A Little Life, After Death
Anne Baker found the day that she died to be rather boring, actually. It was in the middle of May: she was out in the garden, watering flowers where they bloomed on plump bushes, and had, by way of the heat and a too-tight corset, dropped of exhaustion and hit her head against the raised stones that made a perimeter around the dirt. She died without knowing any pain, and after a few minutes got back up, brushed herself off, and saw herself lying there dead.
Justin von BosauPublished 15 days ago in Fiction
Torso
The day had actually been a very nice one until we found the body. The sun had been shining; perfect day for fishing, Edison had commented, and Harker had joked that it was still up for debate--Edison might scare them away with his balding mug peeking over the edge of the boat. Edison had made a sour face, but finally acquiesced, laughing with us as we three headed down to the lakeside.
Justin von BosauPublished about a month ago in Horror
The House that Burned
Home is the house that burned. The one from the photograph you could swear Mom kept in a box in the attic, along with all the other memories held back,
Justin von BosauPublished 3 months ago in Poets
Silky
Matthews was sitting on the dead man's couch when I got there, and he'd even propped himself up with two pillows. It looked rather comfortable, aside from the blood dried into the other half of it.
Justin von BosauPublished 4 months ago in Horror
Summer Hay
"You don't have to do this," she said, and I smiled despite myself, because I knew that meant I had to. But I suppose I should explain why I came here before I explain anything else.
Justin von BosauPublished 5 months ago in Fiction
Drifting Dunes
Sand got in my face, and I almost threw it away when I brought my hands up to brush my eyes. It was a small thing--little, I mean; insignificant and little and adrift amidst the massive dunes that had piled up against the glass of the city buildings. But I had kept it, and as my hands came up, I clutched them tighter to keep it in my grasp--too tight, and the metal's edges cut against my palm. Wincing, I opened my eyes again against the wind, and opened my hand to look at it again.
Justin von BosauPublished 6 months ago in Fiction
