Microfiction
In Sickness And Health . Top Story - November 2024.
I stood in front of his safe. Tyler always bought in bulk: a crate of a hundred beers, a hundred condoms, probably would have bought a hundred tires for his hundred thousand dollar truck he bought when we barely had a hundred dollars in Cam’s college fund.
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Fiction
The Average American. Content Warning.
The American flag unfurled in the wind. Chris Yardley stood back and placed his right hand over his heart and recited the “The Star Spangled Banner” under his breath. He then looked down and went into the house. The doorbell rang.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
Kicks. Top Story - November 2024. Content Warning.
Silent words descended on the minds of the racers. “Do this for speed and agility.” Benson Mitt sat in his car and just looked around the front interior. He noticed the knobs, gauges, and gears. He felt as if this car had flowed from his bones to form a specific way of melding metal with flesh.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
With Power
Some of the decal had been peeling and the serial numbers faded on the equipment. Dr. Reginald Hanover still looked at his laboratory equipment with pride. At ninety-six-years-old, he still possessed the stamina and ability to fulfill what would be his last task: a cure for every ailment known to man.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
Keep in Touch
When the time came for the men and women to separate and go in their respective cells, Taurus Vine shuddered at the brisk coldness. He looked at his calendar and noticed the tally marks. Too many oily smudges had destroyed some of the lines. He didn’t care. He ambled over to his rack to find sleep. None came. He had pads on his hands and gauze surrounding his face. He heard the electronic hum of the cell door opening.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
His Story
The land was barren and cracked. Cracked like an egg. Broken. Burnt and charred by the ravages of war. Above the sky was bleak. Bleak and heavy with clouds that promised rain that refused to fall. Through the desolate path, the steady clink of metal against stone echoed as the horses navigated the land. The two men halted, their horses snorting uneasily. The older of the two, his eyes dark and laden with all that he had seen. And it had been too much. Dismounting, he scanned the horizon, his hand shielding his eyes from the simpering sunlight.
By River and Celia in Underland2 years ago in Fiction
Tortured Soul
Otherworldly lights winked in the freezing mist swirling off the river. It's beautiful. Sometimes. Like, when she's standing on the bridge with a partner. Sharing warmth. Belly full of an expensive meal, limbs lubricated by a bottle of wine. Cheeks blushed by the cold. On those nights Mishka's heart feels full. There's often a homeless person on the end of the bridge, and if she hasn't already left all her change on the table in the restaurant, she drops it at his feet. She hates walking by herself late at night, though. The cold isn't so benign when you're alone. It's vicious too, the coldest winter for many years. There's the worry that a man hiding in a dark corner might attack. These are just bog-standard, grown-up fears, though. Mishka could believe that she was standing over the Styx, not the Severn. Thick curling fog, unearthly lights... Her overactive imagination hisses: A river boiling with souls... Tonight, she doesn't feel kindly towards the shape bundled up on the corner. Fear leaves her heart shrivelled and dusty. Shrouded in shadow, he looks sinister. There's only one way home from here, meaning she must step within a pace of him to set foot on the bridge. Taking a deep breath, she forces herself to stride, banishing temerity from her footsteps. Closer. Closer. He's hunched over, head drooping. He looks like he's sleeping. Mishka curses her chunky boots and their noisy soles. Nearer still, she hears his breath rattling. Still, he hasn't looked up. Drawing level, her breath coming in frightened gasps almost as ragged as his... A blackened claw flashes out and grips her calf. Mishka shrieks. He digs his fingers in with surprising strength. I'll go over! He's going to throw me into the river of the dead! He tilts closer. Lipless, teeth rotting, eyes sunken. She screams again, but there's nobody nearby. Panicked, she lashes out, slamming her fist into his head. It makes no difference. She has nothing to use as a weapon, so she curls her fingers into his hair and slams his head into the bridge. Again. Again. He slumps, his fingers loosen, and she flees.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
