The surf pounded in the distance as Jenna and Bill crested the hill. A low mist obscured the boundary between sky and Earth. The day was chilly but that would ensure they were alone for a romantic walk on the beach.
A shape, indistinct in the mist and spray, surfaced and began to move onto the rocky shore.
Surely a surfer or swimmer; but who would be out on such a cold autumn morning in surf so cold and with visibility near zero?
The form moved ashore and a swirl of mist revealed its misshapen limbs. Hands like paddles and legs shaped like those of a hoofed beast. The creature’s head was spongy with yellow-white nodules that roved across its entire surface. The nodules appeared like soft pustules. They roamed as if attempting to spread their corruption across the mass of the head.
Jenna gasped. The nodules stopped their roving and shifted to the front of the beast to face the gape mouthed humans. Bill shuddered, the milky, egg shaped nodules were the thing’s eyes.
A slit formed in the thing’s head beneath the clustered eyes. The gash opened to reveal a slime filled maw from which a trumpeting note emerged.
A thousand other spongy heads surfaced in the ocean and Jenna began to scream.
OK. Have you ever had warped thoughts like this where you are brainstorming and suddenly the conversation takes a strange direction and somehow it’s awesome but really sick?
Yeah, happens to me all the time.
Tossing around ideas one afternoon and somehow got around to the concept of the movie/series Highlander. I loved the first movie and enjoyed the TV series. The concept of immortals battling through the ages just hooks you.
Then everything went horribly wrong.
Somehow I have the idea germinate to have the immortals not become immortal until they’re actually aged. Or maybe becoming immortal turns you into a senior citizen. (I think I fear seniors as evidenced by my short story Gray Walkers)
Anyway, imagine a senior citizen immortal moving from nursing home to nursing home. They battle to the death per Highlander but imagine all this action with canes, walkers, etc.
Now as if this wasn’t bad enough our point of view immortal who’s kicking butt and taking names stumbles across the only child immortal he’s ever encountered (remember all immortals are seniors). Then poof., we have the immortal version of Bad Grandpa and it just keeps getting worse.
See, these are the warped thoughts that process through the mind of a writer. Fathers, keep your daughters away from writers, we’re warped.
Talk at you all later.
The demon Azmodael lay on the slab of the freshly sealed crypt. Darkness hid him from view of mortals. Clinging dew called forth the slugs and maggots to witness the actions of the creature of Hell. Azmodael cocked his head up.
“Come Brexis,” he said to the demon standing over him.
“Just a little fun. The fire dance is our one joy.”
“But our task,” Brexis squeaked in a voice not equipped with the proper menace for a creature of the Pit.
“Feh. Look how can you deny this?”
Azmodael pointed his talons at the slab and a flame sprang to life. The fire flickered and waved though no wind blew. The hellish flames groaned and squealed as they lashed to and fro.
Brexis smiled and knelt. His talons wiggled over the flames which rose and danced as if he were a puppeteer tugging on the strings of a marionette.
The shriek of the flames rose as he played with them.
“See, I told you it would be fun,” Azmodael said.
Both demons laughed with the sound of cracking thunder as the tiny human soul writhed and screamed within their hellish flame.
I invite readers to write their own flash fiction based on this image in the comments. What does it inspire in you?