#very short stories

[shorteststory]

PLAYING WITH DEATH

PS: My new line of D&D enamel pins is now live on BackerKit!

[wilsons-three-legged-siamese]

a little fluffy hilson fic i rewrote, the original from agessss ago. i really like the thought and how i wrote it so here we go!! (its 1 am im going insane over these two old men)

Ever since wilson had moved closer to the hospital, he and house always took a short walk to his apartment. They hung out for a bit, popped a few beers, watched some monster trucks (or a sappy movie depending if house was feeling nice) and wilson would drive house home. it has been a usual routine for them, and it was both functional and practical.

it was early January, or to make things easier per say, fucking freezing. it wasn't snowing, it wouldn't be snowing until nightfall, but god was it cold. they both managed to wrap up warm, wilson forcing house to wear a scarf after being pestered for around an hour. wilson placed on his own scarf, hat, jacket and coat. he reached in his pockets, expecting to find his pair of gloves. yet finding nothing. he groaned, realising hed given them away this morning, so he guessed hed have to live without them. wilson then made his way to houses office, seeing he was already dressed and ready to go. wilson smiled softly, walking besides house to the lobby exit. once out the door, the chilly air hit the two. wilson immediately raised his hands to his face, rubbing them together and blowing into them, trying to warm them up immediately. house started to ramble about his new ducklings, except thirteen, who he actually liked for some reason. wilson quickly gave up on his attempts to warm up, letting his hands fall to his sides. as they walked in a comfortable silence, house slipped his hand into wilsons, interlocking their fingers. wilson felt a flutter in his heart at the gesture, looking down at their hands. but, houses hand was warm, wilson soaked into the feeling, as his hands were like ice. he could feel the roughness of houses calluses from overworking and suddenly felt at ease.

"house.?" wilson mumbled quietly, glancing at house.

house didn't answer, continuing to rant about his day as he subconsciously stroked his thumb over wilsons stone-cold finger. wilson smiled softly, not focusing on houses words, but rather focusing on their hands. how houses were always warm, how wilsons were always cold.

'a match made in heaven.'

[daily-haley]

Suicidal Bus Ride

I brushed it off once since accidents happen all the time, but now this is concerning. Looking into the rearview mirror at the elderly man who occasionally wears a smile, I can tell something isn't right. I got a chill when I first entered the bus. Not from the freezing air conditioning, but because Driver Joe didn't seem his usual self.

There was never a day where he would allow his emotions to get the better of him. He greeted every customer with a smile and told us to enjoy our day as we left. But today, he hasn't said a word to anyone. I should know, as I'm the second person on the bus today.

The gentleman seated in the back with gray headphones over his ears has his head bobbing all over the place. Usually, he gets off before me, and Joe would walk back to wake him once we arrived at his stop, but neither of those things happened today.

Carefully, I look at the other passengers, seeing if anyone else feels that something is off. Not everyone is familiar to me, but the gentleman wearing the tailored brown suit seated two rows behind me makes me feel at ease.

“Excuse me.” I wave to gather his attention. Once he looks up, I remove the earbuds from my ears. “Can I ask you a question?”

The man nods and slides into the empty seat next to him. I pick up my belongings—just a leather satchel, and join him. “Hi, I'm Fiona.” I give a quick smile.

“Franky.”

“Are you familiar with our driver? Joe?” I try to be as discreet as possible and lower my head out of Joe's sight.

“I am. Why do you ask?”

“The gentleman in the back was supposed to get off two stops ago.”

Franky looks over his shoulder before going back on his phone. “I don't see the problem. What's your concern?”

Something's weird with Joe, jackass! Is what I wanted to blurt out. But everyone on this bus is living their own lives, and Franky just so happens to be the anxious employee who's always late to work.

“Never mind.” I sigh. “Sorry to bother you.” I take my things and return to my seat. Maybe I'm the odd one. Joe's allowed to have a bad day just like everyone else. I put my earbuds back in and look out of the window, waiting for the landmarks that let me know I'm near my stop.

Minutes pass by. Realistically, it's been six. Franky then gets up and draws attention to himself by saying, “Hey man! That was my stop. Why didn't you slow down?”

Joe. The driver. Never apologizes. Not a word comes out of those pale, chapped lips. He keeps his eyes on the road and actually swerves a little too hard to the left, causing Franky to lose balance.

The mother with a young child seated rows in front of me shrieks at the sudden movement, and a glass from the back row smashes onto the floor. Something’s wrong. I get up from my seat and bang on the plexiglass surrounding Joe.

“Hey Joe!” I call his name. “What's the big idea? You're being reckless with your driving, and some people missed their stops!”

Joe never acknowledges me.

“What the hell, man?!” Franky makes his way up front, completely vexed—and rightfully so. “I'm going to report you if you don't stop this bus right now!” he threatens.

Joe doesn't say a word. Instead, he makes a hard turn to the right and opens the door.

