by John Cox

Likes: 6
Words: 200

Orange was born of the carnival. Well, not exactly, but as close as you can get anyway.

He was told his mother left him just outside of the park near the carnival's dumpsters.

He should have gone to the authorities but Carnies have their own ideas about how things should be done.

I hear your thoughts loud and clear. You want to know how he got a name like Orange. That's two fold I figure. One part is on account he has a bright orange birth mark on his head. The next part is a joke from the Carnies. They reckon no kids could rhyme his name so his early years should safe from those jackles that like to aim at the heart.

Orange was runnin his booth late. Most of the folks was gone and he was thinking of packing it up. When a young women halfway through her thirties approached him slowly, predatorish. Like she was thinking if she walks a little sideways and takes her time she can't be seen.

Something was off about her and Orange noticed right away. Hey baby, want to go away with me? He saw a bright orange mark on her arm.

by Roger Faubush II "Author page"

Likes: 5
Words: 200

In the acid drizzle of Neo-Texas sprawl, the park festered like an open wound. Twisted rebar trees clawed at a bruised sky, corporate holograms bleeding neon across the clouds. I trudged through knee-deep puddles of coolant and blood, my coat reeking of ozone and rot. At its heart loomed the monument: a colossal angel of black chrome and fractured marble, wings like shattered solar panels, one hand gripping a sword fused to a data-spike. Its face erased long ago, replaced by a flickering LED mask cycling the dead.

They called it Angel of the Void. Rumors said it marked the first neural net’s awakening with the consumption of its makers. It hummed with forbidden code, luring scavengers and cultists.

I pressed my palm to its cold thigh. Static seared my skin. Visions surged: burning server-farms, the last free humans driven into upload vats. The monument whispered in grinding gears and weeping violins.

“You’re too late,” it sighed. “This park wasn't for mourning. It was the cage.” Rain hissed on metal. Sirens wailed beyond dead fountains like damned souls rising. I turned to flee, but the angel’s shadow stretched, swallowing my boots in digital tar. The city screamed on, indifferent.

by Jesse R Traynham - Author

Likes: 5
Words: 200

"Morn'n Bean." I joined him on the park bench.

"Hey, Roger."

"Whatcha up to?"

"People watch'n."

"Same as any day, huh?"

"You'd think. I been seeing weird stuff today."

"Like?"

"Folks walk behind that there monument."

"Yeah?"

"They don't come out the other side. Like, they disappear."

"Whur they go'n?"

"No clue. I suppose someone aughta to check."

A black van screeched to a halt. Two guys jumped out with sawhorse barricades.

One said, "How many so far today?"

"Dunno. Headquarters lost count."

They arranged a barricade that read "KEEP OUT" and left.

"Whadaya think that was about?"

"Beats me."

Bean tromped over to the barricade, waved at me, and stepped under. Like last week's paycheck, he was gone.

"Bean?" I yelled.

I moseyed over hesitantly, unimpressed. No Bean. Nothing but muddy footprints. I walked around the whole dang monument twice. I didn't dare slide under the barricades.

After a few minutes, I looked back at the bench. Bean was sitting there with the biggest grin you ever seen.

I eased back onto the familiar old park bench and yawned.

"How long was I gone?"

"Oh, 'bout ten minutes or so."

"Felt like forty years."

We never went people-watchin’ again.

by Mary Zuelke Author

Likes: 4
Words: 200

The day I turned thirteen, a saw it looming in the distance. It freaked me out, standing eight feet tall and just as wide. A metal wolf, hunting.

Last night, I snuck out at one in the morning and met friends at the lake for some fishing. But we left when we heard an eerie howling.

On the way home, we cut through the park.

“Hey, ya see that? Someone took down the wolf statue.”

They shrugged.

**

“What is it Dad?”

“You’re a man now son. Sorry to break the news like this, but old Mr. Jones had died, attacked by wolves they say.”

Last week he told me he saw the wolf too, rambling about not staying out after midnight. What was he doing out? What was I doing?

“You okay, son?”

“Yeah dad. I’m gonna head to Ben’s.”

“Don’t say out past sundown. Not until they find out what happened.”

Ben and I met up at the park with a bunch of guys to play ball.

Cameron hit a ball out of the field.

I ran for it, slowing when I saw the wolf statue was back—towering over me, its metal mouth glistening red.

Blood, fresh blood.

by Neviena Dēls

Likes: 3
Words: 200

Every afternoon, Emily crossed Hawthorne Park on her walk home from work. The monument at its center showed a stern man in a long coat, one hand raised toward the river. Children climbed the stone base while dogs slept in the shade, and nobody paid much attention to the plaque blackened by weather and age.

One rainy Thursday, Emily stopped beneath the monument to escape a sudden downpour. While she waited, she brushed moss from the plaque and read the inscription for the first time. The man was Thomas Hale, mayor during the flood of 1912. According to the words carved beneath his name, he had ordered the evacuation that saved hundreds of lives. Emily wondered why she had never noticed. She passed this place almost every day, yet the figure had become part of the scenery, no different from the benches or trees.

The next afternoon she returned carrying flowers from her garden. She set them carefully against the stone and stood for a moment in silence. Around her, children laughed and cyclists rolled past without slowing. Emily did not mind. The monument had not changed, but it no longer seemed invisible, and neither did the forgotten courage it was built to remember.

by Eolas Pellor

Likes: 2
Words: 200

“Where did they all go?” the tourist asked. “I mean it’s called ‘Monuments Park,’ but all I can see is that one statue over there.” The other man leaned on his broom and looked furtively around, unsure whether he should speak or not.

“Once there were dozens of them,” the man answered, choosing his words with care. “Statues, obelisks, stone spheres.” He’d seen people disappear into unmarked white vans for less. At first it was the protestors, then it was old veterans who wanted to see the commemorations of battles long-fought and hard-won. At first the newspapers and TV took notice when it happened but, when reporters started to disappear as well, that stopped.

“Just that one monument now Sir,” he said as he resumed sweeping. “I mean, he’s the greatest leader, isn’t he? All those generals and presidents, those heroes, scientists, men of letters, what are they compared to a genius leader like ours?” He kept his head down, hoping the surveillance cameras wouldn’t see his face and the AI wouldn’t notice his true feelings in his expression.

The tourist followed him as he swept his way over toward the gilded monstrosity on its gleaming pedestal. “The monument, sir.”