Microfiction
Ho, Ho, Ho. Content Warning.
The family were all tucked up in bed. Sheets freshly washed. Children dutifully scrubbed and wearing new pyjamas. Everyone had long since succumbed to sleep. Wrung out. The children with anticipation, and the grown-ups with ordinary exhaustion. Mistletoe, or an approximation of it, was arranged in big bunches across the mantel. Stockings drooped against the brickwork. Fairy lights winked in the darkness. Something else was festooned around the room as generously as the tinsel and badly-glittered pinecones. Something that lay heavy in the room like snow. It probably leaked from the sleeping forms upstairs. It was a waiting sort of feeling. It was the whisper in your head that said anything could happen, and it was going to happen any minute n... skritch skratch Whatever it was that could happen was happening right now, inside the chimney. A whole lot of possibility was inching its way down towards the fireplace. Watch closely. This could be quite the spectacle. It's a boot. Quite an imposing boot. Black, of course. Large. Leathery. Buckles all the way down it. It makes a slithery, squelchy sort of *pop* as it emerges, like a dragon emerging from a particularly warm and sticky swamp. Wait and watch, like a midwife, watching the weirdest breech birth the world has ever seen. The second boot appears. The tops of them betray the lining, which is furry, and at this hour in the middle of winter, sodden and grey. Slowly, as if time is neither here nor there, the chimney-place gives birth to a towering man-shape that unfolds himself and hefts his sack over one shoulder. He is clad in damp furs. The room is overcome with the smell of them, thick and stifling. With soggy footsteps, he makes his way to the beds of the curly-headed little darlings. There are wet, sawing sounds for several minutes, but no screams. Heavy creaking tells us he's returning, and also that his sack is quite a bit heavier. He ducks as he rounds the corner of the staircase (he's really quite tall) and strides back towards the fire. The sack bulges more now, and it has several dark and sticky patches blooming on it. Then he pauses, and with a throaty, worrying chuckle, he pulls out a knife and fishes about in the sack. He's quite graceful, the way he sinks cross-legged onto the rug, to complete his craft. His long fingers oddly tender amongst those curls. Slice. Slice. Slice. Slice. Carve. Excise. Pop. Slice. He drops the trinkets into the stockings, heaves the bag again, and vanishes back up the chimney. There's the expected sounds of hooves and runners and so on. Crunching snow, too, and his otherworldly voice booming across the roof and fading away... But these are background details to the thing that is front and centre, which is the blood dripping from the stocking-toes onto the hearth. The heads he will boil down for skulls which he mounts onto his sleigh. But the noses and ears he leaves behind. A little memento. A gift for the season, merry and red.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Businesswoman Chapter 3. Top Story - January 2025.
When one of the hard hats had finally been distributed, Loreen knew she had to affix it right in consideration of her hair. She knew both safety and vanity. Two other women and three men walked behind her at the construction site.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
Going Down?. Top Story - January 2025.
They used to call them cages, did you know that? Probably because that's what they looked like, all metal bars. It's still a good name for them. The way you feel inside. Trapped. Isolated. They're both feeling it, and both pretending otherwise. Sweat beading on their skin. Curling his hair at the temples. Decorating her collar bone. Music filters down through the building, distorted to a vague booming. "Press the alarm again," she says, sliding down one wall of the cage and pulling off her gold heels. "I've pressed it," he says through gritted teeth. He's already sat on the floor, shirt collar unbuttoned and legs splayed. Was she always such a nag? "Sorry," she mutters, frowning. She rubs her sore feet without meeting his gaze. "I'm just a bit on edge, alright?" He rolls his eyes. "Really? You're not finding this relaxing?" His sarcasm grated on her. Was he always such an arrogant pig? They'd both snuck away from the party, sidled away from friends, work colleagues, and spouses... to meet here. They'd been flirting for weeks. Tonight they were finally going to... It wasn't supposed to go like this. She sighs. "How long have we been stuck here now?" "My battery is just as dead as the last time you asked me," he snaps. Jesus, she was like a child! She glared at him. Her Roland would've known the time. He wore a watch. He was patient, too. "Why do I have to be Mr Timepiece?" he was unwilling to let the matter drop. "Don't you have a phone or a watch?" "I can't wear watches," she said, lifting her chin and dropping ice into her voice. "The straps irritate my skin. And I left my phone in my bag." She sneered. "I thought I was only going to be gone a few minutes." How could he ever have thought her beautiful? Sure, she had that beautiful jet black hair, and smooth skin, and curves... but she was lazy and mean. Entitled, too. Skating through life on her looks. The distant booming stopped and the chatter dimmed. "It must be nearly midnight," he says, following this with a self-satisfied nod when the countdown started far above them. Did he always state the obvious likes that? Self-important prat. When the chimes began, she feels a tug in her heart. She had a thing about always having someone to kiss on New Year. She senses Xander would've rebuffed her advances. She half-wishes he'd try to kiss her. She'd slap him for his trouble, but it'd give her wobbling ego a boost. "It's been hours," she sounded plaintive. "Surely they must have missed us by now??" "I dunno," he peered upwards as if he could see through the ceiling and determine what everyone was up to. "It was quite a party... And remember, we made sure they were good and drunk and mingling so they wouldn't notice us leaving..." She pouted, listening to the fireworks going off and the opening lines of Auld Lang Syne. He was determined not to even look at her, but he could feel the sulk radiating off her. His own temper burned in response. The minutes crawled by like slugs, unpleasant and sticky. When the doors finally opened, they both looked sweaty and dishevelled. Guilty, in other words.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Quantum Paradox
Dr. Alina Graves stood in the middle of the Quantum Nexus, gazing at lines of code that had just broken her understanding of the universe. She had devoted her whole life to quantum physics, building a world where reality was nothing more than data processed by the immense Quantum Grid. Every human thought, action, and emotion existed as mere inputs and outputs in a system too vast for any single mind to comprehend—except hers.
By Usman Zafar2 years ago in Fiction
