Friday Flash Fiction: Screaming Tunnel

Thank you Jason Davis for sharing my story. #Free #Flashfiction #horror

Breaking Fate Publishing

Each week we feature a short piece of fiction for your enjoyment. If you would like to submit your own work, it must be under 2000 words. Please submit to


Screaming Tunnel


Theresa Jacobs

“While we’re in Niagara Falls, why don’t we check out the screaming tunnel?” Marlene clapped and bounced on her toes. Horror, spooks, and anything haunted was her cup of tea.

Bill, on the other hand, hated the phoney-boloney bull-hockey, as he liked to say and wrinkled his nose. “Do we always have to do this? Seriously every vacation you drag me off to some,” he waved his hands in the air, “haunted, bull-hockey!”

Marlene pressed her voluptuous chest against his arm and pouted. “Pleeeese Billywilly? I’ll make it worth your while.” She winked as she kissed his cheek.

Bill wrapped his arm around her slender young shoulder. “Alright, tell me about this tunnel?”

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           Terri swore silently, her co-worker just called in sick. She’d closed the store alone before. I can do it again

“Coming,” Terri called out to the couple looking at rings.

She was wrapping up the sale when a red-haired girl came out from the staffroom. Terri frowned. The girl wore a thin gray sweater, her shoulders were hunched, and she held her arms across her chest.

“Thanks, come again.” Terri then turned to ask the girl what she was doing but didn’t get the chance.

The girl dipped her head shyly. “Hi, I’m Amelia West.”

“So, Todd hired you and neglected to tell me huh?” She held out her hand. “I’m Terri.” The girl’s touch was gentle and cold. Terri released her hand uncomfortably. “Well it’s usually busy on Friday nights, so here,” she gave Amelia some keys, “show people the jewelry and if anyone wants to buy, I’ll help.”

The night got busy, as Terri predicted and she assisted her customers while keeping one eye on the quiet girl. At 8:45 they had a lull. Amelia stood hunched near Terri. “What’s your tattoo?”

“The clocks from artist Escher.” Terri could tell that Amelia was clueless. “Google him sometime, you’ll like his stuff.”

Amelia grinned, her blue eyes unblinking, holding her arms across her chest again.

Terri shivered and took a step away. “Do you have any tattoos?”

Amelia’s smile grew wider, she moved her hair aside, and exposed her shoulder.

Terri pulled the girl’s shirt down to see the tattoo, a large Parrot. “That’s beautiful, you need a tan.”  She adjusted Amelia’s shirt back and felt how cold her skin was and shivered.

Abruptly Amelia turned, walked to the front door, and clicked the deadbolt.

Terri was about to say, you can’t do that yet when a man dressed in black appeared. His face was hidden in the shadows of his hoody. He yanked at the locked door. It rattled against the frame, and Terri took two steps back, while Amelia stood watching him. His head moved closer to the window, he peered in, then just walked away.

“Creepy! Good thing you locked the door early.”

Amelia hadn’t moved, nodded, and stared out the door.

Terri went into the staff room to retrieve her coat, when she came back out, Amelia was gone. Terri shook her head, strange girl.  Her boyfriend pulled up, and she left for the night.


“Morning Todd.” Terri greeted her boss. “I met Amelia last night. A bit kooky, but nice.”

“You met who?”

“Amelia West. Young, pale, red hair.”

“If this is your idea of a joke Terri, I’m not laughing.”

“Why on earth would I joke about hiring a new girl?”

“Amelia West worked here eight years ago, and was stabbed to death just inside the door,” his eyes flashed to the front. “They never caught the guy.”

Terri froze, recalling the cold porcelain skin. Ghost girl may have saved her life.


*In Memory of Amber Wise. 1994 -2017 R.I.P

Flash Fiction Horror – Wife ‘N Death

Anthology; Read Three Other Authors Free Here Too….



Wife N’ Death

People continue to file into the yard, as I stay hidden safely behind the curtained window. Glass crunches loudly beneath my high heels. My feet are now beginning to ache; I’ve been in them since 9 am. I part the gold-embossed curtain, feeling its silky smoothness cool upon my hot fingers. Peeking out, I see the neighbors crowding into my yard. They are jostling each other, stepping on my pansies and roses, wrecking it all.

What is wrong with these people? Do they think death eludes them?

