Kyle Manzione
Stories (7)
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Church
Here I am. My house of worship. No icons, no idols. No clergymen, no hymns. No stained glass, no pointed arches. Soft fabric couches. The blue glow of the television. Warm laughter. Embraces that give me hope, give me strength. Here, my prayers are answered. Here, I am heard. Here, I am known. My beliefs upheld. My safety ensured. Protected from a dark, afar. A small and true congregation of only a few familiar faces. The most familiar. The most free. Be not afraid, in this house. Be myself. Know myself. As I know god, and his name is love.
By Kyle Manzione3 years ago in Poets
To Become
High above the horizon I see myself floating in the sky. The setting sun’s dim golden hue illuminates the pale clouds around me. Weightless, I gaze upon the world beneath me and feel so small in its vastness. I take a deep breath and feel a calmness come over me. Thunder begins to rumble beneath me. Blinding flashes of blue lightning streak across my face. Ominous whirling grey clouds and wild winds of chaotic cyclonic proportion brewed beneath me. I look above me and see that I am suspended from my cloud by thousands of white threads, the only thing keeping me from plummeting into the tumultuous skyscrape beneath me. I feel myself jolt downward slightly as one of my threads snap. Another thread snaps. Another. I watch in horror as thread after thread frays and breaks, and with each one a sudden drop toward doom. The threads begin to snap more rapidly and and I can feel myself being held up by a mere handful of weakening fibers. The deep rumble of the stormy firmament beneath me trembled in my bones as I inched farther and farther down. Until…
By Kyle Manzione4 years ago in Fiction
The Witch House
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. It was the first time I’d seen it since I was a child. My family had always owned it; it happened to be on land my father bought after he married my mother. My parents were hardly the type to entertain tales of the supernatural, and thus the legends of the cabin being “haunted” or home to some to some malevolent entity were laughable to them. I was barely aware of the cabin, until in elementary school, when some of my classmates began to giggle about the ghost stories surrounding it. Some kids called it the “Black Cabin” because of its stacked stone facade the color of bonfire smoke. Most kids however, called it the “Witch House,” because of its supposed inhabitant. It went without saying that a “witch” lived there, but what that “witch” actually was, was never elaborated on by the school children. There was no cauldron or broomstick ever mentioned, nor a wart-nosed, cackling woman. The witch was simply an embodiment of all things spooky and scary (or as much as could be imagined by the innocent mind of a child). The mythos of the Witch House was always a bit murky but one thing was agreed upon: when the candle in the window was lit, the witch was home.
By Kyle Manzione4 years ago in Horror
Scathe of Branches
I once took long walks with my wife in the park. Surrounded by lush greenery we strode, our path lined with mighty evergreen trees and blossoming picturesque plant-life of vibrant color. Each day we would drive our impressively enormous Sport Utility Vehicle to the edge of our trail and venture into the sea of viridescence. After a pleasant yet draining walk, we would remove our portable barbecue from its leather carrying case and proceed to char an array of delicious meats. Shanks of lamb, cuts of beef, patties of various fowl all lightly blackened to a delectable crisp. The aromas that filled my nostrils on those days, the sweet fragrance of rich vegetation, the smoky musk of searing animal flesh, even the flowery perfume on my wife’s skin, I could no longer recall.
By Kyle Manzione5 years ago in Horror
