starklyscifi
EJ Stark
@starkwritings . ejstark.com . sci-fi . horror . short stories . moodboards
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ive been writting a fanfic for a fandom im in for five hours straight and i only have 613 words im i wanna go to sleep but im too Energetic too 🥲🥲🥲🥲🥲
613 words is great! Go you! That’s good progress! I totally get feeling like you’re on a roll and don’t want to stop but also needing to sleep, it can be hard to get your brain to shut up. My only real advice here is give yourself some transition space, put down the writing but don’t make yourself try to sleep right away. Stare into space for a while or maybe make yourself a nice cup of camomile tea.
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I’m sorry, NYC Midnight want SIXTY-TWO dollars for the FLASH FICTION contest?
Absolutely not.
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The Tortured Poets Department is a great reminder that women don't owe the world pretty. Taylor Swift doesn't owe anyone an easily digestible pretty pop album wrapped in a bow with short songs you can make TikToks to. She's allowed to present something raw, uncomfortable, and vulnerable to the world.
#god yes this#so many people saying#there weren’t enough bops#and I’m like#not every album has to be shiny pop
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The thing people don’t realize about writing is that time spent just staring out the window is CRITICAL
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Nanowrimo update: Outlining is saving my life.
I only wrote 965 words yesterday and it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter because I’ve written more words on other days, to the point that I’m still on track for 50k this month.
And it’s really down to the fact that having an outline not only takes the thinking out of what to work on next, but also makes me excited to write all these scenes.
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Sometimes writing happens at my desk. And sometimes it happens on the couch in my pajamas, typing notes on my phone about character motivations.
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There’s something soul cleansing about a good jump scare
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Smudges
Smudges - Flash fiction
#WritingCommunity #amwriting #writerslife #shortstory #flash #horror #flash #fiction
Hi everyone, I hope you’re all keeping well and keeping creatively fulfilled. Today, I’m sharing a piece of flash fiction. I hope you enjoy it!
Smudges
Max couldn’t sleep. For weeks now, at bedtime, he had found himself transfixed by the strange image of a face in his bedroom window.
It wasn’t a real face, of course, that would have been impossible with him living on the twelfth floor of a…
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We Walk With Ghosts
A flash fiction story by EJ Stark, written for @flashfictionfridayofficial’s prompt “torn veil”
Her pursuit of the perfect fall photo lured her deep into the woods. One more tree. One more photo because look at how beautiful it was. Her frantic attempts to capture the fall colors drew her into the part of the foreset she had never been in. She wasn’t scared. These woods were sandwiched between the mall and a bunch of houses. It was quicker to cut through the woods than walk all the way around into the neighborhood, which resulted in a well worn dirt path through the trees.
She always wondered why the city didn’t just put in a walking path. But such thoughts were far from her mind now. The pictures continued to show lush summer forests with just a hint of yellow, green overwhelming everything like a virus.
Sam threw her phone. She didn’t understand how the brilliant yellow in front of her could show up like that in a photo. But it wasn’t entirely yellow. She could see that now. It was still summer foliage compared to the tree behind it. That bright red maple she had stupidly missed.
Retrieving her phone and wiping the mud from the lens, she ventured deeper into the forest. The trees grew older as she walked.
A sickly sweet smell permeated the air.
She did not know how long she had been chasing the next bright tree. But her phone would not take anymore photos, telling her the camera roll was full. Frustrated, she deleted a broad swath of photos.
She didn’t care what time it was, intent only on reach that patch of delicate red orange color she glimpsed in front of her. The smell grew stronger.
It was a clearing with a single apple tree, in full fall bloom.
The ground was covered in apples. They sank beneath her feet, coated her white tennis shoes in their soft flesh. Her eyes watered with the sweetness.
And there stood a man, with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, dressed all in black.
His neck creaked like the old stairs in a haunted house as he turned his head. His eyes were gone, two black holes staring out of his skull at her.
Sam ran.
She fell twice. Mud splattered her t-shirt. Bursting through the tree line, she was overwhelmed by the roar of cars splashing through wet roads.
. . .
“You’re soaked,” Mandy helpfully pointed out as Sam stumbled in the door.
Sam peeled her coat off, tried to force the soaked tennis shoes off her feet.
“Come on, we’re going to be late.”
She looked up to see Mandy holding out a pile of clothes. Sam took the clothes and fifteen minutes later found herself dressed as a witch, complete with dollar store hat and Mandy telling her to keep her eyes closed while she finished the “wicked cat eye” she was doing.
