Where Everyone Has a Story
Louis Ting is the lighthouse keeper on Mystic Island. He is also a war hero, satirist, artist, and wanted by the United States Government. He may also be the most prolific writer no one has ever heard of. Although his writings have been distributed all over the world, most of his one-of a-kind stories have been lost to the ocean’s currents.
What do you do with a girl that lies, steals, and plays with a man’s emotions? You tie her up in the basement. At least, that’s what Carl White does when conwoman Sophie Monroe tries to rob him. Now, both Carl and Sophie struggle with the next move of a very dangerous game of chess.
Welcome to the Black Rock Villas, where countless secrets are only an apartment away. Like a nonverbal autistic child witnessing a murder and needing to find a way to reveal what he knows. Or Cooper, a high school student dealing with the confused loneliness of adolescence. Stop by for a visit, but try to keep it down, some of the tenants don’t react well to incessant noise.
Featured Stories:
The Mystic Mercy Hospital is not just a place to mend bones and treat ailments, it is also home to Ward 6, where Cinder Jackson and Stanley Knight tell their tales of horror and revenge.
Featured Stories:
William Knight is a high school misfit with the ability to control people’s dreams. When he falls for Hope Ferretti, the most popular girl in school, William tries to woo her in her subconscious mind, bringing to life her greatest desires. But, in the waking world, Hope is dating football star Joel Fitch, and William is unable to control his anguish. He unleashes a series of nightmares on Hope and her unsuspecting boyfriend.
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She’s known as “The Cat Lady.” Probably because of the cats rushing ahead of her for scraps. She waddles along, rolls of fat draping her body, ballooning her legs, blending her breasts and stomach, dripping down her right arm like candle wax. Her left arm, however, is withered, thin and twisted, as if the first dying branch of a waterless plant. She shuffles to the dumpster, runs her fingers through her downy white hair, pushes the glasses to her face and begins rummaging in it. Customers from the nearby restaurant, to which the dumpster belongs, will comment, joke about, or even sling insults at this hideous troll digging about in the trash. But there was a time when she was vibrant and happy.
What is that smell from my brother’s room?
It’s eerie and frightening like impending doom.
What is that smell? What is its host?
Dead leaves, rotten eggs, old cheese, a wet bag?
Whatever it is, it smells gross!
What is that smell from my brother’s room?
Could it be a mutant plant or alien flower in bloom?
What is that stench he has to endure,
a growing disease, or maybe a cure?
What is that smell? I simply must know.
I’ll muster my courage, I’ll muster my strength,
and into my brother’s room I will go.
But wait! I don’t know what’s behind that door.
What if it’s a monster with bad intentions at its core?
I could knock, and then, “Come in,” it might hungrily implore.
Or…
What if it’s a giant dragon in there today,
whose mouth fills up the entire doorway?
I could walk through that door into certain death.
That smell I keep smelling could be its bad breath!
What if it’s a troll looking to deposit
missing kids into my brother’s closet?
I could scream all I wanted, I could cry and stomp all aflutter.
They’d never find me, not in that closet’s clutter.
What is that smell? I’ve got to know.
Is it a body he’s hiding? My brother does like Edgar Allen Poe.
So… Is it a dragon’s bad breath? Or a monster’s BO?
My brother’s untimely death? Ah, that’s wishful thinking, I know.
Is it a flatulent ghost? Or some gobbledy goo?
A diseased host? Wait, don’t vampires smell, too?
That’s it! The suspense has become much too thick!
I’ll just peak in the door. I’ll just look real quick.
Here I go for the doorknob… Did I just hear a clatter?
I’m going to open it… I hope I can hold onto my bladder.
I’m opening the door. Boy, it smells foul!
I’ll slam it shut again, should anything howl.
And there we have it… the source could be no other;
the smell in the room is only my brother.
Bart Robbins’s reaction was a standard physiological response. His blood rushed from his extremities and pooled in his vital organs. His heart pounded. His head felt like an expanding balloon. His adrenal glands released an obscene amount of adrenalin. His thinking reverted to flashes of instinctual impulses. This physiological response is known in the science community as the “fight or flight” instinct. At that moment, Bart could have probably outrun a high school track star or maybe even have throttled a man to death with his bare hands.
Bart Robbins wanted to do the latter.