Kirsten Blyton
Stories (13)
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Death Goes Skydiving
Under the cover of shadow Death made its way towards the plane. Hooking it’s long limbs along the wing Death gripped onto the worn paint. The roar of the engine drowned out its excitement, soon the sky would be above and below. Speeding off down the runway Death’s cloak billowed in the morning air. Air combed its touch across Deaths rattling bones. Gaining altitude the plan shot upward. The sunset warmed its skull, throwing itself from the safety of the wing Death flew towards the ground. The thrill of fear, of life propelled Death down, to kiss the earth below.
By Kirsten Blyton3 years ago in Fiction
How To Rob A Pensioner
How To Rob A Pensioner Matt Brumstine had always been a man of small features; one would call him compact. Small hands, tiny square teeth, like a box within a box. One thing Matt Brumstine wasn’t, however, was predictable. His thoughts ranged from the speed of a dolphin to what time the Queen of England rose for breakfast. The only two things predictable about Matt Brumstine was his symmetry and the fact that he caught the nine-twenty-two bus at exactly seven-o-five every morning. Here we find Brumstine, seated in the middle of a bus shelter bench, staring up at a cloudless sky.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
The Man, The Hat, and The Camera
On Spline street sits a shop, unlike the others that surround it. Rust has painted its door red; its bent-in roof threatens to cave in with every change of the wind. No one remembers it being built. No one remembers anything before it. It’s as if people in the neighbourhood have the same shared memory of this peculiar, four-walled brick building. The old woman who owns it is as bent as its roof. She had never been seen coming or going; a CLOSED or OPEN sign has never hung. Most stay clear of the shop, knowing all too well the strange items that line the dust-filled shelves. But like any place on this Earth, those who don’t know will always go into places they aren’t supposed to.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
King Diarmait
Across a lake that never thaws, through a garden filled with poisonous plants, sits a tree. A tree carved by time, once filled with golden pears along its branches. Those who dared venture through the icy wasteland and the garden that offered intoxicating petals like a curtain of death would find the pear tree. If plucked from its outstretched arms, the fruit would grant the devourer one step forward or backward in time. A year of seasons, known or not yet known. The victor could spend but one day in this time before the pear and all its mystery wore off on the lips of the brave soul that dared search such a prize. Many had sought the tree, but very few had returned home. The tree held protectors close at hand, not made of this world. Throughout history, only one man and one woman reached the tree intact. The tree offered but one pear every ten years; three souls among many stood on the frozen lake's edge- their sights set on retrieving the pear for themselves.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
The Swimming Pool
Slate grey clouds rolled in from across the water, silhouettes of birds flew for cover in the threat of a cold night and biting winds. An abandoned hotel sat in the middle of the fury of the wind and the animals scurrying for safety; the hotel stood without a guest passing through its rooms for a little over a decade. On browning grass and thick weeds that reached for the sky like a beggar, the hotel sat, out of place like it had been built as someone’s afterthought. A building created from a dream, but for the life of them, the person couldn’t remember how the dream ended. It ended like this thought Olivia, being forgotten and left to the elements. Her father, whose blind optimism scared Olivia at times, looked at the hotel like he’d found a treasure of gold hidden under the floorboards. In reality, Olivia saw nothing but decay and wanted to cover the floorboards over, light a match and never look back. Looking forward, her father had bought the hotel from a realtor who rushed the papers as soon as her father expressed interest in the property.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
SYZYGY
The stillness of the tunnel made it difficult for Uri to hear, the thudding of his heartbeat pounded against his ears like an unwelcome guest trying to get in, the threat of more footfalls echoing through the tunnel sat beside his fear like a cat he refused to pet. Not much longer now, and they would be out. They would find the house just as Omer had promised, and they would be safe. They would be safe. Omer clung to Uri’s side, the hole in his chest dropping ribbons of life as they limped forward through the shallow depths of the tunnel. The guard had been a shock to them both, stealing a cigarette break while his post was left unmanned. All it took was that one oversight- the human unpredictability and power of vices for the guard to come at them running, pistol by his hip- squeezing-off bullets into any direction he thought might hit. And with that one thought, one-shot did hit, cutting through and lodging into Omer’s organs. Propping Omer beside a wide tree trunk, Uri had hunted the guard; with what little strength he had left, Uri tracked as close as he dared behind him- a fallen branch gripped between his bony fingers. Swinging the branch and connecting to the guards’ neck with a