Tag: four sentence stories

Four Sentence Stories (Part 4)

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All of the windows and doors were gone when he awoke, finding that the walls now continued uninterrupted in their place. He tried to scream for help, but was horrified to find that his mouth was gone, the lower half of his face now smooth, continuous flesh. He tried to quell his panic by closing his eyes and counting to ten.

On the eleventh second of darkness, he realised his mistake.

The intruder alarm blared as the couple raced to their panic room.

Sealing the door, one turned on a screen to see a masked man at the front door, who now ceased prying at the door and waved cheerily at the camera. The other tried to call the police on the landline, but was horrified to not hear a dial tone.

Neither noticed the cupboard door slowly opening as man in an identical mask slowly emerged.

Four Sentence Stories (Part 3)

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It is hard to tell who is an android or a real person some days. Most evenings it isn’t until I arrive home that I realised no one I spoke had blinked or breathed. I am always relieved to see my spouse and children carrying out these comforting reminders of humanity.

I paid extra for that feature.

She knew that no one would believe her. They would say that she had post-partum psychosis or severe sleep deprivation, but she knew that the child in the crib was not hers.

She decided to not tell anyone, and felt glad to have the much calmer and quiet baby. She just had to keep anyone from seeing the full set of teeth in his smiling mouth.

The castle was well-defended. High walls, thick gates and a moat no one could cross. Guards patrolled outside its barriers day and night, refusing to allow anyone to cross. There was a terrible illness that could not be allowed to cross the walls. So the king and his closest subjects languished in isolation, unable to pass the defences set up to keep them safe.

Four Sentence Stories (Part 2)

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I never know what to do when someone is singing me happy birthday. It’s why I never tell anyone when my birthday is. It’s also why I make sure I’m home alone all day.

So I refuse to open my eyes as I hear someone singing above my bed, leaning in closer and closer.

After my daughter woke my up for the third night in a row, I was getting near the end of my tether. After she stopped babbling about the man at the window, I finally convinced her to let me tuck her back into bed.

When she finally settled, I opened her window for some fresh air and saw a figure on the street, smiling far too widely. As it turns to walk away on limbs that don’t quite bend right, I lean out and find my hands resting on scratch marks on the window frame of my fifth floor apartment.

I never got over the death of my twin sister. My parents seemed to move on quickly, they always said that they were just happy to still have me.

I miss Jennifer.

I miss being called by name and I hate that I had to move into her old room and wear her old clothes.

 

Four Sentence Stories

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I know it’s the ultimate guilty pleasure, but I can’t stop watching videos of people being killed online. As the stream begins, I immediately recognise my street as the camera follows a man to my front door. When I hear knocking I begin to panic and can’t believe they picked me, that it was my turn, despite having agreed to the website’s dire conditions.  As I shakily open the door I also can’t believe that the man at the door hasn’t noticed the cameraman in the shadows who winks at me from over his shoulder.

Evan had begun to think that stealing a mannequin might have been a funnier idea in the daytime than at night.The damn thing still gave him the creeps. Even posed wearing one of his shirts and cradling a bottle of beer the silhouette on the couch gave him the creeps, so he distracted himself by doing the dishes and thinking about how much it would scare his dummy-phobic flatmate.  He heard footsteps and braced for the screams. He only had a moment to realise that he hadn’t heard the front door open before it was interrupted by a beer bottle crushing his skull.

It’s best not to stare, the child’s mother whispered as she pulled him down street, away from the man he still strained to look at. People had started acting weirdly recently, and no one would explain why he couldn’t talk to them or ask why their skin looked like old clothes they’d outgrown.

He wanted to ask his father, but his mother had locked him in the basement after he’d gotten sick and spent all night screaming. As she pulled him down the alleyway and clutched the bag of food tightly with her other hand, the boy gripped the basement key he’d found tightly and smiled as he thought about seeing his father that night.