Stories related to violence

He took her away on his new boat, gleaming with polished wood and leather. She came back alone, smelling of saltwater and bleach.

Bill was sure he had won his struggle with the doppelgänger, but washing the blood off his hands, he saw an unfamiliar birthmark on his arm.

Unquenchable thirst. Reaching, reaching…The vessel shattered. Street ran red. Sons and daughters wailed. Mr. Kool-Aid had left no will.

80 years after death, his hand, removed from its 120-year-old casket, was laid to rest alongside his disinterred skeleton; Runway 6 now open.

She showers for the seventh time that morning. She can’t seem to wash away the filth, the blood, the semen.

The metallic smell of blood and salty tears found my hiding place before Mama did. “Papa’s sorry” she whimpered. I pretended to believe her.