Being part of a Writing Group
Being part of a Writing Group

Unholy Trinity: Blind to the Supernatural by Martin P. Fuller

Our church worships at the altar of the Unholy Trinity. Its gospels are delivered as a trio of dark drabbles, linked so that Three become One. All hail the power of the Three.

Blind to the Supernatural

Can you feel the sudden chill, Alice? A frigid disturbance in the air; shivers blending with a tingling on your skin. It’s here, invading your private darkness; revealing itself in cruel whispers. And what does it say in those hushed messages? Descriptions of a miserable eternity; suffering torments and disappointment. But you can’t see the obscene obsidian shadow.
Although you feel its evil, its foul nature, your blindness protects against horror. Your brave words of defiance crush its malevolence.  Its coldness countered by a warm jumper; the insidious sound drowned by earphones of rock music. Only lonely, frustrated cries remain.

Evil’s colour

Carlton Williams loved white. Traumatic childhood memories left a morbid fear of the dark and those gloomy shadows normally found in any dwelling. The death of his rich parents left him free to pursue his phobic obsession.  Hence his large shining white house with matching interior and furniture blending into white walls and carpets. Everything illuminated by the latest in L.E.D lighting, dispelling any trace of darkness.  Williams lived in brightness, black dreams and fears dispelled. How unfortunate a demon of bone white prowled, waiting like the winter wolf under the snow, to plunge its ivory fangs into Williams pale neck.

Nothing goes to waste

A halo of bright crimson spreads outwards from the dead man’s head. Ali has no regrets as regards the corpse at his feet. The man had been a blackmailer. A miner of his buried secrets who’d threatened to expose him as a psychotic killer. Unless, of course, he was paid a huge amount of money and Ali disposed of a business rival on his behalf. The gross indignity shocked his usually cold persona and cleaving the man’s skull in two had been the only honourable option. And on the bright side, he’d provide enough meat to see him through the winter.

Martin P. Fuller

Martin lives in his shoebox house in West Yorkshire. He was in his previous exitances: a beer salesman, a pall bearer, a car delivery driver, and oh yes… a police officer for over 34 years.  

He started to write in 2013 after attending a creative writing class and since then has become a writing course junkie. 

Discovering his dark side, Martin has had a number of stories published in Trembling with Fear and several other anthologies including Deadcades published by Infernal Clock.

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