“Jesus, Mandy, are you trying to make her look like a cartoon character?”
Leah was a nurse who had complained about nothing else since she got her schedule telling her she was working Halloween night. She was already in her scrubs, leaning against the door to Mandy’s room.
“We all know you’re just bitter.” Mandy swept her makeup brushes into a dresser drawer and shoved Sam towards the door.
“You girls be careful,” Leah said with a wink, “The veil is thin tonight after all.”
. . .
They were hitting up the city’s carnival in the park before heading to the bars, where Leah made them promise to still be when she got off. A fog had sprung up. Sam didn’t have to ask Mandy to take the long way around the woods. The carnival was packed by the time they arrived, child screaming in delight and music drifting off the carousel.
“I didn’t expect this to be so popular,” Sam said, smiling back at a cute guy dressed up in a poor Beatles costume.
“It’s not that busy,” Mandy said with a shrug.
Sam glanced back at Ringo, but the sidewalk was empty. Something like fire light flickered across it, but she didn’t see any torches.
“The 70s are really making a comeback,” Sam said, after seeing bell bottoms for the seventh time. A guy in a trippy shirt gave her a look as she and Mandy brushed past him, on the hunt for cotton candy.
“What?” Mandy was scanning the horizon, in search of sugar.
“The costumes aren’t even inspired, I mean, they just look like normal people.”
“What are you on about?” Mandy said.
Sam pointed at a girl dressed in a long old-fashioned dress, complete with heavy milk bucket.
Mandy rolled her eyes, taking off in the direction of the spotted sugar rush. The girls walked around the park making fun of the costumes appearing and disappearing in fog while they ate the sticky cotton candy. Children screamed on a min-rollercoaster.
“If you’re going to try for the 1920s, at least put in some effort,” Sam said.
“What is with you tonight?” Mandy giggled.
“I’m just saying, at least go full flapper. Who picks an everyday outfit from a hundred years ago as a Halloween costume?”
Mandy giggled again. She did that when she got nervous.
“What is up with you?” Sam asked, finishing a cup of hot cider spiked with rum and throwing the tiny paper cup in the trash. It bounced out and onto the ground.
“Did you get into Leah’s weed?” Mandy mouthed the word “weed”. She had been shocked when Leah, the ostensibly responsible nurse, had wiped out her trusty Altoids tin a week into all of them living together.
“Do I seem high to you?”
“You’re seeing people who aren’t there. So yeah, maybe.”
Cold sweat dripped down Sam’s back. She looked again for the people with the bad costumes. They were gone. Normal families shuffled around the carnival.
He was back. Standing in the center of the crowd. Looking right at her with his non-eyes.
Without taking a step he was right in front of her. Nose to nose. Behind him, the sky was filled with flying things from her nightmares.
“Do you see?”
She met Death under an apple tree and now eternity was laid out on a soccer field.
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Honestly, urban and suburban horror is so under utilized
Getting lost in a parking lot full of endless rows and columns of cars. You can't find yours, you don't know how long you've been walking. You keep seeing cars that you think are yours, but they don't open when you try your keys. You press the horn button on your fob, but can't tell which direction the faint honking is coming from. The stalls are all full.
A grocery store late at night. No other shoppers are there. It's dark outside and yours is the only car in the parking lot. The aisles are filled with brands you don't recognize, but seem oddly familiar, all knock offs of each other. It's too cold. Your cart has a squeaky wheel. The cashier is the only other person in the store. They don't make eye contact. You don't remember what you came in for.
You're taking the garbage out late at night. Your elevator doesn't work so you have to take the stairs. The dumpster smells, and there is fluid on the ground beside it. You don't want to think about what it could be. You hear noises down the alley. You toss the bag into the dumpster, and run to the door. You fumble your keys and take longer to get in. You slam the door and lock it. The lightbulb flickers in the lobby.
Rows and rows and rows and rows of identical houses. You don't know how you got into this neighborhood, you can't afford any of the houses here. They all look the same, white square houses, white picket fences, perfectly even and manicured lawns. A good neighborhood. A nice place to raise your kids. There are no kids. The weather is nice, the sun is shining, they should be outside. You drive your used car, looking for a turn off to the exit, but there isn't any. Just endless white square houses, white picket fences, perfectly even and manicured lawns. You're sure you passed this area before, but there are no house numbers and they all look the same. The sun is shining and there is not a cloud in the sky. Or another living creature in sight.
