Short Fiction
A selection of short fiction
The wind screamed in his ears as steely waves crashed at his feet. Peter stood at the edge of the trees, where the sea met the land. He had just emerged out of the dark woods after trekking along the knobby and rugged trail. He was looking at the lonesome stone structure built atop the outcropping at the end of the narrow strip of rocky beach. Out of the trees, the wind gave him a deep chill, and he shivered under his coat. He pulled his collar tightly around him.
An atom — sharp and plastic, radiating with the dull shine of polygons — spun around on the screen. Perfectly fabricated plastic homes started to fly by, the camera zipping down streets lined with perfectly and plasticly happy people.
Ghosts stalk the break-down lanes of the highways up here. Shuffling down the pavement to God knows where. Always alone. Lost souls in transit from one miserable world to another, caught momentarily in the icy gleam of headlights then lost forever in the abyss of the road left behind. Some of them peer up into the tractor cab as George rumbles by, mouth agape and eyes empty. Hollow eyes in the hollow night.
There is a tree that stands on a hill, naked and watchful. The stony rise lies at the head of a wide valley; a dark and ancient river flows crookedly through the plains below the tree. Grey mists wind their way around the rocks and crevices, but never reach up the hill to the tree. The tree stands alone, a sole witness to its own sour kingdom.
1st Place in the 2019 Lit Up Halloween Spooks Contest
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June 27, 18 —
Island of Mangoon
Dear Constance —
It’s been ages since I’ve written, and I am sure you are worried sick about my well-being and are curious about the fortunes of my endeavors abroad. Suffice to say that I am well and that the voyage has been fruitful.
On a small island in the middle of the sea lived a man in a green house. The house was perched atop a steep and rocky cliff that plunged into the churning waves below. The house faced the east, and every morning the sun washed the single room in a pale light that gently begged the man to rise from his bed.
These hills are haunted. There’s something in the bones of the rock that seems older than time; as if something hulking and primeval nested down eons ago and the rock grew up around it.
Searching for Heaven
Waylon Jennings was waltzing his way out of the tinny speaker of the small radio sitting on the wooden rail of the porch. Two weather-beaten leather boots were propped up next to it, connected, by way of a skinny, denim-clad frame, to a weather-beaten leather face. A small breeze tugged at the scrub in the empty lot across the street from the motel and Sam was wondering how in the hell he got here.
Published in Crossroads: An Anthology of Short Stories (The Lit Up Press Anthologies Book 1)
Calling Jen was the only thing I could do. After all, she was there when I got the damn thing. I couldn’t talk to anyone else; Jen was the only other person that knew I had it. Talking to anyone else on the crew would mean admitting that I stole something from the dig site.
He set down the razor and looked contentedly — maybe even a little proudly — at the wild mess of hair littering the base of the sink, threatening to choke the drain. He looked up to the mirror, at the once familiar face gleaming back at him — fresh and clean and smooth. Yes, he thought. This is it. This is will change everything.