Tag Archives: free read


I reached for them when they came for me and welcomed them home. I knew there was no more I could do to stave off the inevitable. It was my time.

Despite the morbid delights of the beautiful creatures, it was once believed to be a touch from the divine to be graced by the presence of a butterfly alighting upon you. A way for the gods to show favor upon the children of man they prized most, or even as a sign from a loved one of their presence from the beyond. All were blind to the deaths that followed their touch however, choosing only to see the beauty of such delicate life.

It was during the end of the fall, when man had descended upon man in a frenzied feast of flesh, when we did truly understand the enormous prophecy carried on their colorful wings during their great migrations.

And when the kaleidoscope danced around you, you ran.

You ran not away from certain death, but towards the salvation of your loved ones. For it would be a matter of ever shortening time before you became one of the fallen; a beast of decaying flesh whose humanity was stripped away with each whisper of a butterfly’s wings, stealing your breath and eating your soul.

When I felt the first tickle upon my ear, I was alone and brushed it away like a pesky fly, choosing to ignore the sign and instead continued to hope we would finally encounter someone with a cure. The next time there were two, and it was while I was gathering wood for the morning fire. Soon to be surrounded by my chosen family, those  of us left to wander for survival, I believed I would not be able hide what was to come from me any longer.

Not wanting them to bear the burden of ensuring I would never rise a beast, I whispered my goodbyes in the direction of camp and wished the wind to carry my love to them. Then, I fled.

Now, as I lie in this field, my head resting momentarily upon a large sharp stone and the red blood of my life seeping steadily from self-inflicted wounds, I raise my arms and welcome my executioners’ kiss, hoping that once again the touch of a butterfly will be welcomed as a beautiful thing and not a warrant for death.

c.2017 Deidre Meyrick

*This piece was prompted by a photo from the Monday Flash Fic facebook group of which I’m a member. If you’d like to see the photo and read more flashes revolving around this image, please be sure to check out the group page & post for this particular prompt here.

Have a great Monday!



The parade had just passed by our area before the heavy yet brief rain fell. Despite the light skies, there were a few warning drops as the last of the marchers turned the corner which merely teased at the downpour to come. Those initial drops drove the remaining revelers from their loitering celebrations and back indoors, or off to complete errands previously put off. But not me and Sal.

Just this morning, we stood with and before a crowd of many as we recited an oath and a pledge to our new home, officially citizens of a land where we no longer had to remain silent or covered or apart. We were free to be together, to be ourselves, even if we did appear only as best friends or sisters in the eyes of the few unenlightened.

As the warm rains fell, we ran as schoolgirls away from our oppressive past and toward a future we had once only dreamed.

c.2016 Deidre Meyrick

*it’s been a long while since I’ve contributed to the Monday flashes, but here I am. It’s lighter yet still weighted in context with its message and intent. A hope for a future. I’m not referencing any country or any independence in particular, but merely of a time and place where two people are welcomed by the majority with open arms as intolerance fades away into obscurity. As always, there are other flashes found on the Monday Flash page on facebook (<—clickety-click the linkity-link), where you’ll also find the inspiration picture for this small piece. I hope you take a look at those for this week, as well as any previous weeks. Have a wonderful holiday today!*

Monday Flash: Murder on the Horizon

It’s still Monday by a few hours and I HAVE a flash! Better late than never, right? It’s short, well under the typical limit, and, as usual, it has me questioning, “Why?” and wondering more about who my imagination has concocted this time. So here you go…


Murder on the Horizon

The clouds converged, diffusing the light of the sun to minimal permeations; enough to remind him that it was still indeed the daylight hours. However, there was an animosity in the air that seemed to drive everyone indoors to seek comfort in some form from the company of others and the false security of lights, lamps, and other mediums. They sought refuge where there was no conceivable threat of unwanted shadows, and they could pretend they didn’t feel the weight of the unknown bearing down. This was hi time. When it was safe for him to come out and play.

His brethren cawed and called him forth, skyward, to swoop and alight on the smallest tendril of an updraft on an otherwise stagnant night. So many, even their numbers could block the remnants of the sun’s rays as they struggled to break free from the clouds if they chose to amass. But not this day.

Today was merely a homecoming, a brief respite from his mortal prison when he was free of earthly bonds and allowed to return to the sky, even as he had to retain his forsaken human shell. Because of his status despite the banishment, his abilities to fly and commune weren’t lost when his wings were clipped. Flight may have been awkward initially without them, but now, now he felt just as free if not more so, because he recognized just how great his gift of transformation into a feathered, winged, creature of the sky truly was.

He was still the prince of dusk and crows, only now banished to serve from the earth and not rule from the sky.

~Deidre Meyrick

As always, be sure to check out the rest of the flashes… I hear they’re pretty good. Have a great week!

Monday Flash Fic: There’s Something About Mary

It’s been a little while since I’ve flashed you guys, but with good reason that’s of no importance here. ha Anyway, I put a little something together just now for today’s picspiration. Hope you find it interesting.


