Over the past few weeks, as I've been cleaning and shopping and wrapping and caretaking and stressing--par for the course around December--there have been a number of times I've wanted to sit down and write a blog post, but I just haven't had the time. And now that I have a handful of minutes, there …
My newest piece of flash fiction, originally posted over at Stitched Smile Publications. Enjoy.
I look over the order and click “confirm.” Rocking back in my chair, I can’t help but feel sick. I’ve never ordered groceries online before. Why would I, with at least five grocery chains within ten miles of my home and a personally owned market two blocks away?
I was on my way out, keys in hand and about to turn the knob when I stopped, swamped by an overwhelming wave of dread, and I realized I couldn’t go out. Not today.
I’ve been watching the news, of course. Who hasn’t? I know about the attacks. Recent events have changed everything, and no one is safe. Neighbors who have peacefully lived side by side for decades are now mortal enemies. Families are being ripped apart. Everyone thinks they know the best way to handle the descending chaos, and anyone who disagrees is no more than an obstacle to…
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A short, creepy piece of poetry for your pleasure.
A bitter chill sets in.
Eight hairy legs
carry eight evil eyes
as it scurries
and sidles closer.
Cold sweat beads
trickling along icy skin,
and the scream is caught,
as terror engulfs.
the spider in its wake
as it knowingly creeps
steeped in fear.
as essence slips away,
retreating from the
which is all that remains
of a phobic hell.
~~Briana Robertson, Author, Stitched Smile Publications
Briana Robertson is an emerging speculative fiction author, working primarily within the genres of horror and fantasy. Her love of authors such as Stephen King, Shirley Jackson, Patrick Rothfuss, and J.K. Rowling has developed her own need to put pen to paper. Her short stories have been published in several anthologies, and broadcast on online podcasts. Her debut novel is in the…
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Six weeks. That's all the time I had with you. A joyous, excited, anticipatory six weeks. We hadn't been trying, your father and I. Not technically. But we'd wanted you for so long. And then there you were. We couldn't help but call your grandparents to share the news; there was no question of waiting …
Fare thee well, my beloved friend, so true. The last coin I have, I give it to thee. I know thou hast nothing, so it must be: For Charon shall always demand his due. Fare thee well my friend. Do not gaze astern. Pass over the river and waste not thy tears For even now …
Santa’s coming a little early this year, and he’s got an axe to grind.
Jim glared at the house on the hill. Smoldering cigarette in hand, he studied the couple through the window. Only silhouettes, but still, he knew they were slouched on the couch, raising bottles of Bud to their lips. His ex and that lousy motherfucker, Joey. Suzanne’s current live-in boyfriend.
There should have been a third figure. Smaller. Delicate. Crouched on her knees in front of the tree, shaking wrapped packages close to her ear. But Jenna wasn’t there this year. His loveable pixie of a six-year-old was now six feet under. Tucked snugly into bed at the West Pointe Cemetery.
His mood already black, Jim flicked the cigarette, nothing more than a butt and ashes, into the shadows. Reaching into the bed of his pickup, red as Rudolph’s goddamn nose, he pulled out the axe and ran his finger carefully, caressingly along the blade’s edge.
The prosecutor had tried his…
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Take a look at my new short story, “He Came Home,” originally posted on the Stitched Smile Publications blog for Flash Fiction Saturday!
We both knew he was going to sit up. Lord knows, we’d sat in my living room time and again, lights off, knees up to our chests, watching Michael Myers slice and dice the babysitters and their boyfriends. More times than I could count. So we knew. Of course we knew. Still, when he did rise, then slowly turn his head to stare at Jamie Lee Curtis, we both squealed.
“Get up, get up, get up!” I muttered the phrase under my breath with pressing urgency. As if she could hear me. As if it would make any difference. Even now, knowing what would happen, I almost believed if I said it enough times, the sequence of events might change.
“He’s coming, Laurie, oh my God, he’s coming! Get up. Get up. Move, dammit!” My best friend Rachel clapped her hands over her mouth; whether it was because she’d cursed–which…
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