You're on the bus. Surrounded by people, you stare at your phone and ignore them. More people get on. Your stop is coming soon. More people get on. You sit at the back of the bus to avoid conversation. More people get on. Someone bumps into you, and you apologize to them, but you're not sure why. They don't acknowledge you. More people get on. Everyone is staring at their phones, ignoring each other. Your stop is next. You try to stand up to get to the exit, but there are people in the way. You can't get to the button to let the driver know you need to get off. You try to get to the door, but there are so many people in the way you can't move. The bus slows to a stop, and you try to push your way to the exit, but the bus is too packed. The doors open, but you can't leave, and nobody hears you when you ask them to move. More people get on.
You walk downtown. You pass a billboard advertising a product you've never heard of. You keep walking, passing flyers, billboards, screens, all selling things. Things to make you prettier. Smarter. More successful. A whole new person. A new person to fit into society with all the other people, but only if you spend money. For just a few dollars, you can have a better life with our product. You need our product. You would be so happy if only you had our product. Look at all these people in our advertisement, aren't they happy? Don't you want to be like them? You could be if only you just had our product. You can't afford any of them.
You're in a crowd of people, walking the sidewalk. You have your earbuds in. You feel someone watching you. You casually glance around, to try to catch someone staring. You can't pick out individual faces among the hundreds of other people. You continue on your way, thinking you imagined it. You imagine you hear footsteps, and walk faster. The feeling doesn't go away.
Your air conditioner is broken. You told your landlord, he said he'll fix it. It's been days. The air is hot and muggy. Leaving the windows open doesn't help the heavy feeling. The air from outside is just as warm, and carries the scents from the city. There should be sounds coming from outside, but the city is silent.
You're walking at night. You can't see even a single star.
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Do you want to go ask the demon if it believes in God?
The Vibes for: The Last Normal Night on Earth (an adult horror novel about a group of twenty something friends who may or may not have woken up a deadly entity but either way they have to live with the end of the world)
#the last normal night#horror#moodboard#moodboard monday#story aesthetic#writing#writers on tumblr#writing community#writeblr#starkly mine
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On the one hand, Bradbury’s slightly overwrought poetic descriptions of literally EVERYTHING in Something Wicked This Way Comes are getting to me.
And on the other bony hand out stretched from the grave, I’ve highlighted an insanely good line on every page.
So.
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My book club picked Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes for October and when I tell you I’m SO EXCITED
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Things I’m Doing to Prep for Nanowrimo:
Reading craft books (currently reading The Story Grid by Sawn Coyne and loving it)
Reading in my genre (current read: The Sun Down Motel by Simone St. James)
Making an outline so I know what the hell is happening come November 1
#thoughts on writing#nanowrimo 2023#nanowrimo#Preptober#Preptober 2023#writers on tumblr#writing#outline#novel#novel writing#planning
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Apparently a part of the reason why farmed bees stay in the beehives that humans build for them is because the farm hives are safer and sturdier. I don't know how a busy Discord server's worth of bugs that only have one brain cell each would logically conclude that the humans protect them from outside threats, illness and parasites, but if I understood right, the bees would be free to move away and build a new nest somewhere else any time they'd want, and they simply choose not to.
You know how in almost every culture, people have some concept of "if I sacrifice something that I made/grew/produced to the Gods, they will ward me and my harvest from evil"?
So, in a way, don't the bees willingly sacrifice a part of their harvest to an entity not only far greater than them, but nearly beyond their comprehension, in exchange for protection against natural forces wildly outside of their own control?
So tell me, beekeepers, what are you to your bees, if not a mildly eldritch God?
#I know this has been reblogged before#but I love it#so read it again#folklore#bees#writing inspiration
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*sidles up to Tumblr* So did you show them the post?
*Tumblr* Who are you?
But seriously, I feel like we’ve entered the era of “no new growth allowed” on just all of the social media platforms. I’m not looking to become a content creator here, I just want to find more people who might like weird, offbeat sci-fi/horror. And who might write their own weird little stories.
It doesn’t seem like Tumblr is showing my posts to anyone? I know theoretically we’ve got a chronological feed still. And no one owes me a like or a reblog. But I used to have mutals that would tend to toss me a like on about anything I posted. And now it’s just crickets.
