Create50 is a creative writing and film making community.
Writers from all over the world submit short stories to give and receive constructive feedback.
At the end of this process only 50 stories are selected to be included in the latest publication.
I submitted two stories for a horror book called 'Twisted Volume Two' and was fortunate enough to have them both shortlisted for the finals. (insert happy dance here) Although neither of them were selected for publication I am still proud of my contribution and thought I would share them here.
First I must warn you , they were written for a book designed to scare and disturbed, a book of wickedness and evil - so if this is not your thing, stop reading now :-)
Also if you would like to read the winning entries you can buy the book at
https://www.twisted50.com/buy/
THE BESTSELLER by Claire Rye
The writer pushed his chair away and shouted dramatically, “Oh my kingdom for a great horror story!”
His long-suffering wife stood silently in the kitchen and rolled her eyes. He was such a pain when he couldn’t write, which, she noticed, was becoming more and more frequent.
“Cup of tea?” she called back, it was better not to indulge his narcissistic episodes.
“Yeah,” he replied with vague interest.
She looked into the office, at her man slumped back in his chair, and remembered the way he used to be. He was a little eccentric, he loved music and wrote lyrics. He watched people and engaged effortlessly with strangers. He was witty and creative, and his enthusiastic curiosity was what had attracted her. He was a poet, a writer and was once a great lover.
That was fifteen years ago, since then life had removed all of his curiosity, creativity was rare and his passion had been replaced with cynicism. She couldn’t remember the last time they were intimate and she felt more like his personal assistant than his wife.
“ Arghhhh, this is bullshit,” he groaned, as he slammed the backspace key repeatedly.
The wife picked up the cup and walked into the office. “Here you go, honey,” she smiled.
“No biscuits?” he mumbled as he sipped the hot brew and stared intensely at his laptop.
His wife faked concern at her lack of attention and rushed out of the office obediently to fetch the missing biscuits.
It wasn’t always like this. His first novel had some success. Not enough to have a career but enough to make him think he could. That was the beginning of a never-ending quest for something better. At first, she was supportive, giving him the time and space he needed, but after years of the grass always being greener, she was starting to think that his happiness was something he would never find and this book was something that would never be written.
She placed the plate of Anzac biscuits gently on the desk and rubbed her frustrated husband’s shoulders.
“Are you stuck?” she whispered
“No, I’m writing a masterpiece, see.” He offered the screen as evidence.
She ignored his sarcasm and read the words before her. The night was dark and gloomy
“Well that’s a start” she encouraged.
“It’s only six words!” he sighed “When’s dinner, I’m starving. I can’t create on an empty stomach”.
The wife didn’t reply, she couldn’t trust the words that might come out, so she simply smiled and turned to leave.
“Hey, take these biscuits away, I don’t want to ruin my appetite right before dinner”
The wife took a deep breath and swallowed her anger. “Yes of course,” she said, and continued to smile as she whisked away the offending biscuits.
The house was blissfully quiet as she prepared dinner; maybe he had finally found his flow. She could hear the soft clicking of the keyboard as he wrote, stopping occasionally to gather his thoughts. Impressed by the amount of work he seemed to be getting done, she checked in on her husband; just a quick glance to witness, finally, the magic taking place. Her hope turned to disappointment. He was in a chat room. He was always in a chat room. He called it “research” but her gut told her otherwise.
“Not again” she sighed.
The wife proudly presented the plate holding a restaurant-quality meal cooked to perfection. Her husband acknowledged her efforts with a dismissive, “Not now, I’m busy”.
She wanted to throw the plate at him but instead followed a more familiar path and smiled as she left the room. She would leave him be.
It was going to be a night like every other night – her on the couch, him on the laptop. Sure she could go out, maybe see a movie, but every time she told him of her plans he would invite himself along citing a need for a break from his complex and challenging work. She wouldn’t have minded the company but he spent the whole time complaining about how much time he was wasting and how he should be at home writing. He was impossible.
