Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Kamena's Choice
Rutendo’s grimy fingers pried hard against the plastic seams that trapped the mechanical innards of the burned-out food synth. Whoever made these stupid things never meant for them to be repaired or adjusted, he cursed. After a solid twist, and the weight of his good knee applied to the top panel, Rutendo successfully retrieved the prize concealed inside. A full charge pod! Good for at least a month, he thought, if they were careful. He had a good number in hand now. Now all he needed was a food synth unit that had more than three working menu options. But that desire was a vanity. Food and water were a problem solved right now. Much heavier concerns showed no promise of resolution.
By Michael Van Boom5 years ago in Fiction
Notes from "Nightly Sweep, n. 483" - c.Aug 3088
"It's a cold night in August, don't cha think, Teffin?", asked a brooding figure, standing in the dark, holding a lance. The fog was heavy this evening. Another brooding figure, presumably named Teffin, responded: "Forecasts said it might be this way. Brought me a coat, just in case. Did you not look at the forecasts, Rok?"
By James Currence5 years ago in Fiction
Hard Shadow
Before the bombs fell, there were shelters being rebuilt by the federal government for families of the upper class. Originally built during the 1940s in the Cold War, these underground zones could hold up to 200 people each. In each shelter, there is an overseer monitoring the outside conditions and have constant camera feeds of the public zones within the shelter. My parents and I were a part of the people that had the opportunity to get in to one of these shelters. What they didn’t tell us was that it was only a shelter designed for only children. The idea behind this was that in order to prevent another generation of war mongering adults, they wanted to raise a new educated generation without outside influences trying to invalidate any of the teachings the shelter had given. The last thing I remember of my parents was my mother embracing me tightly with tear eyed. “James if you ever forget, open this locket and we’ll be here.” She opens my hand and puts her heart-shaped locket in my hand. As much as I wanted to go with them, the guards held me still. I took me several days to get use to being without my parents and even weeks to be comfortable with the shelter rules. The first day of school was rigorous for even a nine year old with their expectations for kids to grasp complex concepts on racial theories and the history of political divide. Every week they had a show and tell where the children would go to research at the shelter library and reveal all they had learned about such topics. For me, who could have cared less, misinterpreted the term “show and tell” on my first week and got my mother’s locket confiscated by the teacher. I had learned quickly that there would be no returning back to the school life I was familiar with on the outside world and I had to grow accustomed to being at the whims of those above me. Fulfilling their expectations was the only purpose I had left to me. I couldn’t dream of being like the other rebel kids that were eventually sent out to never return or like dreamers, who saw it their mission to succeed and age out of the shelter to see the outside world for themselves. I guess in some ways that’s what Father, the overseer that wanted all the kids to address him as, liked about me. The perfect drone that would take in all the slights he had against the other kids and complaints about the world where he didn’t make the smallest inclination to change when it was still in tact. “If this nation had only been more accepting and didn’t support the ideas of white supremacy, we wouldn’t be in this mess.” There were many times I wanted to correct him and ask him if that was really the only solution and what he did for anti-racism organizations when there were several times that I’ve heard him slander those types of organizations. “They’re only causing discord and civil unrest. I don’t care if they as an individual are linked to the organization or not. If they’re participating in that rally then they must be a part of the organization.” But of course in my studies, we did learn there were outside agitators that spurred protesters into action. Whether the fault lies entirely on the outsiders for starting a riot or for protesters getting lost in what they’re supposed to be protesting for, I don’t think anyone has the right answer. My relationship with Father was only limited to this extent and I only knew of myself as the only person to share this intimacy until I was the age of 17. Morgan never spoke much during class. Her show and tells were brief and she always seemed to be afraid of the boys whenever they tried to speak to her. One night as I was going to Father’s office for our monthly meetings, I saw Morgan leave. I greeted her but it only made her run off in the opposite direction. When I stepped into the office, there was a fish smell and Father was in the middle of mopping away at a spot. “You’re here earlier than I thought you would be.” He said. “My research ended short and I didn’t have much else to do before 10.” Father quickly mopped up and sat himself at his desk. “Tell me how your studies went.” I explained to him the effects that isolation had on the mental state and the subconscious mind and for the rest of the night, we had a talk about humanity as a whole and the need for people to stay connected with each other. Life soon after felt brief with months feeling like days and before I knew it, it was time for graduation. Father stood at the podium and tried to give a motivational speech for the new influx of children beginning their school life. When it came time for him to see Morgan off the stage, instead of a handshake, he pulled out a heart-shaped locket and clasped it around her neck. It couldn’t have been the same locket that I had confiscated from me when I was 9 but I had to be sure and I met up with Morgan off stage. “Before you go running off, can I see your locket for one second?” She handed the locket to me. “Now if this belongs to who I think it does, there’s only a limited number of people that knows there’s a secret switch to open this locket.” I recalled the sleepless nights I had when I was 9, staring at the locket trying to figure out how to open it. A triple click on the dial with a hold on the third, until there’s a click and then a brief hold on the first click. The locket opened revealing a family picture of my parents and I. “You mind if I hold onto this?” She shook her head. “Father gave it to me and he said that boys don’t deserve anything.” “He was a boy once too.” I walked away and searched through Father’s office for a clue to where adults go. “Looking for something?” Father said. It was best that I get a direct answer from the person who would know. “Where did my parents go?” “Could be another shelter or they may be wandering for non radiated zones. We actually don’t know what happens after the doors close behind them.” “They were supposed to be guaranteed safe passage.” “And it is. It just might not be the most ideal.” I slid a glass bottle up my sleeve and walked by him. “For the record at least we kept you safe like we promised.” He said. I smashed the bottle on the back of his head. “And I did everything that you expected of me like I was promised. I’ll be taking my leave of this shelter now.” The new guards, who were once my classmates, came and hauled me off to the entrance of the shelter. The doors opened and I was kicked out into the dirt. “You did a kickass thing James. Nobody actually ever tried attacking Father before. No hard feelings?” One of the guards said. I nodded me head. “How could my feelings be hurt when my real father is out there and there’s a whole new world waiting for me to explore. I’m going to dream a better dream so that I can forget about this place called purgatory.” And as the doors slowly closed, my hope that my parents were still alive lived in the heart-shaped locket that was back in my possession.
