Microfiction
The Cursed Mood Ring
I was at the carnival. I won a mood ring and put it on. I liked the way it glimmered. It started to turn red but I wasn’t angry. Then I was. I started smashing things and screaming at my mother. “Why are you angry?” She asked. “I don’t know, I think it’s this ring. It’s controlling my mood and I hate everything,” I said. “It’s cursed” the carny said and laughed. My mother grabbed the ring and ripped it off. “Finally I feel better,” I said. My mother showed me her finger, and now it was stuck on her.
By Alex H Mittelman about a year ago in Fiction
Sorrow Dogs
The riven dogs returned from the shattered fields, their coats crusted with the epithets of war...mud, blood and memory. They drooled in long ropes which dragged wet to the earth and curled together for a common warmth shivering with a thief greater than cold. Time past and a singular howl rose, pure and baleful. A keening of utter loss as if to extinguish himself entirely by sound.
By Kevin Rollyabout a year ago in Fiction
The Plan
They spread themselves in a circle, everyone silent. The field was cast in the last beryl light of the day and they all held the forms in their trembling hands. The final contracts signed and agreed upon. Tonight it would happen. It had taken years of planning. They cast the papers into the fire which burnt into orange curlings which whispered away in dying sparks into the cold night.
By Kevin Rollyabout a year ago in Fiction
Cave Man Tools
I was searching for shelter. Couldn’t find any. Make own shelter. But how? I put rock on top of rock, but they kept falling. Grab vines, tied rocks together. Soon I built a shelter. Tried to hunt in new area. Animals too fast. Made a sharp stick. Threw it at animals. Also accidentally hit rock with stick, made fire. Now I’m warm. Used vines to tie stick to house, now have top to keep out rain. Getting cold because winter starting. Found sharp rock, took animal fur off and used for warmth. Now I am happy and no longer hungry.
By Alex H Mittelman about a year ago in Fiction
Smashed Pumpkins *Distressing Theme*
My first Hallow's Eve; my sister placed me in a pumpkin. It was supposed to be cute; the baby's in a pumpkin! But the night wore on and she became distracted - she left me outside, cold in the gourd. I grew weak.
By Megan Baker (Left Vocal in 2023)about a year ago in Fiction
Magic Mushrooms. Top Story - May 2023.
“Oh man, it feels like I’m floating… and these colors look crazy!” “You are floating,” Gretchen sighed, glancing up from where she’d been crocheting on the couch. “And it looks like your eyes have turned into mantis shrimp eyes, so you’ve probably got several new photoreceptors.”
By Tiffany Mercerabout a year ago in Fiction
The Witch Doctors
My sister and I were both trained witch doctors. We got our training from our mother. Our powers weren’t real, but our mother taught us that if people believed our powers were real, people would heal themselves. Yes, we made a profit but we were also helping people. I was walking down the street to the witchcraft supply store when I tripped and broke my leg. “Help, can someone call me an ambulance,” I shouted. “I know you, I’ll call your sister,” someone said. My sister came, but her spells couldn’t heal my leg because I knew they were fake.
By Alex H Mittelman about a year ago in Fiction
Titan VI
Fires ignite in the belly of the beast, roaring to life in the twilight stars. A midnight owl flies from its perch atop the cone of the vessel while it calls a warning to the nearby forests. The General watches the rocket scream towards the heavens with a knot in his stomach and his heart in his throat. The souls on board are his responsibility, and he cannot let them down or those on the Earth. A crimson light flashes and he holds his breath, still watching. The hull is engulfed in flame, and the vessel turns to dust. Failure!
By Gunnar Andersonabout a year ago in Fiction
Circadian
I wake up, blinking awareness back into my mind. Sunlight filters through the windows; an undeserved kiss of warmth on my skin. The room is unfamiliar. This bed is not my own; it’s different, soft, comforting. Regret ebbs into my stomach, the sweet, dreaming body beside me is a stranger to me. A face I can't recall. I get up to leave, hoping not to wake them. For them it can still be a dream, for me I know this vicious cycle will repeat. Over and over until it kills me.
By Kevin McLaughlinabout a year ago in Fiction