The emptiness in Jack’s chest is drilling ache. The skin feels numb and knotted under his sweaty shirt. His fingertips trace the long pink scar on his breastbone.
There is no reason to rush things.
The surgeons have saved his life. He wonders if it has been worth it. They take away that weak heart. Jack imagines how they pry him open, strip him bare of that sick metronome of his past. They steal all of who he was and hoped to be. Jack’s a new man, with new life force in his groins, a new heart to match and no memories to regret. There are no memories at all. The doctors call it amnesia. Jack calls it a blank slate.
Continue reading “Heartless Jack”
I’m a woodsy guy. Look, I stick out, like a grizzly in a daycare center. Just how you’d expect me. Big, tattooed, dark clothed, the obligatory beard, the hunting knife, the observing. You call it lurking, I know.
People are dumb like sheep, but they can tell for once. They jump, as I appear on street corners, in front of their doors, beside their cars, in their bedrooms.
I give them reason to.
Richard Hearn will feature one of my teeny tiny (75 words- EXACTLY 75 words) story on Paragraph Planet.
You could do better? Go on.
Special Agent Eric Paulson stood in my doorway, with a goofy smile on his thin lips. He flicked away his still burning cigarette. Snowflakes melted on his grey stubby chin.
“What do you want?” I asked. Bitterness seeped from the back of my throat. I wanted to spit it out, but words fell out instead. “Seven. Years.” He didn’t even call when my sweet little Anna died. Continue reading “Cursed, not Gifted”
“It says John Doe.” My own voice seems distant and alien. The thin hospital bracelet catches the afternoon light, and I’m more than tired. The bruised skin below the white plastic still hurts.
The car engine hums over the country music, seeping from the radio. John taps his fingers to the beat. I wish he’d stop.
Everything makes my skin crawl, including my reflection. I catch a glimpse of my black eye, and the bloodshot green one, googling back at me. I look like I have been in a bar fight with a drunk moose and a lunatic grizzly. The cut on my lip burns. The moose and the bear stop wrestling and laugh at me instead.
The seatbelt’s tug feels too tight…
Continue reading “Orlov & The Pink Raj (1)”
John and Benny dive simultaneously behind the blue Chesterfield, knocking over a marble-topped mahogany coffee table. Around them, bullets smack into the eggshell colored wall. With two loud thuds they land ungracefully. Stucco decoration rains down on them.
„I’m too old for this kind of crap!“ John grunts grabbing his revolver and the bag full with money.
„You have no right to open your idiocy vent!“ A bullet sings past Peter’s left ear. „Ever! Again!“ He grits his teeth, and peeks around the bits of the sofa. Ammo eats at the wooden floor boards, as he retreats.
The splinters jump, like popcorn on a hot stove.
Continue reading “moving in circles”
„I got you a blanket, so you won’t freeze.“ Steve smiles and hands Tom a grey woolen cover.
Already half undressed, Tom furrows his brows. He stops mid motion, shoe laces around his fingers. „It looks scratchy. I’m hungry, and it’s freezing.“ He looks at Steve’s face and stops again, irked. „Don’t stare like that!“
„Like I was a piece of cherry pie. Stop that. It’s awkward.“
The blanket flies to the autopsy table. „I just can’t please you, huh?“ Steve smirks. „When did you eat the last time?“ Continue reading “the experiment”