Microfiction
Music
The rhythm of the music that was heard coming from the house down the street was erratic. The house at the end of the block was known to the townspeople as being a bit odd at times, but not this odd. The music that the townspeople were hearing was a little bit country and little bit rock and roll. All of the sudden the town changed, and it seemed to go back in time to the mid to late 1970's. Everyone was groovin' and singin'. It lasted for a few minutes and then we seemed to become aware of life.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
The Ghosts
The ghosts saw this witch coming through the pumpkin patch and they wondered what could she want now from us. We are only ghosts, and we have no powers as she has. Oh, we can go through walls and maybe scare or help others at times, but we do not cast spells and such like that. "Hey, ghosts it's that time let's all go out and have some fun for its trick or treat time in the neighborhood. I will share my candy with you for I will cast a spell on you so you can enjoy some of loot.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
John
John had worked out a plan in how he was going to help out his neighborhood before he died. He did not want to die but he knew it was inevitable. He had cancer. John wanted to help the children and the elderly in some way, and he needed to figure a way. He was adhering to all the rules of the community in what he is just about to do to help others. He went to the bank and withdrew all his savings and checking account all of $5000 and went to the Community Benevolence Society. He died quietly.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
The Wool Shed. Content Warning.
There was only one rule: don’t open the door. We drilled that into the new blokes, the same way it was drilled into us. We had no idea why it was the only chute in the wool shed to have a door, seeing as the other 20 chutes didn’t. The hinges at the top allowed the door to swing one way only – inviting a freshly shorn sheep to slide down.
By Sean Selleck2 years ago in Fiction
Following
Bethan Would it be a bad thing to admit that I'm excited? I feel...I don't know, like something is happening finally, after years of inertia and stagnation. I feel...invigorated, like I have a purpose again. I don't know if it's the contact with Katie or what, but I feel...closer to Laney somehow, like she's within reach.
By Rachel Deeming2 years ago in Fiction
Mother?
The woman on the doorstep isn't my daughter. My daughter's dead. We identified the body. We had a funeral. The loss tore our lives apart. The brutality of it. It still stings, every day. Even now, twenty-five years later. I peer at her, as if her face is a mask. Perhaps our little Althea is hiding behind those red-painted lips and perfectly arched brows. I study the shape of her nose, the sweep of her jaw. Her eyes. Her eyes could be our Thea. Dark. Chocolate eyes. Both hands folded over the handle of the leather satchel she's carrying. I could believe she had money, because her clothes look meticulously tailored, but it's more than that. She has poise. Every line of her is expectant, waiting to be invited in. That kind of... entitlement?... suggests not just having money, but growing up with it. Soaking in it. Taking it for granted. Or perhaps not even money at all, but breeding, whatever that means. If she weren't born with a silver spoon in her mouth, a nanny placed one there early. This starched woman with the neat helmet of soft, dark hair... She couldn't be my Thea. I can't hope. It hurts. Yet... Her expectant attitude is implacable. Sending her away is unthinkable. Then, she's sitting on my couch, sipping tea. I dug out the good china, because I couldn't picture her sipping from one of our well-used, mismatched mugs. She sips politely, in between telling me she'd been adopted by a rich family. "Why do you think you're my-" my voice is as fragile as the cup rattling in my saucer. I can't bring myself to say "daughter". The word turns into a stone and sits in my throat. She sets the satchel on her lap, spine ramrod straight, and chin tilted down. She has photos of herself as a child.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Cursed Reflection
I had always been fascinated by antiques, and when I came across an old, ornate mirror at a flea market, I couldn’t resist buying it. It was large, with a heavy wooden frame, intricately carved with strange symbols. The seller told me it was from the 1800s and had a history, but they refused to say more. “Some things are better left unsaid,” they muttered. I brushed off their warning, eager to add the mirror to my collection.
By Ƒนʀƙเ ฬʀเτєร2 years ago in Fiction
The Kitchen
What happened here in the kitchen no one knows. When the owners came home, they were horrified/glorified at what they found lying on the kitchen floor. There was nothing. They stood there with their eyes bulging and mouths wide open. Who could have done this? When they left that morning, they were running late and had no time doing some routines and ran out the door. That evening when they got home the kitchen was spotless. The couple is far from any parents and even relatives. They looked around the house and nothing was missing elsewhere in the house either.
By Mark Graham2 years ago in Fiction
