by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Jenny listens at Clara's bedroom door, hears scratching.
No one likes babysitting Kooky Clara, with her spooky silence and blank eyes, but her parents pay well, and Clara's no trouble. Usually.
Jenny goes in, gasps.
A map of their town covers the walls, floor to ceiling.
Clara can't reach.
Buildings, roads labelled.
Clara can't read, write.
Slashed X's over all the houses, except Clara's. Two girls huddle in the basement. Clara circles them again, again.
Clara can't see.
Screams tear through the streets.
Jenny grabs Clara. They run for the basement.
Halfway down the stairs, they are plunged into darkness.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Sight is part of 101 Fiction issue 22.
Showing posts with label Madeline Mora-Summonte. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Madeline Mora-Summonte. Show all posts
Sunday, 10 March 2019
Sunday, 2 September 2018
Bound
by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Errol struggles as his fellow townsmen drag him into the woods, chain him to the Sacrifice Tree. In the torchlight, their faces are sorrowful yet relieved. They've been spared. This time.
Older than dragons, darker of soul than the Devil, the creatures arrive with a great thrashing of their monstrous wings. Errol kneels before their dreadful beauty, weeps for mercy. But their beaks slash, their talons shred, until all that's left of Errol is his scream.
In their silent town, in their empty beds, the men wait, guilt fading. After all, they had no choice.
Their women must be fed.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Errol struggles as his fellow townsmen drag him into the woods, chain him to the Sacrifice Tree. In the torchlight, their faces are sorrowful yet relieved. They've been spared. This time.
Older than dragons, darker of soul than the Devil, the creatures arrive with a great thrashing of their monstrous wings. Errol kneels before their dreadful beauty, weeps for mercy. But their beaks slash, their talons shred, until all that's left of Errol is his scream.
In their silent town, in their empty beds, the men wait, guilt fading. After all, they had no choice.
Their women must be fed.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber, and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Bound is part of 101 Fiction issue 20.
Sunday, 11 June 2017
Perception
by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Helen peers through yellowed curtains as Emma, clutching flowers, skips up the sagging porch. Helen grips her knife.
Everyone says Helen's crazy because she tries to expose the true evil among them.
Emma's smiling face appears at the window. Helen shakes her head.
Emma's blue eyes fill with tears, but they bleed red. She holds up the flowers, now a bouquet of spitting snakes.
Helen trembles, but she won't invite the monster inside.
Emma speaks but her black, forked tongue flicks against the glass, drowns out her words. She sighs, walks away.
Helen watches the snakes slither after their mistress.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a reader, a writer, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Helen peers through yellowed curtains as Emma, clutching flowers, skips up the sagging porch. Helen grips her knife.
Everyone says Helen's crazy because she tries to expose the true evil among them.
Emma's smiling face appears at the window. Helen shakes her head.
Emma's blue eyes fill with tears, but they bleed red. She holds up the flowers, now a bouquet of spitting snakes.
Helen trembles, but she won't invite the monster inside.
Emma speaks but her black, forked tongue flicks against the glass, drowns out her words. She sighs, walks away.
Helen watches the snakes slither after their mistress.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a reader, a writer, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections The People We Used To Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Perception is part of 101 Fiction issue 15.
Sunday, 30 October 2016
Game
by Madeline Mora-Summonte
Tonight's contest is not for children. It's from a time, a place, best not spoken of. Like Sadie herself.
The adults stare at their names carved into the tree, the marks ragged and hungry, made not by blade but bone. Sadie grins. Her voice creaks as she counts off thirteen, one for each finger.
The players run, hide while the woods whisper, disturbed.
Sadie's black wings unfurl, slashing the dark. The hump of her spine splits open, birthing teeth, tongue.
The survivors will stumble home, shaking, weeping. The rest will have only their bones sent back.
Picked clean, of course.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections, The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Tonight's contest is not for children. It's from a time, a place, best not spoken of. Like Sadie herself.
The adults stare at their names carved into the tree, the marks ragged and hungry, made not by blade but bone. Sadie grins. Her voice creaks as she counts off thirteen, one for each finger.
The players run, hide while the woods whisper, disturbed.
Sadie's black wings unfurl, slashing the dark. The hump of her spine splits open, birthing teeth, tongue.
The survivors will stumble home, shaking, weeping. The rest will have only their bones sent back.
Picked clean, of course.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer, a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collections, The People We Used to Be and Garden of Lost Souls.
Game is part of 101 Fiction issue 13.
Sunday, 6 September 2015
Derelict
by Madeline Mora-Summante
The house, like an unwanted dog, squats on the outskirts of town, whimpers in abandonment. Clarice pushes inside, out of the rain. A burnt odour, old and alone like Clarice herself, licks at her wrinkled face, snuggles under the greasy gray strands of her hair. She shrugs. As long as it's dry.
Clutching her sodden bag, she walks five steps before the house gulps her down its throat. She lands hard inside its bowels, moans, broken.
A giggle. "Got another one."
Clarice looks up. Children grin down from above.
One douses her with gasoline. Another lights a match.
Clarice screams.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer and a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be.
The house, like an unwanted dog, squats on the outskirts of town, whimpers in abandonment. Clarice pushes inside, out of the rain. A burnt odour, old and alone like Clarice herself, licks at her wrinkled face, snuggles under the greasy gray strands of her hair. She shrugs. As long as it's dry.
Clutching her sodden bag, she walks five steps before the house gulps her down its throat. She lands hard inside its bowels, moans, broken.
A giggle. "Got another one."
Clarice looks up. Children grin down from above.
One douses her with gasoline. Another lights a match.
Clarice screams.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte is a writer and a reader, a beach-comber and a tortoise-owner. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be.
Derelict is part of 101 Fiction issue 9.
Sunday, 1 March 2015
Undertow
by Madeline Mora-Summonte
The horizon lurches from dark to light. Roscoe hides his shopping cart then shuffles along the beach. He devours dead fish picked over by birds, slurps seaweed, stuffs lost jewelry into his pockets to sell later.
The tide slips back, slaps forward. Suitcases jut from the sand like jagged teeth, water swishing around them like saliva. Roscoe stares at a dark green bag. In the still air, its luggage tag flaps, its wheels spin.
Roscoe tries to run but all around him the sand shifts, rolls. He screams as the first fingers of bone scratch their way to the surface.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes and breathes fiction in all its forms. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be. To learn more, please visit her blog.
Undertow is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
The horizon lurches from dark to light. Roscoe hides his shopping cart then shuffles along the beach. He devours dead fish picked over by birds, slurps seaweed, stuffs lost jewelry into his pockets to sell later.
The tide slips back, slaps forward. Suitcases jut from the sand like jagged teeth, water swishing around them like saliva. Roscoe stares at a dark green bag. In the still air, its luggage tag flaps, its wheels spin.
Roscoe tries to run but all around him the sand shifts, rolls. He screams as the first fingers of bone scratch their way to the surface.
Author bio: Madeline Mora-Summonte reads, writes and breathes fiction in all its forms. She is the author of the flash fiction collection, The People We Used to Be. To learn more, please visit her blog.
Undertow is part of 101 Fiction issue 7.
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