Horror
The Devil's paradise
The wooden door creaked open when Officer Thomas Richardson kicked it with his boots. He strongly gripped a pistol for the safety measures and progressed into the darkness of Mrs. Catherine Earnest’s basement. It was pitch black and anything could be hardly witnessed to the human eye. When he stepped in, a strong pungent odor smashed his breathing ability. Officer Richardson covered his nose and mouth by a small piece of napkin from his pocket. Slowly behind him, two other officers walked into the basement holding torches. The beam of flash managed to wipe out the darkness and guide them further. It was an eerie environment like a deserted place. No noise was echoed except their footsteps. There were broken and old furniture shattered all over the basement. The walls were roughly painted; the wallpapers were torn and it was cold inside there.
By Jayashree M5 years ago in Fiction
Brown Sugar
I am inexplicably, unconditionally, irrevocably in love with him. The way he looks down when he smiles yet the corners of his lips turn up, its manic what he does to me its like death and life combined to form him in the image of their deepest desires in a manifested, physical form.
By Emma Ewart5 years ago in Fiction
Ape See, Ape Do
The heavy rain was deafening on the truck’s loose roof paneling but it wasn’t enough to drown out the noise of the old diesel engine screaming in protest as Wyatt forced it into the next stiff gear. Wyatt bounced jarringly in his seat as he slid around a corner followed by the stress-inducing sound of cargo tumbling in the back of the truck. Either the contents fell or the truck's panels had finally given out. He hoped it wasn’t the cargo; he couldn’t afford more truck repairs but losing the product would mean he wouldn't be paid either. His phone glowed on the dashboard as his destination came into view: a large theatre, painted red, trimmed with gold and illuminated by glowing signs of upcoming acts. Wyatt picked up his phone.
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
The Library Voyeur
My dearest readers, how kind of you to join me on this fine evening. What am I doing here and what are we observing - you ask? Well, we are here for my favourite subject. Don’t be fooled by how ordinary he looks; I promise you he is worth the watch.
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
The Embalmer's Husband
With the passing of her husband, it was no surprise to anyone that Rita withdrew from public life and the glare of the spotlight into which Estan’s job had so often dragged her. Preferring always the intimate company of her husband in their cottage, it was testament to conjugal devotion that she was invariably found on his arm at any and all social functions he was called on to attend. A loyal wife from the instant she uttered her vows, Rita’s devotion had been repaid by Estan’s unquestioning acceptance of her pastimes, which some might have said bordered on the macabre and were certainly well ensconced in the realms of the unusual.
By Jodie Adam5 years ago in Fiction
The End Begins At The Edge Of The World
The long daylight hours had slipped away from the world into what Ødger was sure to be a short, cold night. Ødger eyed the Knarr sailing well ahead of his own as the wind rushed into their sails and blew salty air through his thick beard. He gripped his gloved hands tighter on the hilt of his sword, squinting against the sea spray, trying not to lose the dim light of the ship ahead sinking into the darkness.
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
The Sandman
“Have you heard those stories about the Sandman and his children? You know, the folklore about how the Sandman rips out children’s eyes and feeds them to his kids? Or maybe that is just a horror movie, I can’t really remember now . . . anyway, I don’t think they’re true,” I said, swirling my wine in its glass with a small frown dipping my brow.
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
Hellfire and Kindness
My world is one of black and white. Of good and evil. My world is after mankind's destruction. Sobs and hysteria echo about the empty valleys and cities now where there was once endless noise, a mixture of good and bad and anywhere in between. Laughter is rarely heard and when it is, it is looked down upon with terror as if the very idea or thought, or sound of joy might bring more devastation to the surface of our world.
By Hope Martin8 years ago in Fiction
