Sweetly falls a mother’s breath upon her child’s neck, as softly they touch cheek to cheek, and lash to lash they try to sleep. But her keen ears are ever wary of the sounds that stalk and creep… night has just begun.
Sometimes my eyes roll back into my head. What I see there always frightens me.
I’m scared of what she’ll say. I’m scared of what I’ll do.
The hum of the city just waking up reached my ears and I smiled, letting the wind rustle my hair. It was peaceful; perfect. And then the gunshots began.
My hands and underarms grew clammy with fevered regret as I doubled over in the simple but cushy chair, head down and fingers interlocked as though in prayer. Then, the grey-haired, bifocaled man uttered the magic words that would grip my body and make it convulse wildly in a fit of rapture: “You are NOT the father!”
I hate most people – I hate their smell, I hate their voices, I hate their sad and depressing stories, I hate how they try to control me, how they try to make me do things, how they try to persuade me to kill myself, but honestly, the one who I hate most is my mother, she should care about me, not laugh at those idiocies, while who-knows-what kind of supstance goes down her digestive system, again. My mother is a pregnant woman, and once I’m born, I will kill them all.
His eyes wide in fear as he tries to scan the darkness. A heavy breath down his neck sends chills through every hair on his skinny body.
When the mind’s eye sees through a kaleidoscope, distinction can be difficult.
Whether one hurts more than the victim is a unique example.
Winter hid behind the door, choking down his fear as the floorboards in the room creaked. The pacing stopped, replaced by a soft, cruel laugh.
The same completely honest look reflected in each others eyes, something between fear and power; She loosened her grip from around his neck.
The cool wind stirring through his hair and filling his nostrils, he opened his mouth to take in a deep breath of this sweet, new life, for he had finally made it to the top of the top; the summit of the mountain we call success. It felt good, really good there at the top, except for an acute, tugging pain in his abdomen that seemed to be nagging sadistically, cackling at him like an old witch, “There’s only one direction you can go now, buddy – hee-hee hee!”
During her ride in the elevator, Linda had a hard time ignoring the large black garbage bag that was on the floor in the corner of the lift. The shiny bag sat upright and it was pointing at her and laughing.
When we talked we both could tell we liked each other. The only thing that stopped us was ourselves.
The darkness exploded around like a corona of blinding nothingness; a central core of ice-cold fluid drew him in inexorably.
Arrayed beyond him his audience sat, awaiting impatiently his book review.
Pursued down dark sidewalks, across streets black with rain water, and finally into the oblivion of a blind alley, Blanche Erasmo turned with panic and exhaustion to face her fate. No one was there.
She took an elongated deep breath, blinking her eyes closed and then open at the end of the breath. She needed courage, she needed confidence; just enough to stamp her boot over the top of the spider crawling up her loungeroom wall.
The clench of fear can hit anytime.
Mine hit about four minutes before I quit my second job.
Relieved was I when I realised that the jar of sleeping pills had not been touched. But then, as I gazed down at the bloody knife on the edge of the counter I knew it was too late…
My heart pounds in my chest as thoughts of bankrupting my family and being homeless fill my head with terror and my chest with pressure, all because I quit my job to follow my dream of writing full time.
I never realized a blank white page could shout fear enough to make my hands shake and hope enough to make me dream.
I know I said not to contact me and I do pretend I’m not interested in your life.
I still think about you; the cheerful happy version of you I glimpsed before the fear.