A (spoiler-free) sneak peek from Sinful Silence

I don’t hesitate.

I walk straight through the trail of discarded clothes. Jacket. Vest. Dress shirt, cufflinks tossed to the side. Dress pants, suspenders still attached.

All drenched in a deep shade of crimson.

A part of me wants to pick them up. A bigger part of me isn’t ready to see exactly how much blood has been spilled.

My only source of calm, the only reason I don’t panic is this odd sense of comfort beneath my bare feet. No matter how heavy I make my strides, no matter how hard I dig into the carpet, blood isn’t oozing between my toes with every step. So, I’m either too late and he’s already dead…

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WEEK 40: Who knew tears could burn?

Prompted by: Jane Jago

WARNING: This fictional storyline may contain very disturbing situations, dubious consent, and graphic violence.


Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
Part Nine
Part Ten
Part Eleven
Part Twelve
Part Thirteen

“Daddy home!”


It’s too late.

By the time I turn the corner…

“Daddy home! Daddy home!”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

It’s already too late.

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WEEK 39: Stay

Prompted by: Carole

It was a mistake.

I wouldn’t regret a single moment. I wouldn’t change a single thing.

But it was still a mistake.

There would be serious consequences for this.

I’d held her in my arms. Tasted her on my lips. Inhaled her into my godforsaken lungs again…

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WEEK 38: But remember, just for tonight

Prompted by: Tiara Giles

The crazy author says: Yeah, I couldn’t bring myself to kill off this storyline quite yet. The struggle is real…

Today was the day.

She did the same thing every year. Visited all the same places. Went through all the same motions.

Every single year.

Trust me, I would know. I’ve been her shadow for the past three.

Today was the day she hated me.

And the day I hated myself.

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WEEK 37: Shoving the gun in his bloodied mouth

Prompted by: Yamna Rashid

The crazy author says: I took creative license and shortened the original suggestion (“I shoved the gun into his bloodied mouth”) to 7 words cuz I like 7 😏

The crazy author also says: Yeah, I’m reusing some chick’s name from a past flash fiction for the dude. Don’t judge me. Thanks.

I couldn’t breathe. I might throw up again. I was having another panic attack. Shaking uncontrollably. Like a dog shitting razorblades. Or a cat pissing goddamn shurikens.

My name was barely legible.

But it didn’t matter.

Because it was done.

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WEEK 35: Only two fingers on his left hand

Prompted by: Jane Jago

WARNING: This fictional storyline may contain very disturbing situations, dubious consent, and graphic violence.

Seven bullets.

Pierced through flesh, shredded through muscle, obliterated tissue into nothing but minced meat.

One grazed his temple, almost taking an eye in the process. A pair lodged in his thigh, refusing to exit on the other side. Another tore into his neck, creating quite a fun mess to clean up. A couple blasted through his ribcage, puncturing a lung, no doubt making him gasp for air. And a shot to the chest nicked his heart…

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