Burn Trap Novels & Stories

"Hello? Hello, can you hear me? How do you use this thing? Oh, it's on." Caleb's father froze with the chair in midair. Everyone's attention shifted to the screen. "I'm Ray from South Gate Salvage. Yesterday afternoon at three, a young man named Noah Hamilton brought me an Alienware laptop to sell." In the video, a middle-aged man stood among piles of old electronics. Caleb whipped around and stared at the screen. Ray scratched his head and continued, "The motherboard was completely burned. It wasn't worth fixing. I paid him seventy dollars for scrap.

I said, coating each word thick with sarcasm. “No—I mean with my hands. You know how they’re always warm? Well, I left them on the stove for a while when I was talking, and I took them off to boil some water, but the second I put the pot on the stove, the water boiled like crazy. My mom checked it out and said something else turned it on and burnt the burner to the core.” “So, it’s either you’re fire-proof or your hands got too sweaty from talking.” “El, I’m serious.”

They both needed a break, so the night would prove interesting, but important to their sanity as well. “Good grief, it’s busy tonight. You’d think hell opened its gates for the evening.” Trisha laughed and handed her a beer, the lime already bobbing up and down in the light colored liquid. “I know, right? You definitely know how to pick ’em.” She took a quick swig of the beer, the smooth flavor running across her tongue and pulling a sound of appreciation from her. She breathed in deeply, so grateful for the smoking bans in Texas. Back in her twenties, the bars and clubs allowed smoking, and if you were a non-smoker there was only so much you could handle before it was time to pack it up and

To fracture. Seven corridors branch outward like spokes. Seven. My pulse skips. To one side, a fully stocked kitchen gleames in stainless steel and marble — stocked not for presentation but for sustained habitation. Adjacent to it, a single corridor bears etched lettering in black glass: BUTLERS. Separate and defined. Each of the seven main corridors bears a gold plaque. Names etched into black glass and illuminated. I step toward mine. Lyria Vale. The letters glow softly. How long had they known? How long had they prepared this configuration? Silence thickens around us. We are reading and calculating.

no way! why am I bent in such an angle like a baby in the womb, what is happening to me? I took a look at my position, my breath got stuck in my throat as I realized I was inside a rope like thing, no,...wait, I am in a FUCKING trap. This isn't funny any more, am I going to die as food for carnivores as I become their special treat. No, I can't be thinking that, then can anyone tell me why I was stuck in a fucking trap, this is too

But he wasn't getting out of that tomb anytime soon. Baraka let out a ragged breath. His body was screaming. His right arm was severely burned from the proximity to the hydraulic explosion, the skin charred and blistering. His ribs were fractured, and his energy reserves were completely, totally dry. The violet light in his eyes flickered and died, leaving him in absolute, suffocating darkness. He felt the cold walls of the generator pocket. His hand brushed against something strange—not concrete, but rusted, cylindrical iron. He traced it with his fingers. It was a massive, circular iron grate set into the wall of the basement. A drainage pipe.

The three men crouched in a corner, gripping steel pipes and baseball bats like strays waiting for a meal. The elevator reached B1. Mia dragged a suitcase behind her. Landon followed with Noah in his arms. The garage was dim. Heads down, they hurried toward the parking spots. Bang! A steel pipe slammed into a concrete pillar two yards in front of Landon. Sparks flew. Landon froze. Three figures stepped out from behind the pillar. Andy rolled his shoulders, dragging the pipe across the ground with a harsh screech. "Oh? Going somewhere? In a hurry to die?"

the bar tender cried as a string of blood flow from his nose with dark bruises on the side of his lips. "You'll pay for what you did bastard." he sternly warned as he abruptly let go of the man's colar. The bar tender stepped out of the cubicle, limping by the impact of being push down on the floor. Allen look at the photographer who was panting and tears displayed on his face, his suit was wrinkled as his legs was closed tightly with his hand in between. He was sweating and blushing despite being half wrecked at this point. It was turning Allen on but he need to gather his whole will to not touch the young man like he was thinking right now.

I asked in a whisper of a breath so I didn’t crack in half from the pain. He knew what I meant, and gave me a sympathetic smile before dealing my fate. “Indefinitely. You’ll be on the medication until we get you going with some serious trauma therapy. This episode, this ‘parataxic distortion’ you experienced, it will come back. It always does until it’s dealt with. But with how fragile you are right now, we have to wait until you can handle it because it will dig at your core and bring up all sorts of nasty memories you’ve suppressed and buried for years.” Just say it…say the word… Broken. A step away from being institutionalized.