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Do any of you really read short stories/anthologies?

It seems that all I do is write short stories and poetry. I've written three full novels and hated them (saved them and kept them secreted away because I know they're bad, not just because I'm being too critical). I love my short stories though. I have a way with short, quick stories and I know it. I'm not being cocky - people love my short stories. I love my short stories.

But does anyone want to read a bunch of short stories, though? Does anyone enjoy anthologies and pages of poetry? (beyond my love of poetry I have few friends who can lose themselves in dozens of poems and forget to breathe for a while).

Well, here's a short, creepy story I wrote for a friend. Enjoy it, hate it, tell me what you think of short stories either way.

***

The whisper of her footsteps in the loose, dry snow was all she could hear. There were no birds, no wind, no other voices. She could scarcely hear her own breathing, but she liked it better that way. Darkness had settled in, and she wanted to be able to hear if something was coming up behind her, or even in front of her. She couldn't put her finger on why this felt so wrong, and was presently ignoring the flopping of her belly.

The moon seemed so distant, above the trees. The smallest of crescent, it barely gave off even the slightest of glows. The stars were still muted, though. It was as though someone had pulled a gauzy drape across a window - it didn't cover the light, only took away some of the brightness.

The trees seemed monstrously large from where she stood. Dark branches reached for her, sometimes surprising her with their proximity. She tried to avoid them, but it was impossible. Branches and limbs stretched across to meet her.

She kept on, stepping in the white, virgin snow, leaving behind holes as a reminded of humanity's destruction. She kept her eyes turned forward, speeding up, but her tired limbs would barely listen to her. Cold had come and passed, an uncomfortable heat settling across her toes and fingers. Up her hands and feet. It was beginning to be unbearable. Soon she would have to lose her coat if she wanted to stop sweating.

Her breath came out in the puffs, floating into the air to be lost to her forever. Fear was making her jumpy. Something was wrong.

She pulled her thick gloves off, to push her hair out of her face, but she noticed the nails. All bitten down to the quick, the tips near chewed off. She shoved her fingers back into the gloves, the tickling hairs no longer a bother. She could feel the pain now, the stinging. She licked her lips, tasting blood on the cracked skin. She began to chew on the dried skin, peeling it off slowly, irritating the delicate layers underneath.

The sound. It was the same shushing of moving snow, but there was an urgency behind it. She froze, her eyes wide, as the wind finally joined her. It bit at her face and made her eyes water. She didn't mind though, she knew the wind was warning her. She could smell it, smell the loathing hunger of it. Of the thing, whatever it may be.

She turned to run in the direction the snow had shown her. She moved her legs harder and harder, letting them carry her, even when her mind had no recollection of the direction they went. Each step was like a godsend as she felt the wind urging her on, giving her instruction.

As she woke in her bed, she could feel the burning warmth of frozen limbs, taste the blood on her raw lips, feel the stinging finger tips and most of all, she could smell the fear rolling off of her. As she sat up, she could see her winter gear strewn across her room, wet from a recent run in the wood, off in the distance.

She could feel it, having joined her from her nightmares, if only the wind would tell her where it was.";

God, stop this. Stop being such a good writer. I love you. *drools*

Just to drive you insane, Krissy, I'm going to keep adding on here.

My dear friends,

The island I've come to rest my wary bones on is large, too large for one person. I know that in the past, others have resided here. It's obvious by the homes and fences. The garbage and their trash left behind, as a reminder of who I was.

I live here alone, I was told by the man who sold me the little house on the corner. No one else lives here, and yet, when I walk, sometimes, amid the crashing of waves and the screaming of gulls I hear laughter. I know what you might say - I've been here too long. It's not good for a woman to be lonely. My doctor has told me countless times, but yet, I feel more at peace here.

Most of the time.

Sometimes when I walk down the little path of planks settled into the loose sand, I can see a shadow, running along the path. I always follow, knowing full well the path ends in nothing. A rock face too steep to climb without assistance. Yet the shadow comes and repeats this action if I go to the edge of the water there, to gaze into the murky depths. I can see the old ships and boats there, having crashed upon one too many of the sharp stones that line this section of beach. I step into the water, and find it always cool.

The island doesn't have much in the way of seasons. It's usually cold, even when sunny and often it rains. I don't find it uncomfortable, though. Only distressing when I feel lonely as I listen to rain patter on my roof. The roof is metal, treated so it doesn't rust, but wood leaks here. I've seen it on the other houses that dot the island. Roofs caved in, useless to anyone who might try and live there.

About half a days hike, across the winding paths that follow the mountain there is a path that bisects the island into two, but I don't think most people realize that it's two islands, since the water is so shallow. I like, sometimes, to take my shoes off, and step in. I slip on the algae and have twice now twisted my ankles so badly that I couldn't walk home for a number of hours. I'm more careful now. Something about being in the middle of the two halves at night unsettles me. It's fine if I'm on either concrete shore, with land under me and no water around my ankles.

