sailor, staring with such an intensity that he shivered.“Would you like to know what they truly are, sir?“So you know, do you?” He smiled, all unease gone in a wave of condescension. “A little thing like you knows the secret to some mysterious sea phenomenon?”“I know many secrets, sir. But this one most of all.”She laughed, a cackle born deep in her belly spilling out across deck, and raising to the height of the ship. The old sailor trembled, this time the shiver travelled far into his bones and froze his very marrow. He took a step back from the woman, fright sketched over his salted washed face.The woman tilted her head, seemingly amused by the man’s discomfort.  “It’s ghosts, you see. Poor men gone down in shipwrecks. Lost souls forever taken by the sea.”The sailor made the sign of the cross. “You shouldn’t talk like that, miss. ‘Tis bad luck. You’ll curse this ship with talk like that.”She smiled. “Oh, you poor dear. This ship was cursed the moment I stepped on board.”She opened her mouth, but it was not a laugh that issued forth, but a roar. A elemental challenge that shook the ship from bow to stern.The sailor answered it with a cry of his own, a scream born of primal terror.For no demure, delicate lady faced him now. Her face no longer reflected anything human. Hollow eyes burned black and sunken, peering from ridged sockets, and her flesh dissolved into a death mask of bone and scales. Her torso grew and bulged, while limbs stretched and transformed into scaly, grasping tentacles.The sailor shouted, “Kraken!” before a tentacle swept forward to knock the old man overboard. Another scream followed him into the sea.“Rise my children! Rise and greet your new brothers!”From the waves ascended light, a thousand pinpricks of radiance that swirled and danced, and surrounded the ship. They hovered, waiting to bear witness. They did not wait long. Inhuman tentacles wrapped themselves around the ship’s mast, around its rudder, snaking past its shrieking crew. The Kraken pulled, heaving against wood as it cracked and fractured. She shredded the ship with ease, and tore it all apart.As the poor ship died, the lights keened—their sound pure and mournful. As the ship sank, as men submerged beneath the waves, the lights enveloped them. Slowly, one by one, they sucked the dying souls from their drowning bodies, and welcomed all the doomed crew into their undead ranks.Her  task finished, the Kraken descended into the sea, taking her children—new and old—with her. Above her, and her brood, floated the flotsam of another tragic shipwreck.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved






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October Frights Blog Hop: Welcome To The Terror!

Welcome to the October Frights Blog Hop!
Hosted by Clarissa Johal
It's ten days of of chills and thrills, scares and hauntings!Come revel in terrifying tales and drabbles of dread!

To kick off October, Are You Afraid of the Dark? will be playing on the dark side with a fantastic bevy of other paranormal and horror writers as part of the October Frights Blog Hop (running from Oct. 1st to 10th). It promises to be lots of scary fun and and there will be tons of prizes (and you won't even have to sell your soul to enter the giveaways).

As my part in this whole ten day terror fest, I'll be doing a ghostly theme.
Yes, that's right I'll be posting ghost stories. I have some short tales, some drabbles, and some haunting poetry for you, all about those phantoms that linger after death. Plus, I have a look at the new Xchyler Publishing paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail, that includes my ghost story, The Weeping Lady.  
Now a bit about my contest. I have a ten day long Rafflecopter giveaway for a prize pack of four of my Smashwords ebooks. These are my books up for grabs:



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And to end out today's welcome, I have our feature story...


Midnight in the Graveyard

Every night I walk through the graveyard.That may seem strange to some. Some may say there are better places and a better time to wander. Such people may be right, but my nightly strolls have never seemed strange to me.I’ve always found cemeteries to be peaceful places. No one around to make chit chat or bother you with small talk. Even in the daylight hours. Everyone cocooned in his or her own private world of grief and remembrance.Of course, at night, a graveyard is quite different. Very atmospheric. That’s why I love to walk there, especially under the moonlight. It has such quiet beauty, a serenity. Yet, there’s an untamed edge, almost mystical. Or so it seems to me.Yet, the ambience is not my only motivation. There is the gravestone.It sits on a small rise well in the rear of the cemetery. Every night I walk there, and pause beneath an oak tree. I stare at it, afraid to go closer. I have cause to be afraid. The person interred beneath that soil is why I haunt the graveyard at night. The stone is the reason I cannot leave this place in peace.The grave is an old one, some say the oldest one here. Some even say the body buried there was cursed, bound to the earth and the stone that marked her grave.Those people would be correct.I am a coward. I fear to read my own name etched into that grave marker. It’s a hard thing for me to admit I’m dead. That I’ve been dead for centuries. That the only peace I’ll ever know is in the beauty of a graveyard on a moonlit night.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 






That concludes my first offering for October Frights.

Please, come back tomorrow for more tales of the dead...



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Drabble Wednesday Meets October Frights

Okay, you ghouls and monsters, tomorrow kicks off a ten day extravaganza of creepy delights for the wonderfully wicked October Frights Blog Hop! We have nearly 50 authors taking a terrifying trek through terror. You'll find Free Reads, Prizes & Giveaways, and more! And it all happens October 1st-10th!


For my part, I’m serving up a look at the upcoming paranormal anthology, Beyond the Wail, giving you stories galore, my regular Drabble Wednesday feature and a great giveaway. All under the theme of ghosts.
That’s right, for ten days my blog will be haunted!
So be sure to come back tomorrow when it all kicks off!



And now on to our Drabble Wednesday Feature Presentation:

Today I’ve dipped into the vaults for a story, but there is a deathly duo of new drabbles as well.




Wanderers
Whispers quiver along unseen particles between worlds, caught against the ragged edges of darkness and light. They race the electric and sing the shadows, they weave among the thunder and warp past the starlight.They are the lost.They are the forsaken.They are the mourning echoes down the eons, the ache in the hearts of the lonely. They breathe the dust on worlds long dead, and remember some that never began. Their voices speak to drops of dusk tumbling from sunsets, their wails resound from the church bells to the moonbeams.They are the lost.They are the forsaken.
~*~ 



Waiting
“Can you see him?”The old man’s voice murmured, a weak rasp barely heard above the medical machinery. He waved his hand in a feeble gesture; the sunlight from the hospital window illuminated his skin’s wrinkles and liver spots.“See who, Grandpa?”“Death.”The man standing beside his grandfather’s bed shivered, but didn’t quite understand why. So he smiled, and said, “It’s just the medication, Grandpa. There’s no one there.”The old man closed his eyes. He knew better. The black shadowed figure stood by his bed, a cold hand placed on his shoulder.Death had come for him.Tonight.
 ~*~



Wail of the Plaid Spirit
Beware the Plaid SpiritThat’s what my Granny Fiona always said.I thought she was bonkers until I spent one summer at our ancestral castle in the Hebrides. When I came face to face with our family ghost.On that third moonlit night, a ghastly yowl echoed throughout the castle. I jumped from my bed, flung open the bedroom door and stared into the black eyes of the Plaid Spirit.I gasped.For there, a gargantuan presence in the darkened hallway, hovered the ghost of my great-great uncle Angus. At the first wail of his bagpipes, I turned and fled.



© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved