A short story about an undead village and a lost ranger.
Tag: fiction
A Portal on High Street
Ever since I was eight, I’ve been able to create portals to another dimension. Cool, right?
No, actually. Get your head out of your ass.
The Elephant Handbag: 1
There are a lot of tragic stories. Another where some obscure white girl doesn’t get her way is hardly worth anyone’s pity. And that’s not what I’m here to tell you about, anyways. I’m here to tell you about my mother’s handbag.
And how that handbag, with its rough stitching and cultural-appropriating rainbow-coloured elephant print kept me alive on the night I was attacked.
The night that stranger took everything from me: mind, soul, and body.
The Fate of Mr Morrison: A Short Story
A short fictional story about a man and his discovery of a lost land, written and read by Alexis Veenendaal.
www.alexisveenendaal.com
Use of music owned by FesliyanStudios
#shortstory #fiction #atlantis
Little Prince: A Short Story
A short fictional story about a boy and his mother, written and read by Alexis Veenendaal.
www.alexisveenendaal.com
Use of music owned by FesliyanStudios
#shortstory #fiction #family #war #love
The Bicycle Woman: A Short Story
A short fictional story about a man watching a woman, written and read by Alexis Veenendaal.
**This story contains suggestions of sexual violence and stalking and is not appropriate for some audiences**
www.alexisveenendaal.com
Use of music owned by FesliyanStudios
#shortstory #fiction #crime #suspense
Take Me Back: A Short Story
A short fictional story about the afterlife, written and read by Alexis Veenendaal.
www.alexisveenendaal.com
Use of music owned by FesliyanStudios
#shortstory #fiction #afterlife
Scratching Names: A Short Story
A short fictional story about a man in a Köln gestapo prison, written and read by Alexis Veenendaal.
www.alexisveenendaal.com
Use of music owned by FesliyanStudios
#shortstory #fiction #ww2 #gestap
The Mother
No time for a shower. Grilled cheese for lunch, if they were lucky. Too late for order-in groceries. Could she order pizza? She could ask him to pick something up, but his trips to the grocery store always took twice as long and came with a bombardment of questions via text: “Which isle is that in again? Did you want the organic or the regular? What size diapers does she wear?” (Maybe if you changed them more often, you’d know!) And that was if he thought to text.
Scratching Names
The tight press of bodies around him were just shapes, smelling of sweat and blood and the tang of stale urine. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, stifling a gag. The smell was on him now, like a baptism in a tainted stream that could not be washed by any number of holy prayers. The bodies around him shifted and murmured. They were animals in a cage, grumbling over the pangs of hunger and thirst.