Arthur E Nickles
Stories (3)
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Race
When you are moving at 130 kilometers an hour the world on either side of the road is really nothing more than a blur. A blur of browns and greys. And the road before you stands strangely still, so long as you straddle the yellow lines. It can become almost mesmeric with the sound of the engine superseding any other noise, the blurry lines to either side, the dark sunbaked black top shifting imperceptibly, and those yellow lines switching to dotted and solid creating an unreadable pattern like a secret code speaking to your soul.
By Arthur E Nickles5 years ago in Fiction
Liminal
I found it at a bus stop. Waiting for the 8:15 from downtown to the Park’s Ridge neighborhood so I could walk thirty minutes home. There was plenty of people around me and even though it was dark the bus stop’s lights made is safely bright. It was, like a crack in a door, between a tall trashcan and Coke machine. It wasn’t much brighter than the place around it but it was just bright enough to make this strange thin rectangle stand out of place with the rest of the environment.
By Arthur E Nickles5 years ago in Fiction
Only in the Face
It always got its blood. He was chubby but in that stocky way a man gets when they aren’t tall and thin and gone to fat but have a hidden layer of old muscle on their bones. Probably had been a laborer or furniture mover and now he was drinking a six pack a day and downing a bag of Cheetos while watching big time wrestling on channel 2. He was covered in hair, dark and thick, his head and jaw unruly and except his upper lip which he must have shaved quickly, probably only minutes ago. It was stubbly and had red spots of fresh blood coagulating on it. The beard was shiny, and she wondered if he’d bothered to use some kind of fancy beard oil on it or if it was just sweat.
By Arthur E Nickles5 years ago in Fiction
