55 Fiction Spam

I AM HERE TO SPAM 55 FICTION AT YOU.

Eight stories. Eight lives. Eight pieces of my soul, posted here for your reading pleasure.

WARNING: Number 3, Son of Sam, contains a few words which some of you may find offensive. We're all big girls now, so don't flame me or something because of my vocabulary. Just skip it if you don't like swear words.


1) Depravity

“But I don’t want to go among mad people!” Alice protested, struggling wildly against the leather straps that bound her to the chair. The assembled members of the tea party remained silent and still, except for the cat. ”Oh you can’t help that…we’re all a bit mad here,” it purred, grinning, displaying very human teeth.

2) Descent

It burns, the sun. It burns his flesh and blinds his eyes, and makes him run, dignity abandoned, back into darkness, cool darkness. Makes him forget the experience of age, the light reduces him to a child, running from the bogeyman. He descends to his coffin; the sun rising is a daily apocalypse for vampires.

3) Son of Sam

“I do not like green eggs and ham,” insisted the child, face stubborn. “I do not like them, Sam I am,” he repeated, earning a withering glance from his mother. She wished her husband hadn’t started the kid on this crap. “Your name isn’t Sam, it’s Harry, now eat your fucking breakfast,” she snapped, pissed.

4) Haemophilia

“Mummy,” he said, “I think I’m turning into a werewolf.” She smiled at him fondly, her darling son; still so young and innocent. It would be quite a while until he became a mature adult, contributing to society. “All in good time, dear,” she said. “Now go and brush your face.” He skipped off obediently.

5) Dreams VS Reality

He bounced the ball, frowning, concentrating. Sweat poured down his forehead. It poured hot and salty down his back in steady rivulets. The sun burned down, hot and bright and very real. He lined up his shot, worn trainers pounding the court. He shot, he scored; for a moment the arcing ball eclipsed the sun.

6) Dedication

“I think I love him,” she murmured, twining her hair around her finger. Remembering his soft dark hair, his constantly averted eyes, his adorably shy smile. Remembering a hug, supposedly between friends, soft and sweet and comforting, limbs intertwined, neither daring to speak, for fear of ending the moment. “I really think I love him.”

7) Requires careful handling

“Hey,” he said,” Are your hands bigger than mine?” He held out an open hand for comparison, and she realized that she would actually have to touch him now. Suddenly slightly breathless, she rolled up her sleeve and gently laid her hand upon his. For someone with such skinny wrists, he had pretty big hands.

8) The One Word

She said the word freely to her friends; they did mean a lot to her. She rarely said it to her parents, and when she did she rarely meant it; they had, after all, committed the original sin. But she had never said the word to him; probably because he meant the most to her.


I'm no expert. Constructive criticism appreciated. <3, Nana (315)