Fable
Drowning my Sorrows
I couldn’t believe she was gone. After all I’d done for her, all the money and love I’d given her, all the indiscretions I’d forgiven because of her ‘compulsive personality disorder,’ she left me to go live in a homeless shelter so she could drink and do drugs with her new homeless boyfriend.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 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
The Dragon
Mossbark was hungry, as he always was. He walked through the forest, treading through pools of sunlight falling through the soaring pines and fir trees. Mossbark knew each one, had seen them rise from tiny green infanthood to the towering kings that they were now. They had risen as the years passed and many had fallen, yet Mossbark was there and did not grow with them. His feet traveled on their own accord, each stone and stem familiar after the long years. His mind was on food, on the hollow emptiness at his core and on the silver fish that swam in the pool in the meadow. Mossbark padded through the trees on cat-quiet feet and swam through the dense sea of green ferns, his scaly hide a mere whisper in the forest stillness. Though he was bigger than a full-grown male wolf, his passage disturbed none of the inhabitants of the forest. He was Mossbark, the guardian of the Wood and the Pool and the Meadow and all the creatures who made their homes there knew him and despite his claws and mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, they did not fear him. He was Mossbark and he had always been there, as much a part of the forest as rocks in the earth or the cones on the trees.
By N.H. Ritschard3 years ago in Fiction





