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Latest Stories

March 19, 2024
Fantasy Stories Wondering Monk

Just My Imagination

The alarm clock went off and started playing an awful tune. Tom opened his eyes and closed them back, squinting. He reopened one eye and stood up to stop the torture. The phone was on the desk, in the furthest spot from the bed. Although he changed his way of…
March 19, 2024
Science Fiction Stories Ocelotlzin

Earth Is Dead

Recording… It doesn't matter who I was; I probably lived a long time ago, and I am now just a voice someone added to the audio-visual records. What is essential is the recollection of events that lead to the current state. So, a little history needs to be…
March 08, 2024
Flash Fiction Benoit

Some Enchanted Evening

It was a rugby tackle with tears: Chrissy burst in, sobbing and babbling, hugging James. Her face was all wet, eyes wild. What…? My parents split up, Dad has moved in with his boyfriend and I cannot join them. I am shut out. I have lost my dad. Torrent of…
March 08, 2024
Horror Stories Marvel Chukwudi Pephel

In The Hands Of My Legs

The car pulled up in front of the large salon. The neon sign, that sexy broad thing, on the salon'sroof read "Mr. Gil's All-night Salon". The exhaust pipe of the car was pumping solid smoke, theswirls moving from the car and towards the salon.…
March 07, 2024
Mystery Stories Vanessa Leigh Giles

Casualty of Love in the Time of Coronavirus

Chapter 1 Until Death do us Part ‘Ring, ring!’. I answered the telephone and asked, “Hello, good evening. Who’s this? “Hello.” This is Dr. Smith from Red Cross hospital. “Is this Mr. Locke, John?”, he asked, hesitantly scratching his bald head. “Yes, doctor.…
March 07, 2024
Crime Stories Robert Pook

Bar Room Trigger

Another return journey on footpaths so familiar. He strides across each crack in each paving stone. Regular loose drain covers sidestepped. Mapping long ago mapped in Richard’s desolate mind. His pace hastened by the sight of the oncoming storm. Quickening…
March 04, 2024
Horror Stories Ano Chinemerem

Sanctity

Where should I begin? I could begin by telling you about this comely boy, whom every notable person around the streets agrees his smile could charm the bills off one. Between one smile, there was his goodness, his dreams and humanity—a little far ahead?— but…
March 04, 2024
Flash Fiction Emanuel Diaz

Et Mortui Partium

As Rafael stepped out into the rain, it wasn't the ordinary drops that fell from the sky. Instead, it was a storm of souls, each one taking the form of shimmering jewelry as it cascaded toward the ground. Rubies, diamonds, and sapphires twinkled amidst the…
February 29, 2024
Poetry Jing Li Ava

London

‘Am I in London?’ "I am." Where is Elizabeth? Happy living story All of your chapter Bounlance joy Please my heart Power hand Wise mind Our baby Vow vow Love all love Miss I miss Endless wonder Bring us together Love all love Miss I miss For everything My…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Rob Pook

Life Sentence of The Smith

Born nine months after his country won the World Cup.A child prodigy.Cast off at age twenty-four.Husband, father, emigree, away on the other side of the world.The blue-collar life.The dreams of success.The search for fulfillment.The long years of empty…
February 29, 2024
Mystery Stories Joshua Lowther

The Operator

Jason looked over to his right, his eyes barely able to focus themselves on the subject of his attention. His neck ached terribly from the strenuous movement. He was tired. The captain’s gaze came to rest on the rookie sonar operator sitting tense at his…
February 29, 2024
Flash Fiction Salvatore Difalco

The Chute

At dusk, we left our unit with a soft pink bundle. I carried it through the wet streets and into the black woods. I said I’d take it all the way, the bundle, but that we had to drop it in together. My wife’s green eyes flashed. “Don’t make me do that.” I…

Why are doctors, specialist—anyone in the medical field, really, so highly regarded? They lie for money, like, the entire government. Aren’t they all criminals? Therapists, psychologists—all of them. They don’t solve problems, because people still die rapidly, and crazy people still roam. Who do these people save? What do they prevent? Certainly not suicide victims like my father. I wanted to ask him those questions, but Mr. Roland didn’t know, and that’s me assuming he cared. His major worries in life centered on his coaching job. Instead of a thorough discussion, the car ride to his mansion was silent and uninformative.

Take my mind off the stress; take my mind off the stress! Please-please-please! She knows, why isn’t she distracting me? Don’t act like your dad! My silent plea gained an answer when she suddenly shouted, which greatly displayed her new, purple braces.

“Mosquito, swag-swag, fish—MosquitoSwagSwagFish!” Addison giggled, and then rolled off the edge of her bed onto the floor, laughing hysterically. “Things I learn when I miss one day of school!”

