Horror
Born Human
When she awoke, all she could see was red. A rusty red flecked with something brighter–it was caked into her fingernails, crushed into the folds of her eyes, and dusting her dry achy kneecaps. She sat up with a moan, the clay flaking-off in chunks with each movement. She couldn’t remember how she ended up on the floor, but her head was throbbing. She needed to know what had happened–who had attacked? She was bleeding, but where from? She started searching for the source, and felt a small twinge at her ankle. It was a shallow cut–probably one of many. Without acknowledging why, but moving as if by puppet string, she watched her own finger reach down and swirl the edges of bright crimson into the soft, dull clay. She felt the corners of her mouth lift into a smile at the sight of her muddied wound. The sight of her own blood unlocked something like a memory, but the details eluded her.
By Sarah Small5 years ago in Fiction
Cask 947
It was two in the afternoon and you were standing outside the restaurant when it happened. Crickham Street was a rabbit’s nest and even in daylight the shadows were strong. Ahead of you was your favorite place to eat on this side of the valley, The Happy Ghoul. A sign on the door showed a smiling skull gulping down a bowl of noodles, and you sighed in hunger and contentment. It was a Friday, almost BuckBuck hour, and your mouth was watering.
By Pete Marquardt5 years ago in Fiction
Billy and Bosco
Every night, my Dad was in charge of putting me to bed. He would help me brush my teeth and then would tuck me into my nice, warm bed. Then he would tell me a story. Every night, it was the same story. ‘The Story of Bosco and Billy’. I had lots of books in my room, as my Mother would read to me throughout the day, but Dad would never read any of those books, he would always tell me the same story. I always assumed that either, the story had come from a book, but my Father had told it so many times that he didn’t need to read from the book anymore, or that it was a story he was told as a child.
By Luke Pudney 5 years ago in Fiction
Food for Thought
November 2nd, 2222 Today is the beginning of the end. We’ve been waiting so long for this. My nerves make me want to run away into the forest and never return but there are too many lives in my hand. I know my conscious wouldn’t let me live with that. I feel the rough bark on the branch I’m sitting on and look out over the city that is bustling a few miles away, just beneath my feet.
By Caitlyn Hemphill5 years ago in Fiction
Infected Ties
The summer’s heat whips at Mateo and he feels his breath shortening and his throat tighten out of dryness; but he can’t stop running. He can hear their footsteps clambering behind him. That’s the issue with these infected folks, they can turn out all sorts of ways once the parasite has taken over their vital organs; most importantly their brain. They can either enhance the traits of their hosts or completely change them. The two following behind him must have taken over hosts who were track stars or seriously mutated their muscles and lungs, because they have been steadily following him at a sprint for what feels like forever.
By Jade Wiglesworth5 years ago in Fiction
Long Time Traveler
My hand encapsulates the gold locket dangling from my neck as I take in a slow measured breath then continue. The low-hanging vines from the willow trees lining the edge of the forest conceal me just enough to stay entirely out of sight. Beside me, Lena, my adopted mutt I picked up along the way, sneaks as quietly as I do over the dead leaves and garbage littering the dirt. My eyes train on the bodies moving listlessly through the desolate street ahead.
By Arielle Irvine5 years ago in Fiction
A Thin Red Line
“Come, come,” the man in soiled surgical scrubs said as he motioned Eve to follow him into the operating room. Eve could see dirt or dried blood beneath his fingernails. She shivered, looking quickly at the two other girls and one boy sitting on makeshift chairs in the waiting room, and like her, gas masks securely fastened to each face.
By David R Bishop5 years ago in Fiction
Heart Sick
My legs, warm and slightly pinker than normal from the July sun, were sprawled out before me in the sand. It was a pleasant sand, much unlike the bayou mud I’d grown accustomed to in my many trips to Galveston. These tiny pearls of glass shook off easily as I stood up to go grab another bottle of sugar-free fruity vodka masquerading as a bottle of water. Despite smuggling enough liquor here to make a Kennedy blush, I was at least trying to avoid breaking the rule about glass bottles at this beach.
By Elizabeth London5 years ago in Fiction