The wife scraped half her dinner into the bin, watching as he shovelled the food into his mouth without a thought for the taste. It was infuriating.
She would spend tomorrow’s cardio session trying to get rid of tonight’s dinner, while his rounded belly would merely make him look more sociable.
She shook her head at the irony.
“Hey sweetie, do you feel like dessert?” it was a demand disguised as a question; the wife understood its intention and headed back to the kitchen.
She slid the bowl of Tiramisu with fresh cream and chocolate shavings onto the desk, smiled and left silently, not wanting to disturb her “hardworking” husband. She didn’t make it to the door before he complained, again.
“I wish my life was as easy as yours”.
The wife thought about her full-time job and her unemployed husband, she thought about the cooking and cleaning, the shopping, the laundry, the bills and the errands. She thought about her tolerance and support, her patience and sacrifice. She thought about her thankless and demanding husband and she smiled in response.
“So what are you writing about?”
Her husband sighed at the effort of having to explain. “It’s s a horror story, I need to establish a motive and delicately combine suspense and gore... It’s really complicated”
“Hey, what about a gruesome murder?” The wife offered.
Her husband gave a look of pure condescension, “Oh, okay,” he laughed. “You’re a genius sweetie.” He tapped on the keyboard in an over-animated way. “Once upon a time, someone got murdered. The end.”
The wife’s blood ran cold with rage. Her breathing was shallow as she tried to contain the fury building inside of her. She smiled and replied calmly, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
He waited for her to leave the room.
She started to leave the room but found that she couldn’t. Her anger had cemented her feet to the floor.
Her husband was still waiting for her departure. “Okay, then,” he nodded, as a sign for her to go.
But still she didn’t move. She couldn’t leave the room; she had so much more to say but the words stuck in her throat.
She smiled at her now bewildered husband.
“Now what?” he asked.
Now what, two simple words that sent a rush of fury straight to her heart. Her reaction was instant and uncontrollable – she slapped his face with full force.
The husband rose slowly to his feet. He seemed unaffected by her outburst.
She didn’t wait for his response and shoved him hard before he could get his balance. He tripped over the chair and stumbled across the room, she followed him with a rage that was years in the making. He looked at the woman before him; she was no longer his wife, and he raised his hand to punch the lunatic attacking him. His attempt to defend himself only fuelled her determination. She pushed him against the wall and slammed her knee into his groin. He doubled over gasping for air, winded at first and then the sudden impact of pain made him groan. He slid down the wall. She showed no mercy, and began kicking his body the moment it reached the floor. He gurgled and chocked on the bile bubbling up from his pulverised stomach. He wanted to shield the blows with his arms but they were instinctively pinned against his crotch. He rolled into the kicks in an unsuccessful attempt at self-protection, but unwittingly exposed his ribs. She heard a bone snap, not sure if it was his ribs or her toes, but she didn’t care. The endorphins of physical exertion were coursing through her body. She felt great, like she was taking a spin class. The harder she kicked the harder she wanted to kick. Adrenalin surged, like a nitrous boost to an engine, she was in the zone. She stomped on his damaged arms as they fell away from his torso, flattening the muscle to a rubbery compound. Her legs thrashed away at his body, destroying on impact. He was in and out of consciousness no. She fell to her knees and grabbed his head, smashing it into the floor over and over. The explosion of his skull changed from a cracking sound to a thud as his cranium was beaten into a puree of tissue, blood and bone. His face was a mangled and distorted sheet of skin over a broken shell. She wanted to scoop up what was left of him with her weakened arms to have one last smash, but she was done. Her anger was spent. She stopped.
She was exhausted and relieved.
The wife looked around at the disgusting mess that covered the floor. Blood soaked her dress and was splattered on the furniture and walls.
“Now what?” she said.
She sat down at her husband’s desk and wiped the blood away from keys so she could see the letters more clearly. She flicked the flesh and brains off her fingers and calmly typed the opening sentence to what would become a bestselling novel.
