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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…

I’d soon shoot the surveillance gang with the self-correcting Laser sight on my sniper

 

rifle. Little der Fuehrers always began the disruptions; those loud cracks on my walls, all

 

made by my opponents, mind rapers. Trust me on this. Paranoia is so passé, so boring.

 

To undermine the surveillance gang’s power, I sang. Due to the accelerated rate of

 

Darwinian adoption, my memory had rapidly improved. I sang Verdi arias as I made

 

dinner, vacuumed apartment, relaxed in rocking chair, changed bed sheets, rode the

 

stationary bicycle, had sex with girlfriends, masturbated, washed dishes, cooked, shat,

 

pissed. My vocal range was as endless as the criminals’ tactics to run me out of town.

 

What brought the surveillance on? Russell must’ve snitched me out. I might’ve told

 

him too much. Now his allegiance swung to the opposition. His role: park outside my

 

house and talk on the smartphone. He knew I sat looking out the window, searching for

 

loopholes, perforations in the surveillance keepers’ schemes. Paranoia played no part

 

because I’m reacting to something as real as the words you now read.

 

Erecting a wall of separation between them and me, I steeped my cognitive activity

 

in the tiny fonts of box scores, scrutinizing them so ardently, focused and deep, that

 

those yappers couldn’t breach my mental razor-wired barrier. That included baseball,

 

basketball, football, and hockey. Baseball had sixteen categories for each player. I traced

 

my finger across players’ stats, turning numbers and percentages into their real-time

 

performances, visualizing through numbers their on-field reality. This blocked out the

 

pursuers (surveillers) for a long time, longer if I wanted to scrutinize more games.

 

Seasonal, like migrant workers (also under surveillance and harassed), I segued to the

 

other three sports.

 

I bought Plan B, a skateboard with pop and durability, a high-end brand. Three

 

skateboarders pop and scraped their boards’ end, grinding their boards’ backs on my

 

cement driveway. I grabbed the AR15 and was about to sacrifice those three boarders to

 

skateboard heaven where champion Australian skater Shane Cross was. His death

 

occurred when a motorcycle hit and killed him. Wouldn’t it be great if motorcyclists and

 

skateboarders declared war on one another? Motorcyclists terrorized me, pipes louder

 

than black metal bands, revving their machines daily in front of my house in the name

 

of surveillance.

 

I sat on a kitchen chair and placed Plan B at my feet horizontally, moving swiftly side

 

to side, popped some Methedrine and sipped beer, deciding what curse I could lay on

 

those skaters. Working myself into a trance, the faces of the three skaters appeared before

 

me, bloodied, gashed, sliced, slashed, and obviously dead. I saw the them in the

 

gutter; I had spayed their noise. Their threat vanquished was a morale boost for me.

 

Surveillance operators’ digital entry into my house saw fierce conviction in my eyes

 

and backed off. My psychosis/AR 15 combo out maneuvered them, at least for now.

 

Stopping them from attacking my castle, my drawbridges often down: on the toilet or

 

pissing, cooking, reading, going to sleep, morning shower and dressing. I bought a

 

wireless headset. Sometimes singing Verdi proved useless. The transition now smooth, I

 

slept on my back wearing the headset.

 

After morning ablutions, I turned on the computer, and listened to whatever struck my

 

fancy on Spotify. Record producer Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound decades ago used a

 

great echo chamber. This new headset destroyed my echoic memory, that ability to

 

recapture sound immediately after hearing it. The headset silenced them. Other

 

times, exercising twenty minutes on the stationary bicycle, wearing the headset I heard

 

nothing but very, very fast workout beats. Whatever worked, I used. I’m pragmatic and

 

don’t indulge in things mystical. In fact, paranoia had a peculiar occult flavor, so I

 

trashed it along with the skaters’ din.

 

Next day, the surveillance yappers spoke to me. Yes, voices. Even if they said, “Happy

 

Birthday, Evan,” their audio-phobia bombarded my walls with hateful words. It swept

 

through my castle’s walls. Medieval fortresses hadn’t enough stone to increase

 

protection. Either did this house. Don’t I deserve good voices? Shut your yap traps, I’d

 

said loud and clear uncountable times.

 

“OR ELSE,” I said.

 

 

 

 

BIO:  I like slow baseball games, red beans and quinoa, nightmares, fast flowing rivers,

Ravi Shankar, death metal, Tom Waits, wet mornings, nostalgia, rooming houses,

cold nights, docks, The Moby Dick Cosmic Ocean, lists, mania, and dry wines.

 

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