Short Fiction
By samvaknin
- 532 reads
A Beheaded Cart
My grandfather had one love: my grandmother.
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- 380 reads
Butterflies are Laughing
My little brother lies bleeding on the rug. Two gory rivulets, two injured wrists, delineate a perfect circle.
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- 446 reads
Con Man Cometh
The signs are here, the gestures, the infinitesimal movements that you cannot control. I lurk. I know that definite look, that imperceptible twitch, the inevitability of your surrender.
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- 502 reads
Death of the Poet
Five minutes prior to his death, he made use of a stained rotary dial phone, its duct-taped parts precariously clinging to each other. His speech was slurred but his interlocutor - a fan - thought it nothing extraordinary.
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- 326 reads