“And that’s the name of . . . what?” I questioned with one raised eyebrow, gently laughing.

“Derrick’s gamertag,” she said, then grabbed my left hand and led me into her brother’s room down the hallway, “there’s more—much more!” Her excitement had me nervous.

“He keeps the hand written notes of all the girls he talks to during class; the guy can’t text secretly!” Addison said as she abandoned me in the middle of his spacious room; which made me feel awkward, because I’ve only met Derrick, like, twice. “The real-real gushy ones he hides in the top corner of his closet, underneath stinky clothes: wish my hands luck!” She stood atop a stack of shoe boxes to reach his closet while I circled the room. Band posters of Maroon 5 littered all four walls; an iMac on a crammed wooden desk caught my attention, because stickers of racy women were plastered on it. The bed and floor all contained baseball stuff: gloves, bats, and hats.

“Addison, hurry!” I forcefully said, with the hope to rush her, as I kept watch at the door.

“You look worried, but I believe action rives stress! And remember MosquitoSwagSwagFish!” Her soft, girly smile (more girly than mine), eased my tension, I laughed. “Alright, I got them, the gushy, gooey ones.” She waived a mysterious handful of rainbow colored papers before she lost balance and her butt met the floor, loudly. That prompted her father to yell upstairs and check in on us. A former basketball player, I’m sure the noise her butt made didn’t have to travel far with his height. And of course, we lied saying we didn’t leave Addison’s room. Though, that lie didn’t hold weight when he heard scattering footsteps leading from one room to another.

“Your brother is . . . ew. And to all those girls? More ew!” I said. My mouth felt nasty, gritty after I read all of the things he’s done with random girls. Addison didn’t help when she added, “He licks it too!” I was thoroughly engaged over his “love letters” when Addison questioned me saying, “Are you afraid? Tomorrow is your first birthday without him, fourteen years of—”

“—Addison,” I interrupted her while I scanned over an interesting section of Derrick’s notes, “you distracted me well enough; we don’t have to talk about it.” She swiftly agreed, and wished me a happy birthday.

A movie and one hour of homework rounded out our afternoon. Mr. Roland yelled upstairs and reminded us of the time: my time to return home. As I left Addison’s room, she told me she’d keep her fingers crossed for me. Her concern briefly reassured me. I didn’t anticipate my action that dreadful evening.

There was no car in our driveway, or any near our mansion. Inside his truck Mr. Roland and I looked at each other puzzled. “I’ll wait until you get in,” his kind words. But with minutes of me ringing the doorbell, a once puzzled look transformed into a worrisome face. From his vehicle, Mr. Roland yelled, with concern in his pitch, a side of him the man hid well, “She said six-thirty, correct?” My grin reassured him, then I said, “She fumbles her words, and that’s why I keep a spare.” Looking around and making sure my mother wasn’t already outside, he said, “Well, I’ll still wait until you get inside.” Once indoors, I flashed the porch light three times, signaling my safety. Inside was always eerily quiet—good news. I turned on most of the downstairs lights, everything was the same as the morning—bad news. Was mother here? Upstairs I decided to end my fear after all, but before I knocked on mother’s door, I heard faint muttering. With my left ear firmly pressed against the wooden door and palms sweaty, the first voice I recognized was mother’s therapist, Dr. Kellen. He asked her a series of questions; the same questions I asked her, but I didn’t get paid for my service. She responded to them in low, monotone form. When I entered the room, she was sleep on the floor. Bottles (of who knows what) on the nightstand, with the lights off. The hallway light shown everything I needed. I walked closer to her and discovered the noise came from a tiny, gray, and outdated tape recorder by her feet. She left it on repeat. Next I wrapped my unsupportive mother in her favorite fur bed cover, chinchilla, and sought to leave, my fear seemed delayed. On my way out, his questions stopped, and he announced a reading. The journal of some kind, left by my father. Although it wasn’t in my father’s voice; I froze in place from what I heard, and I remembered his word so amply.

“‘Markus! Markus! Your showing in a nutshell: marvelous, splendid, and grandeur!’ Ten words I grew tired of hearing. My former designer, Nolan Durmont, repeated that statement after every one of my fashion shows. Though, during my last show in L. A., I barely noticed him. Every well-known and respected: model, actor, singer, and artist, threw their praise to me in harmony. I knew good comments were a good thing, however; wouldn’t a person attain annoyance from hearing the same congratulations—verbatim? I knew my designs were nice—no, beyond nice, splendiferous. I must’ve been in the wrong field, because when I received good feedback on my work, I didn’t take it as a good compliment. I took it as someone spewing hot, malodorous, coffee breath in my face. But those feelings occurred when I became lead creative designer for Lui-chellà. Mere thoughts of the position came with pressure. Nerve racking said the least about it. By the same token, working for Lui-chellà—a dream job for any fashion designer, and lead creative designer rivaled being tenured with divine powers. Everything I said, for the most part, came to past. Instead of the public setting trends, I set them, I made models famous, and designers envious. It rose to a level where I could’ve proclaimed, ‘Who wouldn’t want to be me? I. I wouldn’t want to be “Markus May,” or should I say . . . “don’t.”’