My jaw falls slack watching Franky fall out of the doors. His eyes filled with shock and fear. I squeeze my eyes shut hearing the screeching of car tires behind us. I don't know if he's dead or alive, but the hairs along my arms stand tall with chills along my spine.

Joe just killed Franky! He's not right in the mind! I let go of the triangle hand bar and run to the back of the bus, banging on the windows.

The woman with the young child starts screaming bloody murder, and the remaining passengers finally come to their senses, realizing we're all going to die if we stay on this bus.

The guy who had dozed off to sleep is woken by his head banging on the bus’s window.

“Help us get out of here!” I alert him to Joe going crazy, seeing that we need some muscle if we intend to live.

“Hey!” The young man takes off his headphones and charges to the front of the bus, attempting to fight Joe for the wheel.

I don't know if telling the gym bro made things worse for everyone, but Joe drives us onto a ramp. Next thing I know, we're airborne.

Everything that happens next goes by in slow motion. I see my life flashing before my eyes. All of the things I regretted come to mind—the argument I had with my mother last month, missing my younger brother's graduation to get high with my friends—and for the first time in my life, I don't feel invincible.

[frogbearwhatever]

Last Stand of the Fusiliers

He did all he could to staunch the bleeding, but Haukrun knew it was futile.

"You lie there, lad, leave all the work to us."

The youngster, ghostly pale smiled.

"You said I was a crap shot anyway."

Haukrun rejoined the line. The ratmen were so numerous it'd be impossible to miss.

(A little Warhammer fanfic today)

[segamarkiii]

Here's a little something because it's four in the morning and I can't fucking sleep.

"Are you sure you wanna visit that musty old mental hospital?" Neodyme asked nervously as Ace placed his camcorder in his jacket pocket. The male rabbit just grinned as he looked up at his mate, then gave the Stag a kiss on the snout.

"Of course! Since it's bein' remodeled, and some of da wings are bein' demolished soon, I wanna capture the inside before it's all gone."

Neodyme just swallowed nervously, looking around the bedroom before settling back onto Ace's face. "Alright, just be careful. And wear a mask. Don't want the asbestos to hurt you.... Or our baby." Neodyme then rested a hand on Ace's lower belly, which hadn't begun to show the signs of pregnancy yet.

Ace just snickered as he playfully pushed Neodyme away.

"Aw c'mon, I'll be alright! And besides, what's da worst that could happen?"

[mollycustard]

a very very short story :3

I began to follow the scratching sounds, up the stairs and into my room. My heart was racing, the scratches got louder and louder, as though with each scratch the one scratching scratched deeper and deeper. Finally i found the source, my large ceiling length wardrobe, by now the scratches where practically scooping out chunks of the wood like clay or dirt. I armed myself, clutching a large paperback in my clamy hands, too stricken with fear to spend time grabbing a knife from the kitchen. They sounded like they had almost clawed their way through, finally in one swift movement, i pulled the dresser draw open.

Empty, no person, creature, rodent, no monster manifest from nightmares waiting to kill me, just clothes. For a moment it was quiet, no scraping sounds, i rooted even further through the wardrobe. Perhaps it was some mouse, that had hopped into the pocket of a hoodie before i opened the door? No it couldn't be, could it? The sounds were so purposeful, too active and large for such a small thing. In a moment of childish confusion and frustration, i threw a punch randomly into the wardrobe. However i did not feel the strong resistance of a brick wall, but instead the distinct feeling of pushing a swinging panel out of the way, like kicking in a door.

I pushed the clothes aside, behind them was concealed a small square door, with a crystal handle, and some kind of... peephole? It appeared that i had pushed it inward, into another, dark space, hidden behind my wardrobe. through light scattered by the clothes and my own figure, i could vaguely make out rows of metal rungs, attached to the back wall of the small space. It was a ladder, completely hidden from me, until now.

[unrighteousbooks]

A Dream of Thunder

I had a strange dream very early this morning. I was in the bookshop when I heard the sound of thunder. At least, I thought it was thunder. There had been a single loud blast, and then nothing. I walked to the front of the shop and opened the door. There were no clouds in the early morning sky. As I stood there a man rounded the corner, walking in my direction. He was wearing a safari jacket and was carrying something long and dark, pointed toward the ground. An umbrella, perhaps? He was looking down at his feet, shaking his head, and he seemed to be talking to himself. As he drew near, I could make out his words. "Idiot! Damned idiot. Stay on the path, I told him. Don't go off it. Don't go off for any reason. How hard is it to stay on a path? Idiot!" He glanced up and saw that I was watching him. Startled, he began to swing the umbrella up as if to point it at me by instinct; but instead he seemed to catch hold of himself and he swung it behind his back instead. For several long seconds he glared at me with suspicion. Then he exhaled. "It's not your fault, is it? No need to take it out on you. You're stuck with this mess." He shook his head from side to side and repeated, "That damned idiot." He began walking again. "No telling what sort of world you're in now," he said. "Good luck. You're going to need it." As he passed by, I caught a clear glimpse of the umbrella. It was long and it was made of bluish black metal, and it was not an umbrella at all.

