Michelle Martire

Author on Reedsy Prompts since Jul, 2020

Stories (9)

9 Stories

179 karma pts

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“The Eyes Have It” by Michelle Martire

A small rectangular light coaxed Mel’s eyes to open. It was her phone, passive-aggressively calling out for a charge.  She awoke to a dimmed office space, sitting back, with her neck lipped over the top of her chair, eyes staring pointedly at a series of number two pencils that punctured the ceiling’s porous surface; a cluster of dark, lined shadows.  The dull red haze of the hallway exit sign cut through t...

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“The Resurrectionists ” by Michelle Martire

The fresher the corpse, the better the pay, my father had always said to me, eyes as grey as the corpses we dragged from the earth. For years my family resurrected bodies for the sake of research and livelihood. It began with my great-grandfather, a man of medicine without a means to dissect. Legally-accessible cadavers were in short supply; if you were lucky enough to obtain even the left-overs, it was but a shared body mutilated by doctor after doctor. With the study of anatomy at its height, our great anatomist des...

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“Half Moon Tavern” by Michelle Martire

Wolfram entered the tavern in search of his squire.  The evening was cold in Davrir, but warm bodies huddled together at tables, talking amicably, sloshing about pints of ale. A bard leaned against the fireplace, the crackling of flames just offbeat to the delicate resonance of their lute. Wolfram rubbed together his leather-bound hands; the cold had eaten through the old hide, leaving the tips of his fingers numb...

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“Mendacium” by Michelle Martire

Deborah Hernshaw was late to her sister’s wake. Not that she wanted to be. Not that she planned to be. It’s just how time operated for the Hernshaw family. Things bubbled over, priorities shifted, stuff happened. Like, realizing you were supposed to pick up your little brother a half hour ago, just as you drove into the parlor’s parking lot. Deborah had slammed a hand on the steering wheel of her car so hard, she had popped off a fake nail. It projectiled into the back seat somewhere. She spent the drive wondering if she could...

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“A Dead Language ” by Michelle Martire

We were ambushed at the cemetery. Noel, shot blank through the shoulder, the thigh; too many shots to count. He hit the earth with the lifted brows of disbelief. Like a fool, I scooped him up by his underarms, dragging his heavy frame past crumbling tombstones; blood seeped from his body like oil. The man who attacked us, and his lanky friend, lay dead leaps away from us now, eyes like glass in the moonlight. The thin one managed to graze my side with a bullet, but I ignored the sharp sting pulsing below my flesh like a second heartbeat.&...

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“Wax and Feathers” by Michelle Martire

Arthur Dudley was found lounging on his plastic pool chair, covered in a thick, wax-like substance and black feathers. The wax had pooled about the concrete in the summer heat, mixed with molten globs of flesh, and stretched out from the body on either side in a long wing-span. His eyes, wide and thick with branches of red, clawing veins, stared up at the sun as skin pulled away from muscle.  Detective Morris wipe...

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“Gardner St. ” by Michelle Martire

  You thought he was dead, but there he is, right in front of you on the street, smiling at you. He may as well as have been dead. You wish he were dead. Had been wishing it since May, when he left without a goodbye. It’s just like him, to return with the changing of the leaves.  He calls your name as he exits the taxi. You’ve been staring at him from the sidewalk, trying to affix your eyes to the reality of him. Here. As if no time has slipped through the cracks. It is comforting and horrifyi...

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“A Scratch of Madness” by Michelle Martire

They started small, these scratches.    The first time I saw them was at the lake house. My room had always been closest to the water, and I’d always forget to close the window before bed. At night you could hear the bugs outside as clear as if they were buzzing around in your ears. The third morning we were there, little red welts rose up on my arms. It wasn’t uncommon for me to have a bad reaction to bug bites; it seemed I’d been scratching the itch away in my sleep.    Mom, of cours...

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“Birth of a Siren” by Michelle Martire

I stand overlooking the ocean. A craggy cliffside stands behind me. Emotion has all but emptied from me, porcelain limbs hung at my side as my eyes peer into placid waters, clear and devastating. The surroundings are of my own creation. Grayed and dull. A mirror of reality, to watch my body from a safe distance, to protect a part of myself I cannot yet give up to him. But even that may be slipping. It’s hard to tell. The...

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Author bio

Always an editor, never a writer. With each story, I’m hoping to change that, and learn to love writing again.