Three weeks after my L. A. show was Miranda’s birthday party. She gifted all my joy, simply by being herself. Beyond my feelings, hints of Nolan’s changing attitude emerged as I prepared for her party.

‘I’m almost ready. Call Miranda and tell her we’ll definitely arrive late,’ I heard various voices and noises on and off, ‘your soap opera doesn’t come on this late, buddy.’ I joked.

‘I’m just trying to understand the bewilderment of “reality” television. But sure pal, you know she won’t like it.’ Not exactly ten words, but nevertheless; words from Nolan I grew tired of hearing. Admittedly, alighted hours late to your girlfriend’s, soon to be fiancé, birthday party constituted a failure. Especially if one considered the facts that I: planned, paid, and did everything for it.

‘Nolan, how was I able to prevent a car from hitting Lily—tell me—huh? Thankfully, only one of her legs broke. Plus, it happened across town . . . and—you know what happened.’ I said flustered as my hands and neck wrestled with an inanimate monstrosity called a ‘bow tie.’ Fashion designers can’t command clothing.

‘I hear you Mr. May.’

I exhaled, ‘It’s not like people pray for stuff like this to happen,’ admitting my defeat, I tossed the peach colored beast into the bathroom sink, ‘definitely an unfortunate turn of events.’

‘Devil’s advocate, Markus,’ he cleared his throat as if he prepared to give his inaugural address, ‘did she really need to undertake that last minute promotion for Lui-chellà’s new perfume?’

‘—What?’ I apace rebutted his outrageous claim, with slight anger.

‘—No, let me finish. Mind you, a perfume that needed to get the “okay” from you.’

‘Really? You mention this now? That’s a conversation for a different time, and you still haven’t called Miranda!’ I heard his deep sigh from the bathroom. And I think he murmured, ‘He doesn’t understand.’ Yeah, I knew I wasn’t in fault for what happened to my model. Strangely enough, I felt as though I caused her accident by being famous, and head of the most excellent fashion house in history.

When I exited the bathroom, Nolan’s lively personality made the spacious suite empty. He stood near the door, with a pestered look on his face. ‘Your wine glass is on the bar, I’ll be outside.’ I sharply joked, ‘I could’ve sworn you were a better friend than that, you know—’ The door slammed, and in complete confusion by his action; I felt awkward, yet compelled to finish my sentence: ‘I wouldn’t drink red wine on white carpet. . . .’

Miranda’s party was—”

Mother’s voice interrupted her therapist, “That’s enough; I’m done for the day! I’m done hearing about that woman!” Her reaction was the liveliest I’ve heard from her in months. She sniffled through as she talked about her feelings. I believe Dr. Kellen read slowly to make the words hurt even more, but she deserved it. After hearing the awakening groans of mother, I instantly jolted to my room. My unforgiving footsteps fully awakened her. The nightstand shook, the bottles fell on the wooden floor, and mother injured her head, and then made her way to my room.

“What did you hear?” She moaned in my doorway, her purple day dress poorly fitted her enfeebled body frame. Supine in my bed, I said nothing. “What did you hear? My sessions are confidential!” The berserk woman rushed to my bedside and finger drilled my forehead, she spat as she yelled, “And if your little friends find out, I promise—I swear, Jillian, you will never see the end of my rage!” Her breath, scorching, smelled of rotten pineapples and alcohol, then her long and “fancy” manicured nails began to cut. Blood trickled down to my mouth, chin, and clothes. Disgusted and scared of her, I knew to clean myself in the downstairs bathroom. The upstairs bathroom would’ve created no distance between us. I shoved her to generate space; she trailed me, screaming nonsense, close as my shadow all the way to the staircase. Mother attempted to grasp my jacket (designed by my father); I jerked and maneuvered out of it, then she, along with my garment, tumbled down the abundant stairwell, strongly. Echoing thud after echoing thud my soul lightened. Besides, it was she who wanted the mansion with the spiraling staircase.

However, that wasn’t my egregious action; or the fact that I didn’t call the ambulance for help — I called no one.

I grinned and liked her contorted, motionless body.

Bio: I’m a fashion designer by trade, but I thoroughly enjoy writing—my second passion, after fashion. I have a blog on Wordpress, shamonrf. I also have a Twitter, @FordShamon. In the very near future, I plan to release a series of eBooks. Furthermore, I enjoy writing in different genres, with the end result to overall increase my writing skills. Thanks in advance.

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