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Latent Infection and Flushed: Horror Shorts by Cynthia Hilston

 

shortstoriesIn Latent Infection, the Marson family moves into an old, forgotten house, but the house hasn’t forgotten the secrets it hides as the family’s presence reawakens something long dead.

In Flushed, Julia keeps her mother’s ashes in her closed drawer, yet the drawer is open every morning. Has her mother returned to haunt her, or is Julia slowly losing her mind?

 

Flash Fiction Contest! Blind Judge TBA

 

If I can do a flash-fiction contest, you can, too! Give it a try! The link to my friend’s blog with the details is below (you have until Oct. 12).

Here’s mine: (300 words max allowed) Halloween Date Night

The elusive they say opposites attract. Herman didn’t know who they were.
He looked over his phantom face in the mirror. The stitches holding his smile broke. Rotten teeth were a turn-off for most women.
“What sort of zombie puts a profile on a dating site?”
It was done on a dare. Who says the undead can’t have a life? Ed, ever a charmer and a drunk in this half-afterlife, told Herman he would be happier if he went out more. Halloween was coming. She would think Herman was a brilliant costume.
This she was as elusive as the they who made ridiculous claims like opposites attract.
Herman pulled up to her house in his 1966 Chevy on Halloween. She glowed with the setting sun as she stepped outside like an angel meant to take him to Heaven.
Heaven isn’t for zombies who eat brains, even reformed zombies, thought Herman. If he had a beating heart, it would have thumped out of his tattered chest beneath his new clothes.
“The clothes,” said Ed, “were important. You can’t go around looking completely dead.”
He already rigid body stiffened as he remembered his manners, exited the car, and opened the passenger door.
The light of Heaven shone down with her smile. “Happy Halloween…Herman.”
“Hello, Brenda.” He shouldn’t have gorged on a stray cat’s brains before coming here, a chunk of grey matter lodged in his throat. “Where to?”
“You look like a vintage kinda guy. There’s a malt shop in town. You know it?”
He nodded.
A little while later, they shared a table and a strawberry shake. She leaned into him and took his hand. He twitched, trying to pull away.
Yet she was as cold as him.
She giggled. “Don’t worry, Herman. It’s Halloween. This is all a costume.”

via Flash Fiction Contest! Blind Judge TBA

My Horror Short Stories – Available on Amazon in Time for Halloween!

 

shortstories

In Latent Infection, the Marson family moves into an old, forgotten house, but the house hasn’t forgotten the secrets it hides as the family’s presence reawakens something long dead.

In Flushed, Julia keeps her mother’s ashes in her closed drawer, yet the drawer is open every morning. Has her mother returned to haunt her, or is Julia slowly losing her mind?

Plus, a sneak-peek at my full-length psychological thriller novel, Murder: It’s All in Your Head!

Release October 20. Available for pre-order on Amazon for only $0.99! Paperback available as well.

Review of Happy Couples by Rick Monddarrell

happycouplesDescription (from Amazon): When you hear the words HAPPY COUPLES you naturally think of two people in LOVE. Part of this book is about that kind of couple. But, it’s also about the fact that on this planet there are a COUPLE OF GENDERS, not just one. And it’s about the fact that if all members of this couple enjoyed true equality it would make for a Happier couple – all over the world. Because this would make a better world for all of us.

As I write in the book, in my opinion, the greatest tragedy that we never talk about, is the almost complete suppression of female ability since the beginning of time. When half the human race is suppressed and kept from being all it could be,the entire human race is suppressed and prevented from being all it should be – all over the world. When everyone has equality, and are allowed to be all they can, the result is a better world for all of us. So no, this book isn’t anti my Father’s gender. It’s pro My Mother’s gender. But please remember that because equality makes a better world for all of us, this book is actually pro both my parents gender – all over the world.

THANK YOU

Note: I was given a copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Gender inequality still exists today, as hard as that may be for some to believe in 2018, especially in a country like the United States. Just start talking to women, however, and you will quickly discover that women are still paid less than men to do the same types of jobs. Certain kinds of work, especially related to raising children and managing the home, are often referred to as “women’s work.” There are men who still exhibit inappropriate behavior toward women in the workplace and on the street.

