Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Paris, 2101
Lizzie A4 couldn’t help but gawk at the giant grey building from the banks of the Seine. It had ornate multi-color glass windows like a kaleidoscope and strange stone creatures on the roof. She used her ocular implant to look up its history while mumbling to herself, “what strange architecture... what could it have possibly been used for?” The implant traced the outline of the building in neon blue lines like a blueprint before declaring that it was known as “Notre Dame de Paris”. She quickly scanned through the corresponding articles, learning about the typical features of gothic cathedrals, Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo and the great fire of 2019, all the while marveling at how much the building had endured. It emanated a kind of strange beauty that felt otherworldly to her, she had a similar feeling when she stumbled upon the Great Pyramids six months ago. In both places she was dumbstruck by an overwhelming sense of awe, unable to comprehend what humans were capable of so long ago.
By Carmen Cornue5 years ago in Fiction
The Emerald Locket
The city is starting to become dark as the sun had been hidden by the tall building for just over an hour. The neon lights and holographs are the only thing lighting up the garbage covered street and alleys. The sound of rats fighting over some food can be heard with distant gunshots echoing against the metal walls of the high rise buildings and apartments. The rare beam of sunlight reflecting off a satellite dish atop one of the towers bringing the only natural sunlight that can be found when the sun is not at its highest. Life is hard in the city. But that is where everybody lives now. Jobs are few and far between. The land doesn't grow produce like it used to in the past. Amongst the doorways and alleyways people are standing around smoking, talking, just trying to enjoy the few hours of light the sun offers. Their skin pale and clothes worn due to the high poverty in the lower levels of the city with a locket around their neck. Each locket different from the other as they are the identification of the person, they will tell everything about who you are, who your family is, your social status, as well as your job. Most everybody has a weapon of some kind as crime has become more and more rampant.
By Justin Thomas5 years ago in Fiction
Silver Box
The morning sun shone through the lone window of the shack. The rays of light hit Oliver on the face, as he rolled over in frustration. Surely it wasn’t time to wake yet. The birds chirped away outside as they had done every morning. The fire had settled down after burning to provide heat and warmth throughout the night. Oliver sat up, rubbed his eyes and placed his feet on the floor. He went through his mental checklist. Put out fire. Check. Find something to eat. Check. Go find more wood. Must do. Put on gas mask. Check. He gathered his rack sack, bow and arrow and started to make his way through the forest towards the river. There was no means of any communication since the dreaded day ten years ago. He tried to not think about the events and memories of that time. He was only eight, and to be fair couldn’t remember a lot about what happened. It was the memory of his family that hurt the most.
By Joshua Maggs5 years ago in Fiction
From the voice journal of Emily B, New Era 437
This is it, the last piece. This small piece of jewelry resting on my palm is the last remnant. It’s shaped like a heart and made from sterling silver, though the metal is now encrusted with rust. When you click on the tiny button in the corner, a small mechanism opens it up to reveal a photograph. I don’t want to talk about the photograph. I’d rather forget about it, but I can’t, no more than I can bring myself to throw the locket away, no more than I can fully let go of the past.
By Merrill Beckstead5 years ago in Fiction
Mother's Pendant
The sound of a lone violin broke the silence. Aria jolted awake, bumping her forehead against a dirt ceiling. Her dreams faded, but the music continued. Aria rocked and struggled to loosen her limbs. I’m underground! Other instruments joined a cheerful arpeggio. Aria could feel her lungs burn as a static closed in around her thoughts. Need air. She closed her eyes tightly and strained, squeezing one arm up alongside her body. She braced herself and pushed, straightening her legs and punching her arm upwards through the rubble. Aria flailed at the elbow, struggling to make room for her second arm. The orchestra filled her mind as she dislodged her body and pulled herself upwards, squeezing her head through the hole she had made. As the air flooded into her lungs, the music faded, and she prostrated herself onto her torso. Where am I? Aria rolled onto her back and took an accounting of the pain she felt in her legs. The cool floor felt good, and her head lolled to one side. A shaft of light cut through a room down a dark hallway and Aria considered this. Had there been an earthquake?
By Michael Hays5 years ago in Fiction
Number 30
“Ugh, this again. It has not worked now in over a year. Why do we keep trying?” The voice of a women over his shoulder seems to echo the thoughts of the people in the control room. “Because Grace, we’re all running out of time, and this is the only thing anyone can think of. Unless of course you have a better idea?” As Grace makes an audible groan, she backs away and asks the crewmember to her left, “Who do we have today?”. The crew member doesn’t break eye contact with the screen in front of them, “Subject’s name is Eve. She was one of the last to make the trip before we severed ties.” Grace, clearly not impressed, inhales, and looks around the room. She does not like that only a few of the people in the room have any idea what is going on. And time is not on their side.
By Brian Muise5 years ago in Fiction
I Think Of The Birds
“Rest assured; this is no reflection of my feelings towards you.” Katherine’s words were seldom comfort in the desert. Yet, in light of the last year, I no longer minded. Or perhaps, I no longer cared. Stood naked as the day we were born, our frail frames peppered by buckshot winds. she pulled the picture of us from her heart-shaped locket and cast it into the embers at our feet. Little eruptions sparkled from the pile, and the tightness in me gave way to a deflating sensation – this, I hoped, was inner peace. For the first time, we had nothing – nothing to bargain with, survive by, no memento of our struggle. Katherine was lying to me; the portrait was no bigger than a stamp – not resource enough to so much dull the chatter in our teeth. Another one of her catharses, her small revolutions. All we shared now was our bastard flame – part mine, part hers, but, ultimately, soon to be snuffed by the elements.
By Elliot Paisley5 years ago in Fiction
MOTHERSHIP
The old homestead was twenty-five miles north of the New Highland Garrison. An hour’s drive through the scalded stretch of woodland tracks that scattered the northern hillsides, so she told him. She was much older now yet still retained those distant memories of a life long ago, before the coming of the great, black eye and the culling of humankind. She remembered the preeminent strike upon the cliff of battle, and over the edge. She remembered the mighty fall and what fears she felt when the destruction of the MOTHERSHIP was set and the world plunged into darkness, the darkness that grows darker still. She pointed to the weathered map, on an insignificant blotch drawn next the abandoned highway.
By Aden Halsey5 years ago in Fiction
