Mark R. Cieslak
Bio
"Our lives are madness. Trying so hard to make moments, take moments. Nothing but pianos in a storm."
"I hear the singing."
"What singing? You never said..."
"Ah boy, what singing indeed."
Stories (29/0)
The Last Child
The court of the Crimson King laughed in time with the sound of a slicing blade and the unmistakable soft thump of flesh striking flagstone. He heard this through the grand doors before which he was bound and gagged as he awaited his own justice to be meted out at the hands of this King. A guard on either side, heavily armored and bladed in case the adornment of chains he was regaled in failed, were his only companions. Bound like an animal upon a wooden cart, link after link securing his frame kneeled and gagged in a subservient pose.
By Mark R. Cieslak3 years ago in Fiction
Red Flyer
The air was thick with humidity and the fireflies began their nightly cotillion, dancing elegantly along the roadside; common for this time of year in southern Georgia. The sweet and pungent smell of jasmine perfumed the air as Richie sped through the on his way to the barn. His eyes were red and swollen from tears which matched his Western Flyer bike. He pushed hard on those pedals, punishing them as he himself had just been. Fourteen years old and almost a man in spite of what his father said. Well, he showed him good. So, Richie pushed hard on those pedals. So fast, so fast he almost felt like he was outrunning life.
By Mark R. Cieslak3 years ago in Fiction