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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…

The Guest

I open the door and what does he do? He holds out a beautiful, delicate white rose. Typical. When he anxiously releases the flower above my waiting hand, I let it slide off my palm and watch his eyes follow it to the glass floor. Of course he's startled— they always are when I reject their gifts.

I usher him inside to the largest room and sit him on my baby blue sofa, positioned directly below the glass dome towering far above our heads. From the looks of his face, he's no different from any of the others; mouth agape and eyes wide behind glasses far too big for his head, the guy sits on my sofa in complete shock. He looks ridiculous, cocking his head this way and that, drooling like a malnourished ostrich. It's disgusting.

"You're disgusting!" I cry out, but the man merely blinks twice.

It's the roses. They all love the roses. They could care less about the house, designed mostly from glass, and rarely notice my heavenly beauty. I've given up all efforts to communicate with visitors for a solid hour after their arrival, because there is literally nothing I can do to pry their gazes from my roses. Every single visitor to have walked through my front door has transformed into this stupid, useless, lump of twitchy flesh. It's as if a delirious ostrich's soul possesses each and every man that enters my house. It's disgusting.

So, for the next hour, I sit by my guest on the blue sofa and try not to watch him twitch about. His oversized glasses slip down the bridge of his nose, but I don't push them back into place. I turn my back to him, annoyed.

Oftentimes, it's during this awkward waiting period when I observe the roses myself. They truly are beautiful, and blanket every visible glass surface in my house. The floor has been completely covered on four different occasions; every time the shimmering roses bury the floor, I have glass placed overtop as a way of preserving each layer and making walking convenient.

The vast majority of my roses are sandwiched between these layers of glass, but a fresh layer of brilliant roses is already beginning to fill every empty space on the floor. They creep up the glass walls, drape my dainty furniture, and hang from the sky-high, dome ceiling. There are thousands, maybe millions, of them—just the heads, mind you, thorny stems are dangerous. Where do they come from, you might ask? That's exactly what my guest was sent to find out.

 

The Interview

He "wakes up" an hour after he arrived, on the dot. Ignoring his disheveled hair and drool-drenched tie, I drag a faint pink chair (my favorite one) across the floor and plant myself directly in front of his spot on the sofa. "Good morning, sunshine. I don't believe I caught your name?"

Shaking fog from his head, the man collects a pen and notepad from his jacket pocket. At least he remembers that he's got a job to do. "I'm so sorry, it's Rudy Brennan from the News Sentinel," he stammers. "I'm here for the interview we scheduled, I think". Nervously, he adjusts his glasses.

"That you are and I'm ready now. Please proceed as quickly as possible before I walk away, Brennan," I recite mechanically, maintaining hard eye contact with him all the while and giggling inside at how uncomfortable it makes him.

Obviously flustered, Rudy Brennan holds his breath, smoothes his hair, smoothes his hair again, and exhales. He picks up a rose and, still bewildered somewhat from his ostrich-daze, mumbles, "Right. Roses. Okay, well, my main purpose in coming out here is to find out—"

"I am the Queen of Purity!" I roar, rising to my feet. "The Keeper of the White Rose! The Beautiful Giver of Life!"

At first, Rudy doesn't seem fazed. He hardly even moves—he blinks twice and simply stares at me! Annoyed, I take a deep breath and deliver my thundering message once more.

"I am the Queen of Purity! The Beautiful Giver of Life! Do you hear me?"

Suddenly, Rudy nearly throws his notepad across the room, and actually appears to notice my existence for once. I feel his wide eyes sweep over my cream colored skin, pour down the entire length of my silky, white hair, and lock with the terribly vibrant, piercing blue of my irises. Finally. I've got his attention; we can talk about what I want to talk about.

Smiling, I settle back down in my chair. "Personally, I prefer a more humble title. Call me the Garden Goddess—are you getting this down?" Clapping my hands obnoxiously, I double check that Rudy is in fact completely awake and writing. "You're the one who came to me with questions. Come now, stop staring, it's rude. Pick up your pen and start scribbling this all down. I'm very busy and hate this sort of thing, you see."

Rudy obeys. He picks up his pen, scratches some marks into his notebook, and politely waits for me to continue.

"It all began with a beautiful child and a flower. The child was me of course, dainty as a cherub's wings yet spirited as an untamed horse. My mother—horrible woman, mind you—sent me out to play in the garden one morning. The old grouch used to ramble on and on about my skin, and often demanded I spend time outside in hopes of tanning my "disturbing flesh". Oh yes, that's exactly what she called it! Disturbing flesh!"

Rudy looks pained. "No!" he whispers.

"Yes, disturbing flesh!" I shriek.

He eyes my white skin, adoringly, and shakes his head in disbelief.

"You see, I am in fact naturally very pale; the transformation did not affect my skin nor my hair, in contrast to popular belief," I explain. "I was born like this, with skin smooth as porcelain and hair white as mountaintop snow. I have always found beauty in my body's uniqueness, in its total lack of color, but my mother never approved. She hated me."

