Horror
The Barn
Air rushed into her lungs. Her muscles ached. Her head screamed. Her neck throbbed. Flashing open, her eyes darted around, taking in her surroundings. She was in a barn. An old barn. Made of wood. She was wearing a white jumpsuit with the number “Twenty-One” printed on it. Slowly she rose to her feet. A sudden gasp startled her as she spun around. It was a man, with messy hair, wearing the same jumpsuit as her but with the number “Eleven” printed on it. He was only a few feet from her. Suddenly, he jumped to his feet, spinning around, shocked by his environment. His eyes then locked onto hers.
By Moses Banford5 years ago in Fiction
Up in the Hollywood Hills
CLARA 1 pm My back is killing me. I’ve been sitting in this chair for at least five hours now. I scoop up a thick glob of Naples Yellow oil paint with my palette knife and add one last final detail to a sunflower petal. I stretch my arms out wide and turn off my murder mystery podcast. Pleased with myself to have finally finished this painting, I head to the fridge to refill my mason jar with cold filtered water. Gypsy follows and takes a seat on the cool kitchen tiles. “It’s a hot one today, ” I tell my dog. His ears are perked and he’s ready to catch any crumbs. Disappointment takes over his sweet little face as he watches me chug my water. “We’ll have a snack later, Gypsy.” I think we’re both in need of a good long hike.
By Cassandra Rees5 years ago in Fiction
Widow's Rest
This is not a story of fragile women trapped in towers. This is not a story about gallant knights and princes who sweep these same poor, trapped maidens off their feet and into another type of cage, just one more gilded. No. This is a story about wronged women who have no choice but to cut like shards of glass. This is a story about women who want nothing more than to see those who hurt them bleed for the pain they have inflicted. If this is not the kind of story you want to hear then go elsewhere. I am not here to coddle you like a mother does their child. I am not a guide nor a guardian. I am simply a storyteller. Still here? Then I shall continue.
By Cerys Latham5 years ago in Fiction
Shadows
Brian struggled to stay awake. Nursing cold coffee, the caffeine barely able to compete with the lullaby sound from the engine, the soft vibrations as it idled in the dead quiet of the early morning hours. He kept his eyes on the barn, occasionally he would flip the spot light on, and run the perimeter of the barn, and let it beam out across the open fields that surrounded it. He looked at the clock on the dashboard, the green lights blared 05:07 A.M. I’m giving him until 530, he thought to himself, and then it’s time to go.
By Brandon Boyer5 years ago in Fiction
The Box
It was an unusually cheerful day as the postman glided up the walkway. A strong sun commanded the sky, with no clouds around to challenge or dampen its ferocity. A light breeze steadily swept through the calm neighbourhood causing a handful of leaves to excitedly jump at the mail carrier's trousers and cling to the fabric, rustling as he handed me the plain brown box.
By Jake Xagas5 years ago in Fiction
The Box
It was an unusually cheerful day as the postman glided up the walkway. A strong sun commanded the sky, with no clouds around to challenge or dampen its ferocity. A light breeze steadily swept through the calm neighbourhood causing a handful of leaves to excitedly jump at the mail carrier's trousers and cling to the fabric, rustling as he handed me the plain brown box.
By Jake Xagas5 years ago in Fiction
The Popular One
All across America, on this Tuesday night, an event shall take place like no other, and it all starts with a box. The Popular One is the latest of reality trash television. A show that scratches at the itch to see strangers lust, consume an aberrant amount of alcohol and become belligerent, preach both lies and truth, and persuade to their own means. Twelve contestants, all from different walks of life, try to win one-hundred thousand dollars to be the final Popular One.
By Anthony Diaz5 years ago in Fiction
Casey's Magic Box
The most unnerving summer of my life started off so simply. It’s the middle of June back in ’87 and I was living on my own. Times were difficult and I made my living pulling two dead end jobs to barely afford an apartment I shared with two others. I was returning home after a double at dead end job number two, a dishwasher making one of the smaller links in the great Melvin’s Diner restaurant chain. Reaching the third and final level of the complex, a feat that seemed impossible from the ground, I turned down our hall to see what would cause the start of it all; a small, brown box at the door.
By Travis Pittman5 years ago in Fiction
