Posts Tagged ‘stories’

, , , ,

Bees

In Fiction on April 18, 2013 at 4:48 pm

wasp-nest

Bees

Lane braced his palms in the beach rocks and studied the hive.

“Maybe it floated from Africa?” he said. “Killer bees.”

“Don’t joke,” Warren complained with a pout. “Is anything in it?”

Lane thought he heard a faint buzzing, and even smelled a sweetness like honey, but there was no movement in the golden lattice.

“Nah…” he began, but suddenly he felt a sharp pain and he jumped. When he pulled his hand away, blood began to pour from a deep gash in his palm.

In the rocks, a thousand stony carapaces turned, and Warren sprinted down the beach. Read the rest of this entry »

, , , ,

The Root

In Fiction on April 9, 2013 at 1:35 pm

victorian bedroom pietro barbino

The Root

“Come, Pietro,” Cosimo said. “I have fodder for your jests.”

Pietro cast aside his wineskin and eyed his master with as much contempt as he thought wise.

“Oh, don’t pout, Pietro,” Cosimo said softly. “It was all in fun. Isn’t that what I pay you for?”

“You humiliated me.”

“Are you to tell me that’s the first time a woman has laughed at your deformity? Seen that stub between your stunted legs?”

“Lady Eleanora didn’t laugh,” Pietro replied meekly. Cosimo bristled his black mustache.

“No, quite right,” he said. “But as it turned out she wasn’t very particular, was she? Read the rest of this entry »

, , , ,

Postmortem

In Fiction on April 3, 2013 at 1:33 pm

Various_scalpels

Postmortem

“You come here in the middle of the night and tell me you were dead yesterday, Sean. What am I supposed to think?”

“Think scientifically, Charlie,” I said, and I sat on the table. “You’re a doctor, after all.”

“I’m a coroner.”

“Even better.”

Charlie sat on his stool and eyed me carefully, his gaze drifting to the crimson-stained X on my chest.

“Three to the ticker?”

“Yep.”

I peeled back the tape and let my heart pump its congealed refuse onto Charlie’s floor. If he hadn’t believed me before, he sure did then. Read the rest of this entry »

, , , ,

A Riddle

In Fiction on March 28, 2013 at 10:44 pm

oil hurricane lamps in a kitchen

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 »

, , , ,

A Curious Woman

In Fiction on March 26, 2013 at 10:40 pm

test roll #3

A Curious Woman

Pietro Barbino shuffled quietly into the Duke’s great room and, finding it empty, smiled and turned to leave.

“Stay, Pietro,” a voice said, and a slender figure appeared in the doorway at the end of the room. It was the duchess, in a crimson silk gown that brushed the tops of her bare feet and clung tightly to her Read the rest of this entry »

, , , ,

Cultivation

In Fiction on March 20, 2013 at 11:29 pm

horse with hose in mouth

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 »

, , ,

Patient Zero

In Fiction on March 19, 2013 at 10:54 am

bridge river rapids whirlpool

Patient Zero

No one chooses to be born.

A few choose to die.

Fewer still choose to live.

Mark had come to the bridge to choose. But instead he’d ended up perching on the rail like some weary crow, a coward, waiting for the buffeting winds to make the decision for him.

“This is all there is.”

Cruel words for a mother to speak to her son, but like it or not, he had heard them. And in the weeks and months that followed her death—which had been slow torture enough—the words turned in him and writhed like living things, with teeth and venom and terrible hearts. Read the rest of this entry »

, , ,

The Hideout

In Fiction on February 21, 2013 at 9:56 pm

Old barn and white picket fence

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

In Fiction on February 16, 2013 at 12:33 pm

FF-DavidStewart

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 »

, , , ,

The Feeling of Falling Down

In Fiction on February 4, 2013 at 9:08 pm

Yellow wood, by yooperann on Flickr

The Feeling of Falling Down

“Sometimes I feel bad, man. I mean, this was a sleepy town before I showed up.”

Quinn popped a shell into the chamber and ran the action forward with a click.

“White churches, brick sidewalks—the foliage is beautiful, man. I mean, just look at it.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

Quinn gestured to the body under the tree—what had been a man—and shrugged.

“I already done it,” he said. “So it’s nothing to me. But you may be right.” Read the rest of this entry »