The writer pushed his chair away and shouted dramatically “Oh my kingdom for a great horror story!”
His long-suffering wife stood silently in the kitchen and rolled her eyes. He was such a pain when he couldn’t write, which, she noticed, was becoming more and more frequent.
“Cup of tea?” she called back, it was better not to indulge his narcissistic episodes.
“Yeah,” he replied with vague interest.
She looked into the office, at her man slumped back in his chair, and remembered the way he used to be. He was a little eccentric, he loved music and wrote lyrics. He watched people and engaged effortlessly with strangers. He was witty and creative, and his enthusiastic curiosity was what had attracted her. He was a poet, a writer and was once a great lover.
That was fifteen years ago, since then life had removed all of his curiosity, creativity was rare and his passion had been replaced with cynicism. She couldn’t remember the last time they were intimate and she felt more like his personal assistant than his wife.
“ Arghhhh, this is bullshit,” he groaned, as he slammed the backspace key repeatedly.
The wife picked up the cup and walked into the office. “Here you go, honey,” she smiled.
“No biscuits?” he mumbled as he sipped the hot brew and stared intensely at his laptop.
His wife faked concern at her lack of attention and rushed out of the office obediently to fetch the missing biscuits.
It wasn’t always like this. His first novel had some success. Not enough to have a career but enough to make him think he could. That was the beginning of a never-ending quest for something better. At first, she was supportive, giving him the time and space he needed, but after years of the grass always being greener, she was starting to think that his happiness was something he would never find and this book was something that would never be written.
She placed the plate of Anzac biscuits gently on the desk and rubbed her frustrated husband’s shoulders.
“Are you stuck?” she whispered
“No, I’m writing a masterpiece, see.” He offered the screen as evidence.
She ignored his sarcasm and read the words before her. The night was dark and gloomy
“Well that’s a start” she encouraged.
“It’s only six words!” he sighed “When’s dinner, I’m starving. I can’t create on an empty stomach”.
The wife didn’t reply, she couldn’t trust the words that might come out, so she simply smiled and turned to leave.
“Hey, take these biscuits away, I don’t want to ruin my appetite right before dinner”
The wife took a deep breath and swallowed her anger. “Yes of course,” she said, and continued to smile as she whisked away the offending biscuits.
The house was blissfully quiet as she prepared dinner; maybe he had finally found his flow. She could hear the soft clicking of the keyboard as he wrote, stopping occasionally to gather his thoughts. Impressed by the amount of work he seemed to be getting done, she checked in on her husband; just a quick glance to witness, finally, the magic taking place. Her hope turned to disappointment. He was in a chat room. He was always in a chat room. He called it “research” but her gut told her otherwise.
“Not again” she sighed.
The wife proudly presented the plate holding a restaurant-quality meal cooked to perfection. Her husband acknowledged her efforts with a dismissive, “Not now, I’m busy”.
She wanted to throw the plate at him but instead followed a more familiar path and smiled as she left the room. She would leave him be.
It was going to be a night like every other night – her on the couch, him on the laptop. Sure she could go out, maybe see a movie, but every time she told him of her plans he would invite himself along citing a need for a break from his complex and challenging work. She wouldn’t have minded the company but he spent the whole time complaining about how much time he was wasting and how he should be at home writing. He was impossible.
The wife scraped half her dinner into the bin, watching as he shovelled the food into his mouth without a thought for the taste. It was infuriating.
She would spend tomorrow’s cardio session trying to get rid of tonight’s dinner, while his rounded belly would merely make him look more sociable.
She shook her head at the irony.
“Hey sweetie, do you feel like dessert?” it was a demand disguised as a question; the wife understood its intention and headed back to the kitchen.
She slid the bowl of Tiramisu with fresh cream and chocolate shavings onto the desk, smiled and left silently, not wanting to disturb her “hardworking” husband. She didn’t make it to the door before he complained, again.
