Kevin B. Jones
Bio
I love fiction. Writing is my passion, without a doubt
Currently, I strive to create short stories mainly in the horror genre
I'm also pursuing my BA in creative writing and one day hope to share my stories with the world
Life's too short ...
Stories (6/0)
- Top Story - November 2022
The Shatter-Tooth ResidenceTop Story - November 2022
Living in a small town had its perks. Everyone knew everyone like a grandma knew her recipes. Yeah, people talked and sniffed around in each other’s business, but there was a sense of security knowing I was familiar with everyone around me. It was almost as if our town was an entire planet itself, astray from other worlds and completely independent. Stumbleton was home; it always had been. Yet, something stuck out like a stray hair on a stubborn kid’s head. This...this was the mold on our town’s pleasant surface. A dying rose in a field of flourishing flowers.
By Kevin B. Jonesabout a year ago in Horror
I Thought You Killed Me
I think you feel it, don’t you? The scraping and tearing. How, despite my cries, you stand in the dark corner of the stuffy room with your hands slack at your sides while I’m being killed. You feel it, right? You just said it. Please tell me again that you do because I ... I feel it --- every part of it. My body shudders when I hear the stairs creek and feel its teeth inside me. By now, you understand what that means. You’re shaking, too aren’t you?
By Kevin B. Jonesabout a year ago in Fiction
- Top Story - October 2022
The Graveyard's EyesTop Story - October 2022
I couldn’t tell you how many times I’ve been there --- to the graveyard. How many times I’ve felt the bone-chilling stares of the headstones as I walked through the raven-black gates. Every time, I gripped my flowers, my eyes roaming the silence, my heart pumping like a maniac because I felt something. At first, it was just the headstones. They surrounded me like a hungry murder of crows, each one different in its own way. Everything within me screamed to go back to the entrance, but the memories of my mother called to me. When I reached her headstone, the previous flowers I had laid stolen from the desperate fingers of the dead, the memories came stabbing back.
By Kevin B. Jonesabout a year ago in Confessions
