When was the last time I saw a man die? It was yesterday, in fact, right in front of my eyes. His head was blown apart, point-blank range, and I was about twenty feet away, watching the violence unfold. It was cold and gray that morning, but nothing else about what happened was unusual. This is the reality now.
Continue reading
Ice-fire glow in Techno-City, left behind to die on the streets. Freeze out, no one cares about me in the gutter looking up at the brutal night sky. A price on my head for that grave mistake I made. The man with the laser eyes broke both my legs, kicked me into the street. Cold, misty rain falling, nothing to eat.
Continue reading
Here’s a piece of horror microfiction about strange neighbors and the creepy quietude of the suburbs. It’s about 530 words and has an estimated reading time of 2 minutes. Let me know what you think!
Continue reading
I’ve been more active on Twitter lately, and I wanted to share some of the very short stories I’ve written on there. Twitter is fun, annoying sometimes, but mostly fun. As long as I don’t get sucked into the drama and political chaos of it. I use it to post my journalism from work, too.
I noticed many people writing short little fictions within the character limits of the platform, so I’ve tried my hand at it, as well. Most of them are decidedly dark and of the horror genre. Enjoy!
Continue reading
The first thing I feel is the strange taste in my mouth. My mouth is dry, the taste is metallic like I have a mouthful of gold teeth. It feels like it’s bleeding. The room is completely dark; I can’t see anything. A humming noise rings in my left ear. I can’t move; I’m strapped down. But to what? I try to move my arms and legs to no avail. Even my head feels like it’s strapped down. The room smells musty and damp. I hear someone coughing, maybe in the room next to me.
“Hello?”
No one answers. I struggle to break free, but I’m strapped in tight. The ceiling must be leaking, I hear drip-drip-dripping. What the hell is going on?
Continue reading
The gift comes in a pretty box with a red bow. A knock at the door, but there’s no one there when I open it. Instead, there’s a note that says, “With love, from Aunt Gloria.” Aunt Gloria has been dead for five years. It is windy and cold outside, the last gasp of a brutal winter. The slushed snow on the sidewalk is gray and black, disgusting remnants of a storm a week ago. I keep hearing whispers. I’m not sure if they’re in my head or in the house. I can’t make out the words.
Continue reading
Out here in the cold cemetery nights, the greenish-blue tint of my death fantasies come alive. I’m not much a fan of the waking hours; the dead are more on my level, the way they hold nothing back when they speak to me and tell me of their underground dreams and experiences. I think it was my father who said, when I was just a young boy, that, “The dead hold secrets the living can learn from, if only we listen to the whispers of the night.”
Cold cemetery nights, not such a fright to me. Others have rebuked me for my twilight walks, stalking among the graves, but I ignore them. The gravedigger works overtime every night; I’m not sure if he’s dead or alive. I see him digging these deep holes most nights, allowing the souls to re-enter the world. The gravedigger’s name is Cain – he has the brightest blue eyes, a slim yet muscular frame, and hands so calloused they bleed every night.
Continue reading
Along the river, the dream skyline beckons to me. Awash in frosted colors of winter, a mixture of cool blues, greens, and yellows, each light is a thousand people burning and dying away. Those high skyscrapers and towers shooting from cold, neon concrete, and those burning people screaming in agony in unison, is the perfect nightmare chorus for this evening.
The river water reflects the shades of my character flaws. A little bit of gluttony, lust, pride, and other deadly sins, a watery grave to put them in. I’m approaching the harbor with my doppelgänger, a slightly deformed version of myself; the eyes are too sunken, the teeth too sharp, and the appetite too large.
Continue reading
Here’s a piece of flash fiction I cooked up about going to rehab at the worst possible time. Enjoy!
It was all too much for Grayson.
On the TV screen, images of car bombs exploding in the nation’s capital and other various cities triggered his anxiety. Nothing was happening in his city – Philadelphia – just yet, but it was only a matter of time.
“Do we have any left?” Grayson asked his girlfriend, Thea.
“No,” she said. “I’m putting my foot down this time. Now is not the time to be doing Anvil. Look, I know you’re freaked out, but let’s just chill.”
Continue reading
Flash fiction may be the hardest type of story to write. It can also be incredibly fun. I’ve shared a few here on my site – some are good, others just okay, and some probably suck to be honest! Often, I search the internet for prompts to get me going. So, I decided to devise a list of my own flash fiction prompts for myself and to share with others.
Continue reading
