A Little Pinprick Novels & Stories

I also aware of pinning to a fleecy mattress as an expired corpse. A pinky finger moved and, sudden hustle-bustle started around me, I could hear voices, What is this? My mind muffled, For an aeon, I was unable to move and stuck. Shocks of soreness transmitted from my nail of thumb to my skull. My forehead formed a line as I arched my eyebrow in agony. Oh Lord, this will kill me

I felt a pang of pain in my heart, like someone stabbed me with a million pins. Fuck.

Spontaneously, Alen picked up the pin attached to his shirt and handed it over with a puzzled expression on his face. "This isn't just any pin, Alen. Look at the back!" Riley explained, showing the back of the four centimeter long pin. Alen blinked and took the pin back from Riley's hand. But when he looked at it, he still didn't understand. Riley sighed and started to explain but he and Alen suddenly saw the pin glow. Alen's eyes widened, "Riley, why is it glowing?" A bright blue light emanated from the small pin. Riley smiled, "It's a sign that one of us has found the food store."

It stings like a bitch! ************

He tried to move, but only increased the pain. He was naked, standing, with silver chains binding his hands and feet, as well as a collar around his neck, which kept him glued to the wall. He felt his leg heal, and he thanked the Moon Goddess for his leg healing properly. The bites and scratches had already healed, leaving behind the dried blood that covered his body and the characteristic smell of iron that flooded his nostrils. He could almost taste his own blood in his mouth. In fact, he probably really did, as he would probably have injured his lip from the fall.

“Brace yourself.” “Whoa, wait! What are you doing?!” I squint my eyes and carefully slice the center of my palm open. The initial tip splitting my skin doesn’t hurt, but dragging it down to make a longer cut stings like a bitch. Blood pours out of the wound, spilling over the edges of my fingers, making splattering sounds on the desk blotter. I wince at the pain, but work quickly. I press my thumb on the side of the hard pellet below my skin, making it pop out of the makeshift incision like a watermelon seed. I pinch the seed between my finger and thumb and hold it up. It looks like a piece of squirrel poop. I inspect it closer to see the little grooves that look like a microscopic inscripti

Gritting my teeth, I pinched the back of his hand hard, hoping to make him stop, but he only smirked. I pinched the back of his hand, a sharp, brutal twist meant to hurt. But he didn’t even flinch. His fingers only gripped my thigh tighter in response, his nails digging in just enough to make me wince. I gritted my teeth, my breath coming out uneven. I couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, I reached for my fork, my movements fluid and precise. My pulse pounded in my ears as I pressed the sharp metal against the back of his hand and stabbed down—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough for him to feel the sharp sting of pain.

It blended almost seamlessly into the wall, its color so similar that it appeared unobtrusive, yet I spotted it right away. This pinhole camera was alarmingly small; if Peter hadn’t previously introduced me to similar equipment, I might have completely overlooked it. A chill ran through me as I processed this discovery. The implications were unsettling—my every move could be monitored, and Neil’s room, despite its warmth and comfort, held secrets I hadn’t anticipated.

The weight of our situation pressed down, heavy and suffocating. It was then, amidst the debris of a collapsed building, that Kelly unearthed it – a small, tarnished silver locket. It lay half-buried in the dust, its surface scratched and worn, yet somehow managing to retain a faint, almost ethereal glow. We gathered around it, the faint glimmer a stark contrast to the surrounding darkness. Inside, nestled amongst the faded velvet lining, was a single, faded photograph.

The sharp point of the silver pin slides right past the fabric and drives deep into the pad of my index finger. I let out a sharp hiss, dropping the pin. A bright, perfectly round drop of blood immediately wells up on my skin. "Oh, shit, careful," she says, leaning forward. "Those industrial pins are brutal. Do you need a band-aid?" "No, I'm fine," I say quickly. I grab a scrap piece of black tape off the table and press it tightly against my finger as panic spikes in my chest.