“I wish my life was as easy as yours”.
The wife thought about her full-time job and her unemployed husband, she thought about the cooking and cleaning, the shopping, the laundry, the bills and the errands. She thought about her tolerance and support, her patience and sacrifice. She thought about her thankless and demanding husband and she smiled in response.
“So what are you writing about?”
Her husband sighed at the effort of having to explain. “It’s s a horror story, I need to establish a motive and delicately combine suspense and gore... It’s really complicated”
“Hey, what about a gruesome murder?” The wife offered.
Her husband gave a look of pure condescension, “Oh, okay,” he laughed. “You’re a genius sweetie.” He tapped on the keyboard in an over-animated way. “Once upon a time, someone got murdered. The end.”
The wife’s blood ran cold with rage. Her breathing was shallow as she tried to contain the fury building inside of her. She smiled and replied calmly, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”
He waited for her to leave the room.
She started to leave the room but found that she couldn’t. Her anger had cemented her feet to the floor.
Her husband was still waiting for her departure. “Okay, then,” he nodded, as a sign for her to go.
But still she didn’t move. She couldn’t leave the room; she had so much more to say but the words stuck in her throat.
She smiled at her now bewildered husband.
“Now what?” he asked.
Now what, two simple words that sent a rush of fury straight to her heart. Her reaction was instant and uncontrollable – she slapped his face with full force.
The husband rose slowly to his feet. He seemed unaffected by her outburst.
She didn’t wait for his response and shoved him hard before he could get his balance. He tripped over the chair and stumbled across the room, she followed him with a rage that was years in the making. He looked at the woman before him; she was no longer his wife, and he raised his hand to punch the lunatic attacking him. His attempt to defend himself only fuelled her determination. She pushed him against the wall and slammed her knee into his groin. He doubled over gasping for air, winded at first and then the sudden impact of pain made him groan. He slid down the wall. She showed no mercy, and began kicking his body the moment it reached the floor. He gurgled and chocked on the bile bubbling up from his pulverised stomach. He wanted to shield the blows with his arms but they were instinctively pinned against his crotch. He rolled into the kicks in an unsuccessful attempt at self-protection, but unwittingly exposed his ribs. She heard a bone snap, not sure if it was his ribs or her toes, but she didn’t care. The endorphins of physical exertion were coursing through her body. She felt great, like she was taking a spin class. The harder she kicked the harder she wanted to kick. Adrenalin surged, like a nitrous boost to an engine, she was in the zone. She stomped on his damaged arms as they fell away from his torso, flattening the muscle to a rubbery compound. Her legs thrashed away at his body, destroying on impact. He was in and out of consciousness no. She fell to her knees and grabbed his head, smashing it into the floor over and over. The explosion of his skull changed from a cracking sound to a thud as his cranium was beaten into a puree of tissue, blood and bone. His face was a mangled and distorted sheet of skin over a broken shell. She wanted to scoop up what was left of him with her weakened arms to have one last smash, but she was done. Her anger was spent. She stopped.
She was exhausted and relieved.
The wife looked around at the disgusting mess that covered the floor. Blood soaked her dress and was splattered on the furniture and walls.
“Now what?” she said.
She sat down at her husband’s desk and wiped the blood away from keys so she could see the letters more clearly. She flicked the flesh and brains off her fingers and calmly typed the opening sentence to what would become a bestselling novel.
The writer pushed his chair away and shouted dramatically “Oh my kingdom for a great horror story!”
THE ILLUSION by Claire Rye
I am not a good person, I only act that way.
I hate people. I hate their lives. I despise their small talk. I detest their kindness and their self-serving actions. I loathe their sense of entitlement, their arrogance and their ignorance. I can’t stand their fake laughs and friendly banter. I hate their life. I hate your life.
Are you happy you don’t know me? Really, you think you don’t know me? Think again.
