“What used to scare you when you were small?” Garret Weldon asked his seven schoolmates, sitting cross-legged in a circle around a large pumpkin-scented candle on the floor of his den...
Tag: Fiction
Next Caller____ Itty Bitty Bastards № 9
“Okay caller, you’re on The Night Stage, with Flip the Bird. On tonight’s Confession Corner, we’re talking about soul mates. You say your boyfriend is your true-blue-forever-man?”
With Lips Trembling____ Itty Bitty Bastards № 8
Gio's fingers quiver like branches in an autumn bluster, as they caress the glistening caramel skin of Simona's tear-soaked cheek.
Common Sense: Horror____Itty Bitty Bastards № 7
"What was that?" The neo-greaser named Dingo nervously asked as he scanned the moonlit lobby of the abandoned asylum...
The Algorithm ____Itty Bitty Bastards № 6
The Algorithm does not lie...
Step by Step___Itty Bitty Bastards № 5
A step-by-step methodology to ensure your safety:
Seductive Ruination__Itty Bitty Bastards № 4
She's a fever dream, jay walking her way into your heart, to burn your house right down. ____________________________________________________________ Art: Justin Weingartner Words: Peter Hammarberg ©2021
Random Acts of Violins__Itty Bitty Bastards № 3
It started with the occasional busker. Upturned fedoras with a few coins shining against the velvety lining. No great movement at first. It was pleasant to hear Bach floating through the thoroughfares while folks ran errands. A little Vivaldi ear candy here and there. Splendid overtures of audible opulence. But soon, territories were claimed, and … Continue reading Random Acts of Violins__Itty Bitty Bastards № 3
Last Laugh__Itty Bitty Bastards № 2
An old man sat on a park bench, smiling. “How doodeedoo!” he cackled as I approached. “What’s got you so happy, old man?” I asked. “I’m dyin’ boy. Gotta get it out of my system,” he sighed, then forced a throaty hoot. “Why’s that?” "Cuz I have a notion they frown upon happiness where I'm … Continue reading Last Laugh__Itty Bitty Bastards № 2
8 __Itty Bitty Bastards № 1
There’s a door at the end of the hall marked with an eight. Sofia doesn’t like to look at it, or think about it, or tell anyone that the number reminds her of the eyes of the swaying man...
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