Horror
The Trinket of Poppy Field
Dear Julian, How strange it is to write this by hand. I planned on just sending an email once the package arrived, but this seemed more fitting. Who knows? Maybe it’ll be a cool detail for your book. Should I have sealed this with wax and stained the paper with tea to give it more of a “haunted house” feel? Perhaps you can embellish the story when you tell it.
By Amanda Fernandes5 years ago in Fiction
The Suspicious Brown Paper Package Murder.
Anastasia Gault was a gullible young lady. She was the sort of trusting soul who made life profitable for conmen, charlatans, and snake-oil salesmen. There was no extended warranty she wouldn’t buy. No sob story that didn’t break her heart. And no plea for alms she wouldn’t honor with a few dollars. Although, in fairness, she had yet to send any money to a Nigerian Prince with cash flow problems. And for this, she congratulated herself on her common sense and perspicacity.
By Pitt Griffin5 years ago in Fiction
The Trail of Marigolds
There was a proud little house that sat at the edge of the forest, walls made of wood and covered in lilac Wisteria, the door a beautiful purple and the garden covered in a rainbow flowers; red roses, orange lilies, yellow buttercups, green carnations, bluebells and, of course, the purple wisteria.
By Indie Warren5 years ago in Fiction
The Curse of The Irish
Today’s just like any other regular day. I get up from my bed, after being rudely awaken by my phone’s annoying ringtone to go to the bathroom, to take a hot shower, brush my teeth and shave, then finally making a quick breakfast of scramble eggs and coffee. As I don my work attire, vest and name tag, to work at the super-market, I hear my doorbell ring. Placing the vest on my kitchen table, I walk over to the door to see who could possibly be coming to my house this early in the morning.
By Tay Gallagher5 years ago in Fiction
Jack-In-The-Box
Another disappearance in the south-east end of London today has local authorities concerned. Detectives warn young women of a new scam circulating the internet- The telly screen goes black as I click the off button. “Victoria! That was major news, turn it back on.” Dark brown eyes catch me in a death glare. I sigh, “Lydia, I’m not interested in that kind of programming playing in the main shop. You may continue watching in the break room. I’ll handle things out here.”
By Kimberly Anne5 years ago in Fiction
The Unfathomable Whims
To truly know despair, one must become an erudite student in the condition of man, for it is only then can one attempt to comprehend his relation to the umbral and unfathomable whims. Before the war, I lost that which was most precious to me, and received my doctorate in despair. Though, even now, the true magnitude of its depths remain a mystery.
By Brian Keith McMurray5 years ago in Fiction
Pieces
She rubs her neck. It’s stiff and tender. She winces and breathes deeply; the smell of blood and smoke overwhelms her nose. Her eyes stare forward into the black night, the SUV speeding down a side street. Bloodshot eyes flick towards the rear-view mirror. They dart back and forth. Paranoia sets in. She focuses on her image in the mirror noting the kinks in her armor. Strands of blonde hair stick to the blood and tears on her face. An egg yolk bruise stretched across one side of her face. One of her eyes is swollen and puffy, red spots are flecked through their normal grey. She doesn’t need to look to know that her nose is broken, too. She feels it every time she takes a breath. Her grip on the steering wheel is tight. She can’t tell if its rattling is the ramshackle road or the nerves and fear building. Tears well up inside her and the question is no longer relevant. Her strength wavers and tears roll down her cheeks. The sobs begin and are uncontrollable. Her fingers fumble on the dash until they find the hazard lights and flick them on. She takes her foot off the gas and drifts to the side of the road. Her tender hands grip the gear shaft. Her nails are destroyed too, the blue polish chipped and cracked. She buries her mangled head in her hands and sobs.
By Chris Figueroa5 years ago in Fiction
The Gift to Martina Devoe
Martina’s backup alarm started chiming, quiet - like birds chirping - then got louder and more incessant. One gray eye cracked open, gummy from dehydration and poor sleep, and she tried to focus. Next to her pillow lay the cellphone she used as her primary alarm, which she’d muted while still unconscious after the first two times she’d hit snooze. Martina loved her snooze alarm. Her hangover loved it even more.
By Jacob Montanez5 years ago in Fiction