Voices drift through the glass pane; I can hear all the inquisitive tones, but not the words. I let the curtain fall back to its natural folds. I move over the glass, and it crunches like eggshells. I look down at the once delicate glass rose that is now just colored remnants and sigh. Now is not the time for remorse over shattered things; I have bigger fish to fry.

As I walk through the dim room, I move around the tables and chairs easily; the layout is forever etched in my mind. Well… forever isn’t true. It is coming to an end soon; a single tear falls from my eye. I don’t bother to wipe it away as it leaves a cold trail down to my chin. Leaving that room with all my prized possessions would be harder than stepping over the body of the man I killed.

I feel no remorse about that; it’s funny how the mind works. I’ll miss my books and my blown glass collection, but not the man I just spent twenty-three years with. As I look down at his pale green eyes, they are already starting to cloud over. Death is a strange creature. I place my hand on his still-warm flesh. He had been full of life ten minutes ago; now nothing, a blank empty stare, almost as if he never existed. Ah, just as well. He wasn’t much of a human anyway. I move my hand over his heart; blood pooled on his shirt. My hand is now sticky, his blood matches my nails – how apropos.

Police sirens wail in the distance. I can hear people still talking outside. The gunshots had brought them running. I guess they were concerned, as we had been the perfect couple. I knew at that moment that if I ran from the house covered in blood and screaming, they would back me. I ought to say that we were attacked, and my husband was murdered. But, I want out; I am bored and tired, and just plain sick of life.

My eyes trail back to my library, and my glass collection, and I know this is where I belong. This is my home, where I was happiest – when alone. I kick off my shoes and move around the broken glass to my favorite chair.  I sit back allowing the softness to envelop me; red lights flash beyond the curtains. I bring the gun up to my temple; a smile caresses my face as my finger tightens on the trigger.


Darkness swirls around me dissipating to a soft yellow light. I open my eyes, trying to remember where I was, and what had happened.  A shadow suddenly blocks the light and my husband’s voice booms in my head.

“Welcome to hell bitch!”

My scream rips through the house as only a silent icy wind.


The little girl moved into her mother’s hip, burying her face amongst the soft ruffles of her skirt, as her mother put away the dishes in their new home.

She whimpered, “I don’t like it here mommy.”





Handling rejection

Handling rejection

Yes, it will happen to all of us at one time or another, the dreaded rejection letter. These days it’s the rejection email, or even…no response whatsoever.

Of course, it’s a letdown; you worked hard the piece, you thought it was worthy, so why are they rejecting it?

You have to look at the entire picture. Perhaps the story just did not fit what they had in mind at the time. Maybe it just didn’t jive with the person reading it — remember not everyone likes the same thing — so that is always a factor too. Don’t forget to check your editing more than once, make sure it’s spot on.

When rejection happen focus on the positive things that are happening now, or the possibilities that are coming your way. If you are serious about your craft, then a few rejections along the way are a sign that you are working hard. No rejections mean you’re not putting yourself out there enough.

I had four rejections come through on the same day — FOUR — but you know what I also had an email from an author that wants to work with me on a project. So, I was too focused on that fantastic news to let some “no’s” bother me. Tomorrow would be a new day, and there are thousands of places to send my stories too, so C’est la vie!

Keep working at your dreams, no one can make them come true but you.

I believe in me; do you believe in you?

Happy writing folks, Theresa Jacobs

Here is a website I found that details all the most famous rejections, plus agents, query’s, and many other learning tools.

Plotter vs Panster

When it comes to writing, some people like to think about the entire story, before actually writing at all. Then there are others who just sit at the blank page and write on the fly, let the story tell itself.

I am a Panster. I did not know this when I began writing. I actually thought there must be something wrong with me, that I was missing out on some secret training. As I decided to make writing my life’s work, I began to research the structures of plotting. All I learned was that I am not a plotter — not at all!

After reading and trying different idea’s, I still can not see my story past the next sentence. I only see that as I am typing it. There may be occasions where I’ll envision a scene that will transpire later on in the story, and I’ll write it down. Usually, I don’t even know who the characters are until the show up in the tale. As they appear, I see what they look like, their age and even a bit of their history. Then I write them in my journal for reference.

Below are just a few structure variations I have found.

The Snowflake method Randy Ingermanson, Ph.D.

The Ten Steps of Design

How to Structure A Story: The Eight-Point Arc

Stasis, Trigger, The quest, Surprise, Critical choice, Climax, Reversal, Resolution

I even found This:

Write your novel in 30 days free worksheets. (This most likely resembles a paper version of Scrivener)

How do you write? Do you Plot or Fly by the seat of your Pants?