And it’s definitely not showing my posts to people based on the tags. Maybe I’m just using the wrong tags…. 🙄
#it’s the same over on the 📸 app#and it’s frustrating#Writeblr#writers on tumblr#writers on instagram#thoughts#starkly musing
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A Misplaced Moment in Time
(a flash fiction story by EJ Stark)
A thunderstorm is rolling in. The sun is still shining for now, but she can see dark clouds in the distance, eating up the landscape. The wind chimes ring furiously, threatening to blow off their hook. The wind is already here. She wonders if she ought to take them down.
She’s wearing a tank top and shorts, barefoot. But she shivers.
The wheat and corn in the fields — none of them hers — are bent nearly flat by the wind.
Kathy takes the wind chime off the hook, intending to take it inside. But the second it came off the hook, the wind snatches it away. The chimes land with a shrill crash in a heap on the weathered porch.
She leaves it and goes in the house. The storm door slams shut behind her. She stands just inside the door, the farmhouse lit with that strange pre-storm light. It’s dim and eerie. Normally she likes storms, likes watching their ferocity from safely inside the century old house. But this one has her on edge.
Something shatters upstairs.
Kathy doesn’t go upstairs. She never it liked it up there, and now with her mom gone and just her in the house, she sleeps in the guest bedroom on the ground floor.
She doesn’t want to go upstairs.
It’s quiet now. It might be fine. Maybe she’s hearing things again.
Kathy sighs and climbs the ancient, creaky staircase.
It was almost a year ago now. A bitter autumn night, a storm like this one in full swing. A tree branch cracked and fell to the lawn, louder than the thunder overhead.
It had been three weeks since her mom had died. Kathy had fallen asleep on the couch again, half covered with the ratty blanket her mother always kept over the back of the equal ratty couch.
An odd air had hung over the house all day.
It was the kind of atmosphere that had her tightening the blanket around her shoulders and adding another log to the fire. A desire for light, not coziness. Usually Kathy loved to be cozied up inside with a book and a tea while a storm rolled through.
This storm felt vicious. Or maybe it’s just in her head. After all, the farmhouse was empty now. It used to be full with Kathy, her dad, her mom, and her little brother. Now her brother was halfway across the world at a fancy job, her father disappeared years ago, and her mother was fresh in the ground.
Of course, being the one without a job when their mom got sick, meant that Kathy was the one who moved home.
She still didn’t have a job.
The house was old and it creaked. This was always her mom’s explanation when Kathy tensed up, thinking that she heard footsteps in an empty room above her head.
It was creaking in the storm that night.
There’s a tree that’s too old and too close to the house. Cutting it down was the last thing her mother asked her father to do before he got in his truck and never came back twenty years ago. These days, the branches scratch the windows at the end of the upstairs hall and in her brother’s old room.
That night, the tree had had enough. Its branches failed, cracking and falling. One of them crashed through a window.
Kathy jumped off the couch, screaming.
It was silent. Except for the storm raging outside, fading into the background of her fear. Kathy stood there for a good ten minutes, trying to will the danger away. Like nothing ever happened.
But Mama isn’t here to pick up the pieces and she’s going to have to find the cardboard and duct tape herself.
She knew it was a window, it was just a matter of which one.
She made it to the top of the stairs just in time to see the second window smash, sending glass all over the carpet and letting in the roaring wind. She heard the mirror on the wall crack into a million pieces, but when she looks, it’s her own face looking back at her, whole.
She heard the mirror crack, she knows she did, even if it was too far down the hall for the tree branch now sticking in through the window to have smashed it.
It takes her all night, fighting with the wind, to get the windows covered up. At some point, the exhaustion wipes out any fear she has of being upstairs.
She still doesn’t have a job. It’s hard to get one when she doesn’t like driving the ancient pickup truck the twenty miles into town for anything other than a handle of groceries, paid with money from a dwindling bank account.
The top stair creaks worse than the rest.
There’s shards of mirror all over the floor, lying like knives, mirroring the hallway ceiling back in tiny shreds.
The mirror is why Kathy hates coming up here. It appeared on the wall when she was thirteen and that was when she stop liking the top floor of the farmhouse. When the nightmares started.
For a moment, Kathy feels relief, looking at the empty frame.
Something white moves in the corner of her eye.
And that’s when she sees the figure at the end of the hall.
#flash fiction#horror#flash fiction friday#writers#writing#writers on tumblr#writeblr#writblr#fiction
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