Randall Windle
Bio
UK Based Author, Bristol 🌉
Stories (25/0)
Moments & Minutes
“Okay nevermind, try that again.” Ten-thirty at night. Patches of blue and black drifted along the countryside skyline. Clara threw her arm out. Stopping Dane from leaning any further to the shisha pipe that sat awkwardly balanced in front of them. Save for Dane’s botched coughing, the garden was almost quiet. Party music simmered from his parent’s house a few hundred feet away. A house he’d been left in charge of for a weekend.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Fiction
The Fisherman
When the dying fireplace spat some final sparks of flame and gave in, the tavern’s silence struck a chord. Everyone sat settled in cold fear, icier than the water past their docks. For a place that had just ten minutes before been full of laughs and relaxed moods, the difference was sharper than a knife. It had started with the mad mother, bursting in with arms raised above her head in panic. Squawks of grief like a dying sparrow that captured all eyes in the room.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Horror
Smoke A Drifter's Heart
Ruth hit her head on the attic beam…again. It left red marks the size of large coins on her forehead. Being used to it, she just gave the beam a death glare, and rolled out of bed. Both boots hit the ground, and she noticed she’d fallen asleep in her clothes again. The bandolier that trailed from shoulder to hip was still snug, the pointed lead pellets it held were present and accounted for. The dream from yesterday hadn’t happened again, but it still hid in her memory.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Horror
Blood Of The Chakreen
Not for the first time that day, the young man raised a hand to his temple. Ten years gone or not, the invisible movements in the air still pierced him as fresh as the first time. Sleeves that had been rolled up with frightened care - he was always reminded of the costly stitched patterns - saw their chance and flopped down past thin wrists. With a shake of his head the boy, who at times felt in both heated head and heart that he was a man, walked down the carved stairs. After each step the vibrations lessened, and air calmed around him. The stairs glimmered, polished stone that seemed to sway and bend in colour: lilac some days, deep purple on others.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Fiction
No Bullets For A Bandolier
Ash and the scent of singed hair littered the church’s smoky air. Burnt to a crisp Osiris thought. She stepped over a skeleton, avoiding making eye contact with the skull. More like socket contact really. In front of her face a flaked section of paper flew past, breaking down by the millisecond into tiny grey molecules.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Horror
Osiris And The Baron
Osiris watched with mild fascination as clouds loitered in the sky. The window view helped in brightening her house. Her house. It was like an alien phrase now to Osiris, since Ruth had taken residence in that mould-chewed attic. Bloody nightmare. Both eyebrows slumped as she recognised her crabbiness.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Horror
For The Phased Out Souls
Ruth hit her head on the attic beam…again. It left a red mark the size of a large coin on her forehead. Being used to it, she just gave the beam a death glare, and rolled out of bed. Both boots hit the ground, and she noticed she’d fallen asleep in her clothes again. The bandolier that trailed from shoulder to hip was still snug, the pointed lead pellets it held were present and accounted for. The dream from yesterday hadn’t happened again, but it still hid in her memory.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Horror
Forever For A Reason
By the third song Alice was fed up. By the eighth, irritated, and the tenth, done. The last chord, along with her voice, creaked out and then trailed away in a garbled whimper. She swallowed some water like clockwork, then made the standard nods and half-mumbled thanks of a street busker. No self-aware person let their ego rise in such conditions, a tattered leather jacket, worn purse and vintage band shirt kept her vanity in check. The jeans and sneakers were nice though.
By Randall Windle2 years ago in Humans
The Baron's Ceremony
The first drop of blood came after the third heap of soil. Erin grumbled. That number was for the night, but in truth it was around the hundredth of the farmer’s lifetime. Anxious grey hair flanked down his back, becoming tangled against the ugly green flannel shirt, and his worn-down jeans were frozen in place by the cold wind. Next to his right hip Yen pattered along the grass. She was a young cat, but her old soul was felt whenever she yelped with the intensity of an untuned violin. More blood spilled from his hand onto the metal edge of the spade, he grunted and continued to dig.
By Randall Windle3 years ago in Horror
