Chris Restoule
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Stories (7)
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A First-Hand Account of Evil
Arthur Korrigan slammed his hands down on the desk in front of him. "Why are we stalling on this? That monster is sitting four doors down the hall and we could have the truth out of him in five minutes! What are you so hesitant about, Joss? The optics? The world has shattered and yet the Police Chief still wants to play politics?"
By Chris Restoule4 years ago in Fiction
On Thin Ice
An icy wind swept over the alpine trees. It raced over their crowns, driving frost across the crystalline waters of the lake. Erin awoke with a start, blinking and shielding her eyes against the gale. She lay in the middle of the frozen expanse, her long black hair splayed out in every direction from where she had been dumped unceremoniously. The water had been frozen into jagged edges as if it had been solidified during a tumultuous storm, giving the lake an eerie, alien feel. Erin tried to remember what brought her here as she struggled to stand. Her legs felt like jelly and her arms were equally weak, but she forced herself to her feet. As she stood, breathing raggedly, eyes half shut against the wind, a voice boomed out.
By Chris Restoule4 years ago in Fiction
An Important Delivery
Bleak, gray sky peeked through the green pine canopy overhead, casting a gloomy pallor over the forest floor. The shadow of a man flicked from tree to tree, keeping to the darkness gathering around the tall, wide trunks. The pine needle bed of the forest floor crackled under his feet as he sped from cover to cover. The scent of pine sap clung to his hand, and pine needles stuck out from his hair. He moved quickly, only pausing briefly under each tree to scout his path to the next, eyes wide and alert. The man's dark, shabby clothes were the only things he bore, save a small, square package wrapped in brown paper that he had tucked under his arm.
By Chris Restoule4 years ago in Fiction
For Ember
The pitter-patter of little feet was the only warning Erin got. She sprang away from the cake she was decorating, almost taking it and the rest of the table with her. Reaching the door only seconds before the quickly approaching whirlwind, she held it shut and called out softly.
By Chris Restoule5 years ago in Fiction
Survivor
Her hands trembled. Exhaustion racked her body. Dusty air choked her lungs as cobwebs clung to her hair and face. The skin on her hands was cracked and bleeding, her muscles groaning in protest of every movement. Her clothes were torn and the pack she wore held on by the merest threads. Her rifle lay at her feet, its stock cracked, its ammunition spent. She sat against the rotting beams of the hayloft she cowered in, sucking in air, trying to stifle every cough and groan. Her body begged her to rest, to cease its struggle, to simply drift off into unconsciousness. But she could not, for it was still out there, and she knew it would come for her soon.
By Chris Restoule5 years ago in Fiction
The Attack on Ardholm
Lucas Cainswright shifted his weight uneasily on the tree branch he was perched upon, squinting against the setting sun. He had been up here for hours and, despite his most fervent wishes, had exhausted all pretenses of a comfortable watch when night had begun to fall. He distinctly remembered Joss telling him this would be a simple reconnaissance mission. "Just a quick there and back." he'd said. The fact that Joss had bribed Lucas with free weapons-work without provocation should have tipped him off. Instead, here he was, in the dead of night, some eighty feet off the ground, still watching the settlement that lay a half-mile to the north.
By Chris Restoule5 years ago in Fiction
That Which We Live For
tick. tick. tick. tick. tick. A grizzled man sat on the porch of a rundown home, staring absently into his palm. The leathers he wore were dirty and torn, held together by the meagerest of repairs, and the skin on his hands and face were equally cracked and caked with mud. His beard was long and unkempt, with broad shocks of grey throughout. Tired eyes stared out of deep sockets, sparing attention for only that which he held in front of him; a silver, heart-shaped locket, immaculately polished so that it glinted in the setting sun, reflecting its shape back onto his weathered face.
By Chris Restoule5 years ago in Fiction
