I could write a novel on what I think about this writer.
James Herbert – My all-time favourite horror writer.
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Author: literallystories2014
Sanctuary by Patricia Ljutic
Jasmine approaches the library through the vacant field. She searches for a place to hide her blue duffle bag and the remainder of her carrots and apples. She stuffs it between the hedges and the building. The low-hanging branches make it invisible there. The blister on her right heel burns.
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The Charm by Ed N. White
I loved the dark when I was a kid. That’s when I made up my best stories. I’d lay in bed with the kaleidoscopic images shooting through my brain like a meteor shower. My lips whispered the sounds of squealing tires, explosions, and airplanes, and sometimes fluttering with the staccato of a machine gun or the thwack of a wooden bat. These images were projected onto the inside of my eyelids like View-Master stereoscopic reels. I knocked out bad guys, hit home runs, captured criminals and won wars. I quickly advanced the scenes until the day after my tenth birthday. That’s when I saw my funeral, and it scared the hell out of me.
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Parts of Speech by M.S. Nieson
“Definition, please?”
She was dreaming again. Back on that same stage, the lights glaring in her eyes. The old elementary school auditorium with its thick crimson curtains parted. The microphone before her. Or sometimes she’d suddenly be in the gymnasium instead, the air rank with sweat and floor wax, the bleachers filled to capacity. It was never very clear. It was never . . . Wait, was it possible to smell in one’s dreams?
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Safe House by Alain Kerfs
She holds up her hand to the bathroom window, feels cold air piercing. Early morning, still dark, the children asleep. She unspools a strip of foam, one-handed. At her feet, a diagram displayed on her mobile phone. Using a screwdriver, she pries off ragged remnants of the original weather-stripping. When she stretches to reach the top rail, her ribs ache.
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Dial 1 for Heaven by N J Delmas
A red phone box stands alone in the middle of a field. Long grass and wildflowers surround it and little else. I make my way over; glad I’m wearing my wellies. I avoid the cow pats along the way and bat a couple of flies from my face.
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All-Souls Hangout by Tom Sheehan
Curtis Glide, a student of people, satisfied with his findings of them as “passable'” Even as a millionaire, the gained acceptance came as encouraging to where the heroes show themselves in a hurry, lest they lose the gain.
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Andytown by David Louden
Tonight, a strong man died in Belfast.
We had been on the site for three days. Day one, up went the big tent. The rigging, lights, safety nets and everything else that goes into putting on ‘the show’. Day two, the dress rehearsal and an opportunity for those of us who needed it, to get clean. A chance for those of us who needed it, to score. Day three was opening night. We were set up on the outskirts of Andersonstown. Out of the way, on a plot of land that had been raised to the ground under the promise of social philanthropy only for the plans to cool and the memories to fade. Now it’s little more than uneven concrete and free parking. That’s how Mal got it for the week for so cheap. It should have been a risk this far out, but people are the same everywhere. You put enough curiosities in one place and they’ll come out of wherever they’re held up to look at them.
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After Lloyd by Christopher J. Ananias
Disturbing content – see tags at the bottom of the page.
Gil doesn’t talk, just sits there drawing demons. Mr. Ny clapped his erasers together and called Gil to the blackboard for one of his impossible Geometry theorems. Gil snatched up the chalk, like a pissed-off Picasso, and made quick hard chalk-chalk marks, and it was solved. The last bell rang and the mad dash.
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A Familiar Conviction by Maiah Jezak
Charlie felt her stomach sink to her toes as she pressed her trembling finger against the weathered doorbell. It was 2 a.m. His shades were drawn. Maybe he was asleep. Please, God, let him be asleep. She clutched his novel to her chest, smothering the cover reading ‘Melting Hearts’. Such a stupid, sappy title for a Molotov cocktail. She hadn’t even remembered to put on shoes when she grabbed her keys and fled. The fire of rage roaring in her chest during the drive over had smoldered into ash the moment she’d unbuckled her seatbelt. Now, she cowered barefoot on his shadowed stoop, gasping as the hall light flicked to life and the door before her creaked open.
“Charlotte?”
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