Blink

BLINK

Darkness takes root in unexpected places in BLINK, a collection of over 30 short, sharp tales of crime, horror, and sudden demise from Paul D. Brazill.

Told in around 1,000 words or less, these flash fiction stories open the door to a world of whispered horrors, haunted memories, strange encounters, and unsettling twists. With echoes of Roald Dahl, The Twilight Zone, and Alfred Hitchcock Presents, BLINK delivers compact, chilling fiction that cuts quickly and lingers long after the final page.

Step into BLINK and discover dark stories made to be read in a flash—and remembered in the dark.

Excerpt from the book

Fiona was dragged from the depths of a murky sleep when the rooster on the nearby farm started to crow. As she peeled back her eyelids, she noticed that Gareth, as was his wont, had already showered and was dressed in a pair of neatly ironed Marks & Spencer jeans and his lucky plaid shirt.

In the wan light, she watched him as he took the soft-boiled eggs from the pan and put them in the candy-striped egg cups. He took the lightly toasted bread from the toaster and cut it into soldiers. Then he poured two cups of tea.

He was still a good-looking man, she thought. And as fit as a fiddle as he approached his mid-fifties. She was sure he’d been for his regular morning jog while she’d been asleep. He’d been a bundle of nervous energy since the redundancy. He’d even tidied the motorhome and had hung the hand-washing that he’d done on the washing line outside.

Gareth saw that she was awake, smiled at her and opened the curtains.

‘Busy day today, luv,’ he said, as he handed her a cup of tea.

‘Oh, yes,’ said Fiona. ‘Up and at ‘em.’

Gareth switched on the radio and they listened to Classic FM in silence, waiting for and dreading any news announcement that might come.

After breakfast, Fiona showered and changed into jeans and a shirt that was pretty much identical to Gareth’s. He was sitting on the motorhome’s step, trimming his beard. Deep in thought.

She stepped past him and breathed in the fresh country air. It was a bracing, honey-coloured spring morning.

‘Get it while you can, eh?’ he said.

‘Oh, I’m sure France will be just as beautiful. If not more so,’ said Fiona.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said, not sounding convinced.

They both went back inside.

‘Almost ready?’ he said, as he packed two rucksacks.

She nodded and handed him a green anorak before putting on hers.

They locked up and headed off, at a brisk but steady pace, uphill towards Innersmouth Village. Fiona started to whistle an old folk song but stopped when she remembered her mother telling her that a whistling woman conjured up the devil.

Superstitious nonsense, of course, but better not to tempt providence, she thought.