Excellent Horror Flash Fiction Tiny Tales of Terror : Snake's Breath by write hand blue

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence. Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.                                              PRESENTS       SNAKE'S BREATH                                               "I hope it doesn't happen again," Donald Wells grits his teeth. Gingerly, he rides his Triumph motorbike into the bend. The front wheel jerks as the bike launches him. Flying into a solitary tree, his anguished screaming can be heard for miles. The impact pulverising his body produces facial disintegration, and the showering of brain matter. Donald's body splays out like a detestable kebab, bloody, --smelly--steaming,--slides to devil's earth. Entrails, like obscene octopus tentacles, drape around the narrow tree trunk. Sounds,--splodge, slurp and other slipping, gurgling, noises--a demon's banquet revealed. Veins leaking,--blood from the formless cranial remains, spurt as if to fill a demonic chalice. Trailing pretty sparks, the machine comes to rest. A grr-ating, blood chilling, voice. Evil, like the smell of snake's breath, rasps forth. "Heh! Heh! Donald Wells, well mashed up. A joke in the best of taste, my sweeties. He was an old fart.--Nice butt though." ♦♦♦ Local man Jack Harding sees the advert. Damaged Triumph Bonneville, two years old, low mileage. Offers... He buys a bargain. ♦♦♦ Jack looks at brother Pete. "Yesterday, a strange voice said, 'Yummy butt.' " "You're haunted," jokes Pete. "And, the bike nearly trapped my hand. I was too quick... "I'm reluctant to start her. I meant to say IT." "Not, IT... 'QUEEN! QUEEN!... dear." "Did you hear that, Pete?" "I'm going--see you next week." "Thanks a lot, coward!" ♦♦♦ After testing, he rides the bike without a problem. Then one morning at five thirty, he leaves for work. Turning a left--he finds himself on the ground nursing some bruises. The motorbike is on its side. "Right, I'll sort you out after work!" wagging his finger at it. ♦♦♦ His mind made up, he confronts the entity. "Well?" "Come on! Why throw me off?" "Dddon't like--!" Fighting his terror, he shouts, "Don't like bloody what!" (grr-ating) "Getting up early, darling." "I don't believe it, a lazy ghost." (grr-ating) "Oh DUCKY-- I'm more than that. I'm the sun in the sky. The arrow of Harold's eye, the apple of William's... ten sixty six... Meddled with history... jokes before time. My sweetie pie. I'M A FUCKING DEMON!" Blasted backwards under the emotional shock, Jack carries on. "You're a puff, aren't you?" "Been called worse...sodomite usually." "What a load of bollocks you are." (grr-ating) "Careful mortal, soon you will have baleful cause to mourn. Comprehend, ducky?" "Can you comprehend this?" Swinging a two pound hammer; he proceeds to smash up the motorbike. "You'll not kill anyone else." "Hah! Hah! How's the little one--dear?" Seeing red, Jack grabs a hacksaw; in his fury the Triumph is soon reduced to small pieces, a pile of scrap. His disbelieving, heavily pregnant wife, goes ballistic. "We can't afford another motorbike. Tomorrow I need to buy that baby cart (pram) I saw, reduced on offer..." PS. In a Mothercare showroom nearby--the atmosphere chills,--a baby cart moves slightly and...                                                                      ♦~♦~♦   Recognized Author Notes I would like to thank Dean once again for the excellent artwork and his constant help in this multi-author book. This fiction story is based on an actual set of circumstances. I wish to thank you for reading this. Always much appreciated... :) Mel.

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