Short Stories
Expiation
Part of the Trigger Warning: Curses Anthology.
These stories delve into a myriad of visions brought to life by some of the most twisted and brilliant minds in horror today.
These stories delve into a myriad of visions brought to life by some of the most twisted and brilliant minds in horror today.
First Published: Madness Heart Press, December 28 2022 , “Expiation”
An unfortunate Accident
The Place Where Everyone’s Name is Fear is a charity anthology featuring short stories, essays and poems written by a diverse group of authors. The collection aims to raise awareness and funds for various women’s rights organizations.
First Published: Outcast Press, December 28 2022 , “An Unfortunate Accident”
A Man
"I have died many times. Sometimes I need five minutes to die again."
First Published: Misery Tourism, August 30 2022 , “A Man”
100-word stories
Amercement Traction Machine
I exist here now, ever since my visit to the Sentence Assignment Surgeon.
I don't move. Patrons come to me. Some laugh. Few show pity. I cannot respond to any; speech has been taken from me.
They press codes into my flesh. My skin taught over this inhuman shape.
Their request crawls up my throat and passes through my lips. The judge's sentence focused on giving to account for all of my taking, and in this giving, I have no choice.
Hanging on the wall, waiting for the next customer. Each transaction diminishing what remains of my being.
I don't move. Patrons come to me. Some laugh. Few show pity. I cannot respond to any; speech has been taken from me.
They press codes into my flesh. My skin taught over this inhuman shape.
Their request crawls up my throat and passes through my lips. The judge's sentence focused on giving to account for all of my taking, and in this giving, I have no choice.
Hanging on the wall, waiting for the next customer. Each transaction diminishing what remains of my being.
Broken
This isn't what they were intended for. They were built to cut through the air, to soar, not to pull me along the blacktop. That is all they can do now. The thing came when I wasn't looking, and now my legs don't work. I cannot find a perch. I cannot find the air beneath me. Face down, I look into the black death, hard and sticky in the heat.
More pass me by as I crawl to the grass to die.
Wings weren't made for this. I wasn't made for this. Why didn't they stop?
More pass me by as I crawl to the grass to die.
Wings weren't made for this. I wasn't made for this. Why didn't they stop?
A little bug
"It's just a little bug," her father said as he ran the bath.
"No, it isn't!" she protested as the creature was swept away. "How would you like it if someone did that to you?"
That night as she slept, a voice whispered.
"Fear not, for one day you'll grow tall and strong, and no one will wash you away."
In her dreams, she towered over a city, stomping through it, floods washing away the citizens below. On her shoulders rested tiny creatures, inconsequential to some but millions in number.
She saw her father running.
"It's just a little bug."
"No, it isn't!" she protested as the creature was swept away. "How would you like it if someone did that to you?"
That night as she slept, a voice whispered.
"Fear not, for one day you'll grow tall and strong, and no one will wash you away."
In her dreams, she towered over a city, stomping through it, floods washing away the citizens below. On her shoulders rested tiny creatures, inconsequential to some but millions in number.
She saw her father running.
"It's just a little bug."
First Published: Friday Flash Fiction, March 11 2022 , “A Little Bug”
Losing my place
It had only cost me $2, but it was important. Of course, I could replace it, but it was mine, and I'd know that it was out there, lost in the world.
Like you.
I retraced my steps down the quiet avenue in the hazy morning light. Finally, after ten minutes of anxious searching, I found it laying at my feet. Picking it up, I flicked to my last known page in the book and slipped the rescued bookmark in. I briefly felt the happiness that only comes when something thought lost is found again.
Unlike you.
I walked on.
Like you.
I retraced my steps down the quiet avenue in the hazy morning light. Finally, after ten minutes of anxious searching, I found it laying at my feet. Picking it up, I flicked to my last known page in the book and slipped the rescued bookmark in. I briefly felt the happiness that only comes when something thought lost is found again.
Unlike you.
I walked on.
Endless Lives
I sit in the bathroom reading while I take care of business.
Reaching the end of the chapter I decide it's time for me to leave the room.
I turn the book over. It's pre-owned and has an old yellowing sticker on its rear. Far broader than it is tall, I peel the sticker off.
As one does, I roll it up between my thumb and forefinger along its longest edge. I do it slightly off-axis to form a spiraling cone that tapers at the end. It looks a little like a rifle bullet in its casing.
I am the only person who will ever see this spiral.
This spiral is made from paper. That paper is from a tree that died.
The glue is partially formed from rubber, from oil, from long-dead creatures.
Endless lives have now culminated into this minuscule new form that I have constructed as a simple, passing enjoyment.
I am the only person who will ever see it.
I consider putting it in the trash. Its life has been lived and is now done.
But I don't.
I keep it.
It is mine alone.
Reaching the end of the chapter I decide it's time for me to leave the room.
I turn the book over. It's pre-owned and has an old yellowing sticker on its rear. Far broader than it is tall, I peel the sticker off.
As one does, I roll it up between my thumb and forefinger along its longest edge. I do it slightly off-axis to form a spiraling cone that tapers at the end. It looks a little like a rifle bullet in its casing.
I am the only person who will ever see this spiral.
This spiral is made from paper. That paper is from a tree that died.
The glue is partially formed from rubber, from oil, from long-dead creatures.
Endless lives have now culminated into this minuscule new form that I have constructed as a simple, passing enjoyment.
I am the only person who will ever see it.
I consider putting it in the trash. Its life has been lived and is now done.
But I don't.
I keep it.
It is mine alone.
