The Thing in the Lake
Private Riggins hunkered down in the weeds by the murky lake, close to the water, and failed to breathe normally. The smell of rot was strong here. He was sure someone in the old stone house had spotted him. A yellowed curtain had twitched. He saw eyes. A head. The shape…something…not right. He had no time. The German patrol was close and headed straight for him. They’d search the house for sure but not the weeds.
The smell of wet decay grew stronger.
Scabrous, decayed hands clutched his legs. He fought. Screamed.
In the house, a horrid thing grinned.
Do you know it’s been a bit over a month since I’ve written a proper 100-word story on a Friday? It’s true!
Have to be honest, it’s been a bumpy month. Or two. Or three. Eh. I’ve not been a diligent writer and I need to be, because I have a LOT of stories I want to share. Right now, I have two or three fighting for brain-time like they were Stooges trying to get through the same door at the same time. It’s an odd feeling, but one I imagine writers have felt since the first person drew a buffalo on a cave wall.
Which, by the way, was also the first flash-fiction story. It was called “This Buffalo, which I Saw”. Gripping stuff.