Horror
MR.Violence: The HitchHiker
Five Days Ago. Raphael Jameson aka MR. Violence is an honorable Vietnam Veteran who is considered a hero with multiple awards and honors had become a professor at Victoria College in Victoria, Texas enjoying teaching young minds about Psychology and English Literature until A Series of brutal murders around campus. Raphael was recruited by a Texas Detective who was impressed by his Vietnam record to help track down the killer and also profile him.
By Victor Robinson II3 years ago in Fiction
Spaghetti Family part 13, not real, a spare
“No!” I collapse on the steering wheel, sobbing. “Not Robin! You can’t—can’t take him from us… from me!” I bang my fists over and over again near the dashboard and wheel and hurt my hands, producing raw and slightly bleeding skin on my knuckles. “Damnit!”
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 years ago in Fiction
A macabre profession
I crept into the crypt intent upon a grim and grizzly task. Having scaled the walls of the cemetery after darkness and prized open the door to the vault, I crouched just inside, silently waiting and listening for any movement outside. I could hear nothing but the wind in the distant trees and saw no sign that my nocturnal visit had been noticed. Leaving the door open a fraction, I cautiously covered the crack with my coat before lighting a small dip and venturing further inside. I did not want any patrolling rozzer to look through the graveyard gates and notice a flickering light from within.
By Raymond G. Taylor3 years ago in Fiction
Orange Gulper
Orange Gulper oozed slightly up from the bottom of the pond, glancing up from the glinting moon-lit, murky water, and gulped soundlessly at the fat, orange fish flirting about the surface. The lily pads and lotus blooms kissed the goldfish and their swishing, colorful tails.
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 years ago in Fiction
Tales from the Cooinda Cycle: Memory Seven
My head throbbed, the pain was nauseating and I felt as if I was going to faint, or throw up… or both. But I couldn’t do that, and I couldn’t stop. I was making the tenth free drink for the day, and trying to serve another that I had just completed making. There had never been this many residents at the cafe at one time, as well as the regulars around this time, there were faces I’ve never seen here.
By Savannah K. Wilson3 years ago in Fiction
END PAPER
Lucien Booker had a reasonably profitable business, as well as an apposite surname and a very bookish demeanour to go with it. It had always been a family story that the Booker Prize was, in fact, connected with them. It wasn’t. It was just a fanciful notion promulgated by a grandfather who had more creative imagination than sense which was offset by a good nose for the book trade, even in his dotage when he came up with the notion. Hence, ‘Booker’s Independent Book Shop’, despite all the odds, was still going strong some 100 years after it was founded in Victorian buildings whose antecedents had been a public lending library and an early photographic studio. A mock Gothic structure, it lent the premises an air of authority and verisimilitude which had stood the business in good stead over the years. It looked like a proper book store. One where you could get lost amongst the shelves. One where you could pick up long out of print volumes at - it has to be said - a hefty mark up, but apparently worth it to Lucien’s clientele, because the antiquarian trade was probably worth more to the business than the modern stock.
By Malcolm Twigg3 years ago in Fiction
Frisson
The video game appeared in great detail. It showcased a melange of colors and sounds. The first player shooter popped on the lense of the VR headset. Landon Holton, six foot and brown skin wearing a burgundy jacket with gold trim, black jeans and vintage sneakers, whipped his arms around like he was lassoing a horse. He never heard the door to his Newark, Delaware apartment open due to his engagement with the game.
By Skyler Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
