Fiction

"I have a story to tell."

The bench is cold as glass and the fog strings its way across the street,

an engulfing mass of smokey water.

The bus is late.

"Woo-hoo!

Losing Selena

Lost. Afraid. Scared. These words describe the beginning of my life as an enslaved person in the United States. 

I remember the last time I walked home by myself. 

Aubrey Rose Blake was not one to back down. Especially when it came to a bet with Xander Ray Miller. They were seeing who could find the most hidden doors in the Miller mansion.

     Larry Luria was not the type to march over to a stranger, introduce his hand to shake, and offer his business card. Heck, he didn’t even have the money to make a business card.

    He was an obnoxiously smooth driver.

     When Aurelia heaved open the heavy, lace-decorated, black curtains in her room, she expected to see something beautiful outside, like that ancient oak tree from when she was two years old, with its twisted branches th

It was not exactly an old town, or one that was particularly well known. The houses neither new nor falling down.  There was an odd feeling about the place, however.

I woke, startled by my phone buzzing beside me, as the only sound in the room. Through bleary eyes, I stared at the screen, trying to understand what I saw. I read the time in the top corner: 3 AM! Who on earth was texting me now?

Francis was a time traveler born in 1900. He found an old lantern in his parents attic at the age of seven. It was in an old wood crate that had nothing but the lantern in it.

“You oaf!” a man barks. It hurts my ears. Sweet, jingly jangly noises and a different man’s jolly tone sound from someplace scratchy nearby. I peek and it’s too bright.