My sleep disintegrates into a sore neck and a dark room. I lift my head from my desk with a groggy moan. The screen saver of my laptop stares at me— accusatory and bright. A notebook filled with indecipherable trains of thought and decorated with drool sits on the side. The details come to me …
The blades of red grass stretched over her head. They clung wetly to her as she pressed through them, but when she checked her skin, she found no crimson stains. What little of the sky she could see was black as mold and smeared with blood. The line between day and night was arbitrary. Warm …
Once in a while, he runs away. The story ends like this: he comes back. He knows that, but that doesn’t stop his escapes. The story happens because of this: he doesn’t know. His life isn’t bad, lonely, or empty. What life is, not just for him, is heavy. Sometimes he feels the hairline fractures …
The long and bloody dance ended at that gas station at one in the morning. Anton found Jonas filling his car with shaking hands, dirty clothes, and a week’s worth of stubble turning into a beard. Not that Anton looked any better. He lingered by the ice machine, savoring his last moments with the man. …
When the clouds blotted out the sun, and the ground turned black with death, the Sunholder began to build his tower. Rotting wind and doubt buffeted him day and night, but it didn’t stop him from rising the next day to continue his work by candlelight. Those few who still breathed on the earth saw …
Malcolm gave up on the party as soon as he arrived. One look at the crowds— a menagerie of drunk witches, monsters, superheroes, and American presidents— and he was ready to leave. But his friends had had the opposite reaction. They disappeared into the mob, leaving him stranded and mercilessly titled as the designated driver. …
You flee to the closet. You know the boxcutter is barely a weapon, but it’s all you have, so you hold it like a shield. Light peeks through the slits in the sliding door. It gives you the faintest view of the bedroom beyond. The beast approaches. Its dragging, heavy gait reaches your ears like …
Author's Note: Now that I'm actually going for the English creative writing major, I have some assignments I can start sharing! So here's the first flash fiction on the site, as well. Let's see if you can figure out what the prompt was! To the New York City Chief of Police James Buchanan, This is …
Ben Sidorenko's Writing 