Horror
What Happened
Now, before I begin, let me forewarn you that this is a story you probably will not believe. Nobody really believes the stories I tell. I suppose that’s partly because Mitch and I are both born storytellers, a trait that has gotten us into a lot of trouble over the years. We are Storytellers. Liars sounds so malicious and that’s not at all what we are about.
By S.A. Paris 5 years ago in Fiction
Uncle Jeff's Bedroom
Uncle Jeff’s bedroom was orderly. He put the blankets, pillows, bedsheets, curtains, clothes, and business suits in the right place. Uncle Jeff was orderly too; he rose from the bed, took a pee, brushed his teeth and gargled for three minutes to eliminate bad breath, had a shower, put on a pressed business suit, walked downstairs to sip a cup of black coffee prepared by Vivien, cat-walked across the passageway between Bermuda grass, go outside the gate, and left the house for his office job. He always prepared for everything.
By M.G. Maderazo5 years ago in Fiction
Candles
My grandmother told me a story that haunts me today. Not because of the nightmare that entailed the legend, but the reality of it. I was thirteen when she first told me the story. My parents were away for the night, probably loopy from the Pink Moscato they use to keep the marriage alive. They sent me to Grandma’s because it was the easiest option. Grandma was a strange woman, but she meant well. Her grey tresses were always pulled back in a neat bun. The green of her eyes lost youthful saturation. Instead of being as bold as peridot, the yellow hues morphed to the surface, creating a murky shade like the swamps. Her smiles were always bright, especially when she tucked me into bed, but it looked worn out from the years and counting. She talked at one point, knowing what she was saying. Then in the next instance, her words didn’t line up with reality. You were never for sure if she pulled away and forgot she was talking or if she knew and couldn’t control it like a trance.
By Norma Jane5 years ago in Fiction
"It's a box"
"No, I'm not going to touch it, pick it up, open it, nor do I want it. Can't even look at it." John said, perched on the tip of his worn leather mahogany sofa, pointing at the 1x1x1 brown box, sitting alone in the center of his apartment living room.
By Barb Snodgrass5 years ago in Fiction
The Box
The box had been sitting there for two full days. I stared at the abandoned parcel on the sidewalk by my apartment door, taking a long drag off my cigarette. It wasn’t a package for anyone specific because there was no label. It didn’t seem to interest anyone who walked by my apartment on a daily basis, either. The box, wrapped in brown paper, had seemed to just appear on its own two days ago, and had been staring up at my apartment window ever since.
By Mikayla Veilleux5 years ago in Fiction
Birthday Gift
A knock on the door never felt so terrifying. If this were any other day it wouldn’t worry me as much, but this day is different from the others. Today marks the anniversary of my birth. That may not seem like something worrying to many, but I’m different from other people. I have no friends or family members, and I have recently moved. So the chances of someone knowing my birthday and my address to send me something are very slim, but not impossible.
By Kalina Davis5 years ago in Fiction
how to make memories
day one I was invited to the beach today, but they will eventually stop asking me, after a while, when they realise, I never go. Summer is just not my season for fun. I make a different excuse every time, but eventually the walls will close in around me. Someone will ask a direct question and I will either answer them, or I will be able to wriggle out of it somehow. I am used to avoiding the question now.
By Joanna McLoughlin5 years ago in Fiction
The Box
It’s a Sunday afternoon in January and Vanessa is sitting in her bedroom watching TV. Vanessa is 21 years old and is attending college. She plans to graduate early, cutting a year off her college years and will have a degree in Sociology. She has a pretty normal life. She is still dating her high school sweetheart and they are both attending The University of California Berkeley.
By Elliot Doyle5 years ago in Fiction
Young Blood, Act I
Amy Franklin wasn’t exactly thrilled for even the concept of the night ahead of her. At thirteen, who could possibly feel any form of excitement to hang around a bunch of adults and some kid they didn’t know? Sitting awkwardly and listening about what politicians her parents did and didn’t like wasn’t exactly “good times” in her opinion.
By Stephen Newton5 years ago in Fiction