There’s Something About Mary

A slow yet frantic rush of black and white ran around the carousel, squeaking and squawking, wings flapping in animated fashion.

“He did it! He finally did it!”

The horses, tethered to the carousel by their poles, lazily strolled in their normal circular path, slowing even more in order to listen to the penguins.

“Who did what?” They neighed and flicked their manes, slightly miffed—if carousel horses could be so—at the interruption of their afternoon jaunt.

The penguins, manic at this point, were in a state of discombobulation, running this way and that, several talking at once and over each other in trying to give their news.

“The chimney sweep! He finally figured it out and is—“


“That’s to say—”

The lead horse pulled to a stop, halting the process of the herd, which expressed their dismay in a chorus of whinnies and stomps. “Now see here. You there, explain this nonsense of yours, or let us be on our way with no further interruptions.”

One of the penguins, upon hearing the derision of the lead horse, stopped short and frowned, seemingly unaware of and displeased with his own previously frenetic behavior. He waddled calmly, yet with some ire, up to the majestic horse and relayed the message his compatriots were still flapping on about.

“Sir, it seems that the bumbling human has found a way through the frame and is on his way here.”

The horse pawed the ground in frustration. “You halted our relaxing afternoon for this? He poses no threat. Why, when—“

“Without the Miss.” The penguin interrupted.

At hearing this, the horses pricked their ears, hearing faint sounds of a drum and cymbal, a horn, and other discordant sounds growing louder, emanating not far down the lane from where their carousel stood. Stamping their hooves, the lead horse continued, “Well, why didn’t you say so? Needs must and all that, we will be on our way. Please do give our regrets.”

And with that, the horses broke rank, severing themselves from their poles, and fled the idyllic park post-haste.

A few moments later, the lanky man covered in soot and other substances, carrying a slew of  instruments and drum-clanging with each step, stopped at the park bench and looked around. The penguins, three of which were unaware of their newly arrived guest, were still bumbling about until one approached with a cool glass of water and a tray of biscuits, and left them on the bench. Tossing his hand-towel over his head in the general direction of the man as he quickly waddled away to gather his brothers, he said, “Good day, Sir. We must be going.”

The man shrugged the musical contraption off his back, and sat to enjoy his snack, singing softly with a wicked grin pasted on, “Oh, it’s a jol-ly hol-i-day without Maaaary.”

~Deidre Meyrick 2015

As always, be sure to check the other Monday Flashes at the group page. Have a great Monday and a fabulous week!

Monday Flash Fic: Supergirl

Heh… I had a solid idea when I saw this pic. That idea is the end of my flash. What took me by surprise was how I got there. I hope you enjoy it.



There was no crunching grass underfoot when Jane ran to the swing, yet it was a crisp autumn day. There was a charge in the air, though; it crackled on the cold breeze, energizing the last leaves on the trees to make their fateful jump; their last hurrah.

Jane had jumped once before, from that very swing she was now running toward. Minutes of swinging higher and higher felt more like hours. Wind rushing her face, whipping her hair in long blonde tendrils, like rays of sunlight, only to hang weightlessly for barely one breath before time sucked her backward to start the cycle over again.

She loved that part the most, the moment when she was suspended in time. Even at the highest point of the backswing, looking down, so far down, gravity doing its best to grab hold even as she held tight to the chains. Most kids squealed in fear if they ever got as high as she did on the swing. She squealed in delight. These were her moments of courage and, for those moments, she’s a superhero; nothing can touch her.

The backswing was where most would clinch their eyes tight, afraid of watching the ground rush toward them, but Jane knew that the ground would never touch her until she was ready; she wouldn’t fall when it was time for her to jump like Mikey had. She wouldn’t let go at the wrong moment, hit the ground at an ungodly speed, and break her arm like Mikey did last month. He was the first one to try jumping out on the new swings, but she knew he’d done it wrong. No, she’d hold on tight and grin and swing higher. Higher. So high that she could touch the sky and everyone would stop and wonder how she did it. Wonder if she would ever stop and come back down to earth again.

Jane hogged the swing during recess. It was her favorite on the playground. When the bell rang signaling the end of class, she was always the first out of the doors, running and racing even the fastest boys, beating them. That was her swing. She’d never jumped out before, but her time was coming. She felt ready. A new seat had been put on after Mikey’s fall—she wouldn’t call it a jump—one that didn’t fold and pinch and hang on to you like the other one. This seat would be easier to fly from.

Jane’s first jump would be so spectacular.

Everyone stood around watching and waiting. She waited until she had gotten the swing at it highest point in the back though even her friends on the ground could see the gleam in her eye when it was the right time. She had a purpose and it was to be the best, and untouchable. She’d jump from the swing, without falling or stumbling. She’d fly before landing on the ground, ending in a run, laughing and would feel so alive.

The air whooshed past Jane with each swing back and forth, and at the pinnacle of that last forward swing, she used all of her momentum and floated, letting go to hang in mid-air for just a moment, as the swing fell back and before the ground began to rush toward her. She reveled in the weightlessness for a split second too long, flying to unseen imaginary lands, and didn’t keep her focus on moving forward, on completing the jump.

