Online Fiction

“There are four of us left huddled in the cabin: me, Jerry, Carina, and Kyle. And we’re terrified the door won’t hold. Carina shivers so uncontrollably, her teeth sound like stones rattling down a metal chute. Kyle begs her to quiet down. But her teeth aren’t making enough noise to matter. Not compared to the howling storm. It comes in gusts that build in slow waves, rhythmically increasing in both volume and strength until a gale overtakes the cabin, pelting the windows with hard rain. A cold draught pushes past us while we tremble on the floor, wishing we were anyplace else.”
Antripuu published at

“When the first child takes the stage, we all brace ourselves for what’s to come. Suzanne Kirby appears from behind the curtain, carrying with her a small box shaped like a miniature treasure chest. She is dressed in white tights and a violet ruffle around her waist like a skirt, and her hair is pulled back against her skull, bound in a knot at the top of her head. She pads nervously to the centre of the stage and puts the box down before opening the lid. Gentle music plays, and it is louder than it should be from such a tiny object.”
Our Town’s Talent published at

“The window was filthy, and even with my hands cupped to it I could not see very much beyond the glass. There were no lights on inside, but I could just make out a chest of drawers standing in the shadows, and perhaps an armchair of some sort. I lightly rapped on the glass, hoping to get the girl’s attention, and instead the noise shook something loose in the trees overhead. I looked up and saw nothing beyond the dark leaves that flittered in the summer air like tiny wings.”
Out of Touch reprinted at

“The puppet maker’s hands were wizened. He stared at them, at the gnarled knuckles like cherry galls on goldenrod, at the wrinkled leather skin stretched and folded in on itself so many times it sagged. Those hands were filled with pain and loss and regret that radiated outward like an unbearable heat. His hands were all he had left. His hands, and his memories. But those memories faded from his mind, slipped into the dark of the misty quiet town like the sound of an automobile in the distance. He swallowed another handful of pills and hoped that this day might finally be his last.”
By Invisible Hands narrated for
By Invisible Hands narrated by Morgan Scorpion

“At the end of the row, apart from the others, sat a small pasty-white bald man. He appeared withdrawn, hunkering inward to avoid even the most accidental contact, and he was sweating a far-from-healthy amount. He shook as though he was barely able to sit up, and periodically he’d rub his face and the back of his neck with his stubby withered hands. It seemed as though he was suffering through some great discomfort, and I wondered why, if he were sick, he simply didn’t leave?”
Mr. Kneale reprinted at

“It reminds me of the place Jackson and I lived in during our final year of university. The corridors are filled with the partial light of forty-watt bulbs, and the walls look soiled and gummy — the odour of cooking meat and bleach sweating from them. Only three straight corridors, one on top of the other, each end marked by a staircase: the building feels decidedly utilitarian. Unlike our old apartment, however, there’s no telling how long Jackson will be here for.”
Fading Light recorded as an audio podcast at