dreamszilla

In a world overrun by vampires, Joshua's father teaches him he must be merciless to survive; by Julian Grant. The first bolt smashed through the door, pinning the night beast to the wood. It screamed feral fury as Joshua reloaded the crossbow with shaking hands. He ratcheted the bolt into position, hands trembling still as he took aim at the screaming monster. "Slowly, son... take your time. It's not going anywhere," cautioned Jacob. Together they stood vigil in the hallway of the broke-back house staring down at the impaled bloodsucker. Joshua gulped, his eyes wet, never leaving the creature as he tried to level his weapon. Jacob guided his arm on target. "Do they even feel pain, Father?" Jacob shrugged and spat, sour spittle hitting the floor beneath the creature's foot. "I sure hope so, son. I want them to feel every one. Okay, let it fly." Joshua unleashed the killing bolt - looking to his father for approval. At home,

via American Short Fiction https://ift.tt/39mSwlI

One day I was coming out my front door and looked down on the walkway in front of me to see a little Sparrow lying on the pavement, flapping its wings trying to get up. I looked around to see if any other birds might be a part of this little creature’s life. I saw nothing and leaned down to see if I could pick it up. I waited to see if it would try to get away, but it didn’t. It just became very still as I slid my hand under its little body and lifted it to my chest. I checked to see if a wing or leg was broken, but it wasn’t. It looked like the little bird had been attacked. I held it close to my heart for a little while and remembered the scripture I learned as a child, “Not a single sparrow can fall to the ground without your Father knowing it.” I knew if I put it back on the pavement or in the grass, something would come along and eat it, so I decided to place it in a pot of beautiful flowers I had sitting next to the door. It didn’t look like it would survive, so I wanted it t

Tim has a job interview, and his roommate Jerry encourages him to drink emotion-enhancers to help prepare himself; by James Rumpel. Tim heard the uncontrollable giggling coming from the kitchen of the small apartment he shared with his lifelong friend, Jerry. Dressed in his best polo shirt and his only pair of dress pants, Tim emerged from his bedroom to find his roommate doubled over in laughter. "You sure are in a good mood," said Tim. "You bet I am, Timbo," replied Jerry between guffaws. "I just drank an extra-large bottle of HAPPINESS. I was a little down about breaking up with Theresa but I feel great now, Timitytimitytimtim." "Apparently." Tim opened the fridge, looking for something for breakfast. As usual, there was no food. All he found inside was a half-empty bottle of ketchup, an empty pizza box, and a couple of six-packs of emotion-inducing beverages. Tim reached for the one labeled ENERGY but decided against it. He had a job

A forty-year-old widow seeks to get a potentially valuable old painting restored, but is more interested in the conservator's process than the outcome, and all is not as it seems; by Sheila Sharpe. The first occupant I saw in Julia's conservation studio was a nine-foot-tall Madonna. She was a fright - her face flaking, her oversized halo full of cracks, her dull white gown ripped and stained. Cardboard covered the bottom half of the painting. What was behind it? I curbed my impulse to look. Being nosey was expected of those in my trade, but not of a client coming for an ordinary painting consultation. Flutters in my stomach, a crick in my neck, there would be nothing ordinary about this meeting for me. Wearing a high-necked white blouse, her hair in a bun, Julia conveyed the air of a prim Victorian lady. I admired her confident posture and the way she glided in her floaty skirt as she led me into another room. Marching behind her, I felt like a graceless foil, lean and sti

World War II veteran Frank Parkinson tells a story he's never before dared tell; by Tom Sheehan. Hardly with a hop, skip and jump did Frank Parkinson come home from Tobruk, Egypt, North Africa, madness, and World War II in general. A lot of pit stops were made along the way where delicate-handed surgeons and associates did their very best to get him back into working order. From practically every vantage point thereafter we never saw, facially or bodily, any scar, bunching of flesh or major or minor skin disturbance. There was no permanent redness, no welts as part of his features, no thin and faintly visible testaments to a doctor's faulty hand or to the enemy's angry fragmentation. It was if he were the ultimate and perfect patient, the great recovery, the risen Lazarus. But he was different, it was easy to see, by a long shot. Parkie. Tanker. Tiger of Tobruk. And it was at the end of some trying times for him when I realized, one afternoon as we sat looking over

Emile, a teenage gun obsessive with Asperger's, connects with two suffering strangers at the Cordova Arms-Fair in Memphis, Tennessee; by Christopher K. Miller. They met not at one of Memphis's over two-thousand Christian places of worship but at the Cordova Arms-Fair out on Trinity Creek Cove, a few blocks west of the old Walmart supercenter. Sally, who'd driven up from Germantown, was there to return a silencer she'd bought for her T4 Nighthawk. Not defective or anything. Made the 9mm semi-auto's ordinarily sharp report sound to her ears almost exactly like someone coughing spitballs through a fat plastic straw. But it also made poor little Chompy, her Doberman Shepherd cross, yelp and whine, and sometimes even squirt a little, with each wet splut. The sales associate, after explaining the only way Arms-Fair could offer rock-bottom prices on top-of-the-line ordnance was through a strict no-returns policy, admitted someone should've told her that that particu

Our 12-year-old granddaughter, Jayne, texted me every hour or so during the six-hour drive from south Georgia to our house in Virginia a few days after Christmas. “Hey Nana, can you put some snow in the freezer? That way, we can feel Virginia snow when we get there.” she wrote. “Yes, I will, I said, but there is still some snow on the ground.” I sent her some photos of about an inch or so still lingering in our yard. I was hoping it would be there when they got here because they had not seen snow before, and I wanted so much for them to build a snowman. The weather forecast called for sunshine and temperatures in the 50s, and I felt a little embarrassed, asking God to keep it cloudy and cold until they got here. When they arrived, they could hardly take the time to hug us before dropping to their knees and putting their hands in the snow. The wonder on their faces as they held it in their hands was priceless, and I whispered, Thank you. “Nana, it feels cold and icy, but amazing.