Jane had jumped for the first time that day. She had swung higher and jumped from a higher point than she even imagined she would do. She even bested Mikey’s broken arm. The resounding crack reverberated off the school building wall. It was quick; nary a twitch from her twisted body when her neck broke. The day Jane flew.

She has the swing to herself now, whenever she wants. It was moved away from the school playground after that. Too much temptation; too much fear.

Jane runs to the swing, no sound of crunching grass underfoot, or friends cheering her on. But she still has that gleam, a purpose to feel the weightlessness of flight, to feel like a superhero. So the next time you pass a playground and see a swing idly moving sans rider, cheer Jane on.

~2015 Deidre Meyrick
count: 725 (I went so over, but I couldn’t help it this time.)

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As always, be sure to check out the rest of the flashes by visiting the group Facebook page. Have a great week everyone! ~Deidre

Monday Flash Fic: Nautilus

Back at it this week with something new. I hope you like it. 🙂


Right foot, sixth step.
Left foot, twenty-forth step.
Left foot, eleventh step.
Right foot, seventy-second step.
Face the sun.
Both palms down, infinity step.

I repeated the sequence over and over in my mind through my entire journey here, before I took the first step. Even now as I concentrated on counting each piling and paying exact attention to where my foot placement and where the infinity symbol was located along the way, I whispered it as a mantra.

Right foot, sixth step.
Left foot, twenty-forth step.
Left foot, eleventh step.
Right foot, seventy-second step.
Face the sun.
Both palms down, infinity step.

I wasn’t sure what this all meant, or where I would end up. But the sun was setting for the last time, fading into its own oblivion, and unless I wanted to what…perish? Die a slow death? Or would the freeze be absolute and immediate? No one knew for certain, but I knew what my mother did. She and her sisters from all across the world—rebels amongst the theocracy—had been preparing for this day for many generations. Strong women scientists: oceanographers, biologists, meteorologists, botanists, pharmacists… all part of the group who had successfully built a life, and self-sustaining ecosphere in a part of the world long forgotten and mostly overlooked as insignificant.

Right foot, sixth step.
Left foot, twenty-forth step.
Left foot, eleventh step.
Right foot, seventy-second step.
Face the sun.
Both palms down, infinity step.

But my mother wasn’t here. Hunted down and imprisoned for ‘heretic beliefs and insurgency against the republic’. She never wavered in her stance against the ruling class, even as they publicly shamed her. Even as they whipped her in public forums, televised for all the world to see what would happen to them if they challenged the deity, and the believers.

Right foot, sixth step.
Left foot, twenty-forth step.
Left foot, eleventh step.
Right foot, seventy-second step.
Face the sun.
Both palms down, infinity step.

My mother isn’t here with me to guide me to our safe place, our refuge while transportation to the next forever home is complete. My thumb absently rubs across the indentation on the worry stone she gave me so long ago, reminding me of how strong she is. Was. How strong she was. To the very end. I watched on the screen from an entire continent and an ocean away as she mouthed her final word to me, one agreed upon that would seem innocuous to anyone else, but would be my signal to run.; to run fast and not stop until I reached these coordinates. It was also a signal for the rest of the ‘non-believers’ to initiate a secretive retreat to their assigned rendezvous points.

Right foot, sixth step.
Left foot, twenty-forth step.
Left foot, eleventh step.
Right foot, seventy-second step.
Face the sun.
Both palms down, infinity step.

I reached the last line of the sequence and bent to place my palms on the infinity piling, saying a final good-bye on the cool breeze to my mother. A small whitecap broke over the piling, covering my bare feet and palms; the tropical waters were already beginning to cool from the diminished sun. Then the piling began to descend as I watched the dying of the sun; I was on my way to Nautilus.

~2015 Deidre Meyrick
539 final word count

As always, look for more great flashes on the facebook group page! Have a great Monday and week ahead 🙂



“Welcome to PYT. I’m Sura.”

The purple-haired vixen behind the counter greeted the middle-aged woman who walked through the door. Sura’s voice melded with the door chime, and lingered in a slow fade, like the hum of an old CRT television as the energy fell inward on itself in an ever decreasing circle of light. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve sat there transfixed after a Friday night session of fright night movies, willing away the monsters in your mind by the faint hum and getting lost in the chase of catching that last spark before it was completely gone. Before you had to go to your room where it was dark and your monsters waited under the bed for you.

“Have a seat Sally, and fill out this form. Make sure to answer all the questions, then Ana will come for you.” Sura smiled a crooked smile. “For your appointment, that is.”

Sally took the clipboard and retreated to one of the oversized Baroque style chairs; the one she chose covered in garish pink polka dots against a bright orange background. From the moment she walked in, her brain was in a bit of a fog—as dull as her hair—and it didn’t register at all with her how Sura (did she know her from somewhere?) had known her name when she hadn’t first given it. She tucked a lock of her dishwater blonde hair behind her ear and began filling out her contact information. She felt a little younger already, using the bright rainbow feathered pen.

