Katrice S


Fiddling thumbs

Wandering eyes

Stiff shoulders

Head bobbing to the music

Trapped in continuous oblivion.

The Mark

Snake-like tendrils encircled my wrists.

Crater-like rabbit holes hidden in the mist.

A dense fog sent shivers creeping up my spine.

My outstretched body, a pre-determined shrine.

Melting wax slid down my arm mimicking the route of my veins.

Then coagulating and branding me with the mark of Cain.


I spent the night over at my friend’s house. It was for no particular reason, only to strengthen our friendship as only an overnight sleepover would. Her mom made burgers that night. Naturally, as a growing girl I was ravenous. We finished eating and changed into our jammies. I snuggled my doll, Megan, closer to me in the tent to generate more heat, I guess. Although the tent was in the middle of the hallway nestled safely within the house, I missed home. Megan reminded me with her pursed lips, shoulder-length black hair, and sinfully long eyelashes that I was safe. That is until my trusted companion, my friend, pulled her hair off...accidentally. I whimpered as tears lined my face, denying my ager and subtle traces of homesickness. I took her back, gently placed her hair back on and took part once again in the festivities.

2 Six Word Stories

Clawing at earth grasping only air.

Plummeting downward to an endless oblivion.


A black ocean.

Churning, crunching.

Screams caught in their throats.

Suspended in time.

A moment of bliss.

Spat on shore.

Scrubbed clean and exposed.

A Fiddler’s Melodies

David had an eternal youthful glow about him. He had defined boyish features: a resilient nose, an easy smile, and a semi-muscular build developed from years of play. He had a humble arrogance that women adored, a Greek god without pettiness. He was considered a shepherd of men and idolized by all who knew of him. David was a flawed man of empty promises. He was a fiddler who plucked the strings of my heart. The startling twang of the fiddle eliminated the false reality of our eternal happiness. A fiddler whose melody was short lived and never returned.


A condemned soul permanently latched onto me, gradually dragging me to the depths of hell. Her mother clung to me as if I was her lifeline, anchoring her to this world. My stoic exterior cleverly hid my internal warfare. Her stepfather hung back, smoldering as if he was already burning eternally. He met my eyes and slowly made his way toward his blubbering blonde and stoic sort of son-in-law.

“Amanda,” he said gently.

Mrs. Mandy looked warily in her husband’s direction. Her body sagging like her oversized athletic wear. An overused roadmap became her skin complexion. Rick unlatched her claws from my skin.

“It’s his turn, Amanda,” he explained with his casual air.

He said “my turn” as if we were playing a game. In reality, I was to see my best friend of fifteen years, a porcelain doll lying on a cold, cold table. Words on the tip of her tongue, never to be heard. A thin, white sheet enveloped her: my wife, the mother of my children, my dearest friend, my Lisa.