Short Story

“Yeah, sure.” She called the waitress over and straightened herself in her seat. “Could we get two glühweins, please?”

Upon opening the back door, Vasquez observed that there was just enough space to squeeze past the refrigerator blocking the exit. The air smelled of burned rubber and melted wires; a damp ash covered the ground, sticking to their boots. In the kitchen, Vasquez and Fogg discerned only smoke and heat damage—a sign that the fire had not originated there—and so they pushed deeper into the nine-hundred-and-seventy-five-square-foot building. A central corridor led past a utility room and the master bedroom, then past a small living room, on the left, and the children’s bedroom, on the right, ending at the front door, which opened onto the porch. Vasquez tried to take in everything, a process that he compared to entering one’s mother-in-law’s house for the first time: “I have the same curiosity.”

The truth lay there in front of me yet I was adamant in accepting it, my granddad’s personality was not authentic, it was a universal symptom of this treacherous disease. I screamed louder than a lion, yet it was inaudible to anything but a canine. Quickly, I sprinted out of the warm comfort of my house and traded it for the gloomy narrow street which was slightly illuminated by the street lights. Venturing along the deadly silent never-ending street waiting to reach my unknown destination, I came to a sudden halt reassessing my decision and studying my surroundings. My eyes became fixated upon the ancient high rise flats which resembled the Blackpool illuminations with all the lights on, well, most of them, staring up at the unlit window my heart deflated like a balloon. The light was off, the presence of life was non-existent, and for me, that light will remain off forever.

"It's a party for the kids. I was supposed to bring food, but came home late last night."

On Wednesday morning some tenants in Tank’s building were gathering outside his door. They hadn't seen him for a few days birthing a feeling of dread. Emanating from under his door is a faint, sickeningly sweet smell. They thought he had gone away and didn’t take out the garbage

It looked like the sun had given up on trying to break through the iron curtain of clouds that it decided to lounge behind them. As we nervously walked towards the battle of our lives, the castle silhouetted behind us like someone faintly saying goodbye. The narrow barren streets were scattered with muculent mud and broken decomposed parts of the castle lay beside it reminding us that danger was slowly approaching. The street was a skeleton, stripped of its flesh. All that remains was the broken parts of the concrete structure. Quiet and derelict. The street was a river of the rusted burnt charcoal like concrete parts of the castle. Perhaps years back this street was immersed in pools of yellow light from the assaulted street lamps. Walking past the street lamps made the scent of burnt smoke go inside me like a barren soul. The street lamps were concealing us and we were inferior to the street lamps. The street lamps were covering us with darkness reminding us of the danger ahead of

Walking back into the living room, a noise outside the back window caused her to stop in her tracks and turn to look out it. Slowly advancing the window, she noticed a figure sprinting off into the distance. Her face paled, as she reached for the door-nob to the back door. Slowly, she turned it and placed one foot in front of the other, her bare feet coming in contact with the damp

“You have arrived at your final destination.”, My GPS concluded in its computerized voice leaving only the harsh sound of the rain wailing on my car windows to fill the void. I cut the engine and took stock of the small colonial I’d been persuaded to dine at tonight. It was painted modest colors and seemed no different than the few other houses I’d passed on the out-of-way drive over. I could distinguish no more discerning features through the sheets of rain and the window’s translucent varnish of condensation. I exited the car and bounded up to the door with long strides crossing a previously well-kept lawn now messy and puddled with mud and standing rainwater. My rap on the door was briskly answered by the proprietor of the house, a man I

Thump, thump, thump. I hear my footsteps as I walk down the block. I’m tired and hungry, usual for after school, and I can’t wait to get home. All I have to do is walk my neighbor Julie’s dog; that shouldn't take long. As I continue to walk I head toward her court yard, a beautiful lawn of lush, green grass, surrounded by a wall of homes. I inhale a strong fragrance of food, so strong I can almost taste it. I pull the house key from my back pocket. I feel a twinge of pain as the key scrapes my finger. I insert the key, and hear the door click open. Not even a second passes before the dog bolts out of the door. Without thinking I begin to sprint as fast as a cheetah. I weave through the maze-like streets, and my mind races on where she could

“That all sounds great son, but unfortunately all we have here is the steak; I’ll have to go to the store and see what I can find.”

Detective Richard Griffin absolutely loathed the disgusting dim alleyways. There was just something about the lack of light and the stench from the debris that the detective despised. Detective Griffin was not someone that would be expected to be down in the alleyways when Big Ben struck midnight. His lack of muscle and size would make him an easy target for any gang members and creeps roaming the sombre streets of England’s most distinguished city. The detective had been called out to this revolting residence for just a quintessential murder, nothing that the Detective hadn’t previously confronted. The Detective trudged through the viscous stone passage way contemplating why he was seeking a possible murder victim

On Wednesday morning, several tenants in Tank’s building were gathering outside his door. They hadn 't seen him for a few days birthing a feeling of dread. Emanating from under his door is a faint, sickeningly sweet smell. They thought he had gone away and didn’t dispose of the garbage before he left.

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?

“No thank you, but my friend would like to have an order of Two chicken sandwiches and a fidget spinner for the toy on the side.” he chuckled.

October 12th 1902. It was another dreary night in Huntington Pennsylvania. The thunder crashed like plates being dropped on a kitchen floor. The lightning illuminated the night sky bringing light for just a short, brief moment. The house creaked and groaned as if someone were in the very home. And the sound of the neighborhood cats scurrying to find a shelter from the frigid rain. This however did not affect old Zebadiah Hansen, who had gotten used to the old mansions many clamorous noises and had developed a somewhat liking for them. Zebadiah sat in his rocker stroking his long white beard next to a roaring fire, reading The Cloud of Unknowing, one of a vast array of books in his vast collection. Abruptly a boisterous knock came from the