Well, being as it’s Hallowe’en tomorrow, here’s a scary story. It originally appeared in Flashshot in February (I think) 2005.
The damp cold from the cobbled street seemed to soak into his bones, causing them to throb almost as much as his head.
A hand to his mouth brought away more blood. Moist over caked hands.
He opened his mouth to speak, but found he could not. He wanted to ask why, and not being able to did to his soul what the spade had done to his body.
Something blocked out the light from the street lamp; the spade.
Finally he was able to speak, although the words would be his last.
“No. Dad. Stop.”
This is really cool as well. I think seeing and hearing this kind of thing when I was younger had a huge influence on what and how I write now. Interesting how different forms of art can influence and inspire others, isn’t it?