|
by Pauline Creeden Survival means making hard choices. Just ask Jennie.
“Did you get it?” Mickey’s young voice echoed through the cold, empty grocery store. Jennie almost made a smart remark like: Does it look like I got it? But when she looked into her five-year-old brother’s sunken face as he hugged the other three cans to his chest, she couldn’t consider it. “I’ve got to go around to the other side to get it. Stay here.” by Christian A. Larsen And you thought ventriloquist dummies were dummies.
It was awful dark in there, that steamer trunk. Willie’d been locked inside for so long, he could almost smell the yellow coming off the crinkled newspaper wads that held him in place. If he could smell. But he couldn’t. Not really. Not when there wasn’t a drunk or a kid or someone’s cracked old grandmother to terrorize, because when they exhaled that fear, brother, it was like giving old Willie mouth-to-mouth, seeping from those rabbit-quick heartbeats into his body, all the way from the hand-carved cowlick of his painted-on hair to the cotton batting in his shoes. Willie loved that feeling. by Greg Rhodea A confession isn’t a confession unless one repents.
“Bless me, Father, for I have skinned.” Loren frowned and leaned closer to the mesh that separated confessor from penitent. He’d been at it for three extra hours now because Father Tim hadn’t shown up. Night had fallen, and the church outside the confessional was as gloomy as a closed mouth. This would be the last confession of the night, and Loren was tired and eager to get out of the ghetto and back home. He must have heard the man wrong. Yes, that’s it. “How long since your last confession?” A sound began on the other side of the booth, like someone snapping an empty nutcracker together. Click click click. It took a while for the man to answer, and when he did it came in a whisper. “Five hours.” by Barrie Darke Didn’t a wise person once say, “You know not what you ask?”
Mr. Maitland was looking at his reflection in a small hand mirror he kept in his desk drawer. It was his wife’s, he supposed, though how it came to be there he couldn’t remember now. He hadn’t taken it all the way out of the drawer, and was leaning over slightly to see, because he knew it was probably a misstep to be doing this. As for his reflection, it was what it was, as he heard some of the younger people around the place say. by Stoney M. Setzer mysophobia: a pathological fear of dirt or contamination
“Are you sure you won’t reconsider, Mr. Marak?” the voice on the telephone prodded. “You fit the profile of our research perfectly, and I can assure you that we will make it well worth your effort.” “I’m quite sure you’d try, Mr. Toth,” Peter Marak answered, as he stared out the bay window of his house. He held a coffee mug in his other hand, and his grip on it tightened as his body involuntarily tensed. Surely they didn’t expect him to take the risk of going out there! With just a little bit of imagination, he could almost see the germs darting through the air beyond his house. “But I’m afraid there’s not much you could do to make me reconsider.” by Milo James Fowler You got me ringing hell’s bells. – AC/DC
Emaciated by time, the hollow-eyed wraith at the cash register drew on his smoldering cigarette and released a ragged cough. “You play?” he croaked. I glanced up from the book of guitar chords, a dog-eared paperback with coffee-stained pages, but at forty-nine cents a real pawn shop bargain. “Yeah.” “Bored with the standard crap? Those open chords and whatnot?” He spewed smoke like a dragon in its final throes. “Looking for more advanced stuff, huh.” “Something like that.” |
||
|
Copyright © 2012 Fear and Trembling - All Rights Reserved |
||