Sura tapped a manicured fingernail on the counter, and appraised the woman before her. The subtle noise of her tapping was an intended hypnotic, and Sura could sense Sally sinking further into a state of superficial awareness; just slightly buzzed, enough to be unaware of any danger but retaining enough clarity for the ritual. Perfect. She’s perfect, Sura thought; just as I suspected when I invited her. Anahita will be pleased.

PYT wasn’t Sally’s typical hair salon. Typically, she would be greeted upon walking in with a “Welcome back, Mrs. Wiltshire. Can I get you a glass of wine, Mrs. Wiltshire? Just a trim again, Mrs. Wiltshire?” She was sick of it. Sick of the same haircut, the fucking twinsets and ballet flats. Sick of her tired routine. Sick of pandering to her husband’s standards, doing things his way, for him. The way he liked it. All while he lived his life the way he wanted. She was sick of just being Mrs. Wiltshire, mom to the wonder twins and wife to the local hero.

She was ready for a change and what better way to start than by changing her hairstyle. And maybe the color. But to do that she needed someplace…different; a place outside the margins of her normal routine where the weight of her name vanished. PYT was just the place.

From the outside it was a hole in the wall place in an area she never would have considered looking. It wasn’t in a bad part of town, mind you, but considering the eclectic yet trendy furniture paired with—by the looks of it—expensive, strategically placed ethnic interior design elements, it was completely out of place. There was a dry cleaner with neon signs to one side, and a mom & pop hardware store with grimy windows to the other. The street was littered with overflowing trash bins, and reeked of week-old take-out. This place should have been located anywhere but where it was.

When she first decided to look for a new stylist, this salon wasn’t even listed. In fact, it was while she was trying on some red stilettos with spikey studs along the heel Mitch wouldn’t even see her dead in, working up her courage to go as a walk-in to the swanky boutique salon across the street, when she overheard a one sided conversation mentioning PYT. The conversation was hushed, yet just loud enough, almost as if it was directed at her. Apparently, PYT was only open by appointment. Not an appointment one made for oneself though, but one that was made for you; you had to have an invitation. From the salon. What the actual fuck was that about? But the sales girl, who’d been talking on her phone about it, made it sound so alluring and the stylist a miracle-worker, Sally was already coveting an invitation. That was the kind of place that would change her life, she knew it.

After prancing about in a few other pairs, including one covered in crystals—sigh, those red soles—Sally finally decided on a pair of simple black patent Mary Janes. Least those she had enough cash on hand to pay for, without alerting the mister of her impulse buy. She’d barely paid any attention to the staff from the moment she walked in, so she didn’t notice that there was only the one, and she herself had been the only customer. When she was given a business card with her change, she didn’t realize until after she’d left and was stowing the receipt in the back of her wallet, that the card wasn’t from the shoe store. It was from PYT.

Pearlescent in color with a swath of blue running across the midpoint, like a river of water set against a cloud, the card few other adornments in addition to the PYT logo: a date, time, and address. That was almost a month ago and since then, the card and all it’s potential burned through her thoughts…until this morning. This morning she awoke and knew that today was the first day of the rest of her life. She didn’t tell anyone where she was going, or what she was doing. But Sally wasn’t even where she thought she was, because for all intents and purposes, PYT didn’t actually exist; at least not along a normal plane of awareness. PYT simply served as a doorway to a certain otherworldly realm.

To Sally though, here she sat in a chair that taunted her desire for change with a “Bitch, please” attitude, filling out a questionnaire about her hair care routine. What style she was interested in, had she ever dyed her hair. Then there was this one: “What are you hoping to change about yourself?” What kind of question is this for getting a new hairstyle, Sally wondered. Nevertheless, she felt compelled to provide an honest answer. She flicked the feather of her pen absently along her nose and peered at Sura across the way, wondering if she’d notice if she didn’t return the pen—she should have this pen—and started filling in her response.

Mere moments later, a hand appeared in front of her face. It wasn’t offered to her as a normal handshake, but palm down as if the owner was waiting for the top of her hand to be kissed. Sally, for some unknown reason, was about to do just that but before she could, the other hand appeared alongside—this one palm up—offering assistance to help her stand, the outstretched fingertips slightly moving in a come hither fashion. Sally dared look up and was met by what she could only describe as a belly-dancing princess, but in dressed in a simple white sundress, not a gaudy costume.

“Come, Sally. You’re new self awaits.”

“Are you Ana?” Already in thrall, Sally placed her hands in the naturally tanned ones before her, leaving the clipboard of questions behind in the chair.

“I am Anahita.”

To Sally, her voice flowed like warm water across her senses, and the very air around her grew thick like honey. She felt enveloped in a sense of welcome and safety.

Sally was led to another unusual chair for a salon, it looked like leather club chair, just a little higher than normal. Once seated, she faced a large, ornately framed, and obviously very old mirror.

