Short Story
Rescue
Car horns honked up and down the busy road, making the horse swish his creamy tail and jerk his head back. Silken nostrils flared, a mistake given the stink of exhaust fumes that hung in the air. Pearly flanks shuddered, and hooves clattered on the tarmac; an irregular clitter clatter that spoke of his affront at the noise. The woman soothed him, leaning forward to whisper encouragement and rest a hand on his shoulder. She guided him through the traffic with confidence, and urged him closer to the tall green gate on the side of the road. Towers loomed beyond it, belching smoke. She held him steady, and leaned down to press the buzzer. There was a crackle, and an indistinct voice spoke. Her lips, plump and pale, shaped each word with ladylike deliberateness, and then the gate swung slowly open and she nudged him through. The visitors' carpark was quiet at this time of day. Without the blare of horns skewering his precarious confidence from all sides, the tension eased out of his body. His feet settled into a steady clip clop clip clop across the open space and down the left side of the building. The person she had come to find was working here, stacking boxes on pallets, wrapping then in cellophane, and loading then into lorries. His face creased in an enormous grin when he saw her. Distress melted away and his eyes shone. "I've come to take you away from all this," she said. Her voice was lifted clear above the cacophony of machinery, shouting, and the nearby hum of traffic. He ran towards her. This attracted the attention of the Boss who seemed to swell with anger. The Boss' face bloomed cerise, and he looked as it steam might come out of his ears. When he opened his mouth to shout, she expected a jet of flame. Her beloved reached her, and scrambled up behind. His hard hat was still wedged on his head because of Regulations. He wound his arms around her waist (most definitely her waist). She touched the horse forward and after several strides, urged him into a canter. They clattered through the staff car park and away, with the Boss still hopping up and down and yelling about Punch Cards and Regulations. At last, his voice dwindled, and the concrete towers shrank into insignificance behind them.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
Loves Departure
She was born in the South of France. In her prime she was tall, lean and extremely beautiful. Some would say she had more beauty than should be allotted to any one person. A quick wit, keen eye and clarity of mind were her hallmarks. Not only did she know it, she carried it quite well.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
Grey Eden
Williamina hastened through the underpass as a gruff cough echoed in the shadows. Ignoring the X-rated graffiti on the walls, she tiptoed around the broken glass bottles. Her breathing shallowed and her throat tightened, as the familiar stink of urine and stale beer folded together in the damp vacuumed air. Marching towards the tower, strands of heather reached out from her string bag as the weight of meat, tatties, and veg caused it to swing like a wrecking ball.
By Simon Aylward2 years ago in Fiction
The Archer. Top Story - January 2025.
His stomach growled. A gentle rain broke on the forest green canopy and dripped down his matching green hood. He found the gentle pitter patter of rain soothing. Jahn had complained it was a terrible day for an ambush, but what did that little man know?
By Matthew J. Fromm2 years ago in Fiction
A road rescue
"Victor, Victor, come in!!!", she screamed in the middle of the market, it was sometimes in the middle of 2013. That would probably be the loudest I've heard her speak, a voice that wouldn't pierce through a paper wall but surgically goes through the heart.
By Victor Jonah2 years ago in Fiction
Dr Knives (III). Content Warning.
The strap creaked tighter, and along a distant corridor, a door clanged. The boy, if indeed he was a boy, flinched at the noise, but barely, because the leather bonds held him fast. "Is there someone else here?" His voice sounded echoey and shrill in this bare room. The lobotomist made reassuring noises without actually answering the question. The lobotomist knew he was moving too quickly, but he couldn't risk this one disappearing, as these sort often did. Preyed on, one way or another. Dead maybe, or trafficked or else gone home to their families, or supported into housing... There were many ways young runaways could vanish. Did their peers worry overmuch about them, with so much bandwith gobbled up by survival? This was his excuse for his own recklessness, and also now he comforted himself that no one would notice another one disappearing. He'd given his name as Taylor. The lobotomist hadn't checked this. He didn't especially care. He wondered, in a vague way, why a boy had chosen to put a pink streak in his hair. It was not the sort of thing men of his own generation were likely to do. Perhaps this was why Taylor was living rough. His father might have been angry and unaccepting of anything deviating even slightly from social norms. Or maybe "Taylor" was actually a girl, but pretending to be a boy believing she would be less likely to experience assault. This hunch, when he gave it a half-hearted analysis, was not really anything to do with the colour in his hair. It was the slightest tilt toward girlishness in his features. He'd seemed narrow and lean, with no hips, no curves... But this could have been youth and malnutrition. He was sure the brain in there was an absolute mess. Trauma, rejection, confusion... And smack bang in the middle of pubescent restructuring, too. The lobotomist could hardly wait to get his teeth into this one. He tested each buckle; Taylor could hardly move a half-inch. Next, he adjusted the contraption on his own head. With no assistant, he had to be extremely self-sufficient, and a single pair of hands was hardly enough. It also gave off suitable Doctor vibes, like the white coat. He hadn't been able to get all the stains out, but he still felt it lent him a certain gravitas. The scrub-up of himself, the equipment, and the room was for the same reason, much more so than mere hygiene. A whiff of antiseptic and a white coat, and people devolved into putty. Obedient to a fault. You can't contradict a doctor. "Aren't you going to, umm, put me to sleep or something?" Taylor asked, his voice shaking. The lobotomist smiled, like a shark.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