Happy Couples is filled with poetry and short stories about gender equality and also about appreciating women. The fact that this book was written by a man is touching to me, a woman, reviewing it. I appreciate a man taking the time to write a book on this important topic. Although the principles behind the stories should be obvious, sadly, there are still many in the world who would disagree or who are ignorant.

The stories are simple and direct, sometimes a bit too direct, as the author explains in clear prose the message he is conveying. I appreciate him working these messages into stories, however.

There are some punctuation and grammatical issues with the book, which could easily be fixed if the book is read by an editor, but they don’t detract from the central message of the book.

Happy Couples is a short, easy read and is food for thought.

4 out of 5 stars

Purchase Happy Couples on Amazon.

Excerpt from Flushed (Horror Short)

When I wake in the morning, I start for a moment, forgetting where I am. Greg shifts in the bed. I turn, imagining Mom lying there, but then a grin spreads across my face. I take in his messy dark hair and two days of beard growth on his strong jaw. His brow furrows like he’s deep in concentration. His light snores are a comfort.

And I realize Mom didn’t plague me last night.

I lie there for a while, just taking him in, my mind at ease. His eyes flutter open. He smiles.

“You stayed.”

“Of course.”

He sits up with a jolt of energy like the chirpy morning person he is. “Coffee?”

“Yeah, sure.” Meanwhile, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand with greater effort than a 25-year-old woman should feel.

The evidence of our lovemaking is in the scattered clothes. I grab my shirt and underwear, tug them on. The coolness of the hard floor under my feet feels good in the summer heat. I stumble into the bathroom and stare at my reflection. The circles around my eyes aren’t as pronounced, but my pallor could use some sun. Maybe a day at the beach soon, even if Lake Erie isn’t the same as the ocean…it’s a beach. I rake my hands through my tangled dark blond hair. The limp strands hang around my face. Greg tells me I’m pretty, but I don’t see it. Not lately.

By the time I enter the kitchen, Greg has a cup of coffee on the counter for me and is brewing his own in his single-serve coffeemaker. He takes the vanilla creamer out of the fridge, passes it to me.

“Sleep well?”

I nod. “Yeah, probably the best sleep I’ve had since…you know…”

Greg grabs his cup of coffee and joins me at the island. “You know, you could just pour, sprinkle, whatever her ashes somewhere.”

“I tried to throw them away. Somehow, I couldn’t.” I take a long swig of coffee, allowing the warmth to calm me on its way down.

“But why? If she was such an awful person, why not just get rid of the bitch once and for all?”

“There’s a reason…well, lots of reasons…why I never introduced you, Greg. My mom was clinically insane at the end, kept in an institution since I was 22. I never wanted to tell you all that shit, all that went down growing up with her.”

“You told me some stuff.”

“Yeah, but it was better that way. I wanted to bury her with all the memories, yet I just can’t. She’s still my mom, you know? As fucked up as that is…”

“So there must’ve been something redeeming about her?”

I shrug, push the coffee away as my stomach churns. The heat intensifies around me, a thick cloud wrapping me, suffocating me as Greg stares at me. Imploring me. “Why are you looking at me like I’m the one who’s crazy? She was likely off since who knows when. She wasn’t fit to raise a kid, but there you have it. The damage’s been done.”

Like what you’ve read?  Please subscribe to my blog, where I post an excerpt every Saturday.

My novel, Lorna versus Laura, is available for $4.99 here.

My novel, Hannah’s Rainbow: Every Color Beautiful, is available for $5.99 here.

Special Sneak Peek at My Next Horror Short Story

Flushed

Mom sleeps in my sock drawer. I suppose if I were a better daughter, I would clean out the socks that don’t have matches or the ones with holes in them. At least the socks are clean, which is more than I can say about my old mother. She is a courteous inhabitant of my sock drawer, taking up only a six-by-four inch corner.

    As I climb into bed, I stop to stare at the tattoo on my inner wrist–a semicolon. Mom’s voice disturbs my concentration.

    “What a stupid idea. Why the would you waste your money on something like that, Julia? Something that never comes off. You’ll be old and wrinkled, and it’ll look like a piece of shit on your skin.” Here words echo through time, a memory from five years ago as fresh as the day I got the tattoo.

    Yes, Mom, some spots never come off, like the stains you put on my life, imprinted on my soul.

