Caleb Thomas
Stories (9/0)
The Quarry
I grab my gear from the back of the truck as the sheriff pulls into the little cutaway beside the road. “Howdy,” he says, and I reciprocate. His ruddy, mustached face is grim. Another officer, young and broad, gets out from the passenger-side vehicle and we too exchange terse greetings.
By Caleb Thomas7 months ago in Horror
The Donor
My hand shakes signing the agreement, and my signature looks so bad I ask the nurse if I should do it over. She smiles and says it’s fine, escorts me through the lobby, where nervous folks sit under the high glass ceiling waiting for their consultations. I had mine a month ago.
By Caleb Thomas7 months ago in Futurism
Ali and George
What is it that happens, George wondered, when you’re fourteen or fifteen and nothing seems fun anymore? He sat in his dark bedroom, hearing the twins’ birthday party outside. A dozen of their friends from elementary school were over for swimming and cake and presents.
By Caleb Thomas10 months ago in Fiction
The Donor
My hand shakes signing the agreement, and my signature looks so bad I ask the nurse if I should do it over. She smiles and says it’s fine, then escorts me through the lobby, where nervous folks sit under the high glass ceiling waiting for their consultations. I had mine a month ago.
By Caleb Thomas11 months ago in Futurism
Mounts
The walls at camp are covered in mounts. An elk, a coyote skin, two lacquered rattlesnakes, at least fifteen buck. When I was twelve years old, they started dipping the skulls in paint before mounting them, dyeing the bone beneath the antlers. One of my pap’s is a tie-dye orange and green. One of my brother’s is blueish chrome. It’s strange to see the deep round eye-hollows staring through anything but the color of bone. I think, “At least let it be dead.”
By Caleb Thomasabout a year ago in Poets