Miniature Fiction

Josie had taken her fantasy football draft preparation to an entirely new level. She wanted desperately to go beyond the mundane study of average draft positions and viable draft strategies; she wanted to understand the decision making process. It hardly surprised Jodie to find herself stooped over her husband’s lifeless body, poking and prodding at the grey mush of his brain, looking for any insight into how the stupid thing worked.

- C.D. Carter

Check out C.D. Carter’s new facebook page promoting his forthcoming ebook How To Think Like a Fantasy Football Winner

He stared into the Abyss, defiant, undaunted. And the Abyss stared back. Yet, he was not afraid.

- Christopher Houston

Find this new guest author on tumblr HERE and find them on the twitter machine @WonBlackGuy

“Did you exchange a walk-on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?” I asked my son, sitting across from me in the diner, his long, dirty hair hanging to his shoulders, his sparse beard tangled and matted. The baby I had once rocked to sleep, singing that very line from my favorite song, did not speak, but answered me with the emptiness in his unblinking eyes, which had seen so much human degradation — the kind you cannot un-see. My boy was in his cage, staring outward.

- C.D. Carter

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

My face within inches of the broken mirror, I stroked my dead, gray skin and was grateful that, for however long I’d wander the earth in this post-life state, I wouldn’t have to shave. And my hair — my hair was intact.

- C.D. Carter

Follow him on the twitter machine @CDCarter13

“It needs to be used like a nuclear bomb,” Dirk said of the opposite field home run.“Yes, because it will melt people’s skin right off their bones when I hit it right,” Kennard replied.

- C.D. Carter

My hand hovers over the handle for a moment, I close my eyes and take a deep breath before opening the door, silently praying that what’s inside won’t be as bad as I fear.

The door creaks as I push it, the stench that pours out instantly has me burying my face inside my elbow.

A shaft of light splits the room in two, ending at the bed where I know the body to be; in semi-darkness I grab at the clothing strewn over the floor, hoping I can get out with as much as possible without waking my teenage son.

                                                     ***

Justine M Dunn writes flash and micro fiction, her début novel, Beach Lanes, is available now.  http://www.justinemdunn.com/beachlanes

twitter @juzzadunn

Thank you!  

“It wasn’t until I sliced it open that I realized it was perfectly ripe; just the right texture and temperature, not too dry or moist,” Jonah said as we finished our last drinks of the night, once again alone at the bar, save for the geezer passed out a few bar stools down, smelling of good bourbon and sour urine. I had lost track of our conversation, in part because I found Jonah terribly boring and because there was a small ocean of vodka running through my veins, so I asked, “You have a sudden passion for watermelon, or fruit of some kind?” “No, not fruit,” Jonah said, suddenly sober, pointing to the inebriated man face down on the bar, “that old drunk’s brain.”

- C.D. Carter

The finger lie there like a superbly realistic Halloween prop, surrounded by a tiny pool of deep-red blood. The pain consumed him, yes — it pulsed through every nerve ending all at once — but he had to show how deadly serious he was when he listed the atrocities he’d commit against himself if it meant not having to compose June’s Homeowners Association minutes.

- C.D. Carter

Follow @CDCarter13 and check out his new ebook on the Kindle Store Here

The man who appeared to be a boy with an unkempt beard pushed the stroller down the street, day and night, in all manner of weather. He pushed and walked, and walked and pushed, for years, sometimes passing Ron’s house a half dozen times a day, even as the snow fell, even as the sun baked everything below it. Ron, unable to resist after so long, chased after the man-boy one day at sunset until he saw what, exactly, was in the stroller, or rather, what wasn’t. 

- C.D. Carter

Follow C.D. Carter on the twitter machine @CDCarter13

He tried. And failed. Now he’d try once more, this time with the other side of the hammer. 

- C.D. Carter

Horrified? Me too. Find out more from C.D. on the twitter machine @CDCarter13

Eight of them perched like grotesque leaves on the gnarled tree by the side of the road, and as Amy approached she began to regret the curiosity that had drawn her into the woods. Cradled in the skeletal roots of the tree lay the thing responsible for the congregation of flesh-eating birds: a bloated and rotting human corpse that was missing its face.

- MarielQ

Cheryl hadn’t completely ruled out renting the room in the huge boarding house, set back on a winding driveway in the center of two acres of rolling green lawn and weeping cherry trees, until she saw the contents of the closet at the top stairs.  There, in the pink and white wallpapered walk-in closet, hung a navy blue jumpsuit stained with something that looked like chocolate syrup but definitely wasn’t.  He could have been a mechanic, she thought later as she sped away, but it was much more likely that he was a deranged homicidal maniac who lusted for the blood of teenagers on specific holidays and/or days of the week.

- MarielQ, find this guest author on the twitter machine @MarielQ

“What happened to the construction workers?” she asked. “They were decapitated by the barber’s scissors,” he replied.

- MarielQ

We bought a state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line, terribly overpriced noise machine for the baby’s room, a recommended purchase for any parent hoping to replicate the comfort of the womb for their sleepless bundle of joy. I lie there in bed one night, so tired I couldn’t sleep, the baby monitor nearby, when I first heard the words of advice speak to me from somewhere in the simulated rain sounds of the infant’s noise machine. Barely audible, I strained to listen to every syllable whispering beneath the burst of sound, and finally heard its message: “Draft Lamar Miller.”

- C.D. Carter

C.D. Carter is a reporter, author of zombie stories, writer for The Fake Football and Sports Jerks. Fantasy Sports Writers Association member. His work  has been featured in the New York Times. Follow C.D. on Twitter @CDCarter13

C.D. Carter has also recently been writing about how poker can be applied to fantasy sports, check it out… Poker Lessons Applied to Fantasy Football