Anahita stood behind Sally, her reflection shimmering like an illusion of an oasis in the desert amidst the mirrors own age lines. Slender fingers began to work through her hair, massaging and scraping her scalp with fingernails, lulling her into closing her eyes. Despite being separated by the low-backed chair, she could feel Anahita’s warmth radiating, seeping into her skin and flowing downward into the rest of her body. There was a hint of spice in the air that wasn’t there before and a metallic tang in her mouth, as if she had accidentally bit her tongue hard enough to cause it to bleed. But she hadn’t, as that was a pain antithesis to the absolute state of bliss in which she was currently reveling. None of her previous hair stylists had hands like this, and she vowed then and there she’d be back to PYT, if for nothing else than a scalp massage.

“Mmmm… Magic fingers.”

The massaging stopped.

“What was that you said, dear one?” The soft, dulcet tone of Anahita’s voice was like a faraway song. So sensual and alluring.

“I said you have magic fingers. I haven’t felt this… this… relaxed and yet, so alive in a very long time.” A tenor of wistfulness in Sally’s voice prompted Anahita to resume her ministrations.

“Tell me of your desire to change your look, Sally. For why do you seek my services?”

Sally closed her eyes once more, not wanting to see how she paled in comparison to the beauty standing behind her. Her head in the sand trick helped ease her self-consciousness, and she easily slipped back under the hypnosis that was Anahita’s magic touch before answering the question.

“I was beautiful once, you know. I was the envy of those who didn’t know me, and adored by those who did. I had handsome boyfriends who treated me like, well, like a princess. I even married one of them. He used to call me dollface.” Sally’s voice took on a wistful tone in remembrance then twisted in on itself, into something more regretful, as she continued. “I married one of them and once the honeymoon was over, things changed. He changed. Little by little, he changed me, and I just let it happen.”

Anahita watched closely as the images from Sally’s memories played across the mirror like flashes from a picture book. Her fingers and the mirror were indeed magic; if Sally opened her eyes, she would only see her reflection and that of Anahita behind her. “Please, continue. Your speaking of how you were changed over time will help guide me to creating your new look. Or perhaps, your old look?”

That comment drew a small smile across Sally’s face, just as images of Sally’s most prideful moments surfaced over her reflection. Moments in time from her glory days, when all her world kneeled at her feet.

“Yes. Yes, I think I would like that. I think that if maybe he saw me as more than what I’ve become, he’ll want me again. I won’t just be the mother to his children. I’ll be Sal again. Not the overlooked girl I was before puberty, and not the insufferable coward I am now. I want to be that person again, the one I once was. The one he proposed to. I wish I’d brought a picture for you.”

“I do not need to see a portrait of how you once were. It is already there, written upon your face as you speak of her, this Sal. She’s coming back to life.” Anahita lengthened her strokes through Sally’s hair and along her hairline to follow the contours of Sally’s face in a soft caress. “Do you trust me to transform you into who you wish to be?”

There was no hesitation in Sally’s answer. Everyone knew all it took was a new hairstyle to change a woman. Sally giggled in delight at the possibilities before her.

“Yes. Yes, I trust you. Transform me. Make me who I once was. But more.”

There was the key and the submission Anahita was waiting for. She smiled a wicked little smile even though Sally couldn’t see it. “Then you must continue telling stories of who you were then, and I will as you say, work magic with my fingers, yes?”

Sally exhaled her last redemptive breath with her answer. “Yes.”

“As you wish.” Anahita’s sweet, unsuspecting smile turned wicked with a slight upturn on one side, and the twinkle in her dark chocolate eyes vanished into oblivion, leaving a dark light of pure obsidian in their stead.

Sally continued to speak of how she once was, of her misspent youth during her college years; the bad decisions and mistreatment of others by her words and actions. Only she didn’t realize how horrible a person she had really been and how much more compassionate she had become after her marriage. She thought the way she once was, was perfect.

She told stories of how she lifted small items from the local corner pharmacy. Pens. Cosmetics. Cards. Gum. Things that could easily be stuffed into the oversized anorak she’d borrowed from whichever unsuspecting guy she was bedding at the time. “No one was ever the wiser.” Sally laughed conspiratorially, like she’d just gotten away with it last night and was confiding in a girlfriend.

More tales flowed easily from her mind, some she’d even forgotten until that very moment. Sleeping around behind her own boyfriends’ backs, with the boyfriends of her friends. Ensuring good grades under—and on—her professors’ desks. But, while the memories played out on Anahita’s mirror, something more sinister than a mere revitalization of Sally’s youth was beginning to happen.

Anahita was preparing to feed and Sally was Anahita’s most delicious sort of meal.

In the distance, Sura began to sing. Soft as a lullaby, her voice allowed Sally to continue in her reverie, yet also continued to dull Sally’s awareness of her surroundings. But this song wasn’t one of peaceful sleep and rest. It was of sacrifice. Sura’s words wove a spell of supplication and prayer. One of reverence to her goddess, Anahita, and also for permission to share in the bounty that would be received from the sacrifice she brought.

