Horror
The Oneironaut
I knew it was a dream the moment I opened my eyes. I almost always do. There’s nothing about the dreamscape that’s strange to me now, but that wasn’t always true. When I was a kid, I had terrible nightmares, the sort you can only escape by waking up—usually screaming. There’s a reason for that, of course. A dark and twisted reason which rational adults refuse to entertain. But then one day I learned how to take control, and I officially became a weaver of Oneiria: The plane of dreams and nightmares. Within it, I no longer have a reason to fear.
By Jo Carroll4 years ago in Fiction
The Enthusiast
The fish don’t give a shit, I think, and it was at this point I realised I’d crossed a boundary and become a moody drunk. As I stood watching them, clutching a warm lager like a comfort blanket, they continued to swim out their tiny, insignificant lives, round the ornamental castle, through the moneywort and the torrent of bubbles from the filter, round the castle again, completely incognisant of the bacchanal on my side of the tank wall. Lucky bastards. Wish I was a fish. I bet they couldn’t even hear the thump of the bass from the party classics belting out of the ruinously expensive stereo on the other side of the room. Do fish hear? Or do they just feel vibrations in the water? Or isn’t that essentially the same thing anyway, “hearing” being an anthropocentric word to describe the experience of external stimuli? And why am I thinking about this now? When it comes to fish, my only concern should surely be the bigger ones I currently have to fry, but we’ll get there.
By Will Tudge4 years ago in Fiction
Coma Dreams
It is blackest night and I am in dark water. But this water, it is not water, it is something else - a viscid, clinging liquid. It is one moment cold, the next warm. I start to sink but there is an island next to me and I grip it’s shore. Island is a generous term, more of a sandbar really. But I am thankful for it nonetheless.
By Michael Mayr4 years ago in Fiction
Gogh Helped Lily Overcome Her Darkness
That winter's late evening was dreadfully cold, one could feel the chill enter the bones, and Lily standing by the front door of the run-down house, shivered and coughed and she only wore a white dirty T-shirt and cotton pants not enough to keep her warm. What was Lily doing outside when the thermometer read 34 degrees Fahrenheit, was she punished for doing something wrong? Any good mother wouldn't do that to a small child threatening her welfare and possibly dying from the frigid weather. Hypertension was settling in and she screamed for help. For how long could Lily have endured such cruelty? Who could do such an unthinkable deed when the wind harsh battered the windows and frost thickened?
By Andrew Crisci4 years ago in Fiction
To Sell a Soul
I knew that I shouldn’t have agreed to go in this chamber. I suspected that something was off when I saw the escorts, strange men with white masks and black suits who ushered me into the secret space. They said nothing and for a moment I was not sure they could speak. Maybe the horror that they were leading me to had even robbed them of that basic function. The inside soon confirmed all of my fears. Pentagrams made of a red liquid which I hoped to God was not blood covered the floor, several of them scattered throughout. Owls perched on skeletal shaped roosts, eyes gaunt in their faces as they stared at me. Paintings of Baphomet covered the wall and their gaze seemed to follow me as I walked deeper into the room.
By Zay Aeternum4 years ago in Fiction
Broken Face Inception
She doesn't believe in superstitions but her family does. She says its just another false fear created by people. She broke the bathroom mirror a couple of days ago and her family is teasing her about having seven years of bad luck. She doesn't them any mind about that. "Days have passed and still no bad luck." She says to her family at dinner. They still tease her though.
By Monika Battle4 years ago in Fiction
Again
Waking up in the rhythm of the day, each morning like the one before. Rising up from the same small bed in the same small bedroom in the same small apartment. Showering with the same bottles of shampoo and body wash, drying himself with the same towel and eating the same toast. Joe gets dressed in the same outfit. A white button-down shirt with a dark brown tie tied with the same knot every day with the same black dress pants and with the same black dress shoes. It's always cold in the wintertime so he grabs his jacket from the coat rack, picking up his suitcase he steps out of his apartment, locking it with the one key on his key ring. The light in the small hallway is flickering, something different. The light always shines too bright but not this time. Outside walking down the street, some cars driving by, streets buses stopping and going, some shops starting to open up. It's still dark this early in the morning. Joe with his face down down on his chin using his overcoat collar to shield him from the chill and slight gusts of wind. He steps into the same coffee shop he always go's to. The bell on the door ringing, moving his head up from his coat he approaches the counter. "Good morning, Jane" Joe says "Good morning, Joe" Jane says giving him a smile "The usual?" she asks knowing the answer to the question. Jane then gives him his black coffee and Joe pays with a five-dollar bill, dropping the change in the tip jar before heading out back into the cold streets, his coffee will keep one hand warm. Still walking down the sidewalk for a few more blocks Joe finally arrives at the bus shelter. He sets down his briefcase and sips his coffee. While waiting for the bus a woman in a red coat approaches the shelter (something that is also different) and stands on the far side of it, also waiting for the bus. The bus arrives. Joe gets on the bus. So does she, the woman in the red coat. Sitting near the back Joe is looking out the bus widow as it drives down the street. Though there are plenty of people on the bus Joe can see the woman in the red coat from where he is sitting, her back towards him. The bus eventually comes to a stop, and Joe gets off at this stop. The same spot he gets off at everyday. The bus stops outside a large building home to an array of grey cubicles. Many cubicles and very few offices. Joe sits down in his after walking the many rows of others to finally reach his workspace. On his desk is; a desktop computer, a mug holding three pens and one pencil, a mouse pad and a mouse. Also, a poster to his right with a kitten holding onto a branch with "Hang In There" written in bold black letters (every cubicle has this poster) Joe sits down on his grey swivel chair and places his briefcase on the desk, opening it and pulling out papers, folders, and papers in folders. Setting all of them on his desk, he begins working. The day is gone because the night has come. Joe is standing outside his office building in the cold, slightly shivering while waiting for the bus. It comes. He gets on it, but it is busy, so he has to stand. Looking around the bus he sees the woman in the red coat, sitting down in the spot he was in this morning. Finally, the bus arrives at the shelter and he steps off the bus from the front exit and the woman in the red coat steps off from the rear. He pauses slightly taking a breath before walking home, the woman in the red coat walks away too, in the other direction. Joe walking down the street, the same side of the sidewalk he walks everyday and every night, passing by the coffee shop at the same time every night. He looks through the window of the shop and sees Jane, wiping the counter (as usual) and keeps walking back to his apartment. The light in the hallway is still flickering as he opens the door with his key. Entering the the room, he sets down his briefcase, takes off his coat and hangs it, removes his shoes, loosens his tie and walks into the small bedroom, laying down on the bed he stares up at the ceiling.
By Jackson Picco 4 years ago in Fiction
The Things In The Woods
There were two rules when it came to playing out in the back garden, One, stay where mum can see you and two, be gentle with each other. John and Mary Carter weren't very good at following the second rule. When you're busy playing pirates and thieves, there isn't much time to be gentle.
By Amayia Hardware4 years ago in Fiction
