A Riddle
“Two eyes that never blink.
Four legs that quiver.
Sixteen bodies still and cold as death.
What am I describing?”
Mr. Carken stepped into the light and fixed Sean and Jake in a wild stare.
“The answer?” he drawled. “Two nosey boys who’ve found something they weren’t supposed to find.” Read the rest of this entry »
Cultivation
“Well, you can lead a horse to water, but—“
“Finish that sentence, and ‘drink’ will be the last word you ever speak, David.”
Dave eyed the horse, smirking.
“I’m just not sure what’s wilder, man, the fact that you’re watering the grass or the fact that you’re talking to me about it.”
The horse dropped the hose and raised its somber, wizened eyes. Read the rest of this entry »
Leo’s Escape
“Gee, thanks…”
Leo had been asking his parents to buy him a car for months. Nothing fancy, of course—he didn’t need a Ferrari—just something to get around in. He’d begged and begged, ingratiating himself, playing the good son, doing humiliating chores, but all for nothing.
Or so he had thought, until his father unveiled what he surely believed to be a terrific joke: a homemade jalopy, with rusted doors, salvaged seats and a shifter made from the head of a piston.
But suddenly Leo saw the car for what it was and whispered with utter sincerity:
“Thank you.”
This is my quick response to the Friday Fictioneers prompt this week. Click the blue guy to check out the other great stories!
Happy weekend everyone!
Related: The Hideout // Silence // The Pebble
The Hideout
“This is it?” Sam asked. “This is the hideout?”
The barn was slumped like a beggar, rotten planks buckled under creeping ivy. Tendrils choked the yard, climbing the bright white fence like swarming snakes.
“Isn’t it great?” Jake asked. “I’ve found loads of cool stuff: bottles, bones—even a knife.”
Jake started toward the back, where a hole gaped black and jagged in the side, and beckoned Sam to follow.
“Don’t you wonder, though?” Sam asked. Read the rest of this entry »
The Pebble
My house is in the south by a river, far from the DMZ. At night, the river reflects the moon and the walls seem bathed in water. When my grandson wakes me, which is most nights, he is like a mirage.
“Grampa,” he says, “I had a bad dream. I dreamed I turned into a rock and fell into the river and drowned.”
“I dreamed I was a pebble in your pocket. I dreamed you dropped me but you didn’t see.”
I roll to the wall and squeeze my eyes shut. Maybe if I move further south the dreams will stop. Read the rest of this entry »
Words For Things
In my earliest memories I am alone. I grew up without language, without names for the rocks and trees. Without a name for myself. I have never seen another human face.
Strange, then, this thing I have made…
I found the boat, and the tools and the books—that is how I learned the words—but I cannot say how it passed the seas, for there was no one to guide it.
Read the rest of this entry »
The Waiting Water
As day wanes the ocean turns black. The brackish foam boils on the rocks. The sun sinks and its crimson rays leak from the horizon as from a wound.
There is something appalling about the sea. About its mystery. I believe it is evil.
My friends drink and laugh. They sunbathe. They sleep with each other and collect designer labels. They forget the waiting water. Read the rest of this entry »
Double Bass Concerto
The body slid down the wall and sat, silent, without the thrum of its heart.
No one had missed the soloist yet. The double bass concerto was planned for the second half of the program: Giovanni Bottesini. Concerto No. 2 in B minor.
A shame, really… it would have been beautiful. Read the rest of this entry »
Down The Hall, Through The Door
Jay was stuck in a dream and had been for some time.
Months.
Years.
Ever since the accident. Read the rest of this entry »
A Question of Genre
Someone once asked if my life was a tragedy or a comedy.
We’d stopped counting drinks at that point. I was still wearing my suit, though the tie had been lost some hours before.
The pretty girls had all stumbled off – the ugly ones, too – back home or into someone’s bed, but we were uglier still: old, old men. We’d finished our game of chess and sat down for a drink with Death instead.
I have memories of nights like this, and better mornings – and pretty girls and ugly girls, sweet girls and mean girls – and the one I took home long ago and never gave back…
Tragedy or comedy? What a stupid question. Read the rest of this entry »
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