Short Story
Catch All For My Tears
Wikipedia defines a drabble as follows : A drabble is a short work of fiction of precisely one hundred words in length. The purpose of the drabble is brevity, testing the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in a confined space.
By Colleen Millsteed 2 years ago in Fiction
From In Here
"Thank you, Alexander. That will be all." Alexander left the plate on the table and backed away with a deferential dip of his chin. His footsteps receded in the corridor outside, but the man perusing steamed chicken and vegetables knew he still wasn't alone. He never was. There was always somebody nearby. Not so different, really, to what he was used to. His paunch, smaller now than it had been, heaved with a sigh. Yes, smaller. He could do diets , he was the best at dieting. But the thing is, he'd always had access to plenty of food. The best food. That's what hard work did for you, isn't that right? Hard work and success. But now, now he was losing weight. That could be a good thing. He would need to get some new suits tailored. You know. Afterwards. Yes. Hmm. He set aside the letter he was reading, and picked up his cutlery. The shadow just outside his door shifted. If he listened hard he could hear the small sounds of the person existing. Breathing. A small cough. Shoes squeaking. He chewed on his chicken, wondering which one it was. Some were friendlier, others treated him with almost open revulsion. If he concentrated on the stacks of papers on his desk, he could almost believe he was in a normal study, and the guy just out there was regular security. He needed security. He'd ruled up the wrong people. Dangerous people. Before he came here, he was shot at. Twice! He leaned over the meal and breathed in the smell wafting off it. Better that than the Smell that lived in this place. The stink of people pressed together with fear and guilt and boredom, like a ghastly human lasagne. A clang from somewhere below added another weight to his heavy brows. The touches of so-called luxury around him: the desk, the comfortable green chair, the books and newspapers... these might set him apart from the other inmates, but he was still in a cell. This fact was difficult to escape. Despite the fresh vegetables and copious briefing notes, he was still denied his freedom. The freedom he had a right to, as an American. Hadn't he served well before? And the people, the people loved him! He'd won a second time. It had been a joke when he'd been brought in here. A bad joke. A dream. A bad dream. A terrible dream. He'd thought, this is all a mistake. I'll be out of here in no time. He was still here. His brow dropped further, as if hoping to meet his pout halfway. He dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, set his plate aside, and pulled another stack of papers closer. Picking up his thick, elegant pen, and squinting a little at the page, he signed another executive order in a thick, spiky hand. Yes, he could still do this job from in here. Of course he could. He could do anything. He was a real American, a powerful man, and a genius.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
The Vixen
Cool morning air and a thick blanket of damp fog added to the dreariness of the occasion. Two white horses slowly pulled a long black carriage up a narrow winding road. A procession of mourners followed close behind. They wore their finest black apparel hidden beneath long wool overcoats. Their destination was the town cemetery located at the top of what was known as Kings Hill.
By Scott A. Gese2 years ago in Fiction
Fiery
Alarms sounded. Heat enveloped the burning house. Windows burst as flames and smoke raged. The winter wind howled. Skica Monet went into her nineteen-year-old daughter Alene’s room who sprawled out on the floor. The mother coughed and crouched low to see if her daughter was still breathing. She looked for a pulse. Nothing. She breathed air into her lungs. Chest compressions followed. Still, nothing.
By Skyler Saunders2 years ago in Fiction
The Soul River Flows
Part 1 : "Light" (2023) A gentle warmth spread through Kenji’s chest, a feeling of lightness he hadn’t experienced in years. The pain, the struggle, the weight of his earthly existence, all began to recede, like the tide pulling back from the shore.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
How long can Percy Jackson breathe underwater?
Percy Jackson, the main character in Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympians series, has the incredible ability to breathe underwater, a power he inherits from his father, Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea. This unique gift is one of the many special abilities that Percy gains because of his divine heritage, and it plays an important role throughout the series.
By Sangita Nandi2 years ago in Fiction
A Hundred Years in Seven Lives
The aroma of cardamom and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the nervous energy that crackled between the two families. In the Sharma household, Mrs. Sharma paced the polished marble floors, adjusting the pleats of her silk saree for the tenth time. Her son, Mohan, was finally settling down, and the weight of tradition, the unspoken pressure of ensuring his happiness, pressed heavily on her. Across town, in the Iyer residence, similar anxieties played out. Mrs. Iyer fretted over the arrangements, ensuring every detail of the impending roka ceremony was perfect. Her daughter, Shalini, was a gem, and they wanted only the best for her.
By Tales by J.J.2 years ago in Fiction
Petit Mort. Content Warning.
We don't have to kill them. If we do it, it's because we want to. I think some people think, if you kill her, she can't tell anybody what you did to her... but that's wrong. She's MORE likely to tell if she's dead. Do you know how hard it is to get rid of a body? Do you know how difficult it is to erase every trace of evidence? Even from the less obvious places? No, of course you don't. You're ordinary. If all you want is sex, if all you want is to hurt her, make her cry... Well, let her walk away after. Who's she going to tell? Who's going to believe her? Be bold, brazen it out. She liked it rough, your honour... No, if she's dead, it's because we wanted it. Wanted to watch it happen. Make it happen. It's a release.
By L.C. Schäfer2 years ago in Fiction
