Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Dying is hard
I don’t remember what day it is, I stopped counting, I also don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I am going, and the thing that haunts me the most is I can’t remember the last thing you said, all I have is this heart-shaped locket, memory is a cruel tormentor, for whatever how long it has been since the event, the death of every living thing that speaks in my city and I am starting to think in the entire country or maybe the world, I have been plagued with the burden of remembering. like that day at Pont des Arts in Paris, where you refused to follow the footstep of every other couple whoever stepped in the most romantic city known to man, you refused to get a lock and instead you got a locket, I remember we almost got into an argument but before I could get irritated, you put the locket around my neck and said wherever I am is where you want your heart to be.
By Banji Coker5 years ago in Fiction
tempestas
It was a murky Thursday evening and Morris Mendelsen was hoping to be struck by lightning. The storm had rolled in yesterday, a wash of eggshell thunder-cracks and pissing rain, tearing the sheets off his clothesline with a kind of divine apathy. He had waded into the gardenia bushes to untangle now sopping pillowcases, startling a gang of magpies that had been sitting on the fence in the downpour. They took to the air, cawing indignantly in his general direction. His jacket was tissue-paper soaked almost immediately, the wet worming its way into his socks and up his sleeves as he scrabbled in the branches. He was just scooping up the last towel when a wink of brilliant light had made him look up.
By Conor McCammon5 years ago in Fiction
Bound
The many times I have walked down this corridor, never have I ever been this angry and grateful. "Why did you decide on me," I asked after about ten minutes of suspenseful silence. ' No reply. Of course, I should have known. If you are not one of them, you are not worth a word.' "Well, anyways , thank you." " You're welcome. Now listen, I am going to go ahead and inform you of some of the things you will need to know about Vanaura. She loves playing games, and unlike most of the Opal clan, she is more sensitive. . . " At that word, I recalled all the rumors I had heard about her ability. What would she sense in me? My hatred for the way things were set up, or perhaps she would sense I hate being a prisoner. The questions just continued to race through my mind as Danq continued escorting me. I realized where he led me when I heard him knock. The screech the hinges made made me cringe and know they had yet to be oiled this month. We both walked in, our "prizes" were practicing for the next annual trade. Andreo, David, and Vanaura were all sitting at the jeweled table. Every clan had one that was decorated in the oldest gems that they had at their disposal.
By Cody Kennedy5 years ago in Fiction
Déjà vu
Always being pulled shut lazily, the curtains had a habit of never fully closing. The morning light had just began to fall through the gap, making particles of dust look as though they were waltzing through the air. Every morning started the exact same. It stood still; the outside world still asleep. And then just like clockwork he rolled over. I have about two minutes of watching the sun dance on his face before he woke up. My favourite moment of every single day. His eyes open, dazed by the bright sun. I watch him, entranced by the colours of his now waking eyes. Burnt pools of honey staring back at me. Filled with so much…soul? The familiarity of his eyes still giving me butterflies, this is what is feels like to be falling in love. And for a moment, it’s like maybe he remembers who I am. Then like a switch turning off the moments over, the soul in his eyes disappear, still the colour of honey but now somewhat colder. A feeling of uneasy washes over me, this is the moment I hate of everyday. As the sun has finished rising and reality sets in.
By Leigh Williams5 years ago in Fiction
A Letter to my Onlyborn
If you are reading this, it is proof miracles exist. You are alive and old enough to be asking questions about me. I pray each night you will grow up smart and bold, like your father. Although the idea of you growing up in this world also terrifies me. I want to shield you from it. In fact, if I had my way, I probably wouldn’t expose you to our story. It puts so much at risk, and there is barely enough time. But I promised your father I would write this letter. I owe him so much already, and I know it is wrong to keep the truth from you.
By Matthew Partridge5 years ago in Fiction
Water haunting
1. Start with a greeting My heart. 2. Tell her the reason for the letter How are you? I miss you and your letters. They burn the night the Regime came. I am searching for water for your bones. The Regime had given word. I do not trust them. I left before the Regime could change its mind.
By Jen N. Wong5 years ago in Fiction
Flesh of the Babe
We slept in what was once a Catholic church. I lay on my back, my eyes fixated on the above. The ceilings soared, dust particles flew between the rays of dawn sun that escaped through the cracks in the curtains. The dust, seemingly borne on the wings of some unbroken, gently tumultuous breeze, a baby breath of freedom, the beat of a moths wing…
By Alyssia Balbi5 years ago in Fiction
Last Drop
Kari doesn’t know what prompts her to strip off her gloves, bend low over the corpse and unclasp the silver heart-shaped locket from around its neck. Only what’s useful, she constantly reminds the other scavengers. Food and medicines and water, always water, not that they ever find much anymore, but her team needs the thought to keep them going.
By Christa Miller5 years ago in Fiction
The Wish
‘The spread of the disease caused the infrastructures of cities everywhere to crumble like clockwork at a breakneck speed. Large swaths of the population became sick, in sync with their vaccination priority. Senior citizens succumbed first, then medical professionals, first responders and essential service workers, followed by the rest of the adult population. and finally Children 12-17. chaos and panic took root as an ever increasing number of people began to get sick, turning once smart, intelligent, fully functioning members of society into empty,mindless bags of meat, quickly forgetting everything including how to drink, eat and eventually breath. Both the soon to be dead and the dead littered the streets. The World Health Organisation was able to use the emergency broadcast system to inform the public that this seemed to be a long term side effect of the vaccine and they were working on a cure. But that was just the one time and radio stations had gone dead weeks ago.’
By Rick MacCormack5 years ago in Fiction
Tourists
The tourists had barely reached the sand when we started picking them off. Some of them fell as they tried to clamber out of the dinghies, struggling in the water, while others charged, powering through the surf as though being first would give them some kind of protection.
By Peter Farmer 5 years ago in Fiction
