thriller
Free Loveseat
Every other night, I notice the variation of kipple that loiters—the many monuments littering the city—of every single different kind of leather chair, plush recliner, and loveseat, and Art Deco sofa, many of which end up abandoned, deteriorating the crumbling, and most definitely paper-thin, sidewalks of the street. They rest discarded, like departed souls, or perhaps, the poor souls of Black folk, neglected by the bluest of eyes. Of all of the rubbish, chairs are my fancy. There’s a lot of character in the shape of a chair; the subtle curves especially remind me of the night women who stand on the curb.
By Thomas Bryant12 days ago in Fiction
Blood On The Strip. Content Warning.
The few times Carlone Veretta had called Othello for a business meeting, it had meant some poor motherfucker was gonna die. He looked across the floor of the casino and lit his cigar with the butane cigar lighter he carried. He drew in the fragrant smoke and let it drool from between his lips. His dark eyes scanned the crowded floor for Carlone. He’d been friends with the new head of security for the Mandalay Bay casino for a short time. In that time, they’d gone through the shit together. Now their lives had settled down. Othello lived outside of Vegas with his wife Foxy. As far as he knew, Carlone was the only member of their little posse that was still in town.
By Scott Roche13 days ago in Fiction
What Lies on the Mountain Path
The children knew they mustn't go too far up the mountain. They knew their parents would be cross at their muddied boots and red noses. They knew the mountain hike was long and they'd be late for supper. And they knew most of all, the rumors of Old Binder.
By Kera Hollow14 days ago in Fiction
A Patrol in the Woods
Sometimes, life’s problems can’t be solved with a glass slipper. Sometimes, you need a Nightingale. Or so our billboards proudly stated at every inn, city gate, and causeway that saw any sort of hoof traffic. Matter of fact, I came up with that slogan based on a previous assignment involving a sexual deviant and a very impractical piece of footgear, but you’d never know it considering the distinct lack of royalty checks my pigeons have brought me.
By Stephen A. Roddewig14 days ago in Fiction
