Horrifying News

I have some terrifying news to share…I am published again.

For the first time this year, and my first time with a published work of fiction I am incredibly excited to share the link to ‘Hell in a Flash’ an anthology collection of some of the most horrific and terrifying work to come out of the minds of young writers from Scotland.

Available as an ebook or as a full colour print, I urge you to get your copy today. Regardless of the format you choose the first 24hours are the most important for any collection released on Amazon and with your help this collection can be well promoted on Amazon itself.

All proceeds for this collection go straight to Simon Community Scotland, a Scottish based charity which has been supporting those affected by homelessness since 1963.

Please consider getting your copy today at https://www.amazon.co.uk/mcgurran-coremans-fitzpatrick/s?k=mcgurran+coremans+fitzpatrick

50 Words: November

I took part again, in The Scottish Book Trusts monthly 50 word flash-fiction competition.

Alas, I still haven’t won, but rest assured I will keep trying until I have won that mug which is offered as first prize.

The following is my entry for November:

A haze hovered above bodies, pressed together, writhing with frenetic movement. The roar of the crowd rivalled that of the music. But the pounding bass cut through.

Each song flowed into the next creating an endless, eternal moment. The crowd a collective congregation, sing together in unison, the perfect harmony.

The winning entries for November can be found here: http://scottishbooktrust.com/reading/the-50-word-fiction-competition

Flash Fiction: Coming Home

As part of my course, I have been developing my writing skills, in particular, we have been looking at short fiction. The following is my first attempt at crafting a piece of Horror flash-fiction capped at 500 words.

Coming Home by D.S.Coremans

Shock and surprise adorned the face of the dead man who lay in the hallway. His head lay inches from the door, the once cream carpet held his blood like a sponge, seeping under the doormat, impossible to walk around. Wide eyes and mouth open his surprise was understandable. The husband of the woman whose house he’d tried to rob was 87, I doubt he expected to be overpowered.

Yet another emotion was on his face, one that I couldn’t identify.

As I entered the living room the frail-looking woman sat where I’d left her only moments before. Her hands bloody they clung together, a cloth handkerchief clutched in between them. She didn’t notice me enter the room, her eyes were glazed, not with shock, but as if she were dreaming.

“When is your husband due back Mrs Allison?”

Her eyes met mine, but she stared right through me.

“Mrs Allison? You’re husband Geordie…” she cut me off, eyes suddenly focused and sharp.

“Only I call him that. Call him George.”

“I’m sorry Mrs Allison. When are you expecting George home?”

Her eyes darted to the mantle, then once again glazed over. Those bloodied hands wrung together like the hands of Lady Macbeth after the murder of Duncan.

“Shut that door son, your letting all the heat out.”

I did as she asked. As I turned to look at her, she once again faced the mantle. As I followed the gaze of her eyes, I saw the urn sitting in the centre. The inscription, embossed onto the surface was simple and bold ‘George Allison’.

Beside the urn, the mantle held photographs of the woman with her family, her husband and pictures of their son, the son who looked so similar to his mother.

“Mrs Allison, the man who broke into your house, did you recognise him?”

“I’ve never seen him in all my puff. He came barging in so he did, but Geordie got him so he did.” Her hands wrung faster, a silent tear trickled from the corner of her eye.

I returned to the hallway.

He lay there still, in a t-shirt, jeans and socks. One shoe already lay next to the shoe rack, the other he still wore.

The look on his face was one of surprise and shock…compared to all of the pictures of his smiling, happy face which adorned the walls, and on the mantle that his father’s ashes lay in, I finally recognised that emotion that I could not place. Sadness.

She stood behind me now.

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

The blood on the knife she held was dry. Her arm swung in a wide arc, ferocity replacing frailty. I saw the fresh blood on the blade. Felt blood ooze into my shirt as the carpet underneath me had earlier filled with her son’s blood. The same carpet my knees now came to rest on.

Flash Fiction: The Unexpected Visitor

I recently entered a short fiction competition which is held every month. The challenge: to write a 50-word story based around a prompt. While I didn’t win this one, I did come to learn that I had received a ‘special mention’ on the website.


This is my entry:

News of his arrival reached me before he did. Knowing that he stood now on the same island that had for twelve years been my sanctuary, made the sprawling copses, glens and mountainous ranges seem minuscule and insignificant. Nowhere to hide. I had always known he would come for her.


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