Posts Tagged ‘short stories’

A Place to Rest

In Fiction on December 4, 2013 at 2:39 pm


A Place to Rest

The whitewashed walls of the old mission emerged from the mist, slow and shy like a wary ghost. It was boarded and broken, abandoned by man and god alike.

“Suits me,” Dan grumbled. Three days in the hot sun had just about baked his brains, and death had seemed near enough, until the fog rolled in and pocked his skin with dots of dew. Half a day of blind shambling later, the desert brought him here.

Unless he’d died. Unless this was heaven, and the rolling mist the veil.

A bell rang softly inside, and a light came on. Read the rest of this entry »



In Fiction on November 25, 2013 at 11:14 am



As I wheeled through the streets of Luxor in the bullet-eaten Mahindra—my brother covered in blood and brooding like a lunatic—the crowds stared but kept their distance. At the hotel, I parked down an alley and walked my brother through the back.

“Stay here,” I said, opening the door to my room and nudging him inside. I limped down to the front desk to find Panya hiding behind the office door.

“Father has gone out, Dr. Rosen,” she said meekly.

“That’s alright; you can help me.”

The girl gripped the door like a shield, her thick eyebrows working. She was Oxford educated, and smarter than her father by half, but she was also extraordinarily traditional. It was improper for a man to speak to her alone.

“I’m hurt, Panya,” I said. I held up my bloody hands for her to see. “Please.” Read the rest of this entry »

Knock, Knock, Knock

In Fiction on November 22, 2013 at 9:55 am


Knock, Knock, Knock

You knock, your heart a nervous bird, flapping. A chill wind sighs.

You knock. What sound is that? Claws scrabbling. Whispers.

It’s been years…

You knock, and the door swings wide—to warmth.

This is my short response to this week’s Trifextra challenge – where we were given the freedom to choose our own word to use three times in a 33-word story. If it’s not clear enough, the word I chose was knock.

Let me know what you think and check out some of the other stories over at Trifecta. They’re short, so they won’t take long!

Happy weekend!

Carge’s Cart

In Fiction on November 13, 2013 at 4:31 pm


Carge’s Cart

Carge pulled his cart. The wedgestones helped the wagon to climb—up the narrow street to the pit, and the furnace that warmed the governor’s halls.

On cold days the hill would ice, and if a body slipped it would slide like a lifeless luger down the hill, bumping over the stones and knocking now and then on a villager’s door. If Carge was lucky, the body would wedge in a doorway just one or two landings down; if he was really lucky, it would slide clear to the bay and be lost.

Carge shivered and wished for trees.

This quick story is for the Friday Fictioneers. The prompt was the picture up there at the top of the page (by Kent Bonham). Let me know what you think below, and click the link monster to read the rest of this week’s stories!

Father Pietro

In Fiction on November 11, 2013 at 3:29 pm

tuscan villa

Father Pietro

“I mean to make you my husband, Pietro.”

Pietro leaned forward, certain he’d misheard over the clatter of horse hooves and carriage wheels. Ippolita smiled wickedly.

“My family has always punished you for what you are,” she said, smoothing her skirts. Her hands lingered between her legs as she met Pietro’s gaze. “But if you do me this… kindness… I promise I shall remember you.”

Ippolita sat with her legs delicately crossed—a tiny thing, so light that the slightest jostling of the carriage bounced her on her velvet cushion. She was as dangerous as she was beautiful, but Pietro was only a fool by profession, and he wasn’t so easily played.

“Why can’t you do this thing yourself?”

“Kill my own father?” Ippolita shrugged. “I could. I wouldn’t shrink from such a thing, but it would seriously complicate my inheritance.” Read the rest of this entry »

Who Am I?

In Fiction on November 8, 2013 at 10:23 am


Without name, I am often spoken.

The least of the gods, yet the most feared; not Death, but His brother; undone with a whisper, yet the ruin of many lives.

Who am I?

This riddle is my response to this weekend’s Trifextra Challenge. Do you know the answer? 🙂

Curtain Call

In Fiction on October 29, 2013 at 6:14 pm


Curtain Call

The audience poured in, revealing brief glimpses of the wintry street as the doors opened and closed: night settling; snowdrifts swirling in headlights; buildings tall and glimmering. Shakespeare and Samuel Beckett watched. The others had yet to arrive.

“Seems to be a popular premiere,” Beckett offered. Shakespeare shrugged.

The Tempest is playing at the Otten,” he said. “Patrick Stewart makes a great Prospero.”

“There’s room for new blood, Bill,” Beckett replied, as if consoling an overlooked child. “God knows there is. They’re doing Godot at a black box uptown, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

Shakespeare smiled.

“That’s because no one would go, Sam, competition or no. No one understands your foggy abstractions.”

“Hmph.” Read the rest of this entry »

Dives and Lazarus

In Fiction on October 7, 2013 at 10:47 pm

the perisphere at the 1939 world's fair

Dives and Lazarus

Thomas and Quinn strolled down the Helicline, through pleasant evening air and a smell of lavender. Quinn polished the buttons of his vest and looked back at the massive white orb.

“Magnificent!” he exclaimed. “A fantastic vision of the future. And this fluorescent technology seems a prudent investment, Thomas. What do you say?”

Thomas, who had been inspecting a silver dollar, tucked the coin in his pocket and sighed.

“I suppose it does,” he said wistfully.

Quinn eyed him askance.

“You’ve been acting very queer today,” he said. “Is everything all right?”

Thomas shrugged.

“There was a man sleeping in my doorway this morning,” he said. “He asked me for a dollar to feed his family.”

“A crook, surely,” Quinn replied. “Tell me you didn’t pay the man?” Read the rest of this entry »


In Fiction on October 4, 2013 at 10:58 pm


Charlie Brown… What can you say, really? Poor kid sat in that pumpkin patch even after the rain started and turned the place to a bog. Now he’s just a soggy corpse.


My apologies to the estate of Charles Schulz—I really don’t know what came over me. This is my response to this weekend’s Trifextra Challenge (care of the folks over at the Trifecta Writing Challenge).

Please, if you’re just visiting for the first time, go over and read Akhun… I promise I sometimes write good stuff, really I do :-p

Jonathan Livingston Warrior Seagull

In Fiction on October 2, 2013 at 3:59 pm


Jonathan Livingston Warrior Seagull

This is an open letter to the scum of the earth, those vile criminals who would prey on the weak and innocent: Your time is up. I am Jonathan Livingston, Warrior Seagull, and I’m serving up cold, hard, beaky justice.

I eat trash like you for breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. I am a master of disguise and fluent in 43 languages, including Emu, Flamingo, and Swedish. The wind is my only friend.

I know no fear and I feel no pity. Actually, I don’t understand any abstract concepts.

I am a bird. Watch your back… and shoulders… and head. Read the rest of this entry »