Samuel Alten
Stories (5)
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Junk
He leaned over the side of the bed, pulling on his right shoe before silently placing it on the tiled floor. It was two in the morning, the moon high in the night sky, the only light in the darkness of the room; though dim, he could see everything. It had been two days since he’d slept, a mix of pills, coke, and ecstasy keeping awake. He pulled on the same pair of pants he’d worn for days, smelling his work shirts for the cleanest before opening the top drawer of his dresser where the drugs he so desperately craved were; two guns he’d bought in the hood rested beside them, almost like trophies to him.
By Samuel Alten3 years ago in Confessions
Sour Apples
I loved you like a brother once, but now I don’t know how to feel. I look back, at the good times and the bad. The arguments and fights. The laughs and jokes. Part of me hates you, wants to make you suffer, to hurt, to know the anguish you caused me. Part of me wants to reconcile and fix this whole mess. But I have to meet in the middle, we aren’t friends, but I’d like to think we aren’t enemies either.
By Samuel Alten4 years ago in Confessions
Rock in the Dark
He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his shoes on, cigarette bobbing loosely between his lips. He glanced back, her silhouette easily visible in the darkness of the room. He could see her, watching him, her blue eyes shining with the little light the moon shined in through the blinds on the windows.
By Samuel Alten4 years ago in Fiction
Reflections
He stood on the side of the highway, an officer standing beside him, his wrists shackled together in handcuffs, a police sergeant and the officer that pulled him over were going through his car. He was twenty-three, it was six days before his birthday. He was going to Atlantic City just the next weekend with his friends, a drug fueled night of crazy partying, maybe go to a club, but honestly, they’d probably never leave the house.
By Samuel Alten4 years ago in Fiction
Night Fishing
Dad crumpled up the local paper, tossing it on the empty seat beside him with a huff. The main article was about two fisherman that had vanished three nights ago during one of the harvest fogs over Lake Ridley; legend has it that during the foggy nights, it’s the best time to catch the fish usually hidden in the depths, but just as dangerous. A couple years back, Old Man Spencer pulled a massive catfish, setting a county record! I really wanted to go at least once, but Dad would tell me no, that it was too dangerous.
By Samuel Alten4 years ago in Horror