Anahita was ancient deity of water, of life and youth, of fertility and vitality. Over the course of her celebrated years upon earth, she grew tired of being bound; of bestowing her gifts upon the unworthy simply because they followed their prayers or made offerings of things she could not eat. They were sheep following rules. Then, there had come a time when those sheep of the world abandoned her, chose to worship a new goddess, or was it a god, she couldn’t remember. That was when she chose to adapt, to make her own rules. She would still willingly bless those who came to her, but it now came with a price. One where Anahita would finally reap all the rewards and give to those demanding peasants exactly what they deserved.

As Sally spoke and Sura sang, Anahita worked her magic, her fingers in constant contact with Sally. She took all she wanted and in return, gave Sally everything she thought she desired.

Sally’s meager sense of humanity was drawn forth and absorbed by Anahita. It wasn’t much, considering who Sally truly was in her soul, but it was enough to begin the process. It never ceased to amaze Anahita how much motherhood—even in those who weren’t so naturally inclined to the position, like Sally—contributed to that sweet essence. Like an appetizer before the feast, just a touch of humanity was all Anahita needed to whet her appetite for more. For the real Sally.

Already visible to Anahita in her mirror was Sally’s transformation. Her hair became lighter and brighter. Her skin, softer and with a youthful glow. And as Sally seemed to grow lighter, Anahita grew darker.

Lines of ancient script haltingly made their way from her fingertips in a swirl of dark colors. Pulsing around her wrists and up her forearms, the thin lines moved slowly, almost if they were weakened from a lack of sustenance.

Sura continued to sing.

Sally continued to blather on about herself.

And Anahita continued to feed.

Once Sally’s true self emerged and began to take shape, the lines inking Anahita’s skin grew bolder in both structure and in their journey across her body. The words of Sura’s prayer song etched across her skin for as long as she siphoned Sally’s soul. Anahita felt so vibrant and her body buzzed with an energy that only comes from this type of meal. Sally’s life force put Anahita on a high to rival that of any designer drug. “Aren’t you a pretty young thing?” She giggled then carefully whispered, “Open those eyes, Sal. See the old you.”

Sally’s eyes flickered open tentatively and she looked upon the reflection Anahita’s mirror provided. She gasped in amazement, not expecting such a drastic change to her old self. She turned her head back and forth, and leaned forward for a closer look in the mirror.

Sally had indeed become who she once was: a vapid, narcissistic shell of an excuse for a human being. The sharpness of her hateful words evident in her slim jawline and cupid’s bow lips. Her judgmental gaze glinted from ice blue eyes. Her skin was flawless. Her hair bouncy, and her teeth whiter. All so that she could feel more powerful and above those who didn’t possess such beauty. She smiled and let out a gleeful laugh.

“Oh Ana! How did you do it?” Sally gushed and fawned over herself. “No, don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. You are a miracle worker!” She flicked her hand in Sura’s direction, who was still singing, although more softly now. “Hon, put me down for next month! I’m definitely coming back.” She made to glance behind her to catch Anahita’s eye, but didn’t as she couldn’t tear her gaze from herself, “How much do I owe you?”

Sally couldn’t see her true reflection, only what the enchanted mirror wanted her to see, but Anahita obviously could and she smiled at her work. Leaning forward slightly to whisper to Sally, “Oh sweet child. You’ve paid me handsomely already.” And with that, she blew a short, powerful breath, snuffing out Sally’s existence like a candle, and leaving her as nothing more than a pile of dust in the salon chair.

“Sura, my sweet. Close the doorway and,” Anahita glanced at Sally’s remains on her way to the back, “put out the trash. Then come to bed, we have much to celebrate.” With one foot on the stairs leading up to their chambers, Anahita turned to look at her one true supplicant, and grinned salaciously, “and I would like very much to show my gratitude for your delicious gift.”

Sura drew the veil across the doorway and took the mini-vac from under the vanity, “As you wish, my goddess. As you wish.”

~c. 2015 Deidre Meyrick

Sidenote: Anahita is the name of an old Persian goddess of fertility and water.

This wasn’t my typical writing sphere, but the idea for a soul-sucking goddess who delighted in giving just desserts to the wicked stuck with me until I wrote it. I hope you enjoyed it, at least a little. 😉 Please be sure to let me know what you think!

Miri: Monday Flash Fic

Today’s flash inspiration photo generated such a response amongst us, that our word limit restriction was lifted. From the beginning, I had a lyric playing in my head every time I thought about this flash, but it wasn’t until a few days ago I knew it would tie in to a previous piece–Midnight–and that’s all I had until I sat down to write. This particular flash happens earlier in the timeline set by the story in Midnight. So if you haven’t read that one yet, go take a look after reading this one. Without further ado, I give you…


“Come Josephine
In my flying machine
Leave fire behind
Darkness will rule mankind”

The haunting whisper of twisted lyrics from the few passengers on the ferry flight out of the village carried along the wind passing under the wings, a lilting yet haunting lullaby.

