Stories from confiction.org

The Stranger by Sean Taras

Sat, 30 May 2009 06:01 UTC

It was very hot outside when I shot him.

(Submitted to the 'Condense' challenge)

Onion by Sean Taras

Thu, 21 May 2009 15:00 UTC

You always make me cry, my darling, so lovely you are. Your firm, ripened body gives off an ivory glow in the soft light as I feverishly strip you of your tattered husk.

I run my fingers along your swelling cheek. You beg me, but I feel I cannot. Shutting my eyes against sympathy, I hold you down and sink the knife deep beneath your pristine skin. You have given me the greatest gift of all, and my greed has cut you deeply. For this, I am sorry.

As I incise you a second time, tears well up in my eyes. Please forgive me, my love.

(Submitted to the 'Object' challenge)

An empty station. by Bianca Doe

Sun, 10 May 2009 03:22 UTC

Ten feet away, a man squats on his haunches & fumbles through his zippered jeans. Seconds later, a pressured stream begins to creep my way. Drawing my knees up, curling in on myself, I shuddered. Resigned, I thought, "This train's never coming."

(Submitted to the '42 word challenge' challenge)

thEn EvErything changEd. by Bianca Doe

Sun, 10 May 2009 03:06 UTC

The axe fell. Everything changed suddenly, then eventually. She never goes quietly. She presses further, deeper. Beyond her insecurities, her excuses; transcending her consciousness. Seeking answers the earth refused her. She explores every temporal sensation, each distressing, visceral feeling; discovering their beautiful counterparts. She prepares, steadies herself. She's ready because she's already underway.

(Submitted to the 'The extreme opposite' challenge)

Calliope's Curse by Claire Webber

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 19:32 UTC

Always angry, always aware. Before basic banalities, before�?�

Cancel. Delete. Erase. Forget.

God, getting gregarious. Hate having hackles, hellish harassment.

I involve incomers, interlopers, intruders.

Just jarring jargon jeering.

Keep knowledge kindly. Loss likely, loss laborious.

Make memories. Never neglect narration. Out of oratory, obtain observation.

Please, pity.

Quietly quicken, question. Realize rarity.

Stories selectively shared, so sense satisfaction.

Too towering to tell, the time takes to talk, to think.

Unlucky, unholy, umbrage unabashed. Voodoo, villainry? Witchcraft? x�?�

x�?�.

x�?�

xylophone. Ziltch.

After all attempts, affliction always an aloof alphabet.

(Submitted to the 'Alliterative' challenge)

World War III by Claire Webber

Wed, 18 Mar 2009 18:59 UTC

"Honey, look, that plane over there dropped someth-"

(Submitted to the 'All in one' challenge)

Falling Forgetful by Claire Webber

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 09:04 UTC

The door to the cellar was open.

Strange, Herbert thought. Tillie closed every door that could be closed in the tiny house.

Herbert started. The funeral.

Forgetting everything was starting to become common place. The children, Herbert thought, should prepare to provide a live-in nurse. Memories were fading. Tasks were getting hard.

A light came from the cellar.

Curious, Herbert stepped closer and closer.

The arthritis festering deep in Herbert�??s joints brought winces walking down the stairs.

But, slowly, the pain disappeared. Smoothness returned to hands, to arms. Herbert brought fingertips up, touched the nose and forehead that couldn�??t belong to a man of seventy-four. The springy skin and rosy cheeks under tender touch.

Herbert smiled.

Heart attack, thought Herbert. Hallucinations.

Amazed, but strangely calm, Herbert walked on

and slipped.

Crashing, tumbling, alone, a burst of white light.

Herbert sat up and looked around.

Just the same old living room. Just Tillie�??s urn and the overstuffed chair.

And, the thought occurred to Herbert, everything was horizontal. No idea, Herbert thought. No idea.

Herbert got off the floor and shuffled into the kitchen.

The door to the cellar was open.

(Submitted to the 'No pronouns' challenge)

Arousal's Innards by Claire Webber

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 08:53 UTC

Shown seats, she licks her lips. Lunch never satisfies.

She swoons subtly. He watches.

She plans arousal. Moves closer, bats lashes, recalculate kiss- saccharine lips possess power.

