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.

You're welcome to read this, but it was really just to test the length limit of posts. it appears to be at least 11,000 words lol. Chapter One: If the Dress Fits Frey marveled at her surroundings as she was escorted to the royal table. Opulence oozed from every corner of the banquet hall. Grandiose chandeliers, burning hundreds of candles, hung from the vaulted ceiling. They cast a flickering golden hue over the rich tableau below. “How did they light those candles all the way up there?” She mumbled to herself as a servant pulled her chair out. She stepped towards the table and waited for the chair to be slid under her before lowering her bottom as delicately as possible. “They winch them down, light them, and winch them back up,” the servant replied in a low whisper as he leaned over and spread a napkin across her lap. “You might see the pulleys attached to the cross beams if you look hard enough.” Frey blushed and chastised herself. She should be more careful. A proper princess would, of course, know how they lit the candles. Or, more likely, wouldn’t care. Keep your mouth shut, silly girl! Beneath the chandeliers, white linen dressed a dozen long feasting tables. Their silver and crystal place settings reflected distorted images of the diners taking their seats. Bedecked in exquisite fineries, the kingdom’s richest and most influential characters were earnestly engaged in high society chatter and gossip. They canoodled and cackled while waving their goblets at scurrying waiters. She admired the gowns worn by the ladies. She knew from her mother that fabric of any blue shade came at great expense, being the most difficult dye to procure from nature. Here there was a predominance of blue and indigo, violet and mauve on display. Clearly, these people enjoyed exhibiting their wealth. Almost as much as they enjoyed the King’s wine. But the garments were nothing compared to her own dress. An azure cloud of mulberry silk floated around her. Without breasts large enough to hold the strapless garment aloft, handmaidens had used hidden tape, stuck directly to her skin. Frey fought the urge to scratch her itching chest.

From "The Butterfly Defect" a novel currently at 150,000 words that will never see the light of day. In this scene, Tracy, having already been led to the dark side by Simon before he died, finds out what he left her in his will. And when she wonders what to do about it, she finds out even more about herself. -------- The contents of the box revealed themselves to be eighty thousand pounds in cash, which Tracy asked Adam to bank for her, a tangled bunch of war medals, pouches of rare coins and a rust stained dagger with a swastika and "SS" engraved in the hilt. She recoiled at the last item. "Is that what I think it is?" "It is. And it's illegal in the UK and most of Europe, being genuine Nazi memorabilia." When he saw Tracy frown, he added. "Oh, don't worry, it wasn't Simon's originally. He liberated it from East Berlin after the war. Nevertheless, you can't put it on the open market without risking a stiff penalty. But we have contacts if you'd like us to sell it for you?" Tracy thought for a while. Her first instinct was to have it destroyed, but her inner, darker voice spoke up. To do so would be to invalidate whatever Simon had endured to acquire it. Maybe even death-defying efforts, for all she knew. And who was she to just write that off? If he'd wanted it destroyed, it wouldn't be here. But still… "What would you think of me if I tried to make money from that?" she asked. Adam took a large swig of whisky. "It's irrelevant what I'd think of you," he said, turning the dagger so it caught the light. "I suspect you know that. But you also might like to know that I wouldn't care in the least. See, this firm has quite a niche clientele, with Simon, and now yourself being prime examples. It's okay, don't be shy about it." He placed the dagger back on the table and flicked it into a slow spin with a pudgy finger. When the spin slowed, then stopped, it was pointing right at her. "You're special, Tracy. It's no surprise you and Simon found each other. We're a little special here, too. People have their own interpretations of morality. You, Simon, me and the other members of this firm share an interpretation that's somewhat distant from the middle of the bell curve, shall we say?" He looked up from the dagger and right into her eyes. "You've not only entertained Simon's butterfly collecting, as he called it, but you've enjoyed it too, yes?"

Transgressive fiction has a way of getting under your skin and staying there. Bret Easton Ellis, Cormac McCarthy, Chuck Palahniuk, Flannery O'Connor — these writers didn't ask for permission to go dark. They just went. So we want to know: What's the one book that made you feel genuinely uncomfortable — and you loved it for that? Did it influence your own writing? Would you recommend it here, or is it too much even for this crowd? Drop it in the comments. No judgement. This is exactly the place for it.

A paragraph, an opening line, a scene that's been sitting in your drafts, or something you finished last night at 2am and can't stop thinking about. No polishing required. No apologies needed. Let's see what you've got!