Have you ever been so deep in a cave that you experience total and utter darkness. I have. Several times now I've wandered into the caves that are scattered all across the island and turned off my torch lamp (thank you for this gift, by the way. Between this and the batteries you sent for my radio, I have been able to entertain myself quite well), and sit in the darkness. I sometimes try to look for my hand, but I can't. Being in this darkness makes me laugh, because I know that if I were to lose my torch, I would be lost and could never find my way out.

I don't know why this is so funny to me. Perhaps it is my nervous heart begging the universe to spare me - just a jolly girl. I laugh a lot lately. At jokes we all once shared, at jokes I can't wait to tell you. Sometimes an odd piece of trash, embedded in the soil tickles my fancy and I laugh.

Have you ever laughed when you are alone? It's a terrifying sound. One that no one should ever hear.

I hear it all the time.

I'll move off of these two islands soon, but for now I need to find solace in myself, as I am like this. Laughing alone or not.

All my love,

Miss E. M. Miller.

Why did he have to be so handsome? So captivating? Why did he have to know about the "vow" that kept me silent. I wasn't sure why I felt so lost without a voice I rarely used. Perhaps I just wanted the choice to say something when it came to mind. It seemed so often now, things bubbled up. It was driving me insane.

With that handsome man too. He thought it was noble. I would never be able to speak to him, because of what Finn said. Damn him, damn him to hell.

Not that I really believe in hell. I want to be laid to rest in the ground and be returned to my Mother as those before me were. I don't need an eternal life after this one. This one was damn long enough, and it was just getting longer here. There were so many confusing things going on, and I feel that the others are keeping things from me. Especially damn Finn.

I wasn't too fond of Bradiccus either.

I did like Redmund though. He was a sweet man, and I was glad to see him well. Not as glad as I was to see the handsome man.

***

Fear gripped me tight around the middle as I nearly ripped my shirt off of my torso. I had thought, for a moment to kill Redmund and save him misery, but what would I do without him? I would truely go mad if I had to travel without him and just with my other pair. I couldn't cry as I pushed his cooling innards back inside of him. The stench made me cringe and I felt faint.

Oh Mother, I pleaded inside, it's too soon to take him back into your arms and return him to the soil.

I swallowed, tasting coppery blood in the air. My breath was coming in quick gasps as I held him together. I was too shocked to think more than another, thought, one that would haunt me.

How dare that man distract me when I should have been with him.

As held him together, half running with Bradiccus holding him up, I could feel the cold air on my body. My modest breasts standing at full attention. Goodflesh pimpled my skin and my throat burned both with cold and tears. I couldn't see in front of me, my eyes clouded with tears.

As we entered the holy place, I felt myself cringe. That pretty woman would save him, and he would forget about me.

I'm not sure why I thought that, but it might have been that I was unconcerned with Redmund's whereabouts when I had fallen into lust with that horrible man. He was horrible, evil. All these charming men and women were. They didn't care if you forgot your friends and only loved them. That's what they craved. That's what they needed - their physical appearance making it easier for them to seduce and take from those who needed to work hard for affection.

If Redmund died it would be his fault and I would never forgive him.

As the officer forced me to swallow the brandy, I felt it burn as it snaked down to my stomach, which turned on itself. I was never one for alcohol, but he said it would help. Instead, I knew now, that the brandy would likely decide to rise again later, perhaps when I let other things go, like my tears.

No one would see my tears. No, those were the most private part of me. No one could ever see my emotions now, since they only got me into trouble. They only hurt me as bad as the people who had once "cared" about me.

My only concern now was revenge for Redmund, even though he had not yet died.

I wrote a short story, featuring one of my characters...but, it is nowhere near viewer friendly~ For the curious, I can send it to them, but I would not suggest reading it. It was for a project, and I was very, very tired of the light and frothy fictional stories~

There wasn't anything resembling "respect for the dead" anymore. The dead were just that - dead. We were thankful when they didn't get up - and it was hard, sometimes, to tell if they would get up again. After all, when they stayed down, we didn't have to kill 'em twice.

I missed the days where, when someone died, we would mourn them. At first, we would cover them with stolen sheets and blankets. Give them some respect. Used to say a prayer or two for them.

Then the numbers started piling up and we just stopped doing it. We stopped thinking of them as ever human. It was hard, watching our humanity slip through our fingers as every shot we fired made us more and more monstrous.

It wasn't our fault, really. Survival hung in the balance. We couldn't help it. They weren't people when they died, and most of them had tools. Or clothes we could use. We stole from them and left them behind to rot.

They would do it to me too, and it hurt, knowing that when I got bit, I wasn't going to be human anymore.

That's why I didn't tell them.

http://www.fictionpress.com/~mishigu This is my fiction press, if anyone is interested. I've put some of the stories here on there, as well as the prologue and seven chapters of my unfinished novel.