Her self awareness came with a price. The more she mused over her existence, and what it means to exist, the less sense everything made.
What was I before? And what’s to become of me after?
Fear and sorrow immediately followed the realization that any moment could be her last.
Pontius Paiva often ponders the meaning of life. Until he finds the answer he can be found at pontiuspaiva.com.
It has come to an inevitable and horrific end. By the time I realized what was happening, it was too late. Even though I’ve been previously diagnosed, I ignored the symptoms and completely missed the warning signs. A rough ride from denial to acceptance. There’s nothing more fatal than love.
Pontius Paiva hopes his stories might one day go viral. Cure your boredom by reading more of his stories at pontiuspaiva.com.
“Again with the sacrificial cults?” the editor shouted, tossing her draft in the trash. “We’re not a tabloid.”
“But people need to know-”
“That you have an axe to grind?” he interrupted. “Bring me a real story, or you’re fired!”
And that’s when she noticed the blood on his shoe.
No animals were harmed in the making of this story. Get the inside scoop on Pontius Paiva and the latest stories at pontiuspaiva.com.
I stumble in, drunk, parking myself at a table in the corner. “Scotch,” I yell to the blonde. “Neat,” I add.
She refuses to take my order, insisting that I keep my voice down. I raise a stink, demanding service.
Long story short, I’m no longer welcome at the library.
Pontius Paiva pours himself into his craft, hoping to raise the bar with each piece. Visit pontiuspaiva.com to see the complete library of merry microfictions and sobering short stories.
A black cat dashes across the busy highway. I slam on the brakes.
A siren chirps.
In my broken rear-view mirror, I see the fractured image of a police car. I pull over and the officer approaches my window.
I’m let off with a warning. Must be my lucky day.
Pontius Paiva protects himself every Friday the 13th by eating cereal with mini marshmallows shaped like items commonly associated with good fortune. See more from this superstitious scribbler at pontiuspaiva.com.
Lune, a savage brute, smothers Sola under his tremendous weight. Everything goes black.
Determined to keep her midday throne, Sola overcomes and bites her aggressor, drawing blood. He concedes, retreating in agony.
Victorious, Sola screams her own praises with fiery breath, reasserting her position as supreme ruler of the skies.
Pontius Paiva’s interest in the phenomena of celestial bodies could only be eclipsed by his desire to make up stories about them. Find out more at pontiuspaiva.com.
The shadow worshipers performed their unholy rituals, but when the lunar eclipse came, nothing happened.
Confused and crestfallen, they looked to the elderly shaman, who was already riffling through the pages of his grimoire.
After rereading the ancient texts, he suggested they try again, next time under a solar eclipse.
Pontius Paiva sacrifices sleep and sanity to appease the writing gods. Visit pontiuspaiva.com to find out if the spirits of storytelling reward him with the gift of publication.
He was an older version of me. The years have not been kind.
“Don’t go out tonight,” he warned, before vanishing into thin air.
I guess I could invite my date here instead.
He reappeared and slapped me in the face. “The point is to avoid the girl, you idiot.”
Pontius Paiva has been published several times in the past and hopes to be published again in the future. If you have the time, travel over to pontiuspaiva.com to read more.
Others have forgotten, but I’ll always remember the good times – the tire swing, the treehouse.
I rub my hand over initials carved in its bark. They mark the spot of our first kiss, and the wedding that followed years later.
It pains me to remember, but my axe shows indifference.
Pontius Paiva got 99 problems, but a birch ain’t one. You can root through his collection of short stories and other written works at pontiuspaiva.com.
People usually covered their ears, or skipped the aviary altogether. Oddly, the squawking didn’t phase the little girl or her mother. They smiled, admiring the large, colorful birds.
The zookeeper wondered how anyone could tolerate such obnoxious shrieking when suddenly the child lifted her tiny hands and signed, “Pretty feathers.”
Pontius Paiva is loud and colorful. And although he probably belongs in a cage, he’s flying high at pontiuspaiva.com