deafening crunch, his body fell to the brush of the forest. Kicking his lifeless legs, Uri couldn’t help but land a few more against the young faceless soldier before returning to Omer. Taking his pistol for good measure, Uri lifted his friend to his feet, forcing courage and certainty into every paired step they took closer to their freedom. The crate to the tunnel laid beside it, just as Omer had promised. Taking rung after rung against his calloused hands, they moved as quickly as the pain would permit. Minute after minute, step after step, they moved closer to Omer’s memory of a friend’s house in the country and further away from the people they had stripped from their bones in the camps. Uri spoke of the names that belonged to his family with each step, conjuring life into breath. Until each step led them to the last, the ladder at the end of the tunnel. A shaft of moonlight cut through, holding the ladder in an almost luminescent glow of hope.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
Cock N Bull
The icy wind of winter circled the Wenge Inn like a predator waiting in the shadows, its prey in sight. A man entered the Inn. Rubbing his frozen hands together for warmth, the low chatter, flickering lanterns, and faraway fireplace settled him at once, no longer fearing or thinking of the elements that threatened the outside world. Ordering a pint of the house special from the wide-eyed barman, he purchased a room, looking to stay the night on his travel into the promise of business in the local village.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
Lillian Bonner
At the time of her next exhibition, Lilian Bonner was seen as the most influential performance artist of her time. Refusing to be interviewed or questioned on any of her artworks left the public and media intrigued by the woman no one had ever heard speak a word. Choosing for the first time to house her latest performance in an abandoned building that once manufactured wine, a long line of people had encircled the building for days.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
A Friend To You
A man. A man in a suit. A man in a suit holding a bag. No one notices this man, well as one might notice a screen saver or the brightness of a sky. It's usual. He's usual. As it should be, and so is this man. With a brisk walk and a straight back, he knows where he's going. Walking parallel to the train platform, he enters once the flood of prior passengers exit, making way for the new. It's one of those days you don't really remember taking place, one that lands in the middle of the week filled with average weather and ordinary conversation. A day that makes you second guess you even existed in it in the first place. But all of that is about to change. The man holds his parcel close; waiting for his stop, he pushes it behind the cover of his feet. Exiting the train, he doesn't look back.
By Kirsten Blyton4 years ago in Fiction
The Black Mamba in the 'Misery of Bitterness'
Bexley stood balancing herself on the edge of the curb; a soft rain had begun to fall around her- causing strangers to take cover or release the springs of packed umbrellas over their heads. Not her. The rain wasn't a concern of hers. Nothing much was lately, like she had decided that all the monotonous routine of life and society wasn't mandatory for her at the moment. It could lean its pressure on someone else for a while; Bexley had had quite enough thank you. She stood staring at a black corner café, the front window a promise of sweet, peculiar treats. The shop's name 'The Misery of Bitterness' stirred the twitch of a smile, making her focus on the boards out front. The neat scroll of coloured chalk named desserts like 'Gothic gingerbreads,' 'Mamba Mud cake,' 'Crypt Custards,' and 'Immoral ice-cream.' She had been wandering again, making her feet move. One after the other, small even steps and came across it. Bexley wasn't sure which part of town she was even in or if she had entered another; all she knew was that she wanted to go inside. Crossing the streets without checking, a white Volkswagen beetle screeched on its brakes. A short, balding man behind the wheel wound down his window, yelling obscenities at Bexley. His words fell with the rain; she crossed without even a glance his way.
By Kirsten Blyton5 years ago in Fiction
Isabella
If you take a left off Turner Street, follow that down past the broken wheelbarrow that has stood through the turn of the endless seasons and roll your car to the barn at the edge, where two streets split into a straight cross you might see it. The barn. Faded in colour, splintering wood, and cold drafts icy enough to slice right through your skin, it stands. Once a vibrant red, the barn became but a memory of what it once was in all its splendour. Housing only broken things and cover for the many rodents and spider's webs that nest in its eaves no one knows who the barn belongs to. It isn't attached to any property or farmer. Despite its isolation, no spray paint colours its walls. No damage done to its insides. As if it isn't really there in the first place, like the thought of hurting it would be to think about it- something people around this part of the countryside simply didn't do, so the barn stood. Some say the barn stood at the crossing, detailing to great lengths; others said they had never heard or seen of such a barn. To some it existed, to others; it remained an urban legend, a mystery of conversation.
By Kirsten Blyton5 years ago in Fiction
