Short Story: An Unfortunate Inheritance

I read a story once, where the main character turned into a cockroach. As my classmates argued about allegories and the unbearable weight of banality, I doodled a bug in my notebook. The story made no sense at all.

In the yellow light of the bathroom’s naked bulb, an overturned cockroach wiggled feeble legs. “I feel ya,” I mumbled through toothpaste foam.

Maybe I finally understood the allegory, ten years too late. I rinsed. The plastic case of floss judged me from the cracked edge of the sink.

I flicked the cockroach right side up and stuffed myself into the only clean pair of scrubs left. Mr. Denovan, a human cockroach if I ever saw one, had a notorious gag reflex and I’d drawn the short straw yesterday. He’d bucked and swayed in the chair as I inserted the tray for his dental molds, and then he’d leaned over and puked. On me. So, yeah, I was seeing the appeal of roach life.

Continue Reading on Grim & Gilded

This story was first published on Grim & Gilded on January 31, 2023.

Short Story: Bog Water

On a muggy spring afternoon, the clouds sense a secret is about to be discovered. They crowd low, peering over a verdant bog. The sound of a pickaxe falls in a rhythmic swish-thump. The man’s fear and worry rise like perfume.

Another woman was taken yesterday. The clouds hadn’t been in attendance, but they knew that the man’s sister was there, and that she looked away for only a second. All that remained of her friend was the basket spilling red, glistening berries onto the ground.

 Swish-thump. The man, Olek, drives his pickaxe into thick peat. Every time he pulls it out, it makes a squelching, sucking sound, as though the bog doesn’t want to relinquish it.

 The bog doesn’t often relinquish things.

Continue Reading on Potato Soup Journal

This story was first published on PotatoSoupJournal.com on August 1, 2022.

Short Story: The Night Harvest

No one ever returned. None before. None after. Just him.

Until now.

A figure exploded from the edge of the forest, scattering twigs and scraps of mist. Donafel let out a sharp breath, a plume of condensation. Ghostly antlers crowned the figure’s head and, for a moment, the familiar terror gripped him. But no—the antlers were merely the crisscross of branches.

He took a shuddering breath, letting his fear and disappointment dissipate into the chill morning air. The wooden porch creaked as he shifted.

The figure spotted Donafel and careened to a halt, still shadowed by the towering trees. Mud streaked his face and clothes and he cradled his wrists, scabbed with dried blood. Donafel and the boy stared at each other.

The weight of another’s gaze—a human gaze—made Donafel feel naked. For so long his companions had been the silence of the cabin walls, the forest that crouched just beyond the fence, and the unseen watchers in the trees.

The sight of the boy brought back flashes of memory.

At the center of town, the fog dissipated until a rough circle cleared around the hitching post and the child tethered there. Out of the viscous, billowing white, a figure emerged.

His old life seemed more dream than reality. But that one night remained sharp, pungent. On the days the fog crawled from the forest, so, too, did the memories.

Once, it had been yearly; the fog would slink from the east, defying wind and sun to creep from between the trees, across the fields, through the town’s main gate.

Now… now it came far more often.

Each month, at the dark of the moon, the scars around Donafel’s wrists started to throb. The pain heralded the wall of white that oozed from the forest and occluded the cabin. When the ache in his left wrist extended to his elbow, he knew the fog had reached the town, and preparations had begun—quietly, so as not to alarm the children.

Donafel remembered the fear in his parents’ eyes. The children would be scared anyway.

The townsfolk would lock their doors, keep the children hidden beneath beds. Livestock would huddle in the farthest corner of each barn. The main gate would stand open to the abandoned streets: an invitation.

Donafel whimpered, throat too raw to scream anymore. He tugged at his bonds, frantic, until his wrists bled down his arms, but the hitching post was set deep into the ground. The figure stepped forward...

Continue Reading at ShortFictionBreak.com

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