I am politely talking about the weather while we make coffee together in the office kitchen.
I say good morning as we pass each other on your morning walks.
I am smiling at you every afternoon as you get on the train.
I am the friend of a friend laughing at your witty stories at the barbecue.
I help you, I serve you, I answer you and I know you.
I know you and I hate you.
I hate your “selfie-taking, protein-drinking, Lycra-wearing, calorie-counting shallow life”.
I hate your “vegan-friendly, essential-oiled, Hemp-wearing, carbon neutral life”.
I hate your “God-fearing, door-knocking, judgmental, holier than thou crusade life”.
I hate your “tattoo-loving, cigarette-smoking, binge-drinking, hard-done-by life”.
I hate your “suit-wearing, money-hungry, ladder-climbing, status-chasing life”.
I hate your “that’s not me, I’m not like that but I know what you mean, commonplace life”.
I get peace from the thought of ending your life.
Squeezing your throat, feeling the larynx compress beneath my hands as your terrified stare fills my eyes.
I fantasise about opening fire in a crowded room. Watching you trample each other as you try to escape the bullets I offload in your direction.
I want to know the feeling of taking your life. Pushing the knife into your skin, through your muscle and into your heart, twisting the blade as you try to catch your last breath.
I am constantly planning the perfect murder. I push the trolley around the shop and think of ways I could kill and not be discovered. I am methodical, I am cunning and I am brilliant.
You are not safe. The thrilling thoughts of a perfect execution can only please me for so long. Someday I will need to carry out my perfect plan.
Someday I will need to kill.
I am a ticking time bomb and I don’t know when the countdown ends. Every time I exhale I am one breath closer to the explosion. Pray you aren’t near me.
You think you don’t know me?
You know me and I am telling you now that someday, one day soon, you will understand...
I am not a good person. I only act that way.
I hate people. I hate their lives. I despise their small talk. I detest their kindness and their self-serving actions. I loathe their sense of entitlement, their arrogance and their ignorance. I can’t stand their fake laughs and friendly banter. I hate their life. I hate your life.
Are you happy you don’t know me? Really, you think you don’t know me? Think again.
I am politely talking about the weather while we make coffee together in the office kitchen.
I say good morning as we pass each other on your morning walks.
I am smiling at you every afternoon as you get on the train.
I am the friend of a friend laughing at your witty stories at the barbecue.
I help you, I serve you, I answer you and I know you.
I know you and I hate you.
I hate your “selfie-taking, protein-drinking, Lycra-wearing, calorie-counting shallow life”.
I hate your “vegan-friendly, essential-oiled, Hemp-wearing, carbon neutral life”.
I hate your “God-fearing, door-knocking, judgmental, holier than thou crusade life”.
I hate your “tattoo-loving, cigarette-smoking, binge-drinking, hard-done-by life”.
I hate your “suit-wearing, money-hungry, ladder-climbing, status-chasing life”.
I hate your “that’s not me, I’m not like that but I know what you mean, commonplace life”.
I get peace from the thought of ending your life.
Squeezing your throat, feeling the larynx compress beneath my hands as your terrified stare fills my eyes.
I fantasise about opening fire in a crowded room. Watching you trample each other as you try to escape the bullets I offload in your direction.
I want to know the feeling of taking your life. Pushing the knife into your skin, through your muscle and into your heart, twisting the blade as you try to catch your last breath.
I am constantly planning the perfect murder. I push the trolley around the shop and think of ways I could kill and not be discovered. I am methodical, I am cunning and I am brilliant.
You are not safe. The thrilling thoughts of a perfect execution can only please me for so long. Someday I will need to carry out my perfect plan.
Someday I will need to kill.
I am a ticking time bomb and I don’t know when the countdown ends. Every time I exhale I am one breath closer to the explosion. Pray you aren’t near me.
You think you don’t know me?
You know me and I am telling you now that someday, one day soon, you will understand...
I am not a good person. I only act that way.