Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
LOCKET WITH A 'P'
LOCKET WITH A ‘P’ “OPEN UP! POLICE!” Dayquan knew what was coming next and that the door wouldn’t hold, even with all three locks engaged. While his mind raced over options of what to say to them when they burst in, he couldn’t take his eyes off the now blood-soaked locket in his hand.. which had delivered anything but the good luck he thought it would.
By Leroy Jackson5 years ago in Fiction
Father
The day dawns darkly, as the days always did. Megalomaniacal autocrats with big red buttons made sure of that, leaving the sky a nuclear-born haze that blocked out the sun. Chris sits on the edge of his bed in the semi-darkness with his head in his hands. The blaring of the alarm clock continues uninterrupted for a minute, and drowns out the nothing in his head. Finally, rubbing his face, Chris sits upright and deliberately pushes the button silencing the alarm. The hum of the generator replaces it, but only serves to underline the quiet of his mind. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light.
By Coral Weigel5 years ago in Fiction
Leilani
I actually recall the primary day I saw her. It was in English. She had situated herself at the front of the homeroom and I sat down straightforwardly behind her. My companion Rebecca strolled in no time flat later and seeing that there was no vacant seat close to me, looked confounded.
By waqar jameel5 years ago in Fiction
A New Day
Mary Ann was awakened by the sound of birds. She struggled to open her eyes. It felt as if she has been asleep for a hundred years. The clatter and squawking of the birds drove her to fight through her stupor. She had to see what made the birds carry on so. After much effort she was finally able to see that she was in her childhood room, in her childhood bed with her favorite sheets, the yellow ones with the white daisies and she had to fight the urge to just snuggle in and go back to the beautiful peaceful sleep from which she came. But those birds sounded an urgency. She had to get up. After much effort she was able to sit on the side of her bed and look around to take in her surroundings. Her posters of the Jackson 5 and Prince were on the wall. Her cheerleading megaphone was sitting in the corner with the black and gold pom poms sticking out of the mouthpiece. She smiled at the thought of the last time she used them at a pep rally and the football game later that Friday night. Mary Ann was the only black cheerleader on the squad and Captain at that. She was popular in every sense of the word. But what made her loved by all was her kind heart. She was good through and through. Her genuine goodness shown through in everything she did. People just wanted to be around her. She was funny and adventurous. She seemed to thrive on helping others. And despite the fact that she was from the one of the poorest families in a town with lots of rich white families and a few rich black families. She always rose to any occasion and stood out as a natural leader. But that all seemed so long ago. Or was it?
By Mary W Brown5 years ago in Fiction
Paradiso
The plan had been to die there, in paradise. It had been two years and six months to the day according to the etchings Polly had made on the walls inside her concrete box. One small line with every new sun. Inside of her tomb she had a small mattress that was nailed to the floor, a toilet, a tiny slit at the bottom of the wall where once a day one orb of something edible slid through and an aluminium vase that contained one stem of what she supposed was once a bouquet of orchids. The stem hadn't been watered in the time that she'd been there yet was as alive and living as it was the first day she woke up in the box. There was no door but one wall had a large convex window made of some reinforced material that had been heavily tinted so as nothing apart from the light of the sun and the moon could be seen from inside. In times of desperation she had tried to smash it with her hands and her head to no avail other than leaving a few tiny scrapes that could be wiped away with saliva. Above the window there was an ornate inscription in the concrete that read, 'Paradiso'. This, she assumed, was some sort of feeble attempt at humour by her captors. She'd imagined so many times whoever it was laughing as they hammered a chisel into the wall with extreme and delicate precision. Two years and six months, a long enough period of time that Polly had lost all hope of ever escaping her grey prison. On that 913th day as she sat against the back wall nibbling on the tasteless round thing that had slid through into her box she was surrounded by a great light so magnificent that it blinded her. Her brain fizzed and her ears rang with a screech of a thousand pigs at the slaughterhouse. She curled up in a ball and fumbled her way to the corner, scratching at the mattress praying for it to absorb her like some dried up bed bug. There she lay waiting for the sickness to pass. The screeching in her ears dissipated to a low hum and the fire balls that were her eyes began to cool as her brain began to recognise true sunshine again. She pulled herself upright with the help of the wall and rubbed at her eyes seeing the concrete room for what felt like the first time. The convex window was glowing a bright white as if the dark tint that had been there for two and a half years was suddenly ripped of like a band aid. She took slow steps toward the glow and saw tiny shapes starting to form as she got closer, tiny shapes turning into big shapes turning into buildings and trees. Her stomach flipped with vertigo as she realised that her concrete box was so high off the ground that the street below looked like a penciled line on a piece of paper. She fell back onto the cold ground and hugged her legs, shaking with fear and confusion. She didn't recognise the city in front of her. Was it her city? Was it where she once worked? Where she loved and played? She tried so hard to locate the memories of the alien place but found nothing. She cried and in a fury threw herself at the window, yelling and screaming and scratching hoping for someone out there to see her, to look up and see a woman trapped in a concrete box and call the police or rouse the cavalry. Anything would do, she just wanted saved. With energy depleted she slipped back down to the floor. Her filthy clothes soaked with a salty lament she saw movement from each side of the plastic bubble. She pressed her wet face against the curvature of the reinforced material and saw that there were hundreds of windows on a concrete wall. Bubbles in rows like hives and behind each an insect like her, all simultaneously coming to the same realisation.
By Kris Platt5 years ago in Fiction
Apocalyptic/Post-Apocalyptic
This subgenre centers around characters and plotlines after a significant world debacle has happened. You'll regularly discover topics like local area and its job in endurance, annihilation of biological systems, human instinct, and tragic governments.
By waqar jameel5 years ago in Fiction
The Many Deaths of Deacon
Pain, so much pain! My bones are on fire, I can’t think… Feels like a damned elephant is sitting on my chest! where’s that bloody nurse? What kind of circus are they running here, anyway? I need my pain meds, this doesn’t feel right, not right, no… oh no, oh no! I’m not ready to die!
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
