An insight into the empire that Alice will soon discover she'll inherit. (my attempt to drop some exposition into a salacious scene without it being an info dump) -- The Carpathian Mountains, 380 miles northwest of Bucharest By the time the Range Rover turned off the E81 and headed up through the long, narrow village of Stolna, they’d already been driving for six hours. It would take another hour, crawling higher into the Southern Carpathians, before they’d arrive at the castle. Lars cursed his old man’s bladder and tapped on the partition separating him from the driver. Hopefully this stop would be the last before their destination. The snow fell heavily now, settling in the needles of the Silver Fir trees. Outside, the air bit him sharply, and he rubbed his liver-spotted hands together for warmth. Standing behind a tree, fumbling with his zip, Lars reflected that no matter how rich or powerful a man was, he still needed to take a piss like the poorest of men. It was one of nature’s levelers. Ten minutes further up the road, the driver switched into four-wheel drive mode and engaged the lower gear ratio as the tyres crunched through an inch of snow. The remaining hour became two, and Lars dozed off. He woke when they made the final turn into a steep, unmarked driveway. Wrought-iron gates slid aside to allow them entry. Here, the forest thinned, the altitude too high, and the terrain too rocky for many trees to lay down roots. Craggy cliffs of grey shale loomed above, and on a massive outcrop, the castle stood majestically. It always exuded an eerie dominance over the landscape, but this afternoon, in the half-light of the snowstorm, its visage was haunting. The original castle, constructed seven centuries ago in the Byzantine era, had been largely swallowed by each generation of extensions and modifications. The resulting edifice now resembled a chaotic citadel. Jagged towers rose above the curtained stone walls snaking around the mountainside. Most of the vertical slitted windows set into the ancient masonry were dark, but a few in the east wing glowed the sickly yellow of cat’s eyes, squinting at prey. Blue lights blinked atop the most incongruous modern addition, a helipad, rendered useless today by the weather.

I fear some of my stuff might be too dark for anywhere else, so I'll put it here instead. This novella is definitely unpublishable. Its set within the Third Reich's Lebensborn program and told from the point of view of the participants. The intention isn't to glorify the Third Reich, although the characters certainly see it as glorious because they've been denied a moral compass. (or at least had it blinded). I still love my characters. Shrug. Here's a scene from early on... ---- Kristina raised her hand and asked matter-of-factly, "Are we going to have babies?" "Yes, hopefully," Greta answered. "Perfect German babies. But tonight, a treat. We're dining in the city. You'll be collected from your homes between six and six thirty. Wear your uniforms, to make your school proud, but also these." She opened a velvet-lined mahogany jewellery box and beckoned them to come forward. Nellie was first and her eyes shone as Greta pinned a silver brooch to her lapel. The upward-pointing lightning bolt, symbol of the Lebensborn program, with the slanted SS beneath. When everyone had theirs, Greta said, "Wear them with pride. But act with good graces. I know you will." In the evening, under a soft drizzle of rain, highly polished limousines crept through the suburbs collecting the eight students from their homes. The driver opened and closed the rear door for each VIP. They left behind parents still coming to terms with their family's good fortune. A uniformed doorman in bottle-green, with brass buttons and white gloves, greeted them on arrival at the finest restaurant in the city. He ushered them through heavy wooden doors with frosted glass panels etched in Art Deco geometrics. The doorman held the students in the foyer until they had all arrived and then led them through to the dining room. Greta was there waiting for them, sat at a long central table, surrounded by smaller tables with regular guests. The girls marveled at the cream wainscoted walls, deep burgundy drapes, and the thick wine-coloured carpet that hushed their footsteps. All warmly lit by wall sconces of frosted glass. Their table had been dressed in a crisp ivory-white tablecloth, the linen folded so sharply at the corners it could have been paper. The nine place settings held heavy silverware—three forks, two knives, two spoons—and a wine goblet at each place.

Tell us who you are, and what you write. You don't need to share your name. You don't need a publishing credit or a finished manuscript. All you need is a love for dark, fearless storytelling. Tell us: What kind of dark fiction do you write or read? Which author or book pulled you into this world? What are you working on right now? We'll start, this is a place where your darkest ideas finally have a room to breathe.

Hi everyone, My initial energy and motivation to build a group for those of us who write unpublishable stories has waned somewhat. Not because I don't believe such a group should and could thrive, but because I'll struggle to do it justice. So, this is just a heads up, that the group might not become what it could be. I'll give it some time though. We only have 24 members but I'd hate if even one person was engaged and then discovered everything gone without warning (and to be honest, i'm not even sure what happens to a skool group if its owner/admin withdraws). Maybe something happens and it takes off, or I see the light, or renew the urge... I dunno. (Does anyone want to step up as an admin and/or promoter?) But in the meantime, there's a group with a similar vibe, but with more activity and a much more motivated leader. I invite you to head on over to The Dark Fiction Cafe' https://www.skool.com/dark-fiction-cafe-2489/about?ref=6f3b92342b8e46d192c5724da26eae23

Small fractures Fissuring my muscles and veins Each comment degrading Pushing me deep Further away from what I can know Each comment living Upon my flesh Taking shape Gaining a personality of its own Volition My muscles depreciating under the pressure My veins collapsing Time to veer Reconstruction I live not knowing about The shape these lichen create Affecting me Growing me to an unknown Until I am no longer mine own entity A duplicate thriving inside me A counter character existing Alive as my skin Not me but we Is who you meet Can you see the lichen The debris with a foundation upon me Do I protest Or can I get away with this disguise I keep on living The heavy lichen burdening Until I lay in the sun Revealing And one by one the scales fall away original poem by Lisa Karasek