Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
PAEAN
The last of the funerals was now a year gone and diminishing into the cataracts of memory. Jason and his son were the last and there would be no others. A jagged pyre of dry shattered wood waits by their white swing set which had grown sullen with rust for there were no more children to come after him. I had broken down the fence, the dead spruce, pale chaparral and even the peeling dog house they left long after the animal had refused to return. But there was still not enough wood for this.
By Kevin Rolly5 years ago in Fiction
The Raid
An arid wind blew through the dust covered town in northwestern Arizona. It was one of those small towns that the world had forgotten after the outbreak, and this made it the perfect place for people to settle. Lives of luxury were gone, and those who enjoyed them were gone, too. What was left were those with the will to survive, and those who could avoid falling prey to the prior.
By J.M. Moran5 years ago in Fiction
In the end it was the zombie earwigs
It would have been better if it had been butterflies. Marjorie loved butterflies. They were soft and lovely and flitted from flower to flower. Would being smothered by soft butterflies have been better though? Earwigs, on the other hand, were ugly and creepy. And had those nasty pincers. They did not flit. They scooted and scurried. And they killed a lot of folks. They killed her Marcos.
By Linda C Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Housefire
Her hair was the color of the house fire, and I think that’s why I chose to stand beside her. There is something about symmetry that attracts the human brain, and subconsciously it must have drawn me. There’s also something about tragedy and devastation that draws a crowd. She didn’t stand out otherwise. Her peacoat was charcoal, and her scarf was a riot of color against the dark grey. It looked so soft. She was warm and comfortable, and you can’t help but seek that out in a situation where someone’s life is literally up in smoke.
By Danielle Mullineaux5 years ago in Fiction
Ode to Mr. Calvin and Miss Mary
Ode to Mr. Calvin and Miss Mary I worked for Mr. Calvin Cobb and Miss Mary for nearly twenty years. May they rest in peace. Was with them through the sun and snow and even when the wind was pissing like a drunk. No matter what people said. Even when, sometimes they called Mr. Calvin things.
By James McMechan5 years ago in Fiction
Rush
Chapter One Just Another Sunny Day "Riiiiing!" I jump out of my desk as the school day ends, nearly forgetting my bag. I make it to the hall just as it begins to fill with students eager to leave for the weekend. Maneuvering my way quickly through the throng of hoodies and letterman jackets towards the double doors: I, Myah Rush, am on a mission.
By Dominique Stedge5 years ago in Fiction
The Mistakes He Made
Watching the wind rustle the hair of the dead is often unsettling. I walked by a killed raccoon just the other day, and the breeze slithered through the animal’s fur. It looked as if it was taking a shallow breath. I wondered why the image disturbed me, and I thought, Maybe because we know dead things are not supposed to move. It is almost like the wind is playing a cruel joke, tricking me into thinking that life still courses through those veins. Or perhaps I misjudge the wind. Maybe it is desperately trying to revive the dead. Give it up, then, what is dead will not come back no matter how hard you will it. Poor wind, I would guess that it gets lonely. Its’ air is the substance upon which we live, what failure it must feel when it can no longer fill our lungs.
By Samantha Crites5 years ago in Fiction
Lost Heart
Items containing an emotional connection are considered taboo in this day and age. Many do not see the point in holding onto things for sentimental value. Considering that when one must move from place to place, it is easy for that item to be lost and create immense heartache. Sometimes, though, people get away with keeping their belongings. My caretaker told me that some items contain memories for those who hold onto them. People wish to hold onto those times, she would say. When she reminded me of this, she would tap her finger against the locket around my neck. As if trying to tell me that this heart-shaped piece of jewelry contained something that I could not see nor feel. I could not understand what she meant.
By Corinne Borchers5 years ago in Fiction
The Resistance
As Shorty digs himself from the rubble of the safehouse he had just reentered seconds earlier, he mumbles curses to himself about the Dictorate’s military actions. Shorty begins searching for other survivors. The dust is finally starting to clear as Shorty picks his way through the rubbish. Shorty suddenly spots the pile of concrete and rebar that was the command center before the explosion. The first thought to explode in Shorty’s mind is, the Commander! As he rushes over and immediately begins digging through the debris. Shorty eventually exposes the broken and battered body of the Commander. As the Commander struggles to speak, Shorty leans in to hear the Commander say, “Find Kymberly and give her this.”
By Kenan Levesque5 years ago in Fiction
Forged in fire
The potent odor of garbage and sweat practically smacked Blithe in the face as she and her mother, Shena, walked the city street of Yusra on their way to a local spice shop. Blithe tightened her pink embroidered scarf around her nose and moved closer to her mother. The two traveled with their personal body guard Dante who lingered closely behind them. While Blithe kept her gaze mostly focused on the trash littered street below her feet her mother kept her head held high and walked with great haste.
By Ali Shafer 5 years ago in Fiction
