Posts Tagged ‘stories’


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

pink flowers on a white marble floor


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 »


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 »


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

Waves crashing on a beach


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 »

Shrimp ‘n’ Grits

In Fiction on July 2, 2013 at 9:34 pm

kitchen pans

Shrimp ‘n’ Grits

“Oh darling, you’re so wonderfully crude,” the senator’s wife exclaimed. “But shh, he’s coming.” She tilted her head to indicate the approaching waiter.

“You folks know what you’d like?” the waiter asked. He crossed his hands politely.

“How do you like the shrimp and grits?” the senator’s wife asked with only a hint of a smile. The waiter smiled broadly.

“Just about my favorite dish on the menu!” he said. “Real nice; like what I had growin’ up.”

“You grow up around here, son?” the senator asked, solemn as a sermon. The waiter nodded.

“’Bout five miles down the road, yessir,” he said.

One of the senator’s party leaned across the table. Read the rest of this entry »

The Black River

In Fiction on June 27, 2013 at 9:54 pm

fire truck

The Black River

The old desert tortoise took slow, deliberate steps. One leg up, one leg down, with a dull scrape as his shell dragged along.

“Before the black river came, the crossin’ took ages,” he told the young ones that scrambled in his wake. “Of course, these days it’s hurry, hurry, hurry. Go, go, go.”

The sun was high and they cast no shadows.

“Technology…” the tortoise muttered.

Then suddenly the ground began to rumble, and the pebbles skipped and snapped on the quaking road—and a great red beast went screaming past.

“Hey!” the old tortoise bellowed. “Where’s the fire, Bub?”

Tomorrow is Friday, so that could only mean one thing: Friday Fictioneers! This is my response to this week’s photo prompt, above, taken by Indira.

Click the blue guy up there to read the other stories, and have a great weekend!

The Mechanic

In Fiction on June 24, 2013 at 11:21 pm

rusty gearsThe Mechanic

The door of the station wagon let out a pitiful metallic wail as my wife pulled it shut; the Aries had always been a piece of shit, I thought. My son stared blankly from the passenger seat, watching me in the doorway—watching as his mother backed down the long driveway and into the icy street.

“You’re like a goddam robot,” she had said. “Christ, Andrew, can’t you show even a little emotion about this?”

I couldn’t, so I shrugged blithely, like I was watching someone else’s life fall apart on TV. That’s when she’d started packing her bags.

Honestly, I didn’t see what the big deal was. Marriages end all the time—the statistics are staggering—and I wasn’t about to break down just because we’d failed like so many others. I even felt freed by it; I watched the sun scrape through a dull orange sky and dip below the horizon, then stayed up into the night working on my coupe and watching black-and-white reruns on the flat screen. Read the rest of this entry »

Omne Trium Perfectum

In Fiction on June 21, 2013 at 10:51 am

English: Three Ek Knives

Omne Trium Perfectum

They say bad things come in threes: misfortunes, children, crimes.

Omne trium perfectum, I say.

My brothers and I are three, but I’m youngest—the charmer. I lure the victims.

Then: Three cuts.

This 33-word story is my response to this weekend’s Trifextra challenge: Third time’s the charm. I went creepy with it, clearly. Check out the rest of this week’s stories for all kinds of great reading fun.

And happy weekend everyone!

*The phrase “omne trium perfectum” is Latin and roughly means “everything in threes is perfect/complete.”

The Post

In Fiction on June 20, 2013 at 1:43 pm

Guard, copyright Managua Gunn

The Post

Elizabeth stood with pride, ennobled by her place in the city’s secret history; through every hour of every day—on every day of every year since 1372—a guard had stood at this spot, and now the post was hers.

Her gun was loaded; her bayonet was sharp; her orders were simple: Kill anyone who willfully pursued the Secret.

Not that the tourists knew this. To them, she was a quaint anachronism. But the ornate government offices behind her were a decoy, built to deflect attention from her true charge: the grate upon which she stood.

Far below, the Ancients fumbled in the dark, roaming the catacombs in search of light.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Crucible of Death

In Fiction on June 13, 2013 at 1:32 pm

light through windows with curtains

The Crucible of Death

When I awoke, the golden morning was pouring through tall windows, glowing behind shifting gossamer curtains. Madelaine lay beside me, long and liquid and naked. She smiled.

“You talk in your sleep, Sean,” she said. I sat up. I was still fully dressed.

“Anything interesting?”

“Dreadfully boring. Dirty laundry and mysteries and murder.”

She rose from the bed and stepped to the window, where she was a cutout in the incredible light. The sun flashed through her legs. I reached for my gun. Read the rest of this entry »

Out for Blood

In Fiction on June 4, 2013 at 11:11 pm

English: Human blood magnified 600 times

Out for Blood

Sweat stung my eyes and blurred my sight. Meher stumbled ahead of me, walking backward and straining. My brother hung between us like a bridge, heavy and insensible, as the footsteps grew louder behind.

“Who are they?” Meher gasped. “What do they want with your brother?”

“They don’t want my brother,” I said, wheezing. “To them, he’s just a freak. They’re literally out for his blood; whether it’s hot or cold when they get it is incidental.”

Meher’s terror flashed on his face.

“I do not wish to die,” he said.

“Then let’s get him to the truck.” Read the rest of this entry »