The soundless claxon drills deep in the grey - a madness sewing barbed nets. Escape is impossible. The phantom confronts me again during its indomitable crusade of hate. My body aches. In attempt to flee, my feet beckon me away into the storm. Trapped with the tormentor, my skull throbs as a spell scrapes behind my scalp. I pummel the unseen until collapse. Above, darkness parts as grains of light trail from the sky. A hand emerges, plucking me away to solace. Below, an incorporeal glare grips my soul as the gaping maw of my own stares back at me.
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Terror in the Pines
There is a legend of a beast in the glen. An abomination attracted by the scent of bread, of whom, preys on unlucky wayfarers in the woods. The brave like myself, seek to prove the beast be nothing but a falsehood. I trekked with a bag of wheaty bread on a path towards the hillside, leaving crumbs to bait the beast. I reached a stone that marked the trail’s end and coincidentally, the bread. A sudden breath grazed my scalp, freezing my spine as a darkness bellowed from behind, “I am sick of wheat, you have any rye?”
By Derrick L.about a year ago in Fiction
Two Wrinkles In Time
It is pointless to run, my darling, because sixty seconds ago, I will kill you. My blade will have sliced reality open right in front of you. It will have first pierced it as it would a bed sheet left hanging to dry, flapping in the wind on a Sunday afternoon. But the metal will have drawn a line in the air that the ghostly tear will have followed. Then I, La Dyablès, machete firmly in hand, will have emerged from what your mind, at the time, could only interpret as the other side of here—whatever that means to you. I know. I have seen that look on the faces of countless unlucky… clients. You will not have been the first nor the last to try and reneg on a riches for soul contract only to present this visage to me when I come to collect.
By Lily Séjor6 days ago in Fiction
City of Fallen Angels
I'm in a bar. It smells of wine, cheap sex, perfume and mold. A woman sits beside me. She's at that tender age when when she starts to regret having stayed faithful to a husband she never truly loved. When the glowing sunset colors of her beauty offer her one last urgent choice between maternal and feminine love. 35, her best years fleeting behind her. At such a time the magic needle compass of the will hovers between final resignation, and the hope of an erotic experience.
By Clerone Benting6 days ago in Fiction
OF MOTHERHOOD.
Dear mother-to-be, I wanted to let you know how very, very special I think you are. I don't think there can be any job that is more meaningful than the one you are about to begin, that of being a mom. You are the most important person in the world to your precious unborn baby, and you will be for many years.
By Catherine Nyomenda3 days ago in Writers
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