By JC Wayland5 years ago in Fiction
The Neighbors
Every day I sit alone in the driveway of my house, staring intently at the people who pass through the alley. I never say anything to the people who pass, but I watch. My family doesn’t pay much attention to me, and they treat me like trash most of the time. They say I’m old and worthless, that they should replace me with someone newer, younger. Granted, I’ve been part of this family since they moved into this house twelve years ago. However, they still push me around and use me. I find comfort in my routine of sitting in the driveway by myself. I absorb knowledge and have come to know my neighbors very well. Just yesterday I heard the two men who live in the house behind us talking in their backyard, sharing stories and beer, as they talked about the hooligans vandalizing our neighborhood. The neighbors to our right, an old Chinese couple who lacked a strong English vocabulary and had a multitude of cats, would call their children inside at the beginning of dusk, afraid that the miscreants might bring harm to the younger children, and terrorize them. On the left, a single mother and her three kids always played basketball in the driveway. The steady rhythm of the ball hitting the ground was beautiful music, and entertained me as the children shrieked with laughter when their mother let them win. My favorite neighbor, however, was an older man in his mid-60s. He was ex-military, and always sat in his driveway too, watching for scandal and destruction to our small community. He would sit there quietly, like me, with a baseball bat nearby. I never asked if he had a family, but I never saw anyone else in his driveway.
By Liz Gonzalez5 years ago in Fiction
Let Them Speak
Prologue I put on the hoodie and leather boots over my day clothes as quickly as I can. There’s no time to waste if I want to have it back to Papa. There’s no way he can take care of Isabel and me if he can’t speak, and stealing this is the only way he will be able to. Still, I feel a twinge of guilt, but remind myself that I am only stealing for Papa and Isabel. They have needed me since Mama left. I am the only one who can get Papa what he needs. I flip the hood over my head and get moving.
By Mikayla Brumbelow5 years ago in Fiction
The Serum
Day 175 and still no headway with this thing. I can see the stress, anxiety and frustration building in my husband. It’s been 75 days since he’s allowed me out of the bunker for supplies we were low on. He says “with my condition” he doesn’t feel good about me being out there. About 5 months ago, what seemed like a meteor hit the world and it left us in pure devastation. There were many survivors but lots developed some sort of flesh-eating brain deteriorating disease. Which, as crazy as it sounds, created zombies. We waited at least a week before we opened our bunker door. There was nothing that could have prepared us for the scene we opened up to. There were still little fires everywhere, trees down and a few people wondering aimlessly. As ridiculous as it sounds this is the one time, I'm happy that my husband was a paranoid conspiracy theorist that believed in having a bunker ran on an underground backup generator filled with at least 6 months worth of food, medicine, water, weapons and ammunition and other essentials.
By Alycia Jenkins5 years ago in Fiction
The World We Know
Not many survived what the still living see as the end of all life as we know it. Unfortunately, I did. I mean sure, we’re still living and breathing. But is that really what constitutes a life? There are no more restaurants, concerts, movies, or anything of the sort. All we have left are books, which is especially difficult for me as I have a hard time focusing whenever I try to read. Thankfully, comics still exist. They are the only thing that I have left in this world that allow me to escape the harsh reality that has become my life.
By Christopher Howard5 years ago in Fiction
Reaper of the Barren
The Thief was running for his life across the hot sand. The cliff faces of the gorge offered some shade but it was always hot. I knew he wasn’t going to make it far. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten in about three weeks, plus the wound I gave him slowed him down drastically. It was nothing personal. It's just the way it is out here in The Barrens.
By Jake Darragh5 years ago in Fiction
Heart of Atlantis
Honestly, I think that I’m a magnet for the destruction of civilization and I’m not exaggerating. Five months ago, I survived the apocalypse, brought on by a severe meteor shower, along with my sister and a few other random people we’ve found since leaving the doomsday version of NYC. I know what you’re thinking – that doesn’t make me a magnet, but that’s the second apocalypse that I’ve survived. The first, which I happened to find out about from my mom on the night this current destruction happened, was the fall of the great underwater civilization known as Atlantis. Apparently, my real parents were the rulers of Atlantis and after some mercenaries found the secret city and attempted to enslave everyone and steal the technology, I was sent ashore on some hi-tech submarine to survive while my parents sacrificed themselves to destroy the invaders and keep the city a secret. It became a secret ruin since the city was destroyed along with them because in order to ensure my survival, they sent me ashore with the very thing they needed to keep the city alive – The Heart of Atlantis. It’s basically the life source of the people and the technology in a small silver, heart-shaped locket. I was found and adopted by a couple from New York, along with the locket and a letter explaining how I got there. So, I basically found out that I’m the heir of Atlantis… who just stepped in the remains of some decaying animal.
By D.J. Bullock5 years ago in Fiction
