Sunday, 30 October 2016


by Becky Spence

Pencil lines. Black on white. A landscape drawing, countryside. Hills rolling, charcoal shadows, church spire and gnarled trees. This was his canvas.

He dipped the feather. Quill dripping crimson red, his red. Deft lines, shapes forming. Contorted visions, demons crying. His was a wicked smile, bone teeth grinning.

Hand gripping, bones aching. Page bleeding nightmare dreams. Wisps of darkness in the sunset. Carving through what once was peaceful. Churning up the hallowed grounds.

A still life waiting. Ready for the chaos. Ready for this fateful night.

He etched the final line. Blood gleamed, screams echoed. His artwork crawled to life.

Author bio: Stories are my passion and I love reading and writing. I'm lucky enough to have been published a few times in flash fiction and poetry anthologies. I enjoy taking part with prompts on twitter too. 


Opus is part of 101 Fiction issue 13.

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