Vixen.

She sips, he sips.

Wine, brandy, wine.

Her clothes slip (she knows) hosiery shows.

She winks.

He frowns.

�??Gay.�??

She blanches, blushes.

�??Check!�?? she cries.

(Submitted to the 'Molecular' challenge)

The Sky by Sean Taras

Thu, 19 Feb 2009 05:08 UTC

Late one night, I spoke with the sky, and asked it questions. The sky was aloof. �??Give me an answer,�?? I demand. �??The answer is in the question,�?? responds the sky. �??And what is the question, then?�?? �??And that is it, then.�??

(Submitted to the '42 word challenge' challenge)

Bright Light, Pain by Pat Lock

Sun, 01 Feb 2009 19:46 UTC

A lot of blood: a thick pool by his front door, and it is still running out of a vicious wound. His assailant - a woman not long past girl-hood - puts down a smoking gun and spits on him. "Not long now." So cold, this woman, and obviously glad to watch him writhing.

"Oh, Christ!" Moaning, twisting, down on that bloody formica slab, this dying man is gasping for air: "--But why?"

"My dad - you shot him. And you-- you . . . I can't stand to say what you did to my mum. Was my dad still living as you did it?" A look of disgust at his wound. "So much blood. It must hurt badly."

"You crazy bitch! I didn't touch your mum! Shit - I'm only as old as you. How could I do that to your mum and dad? And - God! - I'm actually a virgin, if you must know!"

"If you didn't kill my dad, I know you soon will, you bastard." Acid intonation. "But you must know my mum - from your physics class, no? My mum and I look similar, I was told. For my part, though, it's actually still months until I'm born, and until that hospital bug kills my mum." Shining salty drops run down his chin as that claim sinks in. Not born? This woman is crazy - a psychopath. "You always fuck around in physics class, don't you? You think your prof is mad. You don't know anything about his ambitions."

"That's crap. I do know what Dr. Bouillian is building. It's a 'chronos portal', which allows us to go into our own pasts. But so what? It's a crazy notion."

"Not so crazy. It was built - in my past, that is. I got to it first - just so that I could kill you. Which I'm about to do."

"Wait! Why do you think I did what you said I did - to your mum and dad?"

"Court transcripts of my mum's trial. Your family will say that my mum was guilty - that my mum actually kills my dad. Talk about blaming victims!"

That gun is back, cold against his brow. No way to miss: this is his doom. But its firing pin just clicks - making him blink: still living, for now.

"Shit!" A dud round spins out of its stock, and instantly it is back, touching his skin. Again, a dull click. His assailant turns away, and aims at a wall. With a loud bang, it shoots. Such a traitorous gun! But, on a third try, it still won't shoot into his skull.

Fading slightly, this shaking man thinks it through. It can't do it. It won't do it. But why not?

Now that woman, ransacking his flat, is looking for a thing that can kill him. And at that point it hits him.

"You won't find anything that can do it."

"Bullshit. Why not?"

"Think about it. Why won't your gun work? My killing is a paradox, that's why. And why do you think that is? Isn't it obvious?"

And it is obvious: so obvious that just to think of it is painful. Our woman glumly admits this truth: "So my mum was lying. You don't kill my dad. My dad is - you."

"Right."

"That's it, I am sick of all this! It's disastrous. I'm going back. You'll pull through - probably."

"No, I won't pull through, I'm dying. And you can't go back: that's not how Dr. Bouillian said it works. Only things in actual contact with his apparatus can go through. So stay a bit, and watch as I pass on." His skin is ash, so much blood is lost. It's almost funny for him, now: "Your mum should hurry up, or it's a Virgin Burial for yours truly, and no birth for psycho-woman!"

"But that's a paradox, isn't it? I know I am born and" - a dark look - "now I know who my dad is."

"So what about your mum?"

"I think I know who my mum is, too," that woman, who is now unzipping his fly, says. "Call this a parting gift, and an apology for shooting you. I don't particularly want to, mind: but it's not optional, is it? I am my own mum. So, logically, I must do it."

A child would grow from this short union; that it should not---was a contradiction.

(Submitted to the 'Lipogram' challenge)