Horror
Ode to the Inspiration that Launched it All
My name was on it, but not much else. The heroic soul who went out of their pretty little way to save my package from the clutches of a conniving postman who desperately tried to get a peek as she claimed neighbors should look out for each other. “Is that why a piece of your press-on is stuck under the tape,” I said, not honestly expecting an answer despite her immediate and silent eye roll as I shut the door in her face. I gather the box in a box is a better defense, although looking at it, I couldn’t imagine what I ordered that would need a thick iron casing. A five-by-four-inch cask with no label stamp or company name. Without my address under my elegantly stenciled title, it’s no wonder it sat in the lobby of my building with a Thieving Thelma. Where’s the handle, latch, or thin flush line that indicated this wasn’t a poorly measured, unfinished die? Sharp edges and corners left me looking at it like an oversized Rubric’s Cube lacking the where with all of a first move. Amid contemplating whether a box cutter blade would be thin enough to probe for a hidden prompt built within, it snapped open so hard the twenty-pounder leaped against gravity’s direct order, landing in a thud that left scratched on the lazily done wood finish. “I’m calling Chelsey.”
By Willem Indigo3 years ago in Fiction
The Teller
“In twelve days, you’ll find everything you’re looking for, Ms. Harmsworth. You’ll be able to pay everything back in no time at all,” I told her. The future I saw for her was bleak, unable to pay back the loan the bank was going to give her, so they would foreclose on her house and sell off her assets. It didn’t matter to me, the bank was paying me to ignore the negative visions and use my reputation as the world’s greatest psychic to convince people to take a loan.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 years ago in Fiction
Run
The sun was just coming up over the mountains as the low fuel light came on and Penelope dug through her black bag for her last cigarette. She was going to need to pull over soon. Her ass went numb three hundred miles ago and she needed to pee. Leaving her cigarette dangling from her lips, she rummaged through the center console for a lighter and looked in her rearview mirror at her smeared eyeliner and messy hair. She took a long drag of her cigarette as she lit it and tossed the lighter onto the passenger seat. She exhaled, watching the smoke swirl around her eyes and into her ears in a comforting cloud before reaching for the hand crank to roll down her window. The air was crisp and blowing snowflakes huddled together on the side of the lonely road. Ahead she could see the dull glow of the faded neon lights of a service station. As she drew closer, her 1984 Ford Fairmont began to shudder, begging for fuel.
By E.N. Gussler3 years ago in Fiction
