Short Story
The Saloon Murders
It’s late in the evening. The cowboys and cowgirls are all in bed. A woman is sitting in the dark again. She is at her desk typing details in a letter. She doesn’t need the light to see what is being typed. She’s got it down to a science. She types it urgently as if it’s a matter between life and death. The typewriter dings with each return. She is frantic and determined to fix what this woman has done to the man she loves. In mid-sentence, the phone rings causing her to jump. She answers it.
By Meredith McLarty3 days ago in Fiction
Relocated
There was nothing but this brown dust as far as the eye could see. Its dry, clay-like texture choked my senses. I would have sighed, but that would have meant sucking in a mouthful of whatever this crud was. And the air—don’t get me started on the air… all I could smell was excrement… everywhere.
By Alicia Anspaugh3 days ago in Fiction
The Lantern in the Fog
The fog settled over the village like a blanket soaked in silence. At first it was gentle, wrapping the streets in a quiet hush. But as night deepened, it thickened into something heavier, almost alive, crawling along the cobblestones and slipping into the cracks of every home. It was not the kind of fog that simply blurred the edges of things. This fog carried a chill that touched the marrow, a weight that pressed on the heart, and whispered doubts in voices that sounded eerily familiar.
By Sound and Spirit3 days ago in Fiction
Unclaimed
In Laceloom, even kindness has teeth. My office sat above a perfumer’s shop that sold bottled nostalgia to people who couldn’t trust their own memories. The stairwell smelled like bruised lilac and old smoke, which suited me fine. Down on the street, the city glowed the way a lie glows when it’s almost convincing. Lanterns hung from living branches. Cobblestones shone. Every passerby looked like they’d been sculpted by an artist.
By Aspen Noble3 days ago in Fiction
Lavender Orphan Love Spell
Bertie The children at Chandler Home Orphanage were not allowed to talk to the gypsies. It had been over a year since the last time they set up their caravan at Anson's Rock in the woods south of the Chandler Home campus. That was the spring of 1922.
By John R. Godwin3 days ago in Fiction
The Pfister sisters and other God-blessed heroes . Content Warning.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for they will have absolute revenge. Blessed are the meek, for they will be terrible with strength in the Lord. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will take nourishment from the wicked. Blessed are the pure in heart, for no evil shall stand against them.
By Sam Spinelli3 days ago in Fiction
The Dust Bunnies are Revolting!
Seeing the loose way people use the word “hate” these days, I guess can say that I hate a lot of things. I hate soggy spinach. I hate dark rooms. I hate visiting relatives I don’t like, just because they’re sick. But nothing, nothing matches the hate I have for dust bunnies. They are vile, evil little things. I will do everything I can to wipe them out.
By Kimberly J Egan3 days ago in Fiction