“Never fear Miriam, my dear. We are the Dark that rides the night. You are mine and as such, hold an esteemed position within our ranks. One day, you will be leading the Dark in my stead.” My father gloried in his miniscule speech, seeming to grow taller with each word uttered and ticks of the clocks. Eyes gleaming, he glanced at everyone aboard and out into the nothingness that surrounded us, to ensure they took notice of his words, and the meaning behind them; securing my future ascension to his place of power. He must have been satisfied. I hoped he was satisfied.

The Dark was a frightening thing. Creatures of untold substance and design loomed within the Dark. Called it home. Rolled around in it as a feline would catnip, and caressed the very air around my father. But there was something about me that my father was either unaware of or had refused to accept: I was my mother’s daughter. I was a child of the sun and moon. I was made of stars and filled with light, not darkness. And it was only a matter of time before I was found out. I could not be found out, or all hope for humanity would be lost.

That night came and went thousands of times since the fires of my abduction. I was merely a young girl then. Tender of heart, but wise to the ways of man and mythos. It was part of my education by my mother. While other children my age were learning their mathematics, literature, and how to behave as a proper young lady, I was learning the paths of the stars and planets. Their alignments and the meanings behind them. The events that were foretold to come to pass, and how to recognize them in order to help mankind forestall the looming Darkness.

She always seemed rushed, my mother, in educating me. She covered so much material and information that even before the age of ten, I began to wonder where in my brain I would store all of the information. But my mother would always say whenever I was contrary, “Miri, my sunshine. Whether you know it or not, everything that passes my lips to your ears is stored for safekeeping inside.” She tapped me on my temple, on my forehead between my brows, and over my heart. “All knowledge will make itself apparent when you need it. You will not have to seek for it.”

She prepared me for many things, but not what would come to pass after my first decade of life. She did not tell me I would be stolen in the night by my father, a man of mystery I had never known. Stolen and ensconced by the creatures of the night for an equitable time in order to learn his ways. The ways of the Dark.

For ten years after my abduction, I lived in darkness. Even the glow of the candles was diminished in the face of the Darkness. Yet still, the flames stood their ground. As did the moon and stars. As did I.

My father attempted to educate me as had my mother. The Light had had it’s opportunity; it was then time for the Dark. The difference was that where mother had made my life and hers integral and applicable to all knowledge she passed, my father merely relegated the duty to anyone who was available. Passing along history and grandiose plans. Yes, I learned of their objectives, but the passing Dark did not manage to sink its claws into my soul.

Once the years with my father had passed, I was to spend the next year walking amongst humanity, weighing my choices. During the month when I would reach my twenty-first year, I was to choose which night I would stand amongst the sacred stones. Either I would bathe by the light of the full moon and choose to rule with Light. Or I would bask in the darkness of the moonless night and rule with Dark.

I chose neither.

I hid amongst the nameless and faceless. I shirked my monetary inheritances and watched as the days, months, years passed. With no new ruler of Light and Dark, I wished with the heart of a child that the duel would end when my parents passed from this life. I was foolhardy to believe it would be so simple. The Light and Dark merely began to touch and influence humanity randomly and without thought or consequence.

Light progressed innovation exponentially and Dark suppressed everything even more so than usual. The battle continued despite my inaction. And through it all, I watched. I monitored the stars and planets. I calculated the timings of events that were coming to pass, and the knowledge imparted by my mother stole its way into my memory and thoughts, guiding my actions. Darkness had to be stopped, but I was no longer fit to rule.

Now, there is another, and with the help of The Society and myself, he must end this once and for all.

He’s here! I must give him a final instruction. Go in Light, dear friends, as it is a moonless night. Be vigilant; for the creatures of the Dark are waiting.

~2015 Deidre Meyrick
(Came in at 922 words!)

As always, be sure to check out the other inspired flashes on our fb group page. Have a great week!

Monday Flash Fic…on Tuesday! ::: Rescued

I’m late with this week’s post. When I first saw the picspiration, I couldn’t tally the possibilities. When I was finally able to work on it, I had the intention of going in one direction and it ended up being something completely different. I hope that you like it.



Don’t leave me.

DON’T leave me.

Don’t leaaaaaaave meeeeee!!!!

Please. Please don’t let them leave me. I’ll do anything. Go anywhere. Just don’t let them leave me here.

I’ll be good.

I’ll be perfect.

I’ll be quiet.

Sambo peered out of the window, wishing that his family would come back; wouldn’t leave him. He didn’t know why they brought him to this place, why they didn’t want him anymore. He loved them, and he thought they loved him, too.

He shook off raindrops—they hadn’t used an umbrella when they brought him in—and watched through the large front window as his family drove away.


“Come with me, Sambo.”

A woman with a kind face put her hand gently on my shoulder and coaxed me away from the window. There was a warmth in her voice that lessened the ache of betrayal I felt. She knelt beside me so I wouldn’t have to look so far up to see her eyes.

“It’ll be okay, sweetie. They weren’t the right family for you, but I know a family that will love you as you are.”

She scratched behind my mangled ears and I turned, giving her palm a small lick.

“You’re coming home with me, Sambo,” she whispered. “Sit right here for me like a good boy, and I’ll be right back. Okay? Stay.”

