Horror
Discivilization and Its Contents
It was a leaning in three layers—the world, the city, and its people, all dripping with the weight of household objects in a late-career Van Gogh, sighing as they sunk down and out, eyes and windows and oceans glazed over, caught atop the languid shore between waking nightmare and fevered dream of home. And in another age the people would have fled from underneath the city’s towers, saving children and a few old photographs before they ran to gaze as their cubed homes collapsed; now they’re just too tired. The buildings settle in their abject comforts as they loom, unwilling to let go and fall; the people wander ‘round beneath the shadows, unseeing of the flames and nose blind to the slowly melting steel, trapped inside the warm geometries of youth they conjure in their heads. And of course the world itself falls to the past’s seduction, a romance green and tendrilled overtaking what was built.
By Xander Fuhrer5 years ago in Fiction
Ouroboros
A picture speaks a thousand truths; this picture spoke one truth in particular: a photograph can steal a man’s soul. The photograph of concern rested within a patinated locket molded to the shape of a heart; an illegal symbol that once represented Love, corrupting over millennia by the tides of war to adapt a reputation associated with Satan. Faustus knew the other divers would confiscate the relic if they saw it. He impulsively shut off the camera logging his mission, looking around to see if anyone was looming, surmising he was the only officer frequenting that part of the skyscraper. The photograph casually floated out of its casing and hovered before him. Upon closer inspection, although only shadows remained, Faustus realized that the heart-shaped photograph showcased a portrait of the most beautiful woman he had ever witnessed. As he reached for it, the motion of his lifting hand sent a gust of minutiae flipping the photograph onto its opposing side, revealing a set of numbers that he noticed were coordinates he somewhat recognized. Four numbers underlying the set were completely foreign to him. He began to quietly cite the numbers as the paper softly dissolved into a cloud of withered shreds.
By Brandon Leiner5 years ago in Fiction
Possession.
Part 1 Moss is softer, quieter in the rain. The boy’s shoes made no sound as he stepped into the clearing. Above him swayed a ring of black pines, the highest losing form as they met the heavy clouds. It was not dark. Two beams shot through the forest, making bars on the moss where shadow hit the ground. The boy stayed behind the bars as he stepped forward. The truck was audible now, it’s idling engine puttering above the sound of rain on pine. The boy lowered himself in line with a downed tree beside the road. The truck was empty. In the distance, the boy could make out the hazy silhouettes of two men and a dog. One held an umbrella, the other, a flashlight. They scanned the trees. The boy slid over the log and, crouching, began to make his way across the wide dirt road.
By Miles Gibson5 years ago in Fiction
Humanity
The odor saturated the room in a vile and loathsome manner, digging itself into every orifice and rotting until it made his bones rattle. Paralyzed by the parasite, the man felt each bullet piercing his pristine skin, the white of purity soaked in scarlet. He stared into the abyss and watched as the specks of dust, glittering in the slight sunlight that entered the room, floated in the ocean of oxygen. His lungs grasping fruitlessly at the poison that ruptured his trachea until his body became infested as well. His eyes darkened with stubbornness, unyielding to the scorching pain of distilled rubbing alcohol that coated each and every wound.
By Michelle Handy5 years ago in Fiction
The Vulture
Maria stands in line next to her mother. Both are as disheveled looking as the rest within the small refuge. Countless days of filth coat their skin and tattered clothes. Hunger fills the being of every person standing in the food line. She is one of the unlucky children who are unfortunate enough to remember the old world. Now in her seventeenth year, not a day has passed that has not been filled with its memory.
By Aron Evans5 years ago in Fiction
The Haze Pt. 1
The horrible screeching of metal-on-metal rang throughout the alleyway like the scream of an angry beast as an old, steel door was pushed open, grinding harshly against a piece of sheet metal beneath it. Nathan slipped out once the gap was wide enough for him to pass through, and he twisted about to shut it back without a second thought. Reaching up, he wiped the condensation away from the lenses of his gas mask as the change in atmosphere set in. Making sure the filter was secure, his head dipped into an affirming nod at himself before pulling his gaze up from the brick wall ahead of him, the six-foot-three figure of Nathan Barnes stalked on, out towards the street.
By Trey Dickey5 years ago in Fiction
Broken Clouds
They checked in at the rental office in the main cabin. Once inside, they saw one couple checking in before them. The woman's boonies hat tilted toward the older man. She looked fit in her white halter top, and a sarong wrapped around her hips over her bathing suit. Her toes, encased in sandals, flexed on the cherry wood floor. The older gentleman wore a black T-shirt, camouflage cargo shorts, and leather shoes with white ankle socks was with her. Both carried bright fishing gears. The spinners weighed down the net webbings on the man’s pants. They both boarded the Perpetual, a flatboat with an engine powered by water jets from the lake itself. It peeled away with a quiet roar, the gentleman bent over the steering handle as if he was a fighter jet pilot.
By Patrick T. Kilgallon5 years ago in Fiction
WYRM
That which was the wyrm did not arrive, it appeared. And there have been many like it, in myth. Serpents which tempted and serpents which coiled about the world. Lesser dragons cursed from the skies to vacillate in poison. Prismatic dwellers of the waterhole and destined devoured.
By John C Carpin5 years ago in Fiction
