Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Locket of Life, Locket of Death
Driving north on Highway 99, two miles out of Monroe, Jack’s ATV suddenly began bucking and groaning, black smoke rolling heavily from the exhaust. It was nearly dusk, and he knew the undead would become more active. The last place he wanted to be was in the open, where he would be especially vulnerable to attack by the living or the dead. He gunned the throttle one final time and silently prayed. He rolled into town, coasting to a halt in front of a large brick home at the end of a cul-de-sac; a final death rattle emitting from the Polaris.
By Billy Thomas5 years ago in Fiction
Artificial
The flight from the Rigo-12 colony was less than phenomenal. It was horrible. The G-force produced by high-speed space flight left the passengers feeling sick. But, all of them were used to this. Flying under crappy conditions between Earth and the colonies was the norm for smugglers and dealers. Morrow simply needed to take a pill and execute a certain algorithm in his Neuroware to shake off the jetlag. Once that combination of drugs and software kicked in, he was good to go. His self-driving van was being controlled by a VA that notified him of its arrival. Morrow had already checked out of customs and picked up the goods he was importing. This airport was privately owned by the Sanchez Group. They were a group of companies that was largely funded by black market assets and activities. That said, this private airport was a hub for the importing and exporting of illegal goods. That included cybernetic implants(like Morrow's Neuroware), farmed organs, bioengineered pets, and any perversion of life you could think of or any mods that would help people survive on less. The Sanchez Airport of Manhattan is a multi-leveled facility that seems legit on the surface.
By Franklin Sami5 years ago in Fiction
Heart of Gold Turned Heart of Cold
“ With great power comes great responsibility.” . This used to be a phrase of some kind, long ago. A phrase about power being used to help others, and do what’s right. Not many can remember that phrase, but I do. Truly, it was not long ago that this phrase was used by what was called mainstream media. But, that’s not what this world is. In this world, power does not come with responsibility. In this world, power is the only thing that matters.
By Jessica Sveen5 years ago in Fiction
Those Who Are Chosen
The smell of antiseptic was piercing through the cloud of sweat and filth that filled the large room. Soldiers lay dying on cots as medical personnel in various states of soiled white garb moved through the Triage. In the old world, the process was different. In the better days, those who were the least injured were at the back of the line for treatment. As the old doctor from a freshly dead world watched the new regime's lapdogs move to the favored her stomach turned. Men with little more than sprains and cuts were receiving the attention of qualified doctors while struggling aides tried to keep severely wounded men alive.
By Ian Kelley5 years ago in Fiction
The Light
It's dark. It's so completely dark. I'm all alone now. I run my fingers over the matches to count them. One, I feel the porous gritty top. Two, I move over them slowly, knowing these are all the light I have left. I’ve been hiding for days. I can hear them outside. Three, I twirl this one to feel the flat surfaces of the wood. Four, touching this one put me back in my teens. Sneaking a cigarette in the woods past the trailer I grew up in. Man, I really hated that place. I hated being poor. I hated getting called trailer trash. I hated eating pinto beans three times a week. But now. Oh God, now. I would give anything to be there. Anything to be with my family. All the silly fights. The stupid games. My dads impish personality. He was always hiding things. Always doing something to scare us. Thinking about it I can see my drink coasters flying off the ceiling fan much to everyone’s surprise. And my mother, the forever mediator. Lovely beyond belief. Tall, thin, graceful, gorgeous green eyes, long sandy blonde hair, rough hands from planting and digging but beautifully capable of holding and mending my heart. So incredibly caring. To be safe in her arms again. To feel that love. My sister... What can I say? I wanted to hear her call me anything. Asshole, sister pants, Bucky beaver. ( Her nickname for me I hated.) I just want to hear her. Hear them. See them, touch them, hold them. Five, the last one. I put it to my lips to wish it luck to strike. Then, I caress It in the dark. The only thing I have left of you. You, my one and only. The heart shaped locket you gave me on our anniversary. Our sixth. Just two weeks before the incident. Incident!? Ha!! It was a massacre! It was a mass extinction! And you, wanting to save me, put me in this cave, told me to be quiet, and walked out. I heard you scream. I’m such a coward. I should have ran out. Ran out and died with you. I just kept hearing you say “I love you, I love you. Stay safe, stay alive.” And I wanted to for you! But without you, I’m so scared. I don’t have any food or water left, just time. Time and memory I strike #5 open the Locket and stare at your face. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I hold it rubbing the metal between my first finger and thumb. The match burns down to my fingertips. I endure so I can linger on your face a moment more. I remembered how our hands always melted into one. I’m in the darkness again. Rolling the locket between my fingers like it will save me. What’s this? I haven’t noticed this before. How have I never noticed? A latch. A minute piece of metal. I clumsily try to figure out how to open it in the dark. Oh God! I only have four left. What is this latch!? I strike # 4. It’s so small, so very hidden I see a thin layer of wax just as the match burns out. Okay, okay I think to myself. Just scratch off the wax. It gets stuck under my nails, already filthy from running and hiding. Three left. Three left what if I can’t get it open? What if I never know what is in it? I strike # 3 looking so closely at how to open. I put the match to the rest of the wax. It melts off in one diminutive drop. Darkness. Pulling on the latch with my jagged nail. It's stuck! I can't open it! Two left. I'm so scared. After this, what? #2 lit. A miniscule wire had been beneath the wax. I'm able to snap it just before the match burns out. One. I have one match left. One 30 seconds of light before total darkness. I manage to open the newly found latch. My heart races. What could be in it? This is the last one, make it count. I breathe deep, let my breath out slowly and ignite the last match. It illuminates the secret picture. The one I had never seen. The one that would decide my fate. The one that would truly take my will to survive. It was my son. My only child. The Light of my whole life. It hit me again like an explosion all around and in me. He was taken first. I would have died right then but you wouldn't let me. My eyes are so full of tears I can't even see the picture anymore. It's just a blur and all I want to do is be with him, be with you all. The match burns my fingertips again. The pain feels right. That's it. That's when I gave up. That's when I gave over. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be scared. I don't want to be without any of you anymore. I sit on my knees weeping, missing you all, holding my heart because it aches. And then the clearest thought. The most beautiful epiphany. I don't have to be alone. The deepest resolve sets inside me. I wipe my tears, brush the dirt from my knees and stand for the first time in days. I'm ready, I think to myself. I'm ready. I take one more deep breath, close my eyes and walk toward the front of the cave. And as I reach the entrance, there is light again. I open the locket once more to see you and him. I kiss you both, and walk into the light.
By Annie Achor5 years ago in Fiction
A Lonely Road Ahead
It was not always this way. Early on it was quite easy – there were many to choose from. Now, scarce. This proverbial can I have been kicking down the road is about the only sound left in this desolate wasteland of a world. Even the animals are gone. And the plant life – brown as far as I can see. How did I get here? How did we get here? I have been walking for what seems like an eternity. My purpose fulfilled long ago, yet here I remain. An eternal in a dead world.
By Eric Stanford5 years ago in Fiction
Forever Forward
She sat quietly. Her bare feet pressed into the earth, toes attempting to grip the dusty soil. She hugged her knees, trying hard to imagine her mother was in their place, and that they would hug her back. In the distance she could hear the unmistakable sound of a shovel cutting into the earth. Then that sinking sound she’d come so accustomed to hearing; dirt and stone falling indifferently upon a wooden box.
By Michael Gregorio5 years ago in Fiction
Jagged Glass
Tristan’s skin remains dry as the burst of machine-gun fire and explosions approach. The ground shudders. Then a volley of gunfire sounds farther off. Now they’re receding, tapering into the distance, until the sound couldn’t ripple a puddle of rainwater.
By CM Scheuerman5 years ago in Fiction
