Marie first noticed the butterfly outside her window while writing in her diary.
She’d just written, This room is like my own cocoon these days, though I wish it weren’t, when she happened to turn her head to see the butterfly perched on a bough of the oak tree just beyond the sill. She briefly returned her attention to the opened book before her, but then set her pen on the crease of the pages and stared from the window again.
‘Would passengers for Flight 0077A to Buenos Aires, departing at sixteen thirty-five, please make their way to gate…’
Mr. Zimmerman checked his boarding pass.
I guess they mean me.
Continue reading “Mr. Zimmerman Flies To Buenos Aires (Economy Class) by Adam West”
Miguel
Miguel sat on the shelf, admiring Lola the way he always did. He was in love from the moment he first laid eyes on her. Because he was a simple farmer, being in the presence of such beauty tied his tongue. Her face, Miguel would say to himself, must be what angels look like.
Continue reading “Miguel, Lola and Ted – A Love Story by Jon Beight”
In a damp cellar the mould mixed with the scent of urine coming from his rags. A drop of sweat still dangled at the tip of his black hair from an excruciatingly painful hour as the hatchway closed. He was strong, the strongest, but he had never endured that level of pain. Moss and mice were signs of hope, or at least hope of life in the dark.
Conspirator. Traitor. Your house shall burn and your name will be dragged in the mud.
And they dragged his face in mud. Along the wooden planks and the stone. From one side of the long wall to the next. Two hard punches to the back of his head threw him into the stone. He lost teeth. A man stamped him in the lumbar region, which was the reason he couldn’t stand up.
At the top of the eastern tower hunched against the wind, the man in black gazed out across the grey, winter waste of his homeland. His strong hands gripped the cold stone of the battlement as further assurance against the restless elements and neither his stance nor his stare wavered.
He was a man of many names. In the hushed, excited tones of children telling ghost stories he was The Darkman. To the men who had battled at his side throughout the surrounding lands he was Nightstrike. His dear, departed mother had referred to him as Wherizzeethistimethelittleshi…
Everyone else called him Stormcrow. Continue reading “Any Crow In A Storm by Nik Eveleigh”
literally stories 