The thing that was wearing my mother’s face smiled at me. She, It invited me into the house, too long fingers clicking against the door. I had run before, but it avoided the questions with enough tact to almost convince me. Almost, until it turned its smile and it’s glassy, staring eyes on me.
I could see myself in those eyes, scared and thin and frail. Other things, with other faces had chased me for years. But now I had come to them.
They were all at table.
I gripped the detonator in my pocket and stepped through the door.
About the Creator
Alexander McEvoy
Writing has been a hobby of mine for years, so I'm just thrilled to be here! As for me, I love writing, dogs, and travel (only 1 continent left! Australia-.-)
"The man of many series" - Donna Fox
I hope you enjoy my madness
AI is not real art!
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More stories from Alexander McEvoy and writers in Fiction and other communities.
Fields of Ash
"Nevermore," croaked the massive black bird from the one-eyed old man's shoulder. "He's dead, Memory. He can't hear you." Memory looked from one burned corpse to the next, bright black eyes consuming the scene. So many dead. Which ones would the old man choose?
By Alexander McEvoy3 years ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
This was so intense and amazingly written! I really enjoyed this, still sucked in a little and wishing I knew what happened next! 💜 Also, apologies for the many notifications from me today!! I've decided today was the perfect day to explore more of your page! 😊
All of your usual eloquence, distilled. Excellent! 😁