Peter Hoffman
Bio
I was for many years the most celebrated horse surgeon in all of eastern Europe before seemingly overnight I developed an intense phobia of horses. Now I perform horrifying experiments on small woodland creatures in my clandestine lab.
Stories (3/0)
Burger Heist
“Put your fucking masks on!” he hissed. The two men in the front seat of the car did as he said. “Remember, no fucking names, I’m One, you are Two,” he said to the man in the driver’s seat who was slipping his ski mask over his head. “And you are Three, got it?” The man in the passenger seat nodded his reply. One noticed Two’s hands were shaking. He’d worked with Three before and knew he was solid but this was his first job with Two and this was already making him nervous. “Hey! Get it together goddamn it!”
By Peter Hoffman3 years ago in Fiction
You Can't Go Home Again
The warm spring breeze felt amazing coming through the open window of the carriage as it creaked and rolled down the long dirt road. It felt so good to be outside of the hospital. The months of long hours cooped up in dark rooms had begun to take its toll on Howard. It seemed nearly every minute of his time was filled by some aspect of his work but he didn’t regret the exhaustion that came with it. How many young doctors could say they were heading the formation of a brand new department in medicine? It was an honor that made his head swim if he pondered the thought for too long. He was thankful for the break and the opportunity to come home and visit his family. He had been so deeply involved in his work the last few years he had barely seen them.
By Peter Hoffman3 years ago in Fiction
Haunted
His first few years in the underground bunker he felt claustrophobic. The isolation and terrifying loneliness were unbearable and only compounded in the confined space. There were many times he felt so desperate not to be alone that he contemplated braving the radiation above just to see someone, anyone. Anything to get out and not be alone and imprisoned. It almost didn’t matter that he would have only seen a bombed out wasteland. A few more years eroded those emotions and he accepted his situation. He had no choice. He could cook to death on the surface or live in his hole. Days ran on together for so long he just didn’t bother thinking about it anymore. One day his food would run out and in a way he was looking forward to it. A countdown.
By Peter Hoffman3 years ago in Fiction