[mark-mpls]

The Constant Gardeners

Nobody remembers who built the machines, or when or why they stopped whatever it was they were made to do. Years ago, someone thought it a fun idea to paint them pink, after the wood sorrel that graces the old railway tracks. Even now, their lamps still shine dimly from some hidden power source, but they remain motionless. The older kids call them the Gardeners, surrounded as they are by so…

[dnschmidt]

Lovers' Point

"Let's go canoodle," Mary said, smirking.

Rob's eyes widened. "That sounds perfect."

They drove out to a clearing in the woods called Lovers' Point. Rob shed his skinsuit, revealing a body covered in slime and tentacles.

Mary went pale. She let out a scream. "…Oh, sorry, I saw a spider. You really need to clean out your car, honey."

[shorteststory]

STOP OUR DAUGHTER

[blocksbuilds]

Shall I start posting my (very) short stories on here?

[hua-mo-jin-is-a-cutie]

Gotta love going to the vss tag for posts about visual snow syndrome and finding that the tag is co-opted by "very short stories"

[v01d-r0t]

There I stood, gazing at the corpses of those I once loved. I begin to look up at you, a dazed look showing from behind my eyes. "You cheated"

[frogbearwhatever]

The Thief and the Sleuth

"Your arrogance has cost you, thief."

"As if you're the humble sort." Raffles smiled at the detective. "I knew our paths would cross."

"Is that why you flaunt your crimes? To draw my eye?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Holmes, you're not my type. Now, that handsome doctor of yours?"

[weuneigh]

Because at 19 | a flash fiction

Because at 19, he finally longed for what he lost, and a price must be paid. Unfortunately for him, the wooden abode he withered away at was not enough.

This is a work of fiction with a history of months of labor and a thousand words that chipped away until it was down to 661.

How ironic.

Keep reading at your own discretion.

The man’s funds were dwindling; he was down to his last few coins; and to make matters worse, he bought a candle. Guilt boiled in his guts and he busied his head and hands with stuffing the candle halfway inside the molding cupcake. The barely sweet treat had sat in his fridge for weeks, so he ought to use it, and it might as well be now.

Perhaps it was meant to be that there was only one stick left in the matchbox.

It was as clear as the sun peeking through the open window that no matter how much he arranged every furniture in this wretched log house, they would never come back for him, and he would never make it past summer either; a truth he repeated to himself every year, and every year he heard it, and every year he thought it, but only today did it sink in, only today did he listen, and only today did he consider.

“Nineteen,” he said out loud, and the number hung in the air like a restless ghost. Only his pair of eyes were around then, and yet the man had never felt more see through. He repeated the word over and over, both in his head and out his lips; through a whisper, over a melody, and an outcry, but it could not compare to how perfect sixteen rolled in his tongue. Alas, regression was only a dream. And he swore he took one sip of wine from the bottle, but it was already empty when he slammed it back on the table. A glance at the window and the sun was not where it was an hour ago; he knew then he overstayed his trip in the clouds, and as some sort of recompense, he banged his head on the corner of the table. The thud of his skull on the wooden surface was followed by the sound of glass breaking and shards scattering all over the carpeted floor. That was his last bottle, too.

The man stood up, with the lit up candle and the cupcake long forgotten, along with the glass shards on the floor. He left the kitchen, and he could have sworn his feet had stung then, but he paid no mind to it, much like he paid no mind to the weeds outside his lawn, or the piles of dishes in the sink, or the webs and dusts that hid in every corner, or the stacks and stacks of bills that sat on his porch. Every day he told himself he would pick them up, so he could have more wine to do the rest, but he never got the chance, and the shards and stains would remain there for as long as his feet bled.

He thought there was bliss in keeping your head above the clouds, but he lost the right to breathe instead.

The next hurdle was quick to come; the living room was too close to the kitchen, and he willed himself not to glance at them, not to listen to them, and not to join them. They weren’t there, they never were, and they never will. But once or twice, he failed. Once or twice, he turned to them, looked at them, listened to them, but not once did he ever get to hold them.

The stairs were a nice return to reality, but it was not as pleasant for his limbs. At every creak of each step he took, his bones did, too, and his disdain grew each time. His legs trembled while his arms shook. His grip on the rails was tight, but his hold on this earth was as loose as it could be.

He hoped he could rest easy at least, but that night, he tossed a million times, and rolled around a million more; still, at the brink of dawn, he found sleep at last. Oddly enough, his dreams were warm, very warm.

[xo-jett]

"i'm ready to go home" the soft voice of a young child cried in the dark.

but what they didn't know, was that home is gone.

now is forever.

and time as we know it has stopped.