Short Story

Resonating Thoughts
“Sanity” a word defined by pretty much any dictionary as “the ability to thin k and behave in a normal manner. “, yet as I stood in line while a number of guards pulled out a man two spaces in front of me and began to beat him to down; I wondered if the form of the word sane would best suit my now normal reality. I like to think that life ceased to exist after the new virus had introduced itself; pretty much every country fell into turmoil and when it was our turn to fall, the government rose before the rioters could and took desperate actions. Money became nothing more than a reminder of the past and once law-abiding citizens had become nothing more than petty thugs ready to steal if need be. There were no more laws, no morals, or no ethics, just people with guns enforcing their idea of order and if opposed were ready to serve “Justice”.
By Nathan Torres5 years ago in Fiction
One Day the Birds Will Sing
The world went quiet. Too quiet. Once, a song danced in the wind, but those times are lost. There is no music now. Fingers still over dusted lyres and the troubadours are voiceless. In this age of darkness, what is left to sing about?
By Nicole Westerhouse5 years ago in Fiction
Hell-Shaped Hole
A heart shaped locket caresses the breasts of the fanatic. That’s what they call them these days. Inside the locket lies a dangerous symbol. A man attached to a wooden cross.
By James Mills5 years ago in Fiction
The Storm
Andre pulled at the plywood covering his window. He could hear the screams. He had to help. If no one helped the screams wouldn't go away. He pried the plywood away, making the nails holding it in squeal from the friction. The plywood finally came off, revealing the bleak wet world outside.
By John Elyl5 years ago in Fiction
Julia's Diary
The girl was still strikingly beautiful - even though she was dead. Thomas had seen enough death to know that she'd been dead for a few days, maybe more, and that she had probably taken her own life. Lots of people did these days. Though what was she doing out here, deep in the bush two miles outside Newport, Vermont was anyone’s guess. Thomas came here often, just to find a place to think and be alone. He'd never seen another soul until now. He guessed that she was was close to his own age – say, seventeen or eighteen. The tear in her blouse revealed a small tattoo above her left breast. It was a crudely drawn butterfly in a circle with a line across it. There was a gold, heart-shaped locket on a chain still clutched in her hand. Thomas stooped and gently took the locket and clicked it open. Inside were pictures of two people; a woman in her thirties and a man who looked about five or ten years older. They were probably her parents.
By Bill Townsend5 years ago in Fiction
The Bookkeeper's Daughter
Gold was such a funny element. It was precious, coveted, a symbol of status and power. People fought over it, died for it, killed for it. Some people lived for it. No greater gift could be given or taken away. It was cool at first touch yet warmed quickly on the skin. For many it could mean the start of a new life. Tonight, it marked the end of mine.
By Hannah Forbush 5 years ago in Fiction
Maskwa Legend
Geometrical shapes whispered from a dark ceiling above. A soft white blanket started dusting over the terrain. It was only midday; it should have been more well-lit than it was. The crystallized flakes glistened in the light emitted from the house. She pulled her cashmere wrap snugger over her delicate shoulders. November could be unforgiving in the Northern ranges of Manitoba. God’s River is an isolated wilderness, the principal settlement of the Manto Sipi Cree.
By Margaret Todd5 years ago in Fiction
Breathing in shadows
Another red sunset. Red dawns yesterday... red days last month... red skies a few years ago. I could no longer recall the exact date the sky was any other colour than red... but I remember what happened the day red was all it became.
By Georgie5 years ago in Fiction
Solitude at the End of Days
I wiped the sweat from my brow as I stood, looking up at the stars through the forest canopy, acutely aware of the calm breaths on the ground behind me.
By Michael Mason5 years ago in Fiction
Bevin's Spring Break
“Bevin, are you ready for the meeting?” That was an excellent question. Was I? I sat on my bed staring at all the clothes strewn around my floor. Mostly flannels, but a few gay pride shirts as well. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I gripped the side of my bed. The meeting started soon. I wanted this. It was just information. Why was I nervous?
By Huckleberry Rahr5 years ago in Fiction
From Forest To Floor
When I was about 10, I used to play in the woods across my fields all the time. They weren't very big woods, so I knew them WELL. One day up on the property line, I found a little "fort" that was naturally formed in the vines and brushes and that I could fit inside with room to spare. I had been pretending I was an explorer and was looking for a place to set up camp while I "mapped out the rest of my journey", how perfect?
By Axelle 5 years ago in Fiction
The Intern
He wore my face in a clumsy expression, with eyes that lingered on the floor and an intern’s meager voice that echoed off the walls built on tradition and nepotism. Their wings clipped by the room’s noise of fashion degrees and wealthy parents, his words stumbled, then fell from his tongue in my familiar way and landed squarely on the meeting table. The table’s selection of tailor’s shears and fine fabrics became macabre instruments of a post-mortem examination on those words that died the moment they left his throat. They might have buried them on the spot, another intern’s corpse beneath the corporate floorboards, had the central London, Savile Row address not been too rich for his blood.
By Nathan Hutchins5 years ago in Fiction