Lift the Carpet Part 2
Her eyes stood out as ghastly pinpoints of white in the deep black of her eye sockets. She must have been beautiful once. Now her face was deathly pale where the light from a nearby window struck her and went through her. The side in shadow faded to a skull, the structure of her cheekbones a mockery of what fragile flesh must have covered. Her right hand was lifted, the translucent fingers seeming to point downward at a spot on the floor. My eyes traveled back to her face. Was that accusation I perceived? Pleading? What on God’s green earth would have prompted my normally jovial uncle to paint such a morbid fant
Lift The Carpet Part One by MMSmith1777, literature
Lift The Carpet Part One
Lift the Carpet
My great uncle, Alfred Granville, died in 1971 at the grand old age of 86. The guy was retired military, been around the world a few times, seen it all twice. As a kid, I’d count the days until my dad said it was time to fly across the pond to see the old guy. Dad didn't have much by way of family, so it was a big deal to him too. I’d hurry up the steps of this perfect English cottage, give the door two swift knocks and run inside, muddy shoes forgotten. Uncle Alfred would be sitting in his wheelchair in the parlor, arms outstretched, gap-toothed grin lighting up his wrinkled face. I’d knock the ch
A short Halloween story.
Sam was a lousy boyfriend. I should’ve broken up with him after the first date. All my friends thought he was gorgeous, so I was kind of shamed into the second date. We were having a romantic picnic in the park, which consisted of me sitting on our blanket, munching on a tuna sandwich, trying to act interested in his litany of complaints about everything. Soccer was for pansies; People who don’t own the latest I Phone were lame, yadda yadda ad nauseum. I was contemplating the theory that really beautiful looking people like Sam are often shallow, entitled s.o.b.’s when he picked up a rock and
A life long aficionado of horror and fantasy , M. M. Smith began the chronicles of Boris and Patricia as stories shared around the dinner table. Her teen and college aged daughters wanted a different kind of vampire story, catering to their communal love of history and cultures. Eventually friends and classmates were listening too, and suggesting it all be written down in some sort of chronicle, so others might share in that which had delighted them so thoroughly. And so it began...
M.M. Smith is a widow living in Northern California with her three daughters and The Stupid Cat.