Eric B. Hunter
E.B. spends his nights crafting stories for your (and let’s face it, his own) entertainment. He hopes these stories portray people as they are, flawed humans capable of great and terrible things, and hopes you lose yourself in his worlds.
I had gotten a tea towel from my little boy last Mother’s Day. It had pictures of flowers and butterflies with little fairies dancing across it. My husband told me that Everett had saved up and paid for it himself, his gap toothed grin beaming as he handed the coins to the clerk.
As You Wish...
It’ll stop. It has to stop. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway. How could I know it would never stop? That the rage inside me would be with me forever. Even now, it’s with me, but it’s more of a dull ache than the searing rage that consumed my flesh.
It was 2:11 a.m. when I woke up, the harsh red glare of the alarm clock the only light in the pitch dark room. I’d slept for two hours and woken with that morning's argument ringing in my ears. Layla had left for Michigan. She had to, her new position at the University started next week, and she needed to get settled in at her folks place.
Dead in Apt. 3C
I used to have this neighbour who every evening, between the hours of seven and eight, would smoke pot on his balcony and cough deep, chesty coughs. It was usually at this time that he would also fire up his prehistoric microwave. I had always thought he inherited from a long dead grandmother or something, but never got around to asking him. He would fire it up and the lights would flicker, the smell of cheap meat and cheese would fill the halls and cling to the moldy wallpaper and crusty carpet that lined them, mixing in with the smells of all the other meals being prepared in the poorly ventilated apartment and lingering for hours.