Short Story
Stick with Me
Finally, after ten long hours of boredom, Mitch’s shift came to an end. As Mitchell locked the bookshop for the evening and said goodbye to the part time worker who had closed with him, he realized how truly exhausted he was. His body ached, his mind felt frayed like worn rope, and the magic that thrummed under his skin prickled incessantly for release.
By Margot Lambal5 years ago in Fiction
My treasure
She puts the novel down on the table and looks at the clock. Soon, he'll stand at the door, smelling of Dior, smile, say hi, kiss her lightly on the chin and go into her apartment. Then, he'll sit down, ask if they should order something or find somewhere to eat. He'll expect that she'll know what she wants and that she'll ring for something or be ready to leave the apartment soon after. He's not the type who likes to wait. She takes a scruffy note up from the trash can and twists it between her fingers. She's in doubt about whether she should show it to him or not. More of them have arrived in the last few days, but she hasn't saved them. She can remember what was written on most of them. There was no reason to make him worried. She isn't even worried herself. Maybe she should try to show him the last one. She hurries to the bathroom.
By Mette Honoré5 years ago in Fiction
Heartless
Thoman pushed his way into the marketplace. Some of the market was covered with corroded roofs that only managed to let rusty water leak in while crumbling cement walls turned what should have been a fairly straightforward collection of vendors into a tangle of dead ends and labyrinthine corridors. There were stands covered in soiled but brightly colored cloths in every possible space. Well used plastic bins were arranged on every flat surface and filled with shiny and fairly valuable wares. Thoman chose this market because the guards were almost nonexistent and nearly anything could be had. Thiesel followed behind, pleading with Thoman to slow down; she was exhausted with his obsession to hunt every last one of this week’s “must resell” items.
By G S Goldberg5 years ago in Fiction
Slow Burn
Cordelia Allen was having the worst day of her life. Worse than when she fell flat on her back out of the tree in her grandma’s backyard, worse than when Johnny Fitzer kissed another girl at the winter formal, and so much worse than when she said goodbye to her dog Penny for the last time.
By Marisa Doell5 years ago in Fiction
Star Sleeper
-1- “No, please. I have not been backed up into the cloud. Spare me.” The bot’s voice quivered despite the monotone drawl of its basic programming. Sparks falling from Shakkurru’s ignited pulse blade pinged off the bot’s metallic exterior like synthchimes.
By Dean Floyd5 years ago in Fiction
The Tree Sitting Contest
“Vern would tell you I enter a lot of contests,” Betsy said, as she stabbed a needle through her needlepoint hoop. Even though it had nothing to do with the question I asked, she kept on talking. I let her. I just let her talk, even though it told me nothing about why she came and what kind of help she needed.
By Keith R Wilson5 years ago in Fiction
The End
The world looks different now - duller. Like one of those old world photos, the western style ones you’d get taken at a theme park and then would put in a draw for years to grow dusty as forget about it. That same coating of dust is everywhere, it saturates the surfaces of our town, thick and powdery, footprints cut through it and it almost makes me laugh. It reminds me of the first snow of the year when everyone would race outside to their gardens to leave defined footprints. Snow doesn’t fall these days. These days the world only has one setting; hot.
By Karla hardiman5 years ago in Fiction
First Sunday
That first Sunday had faded from her memory just as its recording had slowly sunk into the memory banks of her somewhat dilapidated desktop. However, she had already reconstructed much of what had come before. She had only recently realized that the motivation for that first Sunday had been brewing for years. It had started as a nagging restless feeling, occasionally mutating into irritation, even outbursts of frustration, sometimes climaxing in feelings of disgust and, eventually, anger.
By Jerry Smeding5 years ago in Fiction
Semi-Scarred Dirt
The dilapidated house stood forlornly against the grey horizon, the lone dark sentinel keeping a careful eye on a dead world. John looked at it as the last dredges of daylight slunk below the horizon, rapidly turning the pasty grey frame of the sky a hungry mauve, then a deep velvet black. He sighed and rubbed his hands together out of habit, wondering if the winter weather gear in the box by the front door was still full. He could use a good pair of gloves for the future; especially one’s knitted by his mother.
By Patrick Davin5 years ago in Fiction
