Archive for the ‘Fiction’ Category

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For All of Us

In Fiction on August 12, 2013 at 10:57 pm


For All of Us

The water splashes—cold, sharp fingers to wake me—and I roll.

“Vstat’, yevrey,” the guard bites: Get up, Jew. I squint at the past-white sun flaring through the bars. The smell—pelmeni, I think—brings me to my feet and I sway, hoping. But of course it is not for me: A man has opened his cart on the street, selling meat pies. My porridge sits cold in the corner of my cell.

“Ne peremeschayte vozdushnuyu,” the guard says. He opens his mouth, grabs his throat and rolls his eyes to the whites. Don’t choke.

They still do not let me sleep, but the beatings are coming less and less. Abakumov tells me this is because Stalin has fallen ill. The others say he may even be dead. Let it be true.

Read the rest of this entry »

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Gracie’s Fall

In Fiction on August 7, 2013 at 1:47 pm

copyright-renee-heath

Gracie’s Fall

Gracie drifted from the sky and landed, quite elegantly, on the point of one toe, then smoothed the pleats of her milk-white skirt with a satisfied sigh.

The sole spectator to her amazing feat (and her lifting skirt), Matt gaped.

“Hello there!” Gracie said gleefully.

“Are you an angel?” Matt asked. Gracie giggled.

“You’re silly,” she said. “Goodbye!” And she skipped down the street with a look of wonder on her face. Read the rest of this entry »

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Philosophy

In Fiction on August 5, 2013 at 11:20 pm

pink flowers on a white marble floor

Philosophy

The philosophers stood in their burgundy robes and burgundy slippers, hands clasped and eyes downcast. At the center of the white, marble floor, a pool of crimson blood was creeping from the youth like a halo in some medieval triptych.

“What was his error?” the Master asked. Fingers of red found the stony cracks and raced outward. The philosophers stepped back.

“His conclusion didn’t follow from the premise,” one proposed. “The logic was weak.”

The Master sniffed. Read the rest of this entry »

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Too Many Flowers

In Fiction on July 31, 2013 at 11:56 pm

Big Bee - by Jennifer Pendergast

Too Many Flowers

The bee loomed tall in the evening sun: 25 feet long, with a black and yellow frame and wings of molded plastic.

“Cool, huh?”

“You sure get worked up about your ichthyology,” Bann complained.

“Entomology. How do you still not know the right word after twenty years?”

Bann shrugged.

“It reminded me of our first date… Remember the bees at the orchard?”

Bann nodded.

“Where’s the stinger?” he asked, but then his eyes went wide Read the rest of this entry »

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Erosion

In Fiction on July 29, 2013 at 3:23 pm

Waves crashing on a beach

Erosion

The rain made a sound like the drumming of fingers, as if a host of demons had climbed the cabin to probe for weaknesses, shrouded in water and darkness. The storm spit down the chimney and the fire hissed and flickered.

“It’s getting worse,” Kendrick decreed, a sour look on his face. There were fifteen of them gathered around the hearth—a family of five from the house next door, three college students from the opposite cabin, a single mother with two kids from further down the beach, and Kendrick’s own wife and children. This was the most any of them had spoken in hours.

They had thought it wise to band together for company and warmth, but that was three days ago. Now the firewood had nearly run out, and the rain showed no signs of stopping. Read the rest of this entry »

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The Bells

In Fiction on July 19, 2013 at 1:29 pm

Photo by Suguri F. We call that "hand bel...

The Bells

The old man stands on the lighted stage, stooped and shaking. Others, mere knobby shadows, wait their turn in the darkness behind him.

The bells ring, and the man’s eyes begin to water.

For this weekend’s Trifextra challenge, the folks over at Trifecta gave us three words: ring, water and stage. The challenge was to add 30 words to these to write a story.

Check out the other stories and, of course, have a great weekend!

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Resurrection and Digestion

In Fiction on July 17, 2013 at 2:22 pm

GoatsAndGraves-RandyMazie

Resurrection and Digestion

“I don’t like it standing there,” I said. “It’s an ill sign. Satan takes the shape of a goat sometimes, doesn’t he?”

“I say it gives me hope,” Jim replied. “Thor’s chariot was pulled by a pair of goats.”

“So?”

“So, every night he would kill and eat them both, but making sure to keep the bones intact. Then, every morning, the goats would come back to life again.”

We were silent a moment, as the wind pushed the shadows of the elm. The goat grunted and nibbled the grass.

“Guess we should’ve eaten Frank,” I said.

Sometimes I just don’t know what to do with a Friday Fictioneers picture, and this is what we end up with. It’s also incredibly late! But read the other stories—they’re bound to be better (Photo courtesy of Randy Mazie).

Still Hungry

In Fiction on July 15, 2013 at 9:07 pm

Caverns

Still Hungry

I don’t know what I am, but I know there are others like me. I hear their screams at night, echoing in the alleys and abandoned streets, pregnant with despair and an unholy longing. If you could hear them, you would leave this place.

We are terrors and we are waking.

I don’t remember my beginning, but I know that I am old. For thousands of years I have lain in the deep, a witness to evils on the surface above. Tribes warred, then men with muskets came; red fought blue, then blue fought gray; thieves stood in shadows as the buildings grew tall, slipping their knives into passersby. The blood ran onto the street, into this crack and that, then down into the bowels of the earth. So I have gathered, drop by drop, with my brothers in the caverns beside me. Read the rest of this entry »

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Operation Charnwood

In Fiction on July 8, 2013 at 5:19 pm

British soldier at Caen

Operation Charnwood

The young man led me by the arm through the rubble, helping me over fallen walls and crushed motorcars. I could have made the way myself, but the bombs had rendered the place unrecognizable.

“The historic district is mostly gone, I’m afraid,” the soldier explained as we walked. The corners of his mouth went up a bit, with pride for the might of the Allies, I suppose.

“The rest of the city held more for me,” I said. “But that’s gone now, too.”

The soldier nodded, and the shadow of his smile faded.

I had lived my entire life in Caen. I had scraped my knees on the schoolhouse cobbles as a child; stolen kisses (and more) behind my mother’s patisserie; there was a wall—or there had been—where my first husband and I had been photographed by the elder Lumière himself. But even the photo was gone now, under the pile of stone and glass that had been my home. The city was a graveyard, and my whole world lay beneath its stones. Read the rest of this entry »

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Apocalyptic Apoplexy

In Fiction on July 5, 2013 at 12:27 pm

spray painted doors and windows

Apocalyptic Apoplexy

We walk streets
replete with gargantuan gastropods,
gullies where gaseous argon
drifts like bygone clouds.

 Hypoxia thus induced,
we hallucinate colors,
smells—and feelings—now extinct.

This apocalyptic apoplexy
is its own panacea.

Yup: Things just got weird. This alliterative gem (note: sarcasm) is my response to this week’s Trifextra challenge, which was to write 33 words on anything that struck our fancy.

People are sure to be all over the place with this one, so check out all the great responses over at Trifecta.

Happy weekend everyone!