Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Doomsday
Doomsday, at least that’s what they called it. The world started falling apart, and everyone else fell right along with it. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to gaze out a window. Since, I’ve been free to watch the sunrise, or just be able to take in a breath of fresh air. Life used to be so simple, and yet I can hardly remember what it was like then. I lost my family, my home, my hope. Now all that’s left….all that I have left is this locket. And it might just be my chance, my chance to save this place we now call the world.
By Joleen Ulrich5 years ago in Fiction
Hannah and Kinsey
It all started when our house got broken into. And of course I blame Kin, for leaving the window open— I mean, it’s fucking 2039. The poverty level is higher than ever, and our neighborhood in particular is so close to the encampments. Once upon a time, it was Blue Hills. I’d give anything to open my front door and see trees again, or a blue sky, or a car driving through the neighborhood. Anything but the vast sea of concrete that extends to the east and south of our apartment, with no end in sight. But cars were outlawed years ago, after the trees started going. I don’t even remember when the smog rolled in and settled over us like a blanket, but I’m confident that it’s here to stay.
By Sarah H Borwick5 years ago in Fiction
He’s Coming
As my mother clinged to the little life she has left, she whispered a word to me. “Logos,” she said weakly. I needed her to say more but I know that was all the energy she had. She closed her eyes and took her last breaths. The last time I seen my mother was when I was leaving for college. That was years ago. Dylan, my best friend, and my mother were with me at the mall when a plane crashed into it. My mother was hit by a chunk of cement that fell from the ceiling. Not realizing it, Dylan and I ran to see if there were any survivors on the plane. An older man came to help too. He ran to the front of the plane to check on the pilot.
By Takedra Webb5 years ago in Fiction
The Oppression of Objects
Of greatest importance this evening, above even happiness – an illusory phenomenon to which no one is entitled, least of all herself, thinks Hortensia– is an achievement of balance. As in a simple pendulum, the collective body of the self and the other oscillates between complements. It is not movement one seeks to control, Hortensia thinks, but simply its velocity.
By Emily Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Pariah
The grass is scratchy-soft beneath me, tickling the back of my neck whenever I turn my head. Lying flat beneath the morning sky makes me feel rooted to the ground, like a tree. I squint at the sun to determine how long I've been out. It can't be much past eight.
By Jillian Boehme5 years ago in Fiction
Voices From the Apocalypse
When the sun goes down in the desert, the heat goes with it. I remember reading that a desert can go from 100 degrees Fahrenheit to 40 as that fiery ball set. I moved to the northern Nevada desert several years before the world ended. It often takes a moment to remember what life was like before: Before the riots, before the chaos, before the end. The memory of time and events seem like another life, and I guess it is. I miss my house and its temperature control. I miss my husband. I miss the way he made me laugh. There is not much to laugh about anymore. It’s been just over two years since I last saw him alive. I don’t even have a picture, but that is common. Most people have their pictures on their phones or the cloud - phones ran out of power months ago and the cloud no longer exists. I can still see him when I close my eyes; his blue eyes smiling at me. His dark hair was kept just long enough to start curling on the ends. The picture in my memory fades every day. I can see it blurring. The edges of my recollections of him swirling at the edges like smokey tendrils that are silently eating at my favored memories. I’m terrified of the day that I close my eyes to see him and he’s no longer there.
By Tamara McNeill5 years ago in Fiction
We Are Awake
One of the giant, black towers comes up above the treeline, dark as a finger of coal and riding up to the clouds in the corner of the man’s eye—a phantom—but he focuses on the deer at the end of his ironsights. Right now there is a headwind, so the animal can’t smell him, and it can’t see him either because it is busy eating mushrooms.
By Logan Smith5 years ago in Fiction
A Long Walk From Chicago
I spend most of my time now looking back on the first day, so I guess I’ll start there. I was in a dank smelling bathroom, standing and facing the mirror. It was like I had just woken up, I swear I just opened my eyes and I was in a completely foreign place. But obviously I had been awake for a while considering the bags under my eyes. I remember being almost scared by my own reflection, I looked sickly. I reached for my necklace, it had this silver heart shaped locket with a scratch on the back I would trace when I was anxious, but it wasn’t there. I was confused more than anything at that point, so I left the bathroom in search of someone who could tell me what was going on.
By Kaylee Rain Phillips5 years ago in Fiction
