Roger Bundridge
Bio
Let's see what my mind can come up with, shall we? So many ideas, very little motivation.
Stories (7)
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A Cabin of Friends
“The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Where it used to be orange, the candle now bled a bright crimson. The Camp Muddlebrooke Counselors were confused; one even got a little nervous but she kept it inside. The woman who had died in this house had been dead for over sixty years, long before any of them were ever born, and nobody dared step foot on this land. As the group of counselors stare into the red light in the window, some of their childhood fear comes back to them in whispers on the wind. The story follows a woman who made a mistake, and the single mistake cost her her life. She’d forgotten to blow out the candle, and by the time she returned with a child from the camp, her home was in flames. Camp Muddlebrooke burned her there shortly after, adults and childrens alike. They watched her die on the steps silently. She didn’t even scream.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Horror
They Swim in the Stars
Dear Mother, I didn’t mean to kill them, not really. It wasn’t my idea. It was the clouds. Mother, you have to believe me. I don’t know if you are getting my letters, but I need you to continue reading; you have to know it all. I could be telling you all of this now because of my guilt, maybe it’s the fact that my hair is coming out in clumps, or maybe I’m telling you now because of the stress rash I get on my stomach when I dwell over it for too long in one night. Maybe it’s paranoia. I look over my shoulder more times in one minute than anybody should in their entire life. The clouds, Mother, they were so loud, so convincing. They might kill me now, they’ve gone silent. We can convince them to take the both of us, I know we can. I’m getting off topic.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Fiction
Temple Wings
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. I can remember running around with my friends day after day, fighting each other with sticks and rolling around in the dirt. Our mothers would scold us and make us wash up before dinner. We would do it, of course, but we wouldn’t be happy about it. Then one day, from the sun, they dripped with molten sun spots and burned everything in their path. Men in white armor lined with pieces of bright light came from the woods and grabbed everyone they could. The sun burned brighter and moved closer to watch. Those who resisted were slaughtered. My best friend was one of them, and I can still hear her scream. I can hear it now, it echoes through the depths of the mountains as I let out muddled sorrow. The last memory I have of her, on her knees, arms and throat slit as an offering before her body became agonizing fire and then ash. I watch her die all over again. Then my other friends, our other village families. All lined up in the center of the Valley’s main trail, they were cut and they were angry, and they screamed. Every single one. It blocked out the wind until they became it themselves. I screamed with them, but not at the sun, it was at the guard that held me. I squirmed and snapped my teeth, because next was my family. My father, a man hidden behind dirt and grime with the purest of smiles. My mother, a small woman with a heart bigger than her body. My brother, a couple months old but was already determined to gnaw through my finger. None of them were forced to the ground. The last thing I saw on their faces were looks of shock as tendrils of light slithered through the clouds and pulled them up into the sky until they were a memory. The guard tossed me to the ground and sneered down at me.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Fiction
A House and Their Screams
Broken pavement, the dying leaves dance a fading waltz underneath the darkened sky. In between the feet of laughing trick-or-treaters leaves are broken and left behind, twirling into a non-threatening tornado that disperses seconds later. A white picket fence neighborhood on the night of Halloween. Two story houses across from and next to other houses that only differentiated in terms of color. The house at the end of the street, last one before the turn that leads to the highway into the city part of Elea. A house of deep maroon siding and black shutters with grey curtains drawn so tight not even a scream could be heard. Behind the sleek lie of perfection is an unhappy wife, by the name of Mrs. Barker, who had called over her neighbor, Mr. Winfrode, a few hours ago.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Horror
Deal Me Love
What if the people of the world had a set ending and beginning? What if that ending was love, the beginning, death. What if it was simply made a possibility? The people are dealt the cards at the beginning of their life, by the hands of fate or the creatures in the shadows, nobody can really tell the difference at this point; but everything in their life is calculated to the tiniest bit of chance. Of course, they are unaware of the reality in which they live. It is a behind the seams story. One of cause and one of effect.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Horror
Sewed Eyes
My head snaps back as he grabs onto my hair with one hand and squeezes my waist with the other. The wind covers our final moans like a blanket would cover a scared child. The skin of my hands press further and tighter against the peeled paint of the barn, forgetting the chance of a splinter and living in the moment of ecstasy. Xavier’s head rests against my exposed back once he finishes entirely, and I can feel his hot breath send relaxing shivers up my spine. The feeling is short though, because before we can relish in the exhaustion for too long he is putting his clothes back on. My hands pull away from the barn and I feel the cold beginning to travel through the hairs on my arms, sinking into the flesh that was hot and sweaty moments ago.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Horror
Crops
He had been the host of a party, a holiday gathering of friends and business partners. Too much food was eaten and too much drinking was done. Once everybody had left he had wandered up the stairs of his home, he remembers it feeling like a year long journey. He had plopped onto his comforter and passed out fully dressed in suit and tie. The wind woke him up, white dots sparked in his half lidded vision. A fire that had burned in his stomach the night before had traveled to his head while he slept. When he attempted to get to his feet, the dots increased and the fire raged, forcing him back onto the bed. The desire to lay in bed, sweating in uncomfortable clothes and plagued with a desert cracked mouth was strong, but the pain in his head was stronger. Through the pain, he fumbled for clothes in the dark until he was in a short-sleeve shirt and a pair of pajama pants. The hallway passed in groggy shadows and the linoleum of the kitchen was cold on his feet. He ran his hands under the kitchen sink's water and splashed it onto his face. With a tilt of his body, he took a drink. The cracks of his tongue filled to full the more he swallowed. Through tired vision and cold fingers, a ball of light treaded carefully down into the snow beyond his barn, beyond his yard, and towards the edge of his fields. It was pure as the snow, he remembered thinking. It was untouched by the world. Had he chalked the sight off to be the alcohol, he never would have gone outside. He never would have put on his boots, winter coat, and a hat and bared the biting wind. The snow was already up to his ankles, but he ran. He pushed, collapsed, got back up, and ran harder. The wind took his hat, but he took the wind’s friends. The snowflakes that melted on his skin. In many ways, both of them were monsters. Wind and man. Both not feeling mercy. He was desperate to know. The grogginess was gone and all of his body felt free when he passed his barn, when he crossed the threshold of his fields without a crunch of the snow because it was fresh and weak. He couldn’t hear his own breath over the screaming of the night. As he got closer and closer, the white turned to gold and all of his pain turned to peace; he sank to his knees to get a closer look and remember how it felt to breathe.
By Roger Bundridge4 years ago in Confessions
