Kenneth Boutte
Achievements (1)
Stories (29)
Filter by community
Which Came First Music or the Misery
Long ago, the goddess of music Aurora journeyed to the land of the mortals in need of a melody. She lay in a field and heard the hum of the wind and the rapids of the streams. She traveled to the forest and listened to the rustle of the trees, and the calls of the birds. She went to the beach and heard the waves lapping against the shore. Yet she wanted more than what nature could offer. She sat upon a rock near the shore and had all but given up until a young man with his guitar befell upon her. His name was Robert Pittman. He played song after song to make her heart swoon. He played for days. Aurora became smitten with the musical man, hanging on his every note and stroke. They would talk for hours about music and artists and the like, as if no other topic existed. Their love was a simple and happy one. He would write her songs and her ears and heart would absorb them like a sponge. They would dance and sing so loud all the gods on Millennial Mountain could hear their love story unfold. One day Aurora came to the beach where she met her beloved so many times before but he wasn’t there. She waited and waited and mere minutes felt like hours as her heart ached and longed for the human.
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
Let There Be Light. Content Warning.
Back when the world was young and was shrouded in darkness, there was Keros. Keros was god of candles and kerosine lamps and he reigned supreme. He was a ruthless ruler, lighting the darkness only to those who praised him. With his blessings one could light city streets and homes for years, while his curses would leave you shrouded in darkness. That is until his rival Ishmael, god of whale oil, would give birth to a son named Zachary. Zachary was a spry young god and full of life. There was always a pep in his step and smile on his face. He would often serve as an entertainer for the gods during lavish banquets with his party tricks of static electricity. One particular banquet Keros had been over-served drinks of tequila and challenged Ishmael to a game of UNO. Ishmael laughed at the intoxicated fool and boasted that his young son could best him in the card game given his current state. The gods erupted in laughter for Keros was quite drunk and could easily in fact be bested by a child. Keros’s pride was both wounded and insulted, so he demanded the boy challenge him to prove them wrong.
By Kenneth Boutteabout a year ago in Fiction
The offering
“Wake up!” He barks. His words are as loud as thunder and shake the whole cabin, nearly tossing me from my hammock. “You’re going to be late!” He adds, then limps over to the fire. The poor dog, Amka, jolts to his feet then is immediately unbothered and wastes no time drifting back to sleep. He is no stranger to the man’s early morning bellowing.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Fiction
Until They Grow Fangs
The front door squeaks as I walk in and an old black and white western plays on the small flat screen in the den. The cover on the sofa reflects some of John Wayne’s greatest work in the sheen of all the plastic. The small townhouse is filled with the scent of mothballs and menthol. Several prescription bottles lay on the coffee table but there’s nothing worth taking. I invite myself in and make myself at home. My muddy boots leave a trail of every step I take; a noticeable contrast in the otherwise pristine living space. It’s probably best if I leave my boots by the door.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Horror
Man of the Year
It’s 8:13p and now I’m starting to worry. He’s late. He’s never late. Punctuality. It’s one of the things I could always appreciate about him. He’s far from perfect as a man, but as a true friend he’s second to none. I take another sip of my cocktail and it urges me to reach out to him. Ok, I’m going to text him.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Fiction
A Happy Ending
Liars, all of us are. How can we not be? We meet someone and flaunt our best selves in the hopes of acceptance. Society demands that we hide our demons and flaws and fib with our smiles and cheery demeanors. The truth about the skeletons in our closets is traded for happy endings and fairytales dreams to further sell the lie of who we want to be. But every relationship starts like this. Every relationship except this one. We skipped the fake pleasantries and laid it all on the table in the beginning. We weren’t afraid to show the messy truth of our lives and from that we built something amazing. Now we can be ourselves, and have a love that accepts our darkness within.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Fiction
ToGetHer
Shaky fingers follow along the words listed, “Crimson craft of the far depths, arise from the black of the midnight hour. Keep Turben- Turbenis ughhh!” A young man yells, throwing his book to the floor. “I’m never gonna get this spell right.” He says pushing his glasses up to his face and adjusting his pocket protector beneath his sweater vest. Dimly lit candles cast eerie shadows of his sinister plan along the walls. Jars of small organs from rodents and reptiles line the countertops to help him perform the ritual. He can’t even believe he’s resorted to this measure of desperation but she’ll never see him otherwise. The young man Tristan carefully collects the book, blows out the candles and gives up for the evening. “I hope this doesn’t stain.” He says as he pushes a mop across pentagram drawn in chicken blood on the floor in his small kitchen apartment. With all the ritual candles blown out the young man heads to bed but not before logging on to the dating app and gazing at her profile one last time. “I’m gonna marry that girl one day… One day we’ll be together.” He says before slowly drifting off to sleep.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Horror
A Trial of Emotions
The courtroom is stale with silence. No one here can find words to utter after the doctor’s testimony. I feel the weight of hundreds of eyes on me. Judging me. Condemning me. Sentencing me before I have even had a chance to give my side of the story.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Fiction
The Knock
Gray hairs line the sink as I yank another from my chin. “Where the hell do these things come from?” I ask myself rhetorically. It’s like every time I turn around there’s one here or one there. Found on my chest the other day. Pesky lil things. Now that all the grays are gone, an image of a pot-bellied version of myself stares at me in the mirror. Geez when did that happen? I suck in my gut to remind myself I can still have my college physique if I wanted to. I’ll go to the gym tomorrow, as for now, there’s work to be done.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Horror
The Dream
The two brown French doors eagerly await my arrival. “I can’t believe I’m doing this…” I say beneath my breath. A few gentle taps and the doors swing open welcoming me with open arms. “Ahhh Corbin!” A tall woman in a black pants suit says like she hasn’t seen me in ages. I ignore her misplaced greeting and get straight to business. “Look I need you to know I’m not crazy, ok doctor uhmm..” Her face fills with a smile that her cheeks can barely contain. “Please call me Lucy, and I don’t think you’re coming to therapy because you’re crazy.” She says with a playful pat on the back. She’s definitely one of those bubbly happy girls that always looks on the bright side. A damn rainbow hugger, it's enough to make me wanna punch her in her perfect teeth. “Why don’t you come in and tell me what’s bothering you.”
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Horror
Tears of the Cicada
The priest’s footsteps echo down the hall a shy louder than the cicadas outside. I relish in their annoying screeching. It takes me back to when I was a kid scraping my knee, falling off my bike, or getting slapped by Bridgette Stanley for trying to look up her skirt. Yea those were much simpler pains than what’s coming next. “Excuse me Thomas, I’m Fr. Atwood and I’m here for your final confession if you wish my son.” A frail old balding white priest says to me with his hands clasped together. He’s wearing a wholesome smile and the usual all black priest get-up with a tight clerical collar. “Nawh, Fr. Atwood what’s the point of it all? The lord knows what I done, and he knows I’m sorry. Telling you ain’t gonna do nothing but waste both our time. And I ain't got much of that left.” The holy man just smiles, nods and waves goodbye. “I’ll be praying for you, my son.” He says as he turns to walk away. His shuffling feet go silent and leave me to the song of the cicadas and yelling inmates yelling their goodbyes.
By Kenneth Boutte2 years ago in Horror