Have a look at my thought process below and share your comments. Happy writing, Theresa

This is how my ideas formulate. Below is the outline of an idea I came up with, I wrote this and am now working on a novel on the basis of this. So, I had this one main character in my mind, and that was it. As I write the characters are gathering and growing. I am letting them led me to where they need to go. I do have an ending in mind, the rest is up to them.

Space alien story. (Kepler — working title)

The earth was coming to an end; we shuttled to Kepler to colonize only it didn’t turn out that way. The Aliens were already there, we are now their property. They understand us, we do not understand them. Oh, I like to think with millions of us, there must be some people smart enough to figure out their language. And I hope beyond all hope that those people are working on an escape plan for us, or we are doomed, this is no life for us, we were never meant to live underground, in glass cages like animals in a zoo.

We call them slugs, they move about tunnels that surround our glass dome. They watch us and study us; they take us away, some never to return. They must have gathered all the information from our ships archives and libraries to recreate a semblance of our earth homes, but it’s nowhere near reality for us. We have no TV or music, only books, and artworks. We each have small sleeping pods that are also glass, we no longer eat like we used too, and I think that is the hardest for a lot of us. As you know, the people of earth were binge eaters, or overweight eaters, or bored snackers. Not here, we get supplement drops, one a day, I can’t profess to imagine how they work, but they do. They give us all the life sustenance needed. I guess the positive is that there are no more overweight people, we are all pretty thin now, and we no longer need to defecate, just urinate.

We also cannot kill ourselves, at first a lot of people did. So, they took away every possible way to do so. The only way to die is to get another person to kill you, and if you try, they interfere immediately. Never mind the fact that they watch us 24/7, as everywhere we go is glass.

We have a very basic uniform of a tan fabric; almost sack like every one of them exactly the same. Men, women, child, it doesn’t matter; you wear this sack dress, no underwear. The temperature in the dome is somehow set to be constant too, it’s never too hot or too cold, and it is always light. There is no change in day or night. We sleep in the light, and we wake in the light.

Most people, like me, are depressed. We have no lives here, no jobs, and no recreation. At first, people tried to escape, people rioted and fought and yelled and cried, only to discover that if we did so, we got gassed. The gas made us dopey and quiet and complacent. Perhaps they are continuously gassing us now, and we just don’t know it.

Theresa Jacobs Story Idea Kepler © 2016

To Muse or Not To Muse

Tonight, for some reason I was contemplating — what the heck is a muse? And do we really need to be inspired by one to write?

Most of us have heard the expression, “She’s my Muse” or “The Mona Lisa is my Muse.”

Okay, so does this mean a person, place or thing (a Noun?) has to be a “muse?” Perhaps you don’t find me amusing

Here’s the definition for Muse from:

As a verb, to muse is to consider something thoughtfully. As a noun, it means a person — especially a woman — who is a source of artistic inspiration.

In mythology, the Muses were nine goddesses who symbolized the arts and sciences. Today, a muse is a person who serves as an artist’s inspiration. Often filmmakers talk about a certain actor being a muse — meaning the actor inspired a movie. Writers, painters, musicians and other artists have muses. Muse can also refer to thinking deeply. If you muse about something, you’re giving it serious thought. You can’t muse in five seconds. People muse on certain ideas for years.

While it is a verb, or a noun, depending on your use of the word, a muse isn’t some magical fairy that comes and sprinkles idea juice into your brain.

Personally, I don’t have a muse, most of the time I don’t even have a clue!

When I sit to write, I open the page and start writing. I see images in my mind, not words on the page, which is perhaps why my spelling and grammar are so poor. I think in terms of pictures and try to capture what I see for my audience.

The perfect example is the current contest I am entering, they give us a theme (I hate themes, but it’s their rules), Person in a Hole.

So, I sat at my computer and had the stupid image of a person standing in a hole in my head, I had to delete that really quick, and I changed the thought to someone in trouble, alone, must help themselves out, and then I began to type. I could see the troubled person and situation happening over and over, all I had to do was write up to the “hole” and write them out of the “hole”.

Never once did I consider a muse. I envisioned and I wrote. Simple as that.

So hogwash to the muse, grab your brilliant ideas from wherever they appear and go write something today.

Happy Writing Folks!

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