Short Story

Instead her attackers were shrieking and blindly stabbing into the darkness, trying to attack the one attacking them. The woman dropped to her knees in terror, but Jessie never dropped her gaze. One by one the attackers fell to the cacophony of bones snapping, blood splattering against the stone walls, and howls of agony. The 'hero's' cloak swept around his body as he fought them, the edges of it stained in their blood, and in the distant moonlight Jessie could just make out his face - the deep blue eyes devoid of any light, warmth, or

“What?” he couldn’t believe Anna was asking him about Burton. Aside from Gretchen, he hadn’t heard anyone say that name aloud in years. He wished he knew that his Sensei was still alive and where he was. But he didn’t. And talking about him made Montague uncomfortable. To the civilized world, the name Burton Lang was synonymous with evil.

it is life, Mama!” Mama: “Oh—so now its life. Money is life. Once upon a

After the short ceremony, Montague retreated to his tent. He imagined an Angel, like Burton, coming to the rescue. How wonderful if he could put all of this in the hands of a being much more capable than himself to protect the world. He felt unworthy and was desperate for help.

He was ready to obliterate anyone who dared to lay a finger on his friend, but he stopped dead in his tracks when his eyes met the scene before him. The bodies of two men lay on the ground, blood pooling out of both of them and staining the white snow crimson. One man’s face was horribly deformed, as if his skull had been smashed, and countless stab wounds left his face and throat torn to shreds. The other man was face-down in the snow, one arm wrenched up in its socket at an unnatural angle and the other arm half-severed at the

He screamed as he ran, wailing at the others to go get weapons, to go notify someone. However, because he did not have any ability that would allow him to fight, he made a fault in acting before thinking. Keene wished he had a fire-breathing power or any type of affinity that would allow him to kill instantly. He didn't have any of those. So, instead, he recalled all of the ruthless training hours he'd done and he swung his fist at the man.

It was too dark for any human to see, but for him the faint moonlight was like sunshine streaming between the trees; every detail was clear and sharp to his searching gaze. He remained unnaturally quiet, a long pale sword in his hand. A wire-thin scratch curved down the blade. The weapon was thin enough to slip between a pair of ribs, yet stout enough to hack through the hardest armor.

They heard an unsettling dominating male voice speak while they waited, then it suddenly stopped. A nervous pause followed by a calmer voice with a disturbing tone. The warrior and his captive at the front of the line stepped down and walked into the light, disappeared. The traumatized prisoners advanced one captive one warrior closer toward the

and saw her mom and sister, in their own bikinis. Smiling, she placed a handful of sun screen on her legs and rubbed it in, she continued up to her chest, neck, and face. Offering her sister, the bottle. Taking off her bikini top, she laid face forward, so her sister could place some lotion on her back, and places where she could not reach.

The sun begins to set on an average Monday in downtown Prescott. The earth produces a clean, floral scent. Flowers bursting with joy for the precious gift of hydration. Bystanders bent over in approval at the content, stratified flowers. The clouds paint the sky like petite sponges drifting in the light breeze. Cicadas hum obnoxiously in the distance. Random tourists head quickly turned as sirens roll past the church in an extremely urgent fashion. A massive dull, white tent supplies an abundance of cool shade cover for what is going to be a gathering. Men, women, and children flood under the canopy for relief and peace. Before finding their seats they make their way to the dessert and coffee table. An assortment of treats

Flich will not stop talking with his mouthful. Walker seems use to it as his ear is literally chattered off.

With the pages in hand, I cross the street to Graydon’s and ring the bell. While I wait, I check out the indented garage door. For sure, he was loaded last night. I wait thinking he could be sleeping off a hangover.

You wake up and find yourself passed out on your friend's floor. For a few seconds, you find yourself confused, but then you remember the wild party the night before. Well, some of the party, anyway. Your memory goes fuzzy after these hot chicks starting passing around a few special drinks.

The smattering of rain on the roof overhead calms me, beating out an irregular rhythm like an anxious child unconsciously tapping his foot. The dim glow of my phone screen washes over me as I wait for the light to return, cut off by the flash flood inducing rain. I look around, and sigh; yet again, the lights on the ceiling are blank, leaving me with nothing to shield myself from the impending darkness.

No, he shouldn’t think like that. It wasn’t what she had or didn’t have, or anything he could put into thoughts or words. If only he knew what it was that made him do what he did. But then if you could explain away infatuation, the world would be a much simpler place, wouldn’t it?