    “It’s a semicolon, not a period, symbolic that my life isn’t at an end. There’s still more to come,” I said the day I got inked.

    She snorted–then later snorted some crack and drank a bottle of vodka. “Aw, how sweet. You just failed at killing yourself, just like you failed at everything else in life…high school, one job after another. How many boys have you fucked? Don’t tell me you’re a dyke now. Screwing girls is probably the only option you have left. If you haven’t gotten into the pants of every guy in Pepperville yet, I might just have a heart attack.”

    “Please do, Mom…have a heart attack, that is. And I learned from the best. You wanna talk failure? How about your failure as a mother?”

    Slap! Her hand made contact with my cheek. The sting didn’t hurt as much as the further confirmation of her betrayal to the only person she was supposed to love. I suppose she did love me, in her own messed up way.

    I blink into the darkness now, willing the memory to die like my old mom. Ironically enough, it was a heart attack that did her in. With the chemical abuse she did to herself for years, to die of natural causes was a surprise. Of course, dowsing herself with booze and drugs likely contributed to her heart turning on her, but who knows? That her heart killed her, an organ she didn’t seem to possess in the figurative sense, well, that was more irony.

    How sweet, as Mom liked to say.

    “Shut up,” I mutter into the black.

    A switch flipped off the light five minutes ago. Why can’t I flip off a switch in my mind to turn it off, too?

    I glare at my dresser, what looks like a dark blob in the corner of my room. Next to the blob in the shadows, slightly darker than the rest of the room, a mass seems to detach itself from the dresser. I shake my head and lie down, closing my eyes. Every night since the funeral, it’s been like this. Two weeks, only two weeks, but it could be two years for the infernal haunting of Mom’s voice from that drawer.

    Some people speak of feeling a presence climbing into bed with them when trying to sleep. It’s more than a cat or a dog jumping onto the bed, but something so human-like as it moves across the surface, settling next to the victim. I can feel Mom sidling up next to me in bed, pulling the covers over us and grinning at me with her yellow nicotine teeth and dull skin. Every time I close my eyes, her bloodshot eyes glare at me. She smiles at me like a Halloween decoration and asks me who I’m in bed with now. She blows out smoke into my face.

    You, Mom? In bed with you? How twisted is that?

    Not by choice, Mother.

    I groan as I bolt up in bed, throwing the covers off. The humidity of summer sticks to my goose-bumped skin, and I wonder why the hell I was trying to stay warm only moments ago when it’s so hot. That’s right. Because I was shaking when I got into bed. Yes, downright freezing.

    I throw on the light next to the bed and wince at the brightness. My dresser sits as it always does–unmoving. The air smells of stale cigarettes and alcohol-vomit. That’s ridiculous. I leave the bed and make way for the dresser like I’m about to attack. Grabbing the top drawer, I swing it open with such force that my socks spill out all over the floor. Mom’s wooden box clatters to the faux-wooden floor, unharmed.

    I pick up the box and glower. “Just shut up, won’t you? I couldn’t afford to bury you, and no one else wanted to deal with you. God, why am I still putting up with you?”

    The box of ashes clutched in my shuddering hands, I move to the closet. I yank clothes off their hangers in my haste to dig through the bottom of the closet for it–my safebox. I haul the heavy thing out of the closet, set it on the dresser, then plop Mom on top of it.

    I flip on light after light as I make my way down the hall and into the living room, then finally the kitchen. Pulling open the junk drawer, I rifle through it until I find it–my box of keys.

    I return to my room with the box and begin my search for the key to the safebox. Grumbling to myself for not throwing away old keys, I spend the next few minutes trying every key like a mad woman. When one clicks the safebox open, I laugh in triumph. I remove the important papers from the box. Nothing is more important than locking Mom away, imprisoning her. How funny that her ashes will be protected in the event of a fire.

    Satisfied with my work, I leave the mess of keys and put the safebox back in the closet. I pull the door shut, but it gets caught on a dress half-hanging out. With a groan, I snatch the dress from the hanger, throw it down, and slam the door all the way shut.

    I flick off the lights and return to bed. The dresser is a formless mass in the darkness once again, but the shadow beside it is gone. I toss and turn for the next hour and find myself staring at the closet. Does the door seem to be open a crack? Just enough for Mom to peek out?