What happened was, I died.
Daddy ripped out my heart, despite Mama telling him not to. They even sent me away, buried me somewhere else.
Then Papa Nos found me.
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Tag: fantasy
The Enormous Pacifier by Alice Kinerk
You’ve probably heard about this already, but one day some kids dug up an enormous pacifier, and in doing so pretty much brought chaos into the world. Apparently the kids were playing in the strip of woods by Route 42, just poking sticks in the embankment there, no thoughts of upsetting nesting bees, preventing future mudslides, or their moms having to pretreat their laundry stains afterward. Because where the dirt fell away, they uncovered something that shouldn’t have been there. A large, old, manmade hoop.
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Killing Time by Michael Loyd Gray
I once shared a cell with a con from Detroit named Marty Ballantine. He had a blazing shock of red hair and was tall and looked more like an ex-basketball player than the head of accounting until his firm realized he was skimming. He had a young girlfriend on the side, an expensive marriage and mortgage, and combined with greed, he got caught. Big surprise. I couldn’t really picture him in a blue suit and red tie, slaving away at debits and credits. But his orange jumpsuit went well with his red hair.
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Low Visibility by Matt Harrison
My wife was born invisible, but she told me that it’s only at my high school reunion that she feels invisible.
A small percentage of Americans are born invisible each year. Naturally, this number is very hard to track.
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A Certain Vood,by Geraint Jonathan
This Vood.
I have it on good authority that he recently scooped lumps of coal on to his dinner plate, believing them to be potatoes. Had it not been for the intervention of a scullery-maid, he would have eaten the lot! This is the kind of creature we’re dealing with here. It bears thinking about. Already I’ve heard tell of households where fractious children are hushed by mere mention of his name. ‘Bedtime now, or the Vood will come get you.’ I’d say that’s a worrying development. He’s acquired the definite article. People are afraid. These are decent people. When some of the children spoke of this Vood’s wearing , and I quote, “a hat of fire”, well, I was skeptical, naturally. But a hat of fire I’m afraid is exactly what this Vood has been observed to wear on several occasions! By those not given to voicing fancies, I might add. What to make of such a thing? Some demonic form of halo? Who knows. I suspect something stranger. This much, however, is clear: when this Vood is on the prowl, even the dogs of the town grow unsettled. His name alone carries implications. I shouldn’t wonder if it’s not already sprouted a suffix or turned into a verb. Or both. He’s already entered drunkards’ ditties. That can only bode worse.
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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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Where Do Lost Memories Go? by Rinanda Hidayat
Somewhere in a land where only the forgotten remembered, stood a river flowing with discarded memories. Tears cry above it, ever begging for the one who shed them to return.
Sometime between now, today, and never, a man burst out under the river––let’s call him M. He splashed around, thrashing his arms, kicking his feet, but all was unnecessary, for the river never had the will to drown.
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The Pelanconi Flower by Jon Krampner
The Italian Renaissance is one of the crowning glories of western civilization. In Florence, Venice and other cities, men like Leonardo da Vinci shook off the centuries-old slumber following the collapse of the Roman Empire and blazed new trails through the intellectual firmament, sparking a fire in the minds of men and women that continues to this day. But even as they did so, village life continued much as it had for centuries. Our story concerns the remarkable events that took place in one of these villages.
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Apsaras’ Dance by Kelly Matsuura
Time wastes the paint on our faces and ornaments. It roughens the once-smooth stone we were carved from. Yet behind the crumbling stone, we shine.
Our voices blend as we step from the wall, magic infusing our limbs and lighting our smiles. We sing the songs of ancient apsaras before us.
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Time Capsule by Leland Neville
I was recently involved in the death of a man right here inside the Free Library.
He began making bird sounds near me. The cawing and trilling made it impossible to concentrate on my writing. When I moved, he followed. The bird songs grew louder and more long-winded.
My father, a Marine, told me that bird noises reminded him of a battle he fought inside a dark nameless jungle. Birds, he learned the hard way, unintentionally telegraph your location to the enemy. I am now older than my father was when he died inside our garage.
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