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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…

Jesus, I saw the vendor pick that up with his hands, his raw hands, not with the gloves like he's supposed to. She shouldn't buy that one. I could tell her, but I won't. It's best that she doesn't know, not now anyway, it would be so difficult to explain! At least she wore the purple overcoat today. Even if she gets sick from the vendor man, at least she won't get a head cold. It's just about the only weather-proof thing she has, what's she like? I should tell her about the sale in the little outdoorsy shop near where she works. She'd be able to pick something decent for the chilly months. That wouldn't be a great idea, not now anyway. Fuck, that would be so difficult to explain.

Think she'd have correct change for the bus? She should have used the 5er in her pocket when she bought the wrap. I haven't been close enough to say for definite that it’s a 5er, but I know she took €20 out of the ATM beside the station this morning, and after her two iced coffees, panini, lotto quick pick and the €2.20 she gave to that homeless man on Nassau Street, she should have about €6 left. Bank notes are no good on a Dublin bus and the €1 wouldn't get you a child fare these days!

A man's giving her the change now, anyway. Most of me knows he's helping but a lot of me doesn't give a fuck how difficult it would be to explain the clawing I'm holding back. I'd use my fingers to take his eyes out, then I’d like to see him count the change or spot his damsel in distress or match his fawn, old-fuck-looking overcoat with those expensive brogues.

The cats and dogs and children aren't really bothered with me. Big people take a quick look, only from the white of their eyes. I look back at them. They don't look back at me a second time, thank goodness.

I'm far enough away now, but I'm getting a bit tired. She hasn't turned back. She hasn't once had a glance around to see if I'm there, waiting, impatient, growing slightly tedious of her teasing indifference.

She's been home.

She's ditched the purple overcoat and her work ponytail. She didn't have to. She's beautiful either way, but the man she wants to meet tonight isn't as accommodating or nice or accommodating or loving or accommodating as me. She won’t take him back tonight, but he'll try it. She's such a fucking slut, she's so cute like that.

It's approaching fast. I'm a playful amount of dangerous. I’m a sheet of cling film in a swimming pool. A pin among spaghetti to tear throats. The thought makes me smile. The light bounces purposefully off my jacket in the exact way it's meant to. I'm the single most spottable human on this high street, she's the most anonymous.

Yet, she stands out.

Necks crane and flop to rubber in her wake. The less courteous heads drop and swivel. Lips loosen, then pull wide, then pucker, then whistle, then pull wide again, then talk shit. I'm the most visible and the least present, she's the opposite. It's difficult to explain.

The darker it gets, the wider my smile. The dimmer the lights, the happier the skip. The louder the revellers in the bars that bookend my alleys and cobbled closes, the better I can laugh from deep in my chest.

She's just up ahead now, it wasn't even a date. It couldn't have been. He doesn't know how to kiss her – not like the way dead Kevin or limp Alan or blind Jason did, with one hand on her hip and the other on her face – and certainly NOT the way Tony or Greg did, with their anonymous, sinful, exploratory tongues laying siege to her beautiful mouth.

“Excuse me, Missus? You dropped your glove.”

“Sorry? I wasn't wearing one.”

“Oh! My mistake. It must have been some other fuck tease.”

It's not the blood or the hair or even the vomit that's on my clothes that's confusing and troubling me. But in the morning, when I get back to the station, they'll ask me how I got the bite marks – there's even a bit of tooth, I can feel it under the tattoo! I could say it was a junkie, but I would have called it in. There would have been another car in the area to pick me up.

They know I know that.

I can’t go to the hospital - they'd have to take the jacket off. The jacket off, and the jumper off. The jacket off and the jumper off then the t-shirt off.

Then they'd see the name.

Not just her first name; the whole thing.

Not just once; the whole body.

Not just ink; flesh calmly severed and flayed and healed in thin, glossy pink lines that would be so very difficult to explain.

 

Anthony Deane is a writer of the macabre, the disturbing and the jarring. He lives and works in Dublin, Ireland, where he writes for newspapers and magazines as a journalist.

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