Although his face is burrowed in the pages of the little notepad, I think I see a tear in Rudy's eye. He's obviously moved by my past, I'll give him that—I don't think I've told my story to a man as emotional as this fellow before me now!

"I couldn't have been more than four at the time, but there I was that day, sent by my mother into the garden in order to soak in some rays—that witch. I tottered through that garden for hours. Hours! Oh, and don't imagine anything pretty and elegant here; that garden was Hell on Earth I tell you!"

Rudy's head snaps up from the notepad and our eyes lock. "Whoa—" I gasp, pausing my dreadful story for a moment as we stare at one another. I was right. He definitely had a tear in his eye before, because he's got streams gushing from his tear ducts now.

Tentatively, I keep one eye on Rudy's unpleasant eyes, crawl to my feet and stand upon my pink chair (for effect), and wail, "Oh, I was lost! It's all coming back to me now! Broken trellises covered in hungry vines chased me! Tall, course grasses swallowed every path and nipped my heals! Storms of white, fluffy seeds swarmed around me in the wind, filling my nostrils and mouth until I could hardly manage a breath! I remember, so vividly I remember now, huge, bloodthirsty thorns screaming my name as I raced every which way! I'll never forget those bloodcurdling screams and how desperately I searched for an escape out of that terrible garden!"

Rudy falls to the glass floor, weeping in sincere agony in a sea of white, glittery roses. I just stand frozen on my chair, dumbfounded, and watch him writhe around in distress. I don't think I've ever been more uncomfortable in my entire life. It's extremely painful to watch, and I have no idea what I need to do next. I don't want to touch him, I don't want to stop my story, and (again, most importantly) I definitely don't want to touch him—not like that.

I manage to say, "Oh my—please sir, please dry your eyes and get back to writing," but Rudy simply chokes on his tears and heaves.

I don't even try at this point. Utterly confused—and extremely disturbed—I simply speak the words to my story as Rudy falls apart beneath my feet. "When I had grown weak from running, choking, and weeping, I gave up. I collapsed, right in the very center of that miserable place—"

"No, no no!" moans Rudy. He pounds his fists against the glass, crushing a few fragile roses in the process.

I have to yell just in order to hear my voice over Rudy's tantrum. "That's when it happened! I didn't realize anything unusual for quite some time, for I was awfully distraught. Yet, gradually an overwhelming peaceful feeling absorbed me. I sat up, completely calm, just to find a bed of white roses where I had laid!"

Rudy, vigorously rolling back and forth upon my glass floor, suddenly lets out one hell of a yell. I wait for him to stop, for it to stop, but the yell only crescendos into a painfully high-pitched scream. Clamping two glimmering roses against each ear, I leap from my pink chair to the glass floor.

Furiously dancing about this impossible man, I demand, "Stop it! Rudy, stop it!" I watch for his lungs to empty or his face to turn purple, but nothing happens—he just screams, and screams, and SCREAMS!

I can't recall the exact moment, but at some point I snap. My ears pound in piercing pain with every heartbeat, and my knees giving way beneath me, and my body shaking uncontrollably once I hit the bed of white roses. I wrap my long, silky white hair about my delicate face in an effort to escape the terrible shrill, but Rudy's scream grows louder with every passing second.

I don't notice when he stops screaming. As far as I'm concerned, he's still screaming—I can hear it now. I am aware, however, of the things he says to me, presumably right before he leaves my beautiful home. He's quiet and calm, and speaks clearly, which freaks me out after witnessing his outrages outburst. I hear something about newspapers, and something about ostriches, and something about getting one's way. He says I am disgusting—I will forever remember that one, clear as a bell—that dirty fiend. When Rudy turns to leave, he mentions the roses—something like "you never explained the roses" and "explain them next time".

"Next time?" I manage to squeal.

He's standing in my doorway now, one hand on the glass doorknob, the other cradling one of my roses. "Next time, Garden Goddess! Prepare your answers, oh Beautiful Giver or Life!"

The front door slams shut, dangerously shooting waves of vibrations through the glass walls and floors. I don't move for at least an hour after he leaves; my roses are so incredibly fantastic, and I find myself completely absorbed in their beauty, twitching every which way with wide eyes to capture every beautiful glimmer from their perfect petals.

When I finally awake from this stupor, I sit up and shake the fog from my aching head. Yanking out the roses stuffed into my ears, I mumble, "Next time—oh dear, what a terrible man. Next time…"

 

BIO: Samantha Bowsher is a student at the Wright State University-Lake Campus, pursuing a degree in English Literature. Employed at a local coffee shop, she spends her free time writing short stories, reading anything within reach, and doodling aimlessly in her many journals. Her immediate goal is to complete and publish a Science Fiction novel, currently in the works.

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