Short Story
Drifting Dunes
Sand got in my face, and I almost threw it away when I brought my hands up to brush my eyes. It was a small thing--little, I mean; insignificant and little and adrift amidst the massive dunes that had piled up against the glass of the city buildings. But I had kept it, and as my hands came up, I clutched them tighter to keep it in my grasp--too tight, and the metal's edges cut against my palm. Wincing, I opened my eyes again against the wind, and opened my hand to look at it again.
By Justin von Bosau5 years ago in Fiction
Two Guys Walk Into a Bar...
Looking around, it was more or less what I had imagined – a cozy, dimly lit, undeniably chic, underground affair that owed much of its appeal to its incidental borrowing of 1920s speakeasy aesthetics. Though its ethos was founded on anything but the historical marshes of American culture. The Lobo was prided on a pedigree; passionately and purposefully Cuban.
By Brandon Lever5 years ago in Fiction
Eve Alone
Eve looked down at the silver locket in her hand. It was shaped like a heart, two curves at the top leading down to a point. She hadn’t looked inside for years, and she didn’t now, instead letting it slip from her fingers to fall onto her chest. Carefully, she turned to look out the window sill, doing her best to keep as much of her head out of sight from anyone who might be scouting out her little home.
By Bradley Freeman5 years ago in Fiction
And the Senator from
And the senator from......... by Norris A Burrell Most people thought that in the end they would be banding together to fight flesh eating zombies or holding up in their bunker with a lifetime supply of food and water. Only to exit from the ground when the air is free from nuclear fallout. No one ever thought the end would come with a blink of a eye and from a meek but power hungry U.S Senator. Its been ten years since this man turned the entire world on its ear. Now this meek and now power welding Senator sits in his newly built city in what was once called Manhattan. He calls this place New Jerusalem, its massive and well protected by a military force hand chosen by him.
By Norris A Burrell5 years ago in Fiction
Lockdown Lane
The wind whips past the sitting room window, threatening the panes of glass with its hellish temper. I observe under the cover of darkness. I can hear muffled voices in the adjacent lane that runs the length of my garden. Even before the virus decimated Edinburgh, the lane was always a source of malignant activity. A suburban lane, offering a shortcut from one long nondescript road to another. It used to be frequented by dog walkers and teenagers using the nearby leisure centre by day, and off-road dirt bikes used it to get to the park at night. Was it still being used by dealers? I strain to hear, it’s useless in this weather. A raucous laugh is lifted by the wind and splits into four different directions as soon as it has escaped the snarled mouth of the issuer. What has he got to laugh about? I always liked to stick my nose into other people’s business. Any sounds of police vehicles outside would leave me glued to my window, good little curtain twitcher that I am. The police don’t come anymore. My reverie is broken by a wailing from outside. I almost don’t want to look. That’s a lie. I inch towards the landing window. From here I can see two of my neighbour’s front doors. One is firmly closed, as it has been for the past few months after the guy renting the house did a bunk back to wherever he came from. HE was smart, I concede. The other door is wide open, it’s my elderly neighbour’s place. Their flat is on the ground floor which of course is asking for trouble. I told her to take the upstairs now Sergio has gone. She was worried about her husband managing the stairs. I tried to tell her he shouldn’t be going out anyway. I can do nothing for them now. I tried to warn her. Independent a fault. Keep your doors locked and don’t use the garden, I beg you. I watch as an ambulance takes the prone figure of an old man into the back. She doesn’t go with him. No need for sirens now. I get a flashback to 6 months ago; we received our vaccines and we sat around the picnic bench in my garden and toasted each other’s health. They always did like a drink, whilst pretending they didn’t. Amazing how when someone else is supplying the booze they make an exception. I catch myself half smiling at the memory. So, another one bites the dust. I can’t deal with other people’s misery anymore. I used to be empathetic to a fault. Someone at work asked me once, ‘what is actually up with you?’ like it was a bad thing to be kind and mindful of what someone else is going through. I was embarrassed by his comment but found myself wondering if it was a character flaw. It’s a moot point now. Survival has knocked that out of me. I glance at the only way into my flat. Secured. I steel myself for what I need to do next. I only venture out when I get low on provisions. Not too low though, as there have been times I haven’t been able to obtain any. ‘Obtain’ is a better word than ‘steal’.
By Laura McNulty5 years ago in Fiction
Journal of a Wanderer
OCTOBER 17th, 2278 Existence invites Conflict. It’s the determinate factor of evolution. Without Conflict, life would cease to develop along a natural course – for better or worse. It would stall and stagnate. It’s a harsh reality, but it’s a candid reality nonetheless. It’s always been here with us; Conflict, I mean. Since we learned to walk upright, he’s walked next to us, shaping us.
By Matthew Reilly5 years ago in Fiction
Before
The old stone slabs stood tall in some places, short and broken in others, a crumbling mass that only barely resembled the manor home it once was. The roof had collapsed in recent years, though the house itself had been abandoned so long before that no one knew how long it had actually stood empty. When the roof had finally gone, it revealed a winding staircase to nowhere, reaching up into the sky, like an alien tree.
By Kristin Scarbrough5 years ago in Fiction
Punishment
My nightmare has returned, and I fear my death is nearly upon me. The lurking abomination I spied just beyond the horizon is drawing ever near, my fate is almost definitive. As a result, I have chosen to write down the coming days until it arrives and claim what is justly due. This could be considered my confession, but with my worst fear been realized, I am the only one left to read such regret and guilt-filled remorse. My sins are those that cannot be weighed, they cannot be measured, and I know in my heart there is no penance too harsh I should endure. I shall tell you dear reader, I shall tell you the story of the great mystery that has plagued humanity since the beginning, the mystery of our great ending.
By Dylan Richardson5 years ago in Fiction