I understood sit and stay, and that was the nicest any human had ever instructed me. I wanted to make her happy, so I sat still and waited while she stood up and went over to the door behind the counter. My stubby tail twitched for the first time since my family told me we were going for a ride this morning. My family. I whined and looked over my shoulder to the rain-spattered window. They weren’t my family anymore.

“Mike?!” The woman called out through the open doorway.

I yipped a little and put my head down, unsure of what was to come from her now that she had raised her voice. She must have heard me because she turned and came back. Lifting me from the floor and holding my small body close, she cuddled and shushed me, muttering soft words. She carried me with her back to the open doorway, and called out once more but not as loudly this time.

“Mike. I’m taking this pup home with me. And make a note of the people who brought him in; they shouldn’t be allowed near a pit, or any other breed for that matter, again.” She scratched under my chin and along the bottom of my jaw towards my ear, hitting all the places that made me want to purr like a kitten. “Let’s go home, Sambo.”

2015 Deidre Meyrick


Sambo, like many other pitbull puppies and adult dogs, end up in homes where they are misunderstood, mistreated, and often unloved for anything other than their innate desire to protect their “family” and how that behavior can be used to harm others. They are incredibly affectionate and sweet, and as such need loving homes, not places where their bite and snarl are celebrated. With regard to Sambo’s ears and tail, it is a trademark of the breed in certain circles to have cropped ears and a docked tail, but some amateurs go to great lengths, leaving the animal scarred beyond aesthetic and effectively mangling their bodies. Just had to share a little here as this is a breed that is dear to me. Pitbulls are not for every family, and every family is not equipped to have a pit as part of theirs.

ALSO!! Be sure to check out the Monday Flash Fic fb page for more stories inspired by this rain-spattered window! Until next week…

Monday Flash Fic: Midnight

I’m a bit late in getting today’s post up, but my non-writing life took a great deal of precedence today. This is a new genre of writing for me, where I went with this, so I hope I did it justice, and that you enjoy it.



“When the last strike of the bell fades at midnight, that is when the magic will begin.” The old woman hastily pushed me into the awaiting contraption that was to ferry me a great distance, and at seemingly great peril. The lock on the carriage door snicked in place with a dreaded sense of finality, and my heart tripped in double time as the seconds ticked by on the large clock mounted in the carriage. Despite her short stature, her frightening face appeared in the open window as I peered out, freezing my posture. She was so close, her nose was nearly touching mine and I could smell the sweet stench of her tobacco and cheap whiskey breath. “You must be delivered upon your destination at the first stroke of midnight and no later. That gives you the time you need to get into position by the last. You must not dally or alter your course. No matter the cause. Do y’understand?”

“Y-Yes. I understand. I will not dally nor change course.” I was not versed in driving a horse, much less the technological innovations that were used on the outskirts of proper civilization. So her warning not to alter my course in this machine was of no consequence, but I wasn’t about to give cause for extended discussion. The fact was I had no idea how I had managed to become involved in this group of mad scientists and their pursuits in the first place. It wasn’t like I lived amongst them or subscribed to their way of life. Yet, their arguments for me to be the one to make this journey were irrefutable. As much as I tried to deny the evidence shown, as well as my growing sense of necessity, I was somehow crucial to this endeavor. There was no other; it had to be me. The chain of events, of which would be set if I were not at the stones at the appointed time, was too dire to leave to chance.

“The sun is beginning to set, and there is no moon tonight. The doorway opens upon the darkness and temptations are more seductive. You must not succumb!”

And with that, the old woman disappeared and, I in my carriage lifted from the earth into the sky. I crossed myself out of a childhood habit—despite my disbelief—and almost hoped this journey was a farce.

(401 words…yay! I’m under the limit!)~ ~ deidre meyrick

As always, be sure to visit the Monday Flash Fic group page on facebook to read other entries for today’s picspiration!

The First Ten Words by Rich Larson

Because a guy has to keep his chops sharp

Spreading the Writer's Word

...like butta' on your toast!

The Sirens Song

Singing the Praises of Literature

Wallflower Whimsy

Words from the introverse.

Siren Whispers

Siren Song

Wounded Memories

Anonymous place to let spill my wounded memories

Joseph A. Pinto

barflypoet & author of dark fiction

KJ Charles

KJ Charles is a Rainbow Award winning romance writer and a freelance editor

Brigham Vaughn

Setting free the characters in my mind

AJ Rose Books

I talk to imaginary people, speak of events that didn't happen. I tell lies. Also known as fiction, of the gay romantic variety.

Theo Fenraven

Pictures of Life

Rhys Ford

Dirt and Sin. With a Side of Coffee.

S.J's Blog

Warning, contents liable to excite! 18+ ONLY NSFW

J. R. Gray

Suspense lightly sprinkled with kink

AJ Rose

I talk to imaginary people, speak of events that didn't happen. I tell lies. Also known as fiction, of the gay erotic variety.

The Blind Connection

Chasing sexual fantasies

The Hunter

Stories and poems from the heart