Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Welcome To... Melburn?
Well, I've gone an' done it. Set the whole world ablaze and all for an ice cream, talk about fire and ice! How was I supposed to know the machinery had a limit? A cool down time, for a frozen cream machine, like seriously? They often say, 'One small desire burns a fire.' but somehow, I do not believe this is what they meant. I have to fix this, "Siri, how do you stop a blaze from consuming a city you just moved to?"
By Samuel Fletcher5 years ago in Fiction
The Purpose of Life Is to Be Happy
"The purpose of our lives is to be happy."-Dalai Lama For millennia, people have ascribed to the above theory. The one true purpose of life is to pursue happiness above all. It's so entwined in our societal fabric that it might as well replace the human condition.
By Hudson Riggs5 years ago in Fiction
All That's Left
Better to sweat than to blister and burn. That was the first lesson of the new world for anyone who wanted to survive it. Thomas Whittemore removed his goggles just long enough to clear the condensation from them and wipe the sweat from his eyes, but no longer. The vibrant greens of grass and trees were now only memories replaced by choked, sparse weeds. Most of the trees were now twisted and charred from the fallout, reaching up with blackened fingers to the unforgiving skies. Where the old world was one driven by a thirst for material wealth, the new world was one of survival. Long gone were the conveniences of fast food and microwaves.
By Adam Carden5 years ago in Fiction
The Heart of Sarian
A barren wasteland, the definition of imperfection, lies right in the heart of our perfect, sugar coated city. My dad always used to tell me stories growing up, about a time, long before our generation, of a kingdom that once stood there. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had this dream, it’s the same, reoccurring, every night. In this dream, I’m at the bottom of a stair well, it’s spirally, made of brick, it’s cold and damp, in the back ground I can hear a faint voice, beautiful, almost like a sirens song, calling my name, the overwhelming urge to follow it sweeps over me and I start to climb, one step at a time, growing ever closer to the top, as I get closer, the voice gets louder, I can hardly contain my excitement, I start taking two steps, then three, before I know it I’m running, as I reach the top I come to a solid oak door, with a big brass knob, just as I’m about to open it ... Tiggy, TIGS!! ANTIGONE!! ... I’m shaken awake, as I rub my eyes I’m greeted by my little sister Elsie, she smiles softly and says “Happy Birthday Tigs.” handing me a small gift, wrapped with a bow, I look at her “Thanks Els.” as I start to unwrap the box “Oh, and don’t call me Antigone again.” she laughs and makes her way back out of my room. My eyes swell as I look at the gift, it was my mother’s old heart shaped locket, the chain had snapped not long after my grandma had passed away, I remember how upset my mum was, she had always meant to have it repaired but after she got sick it became her last priority. She had always said when I turned 17 it would become mine, it was sort of a family tradition, passed from generation to generation to the first born girl, I think even before the apocalypse. I undo the clasp and fasten it around my neck. “Finally 17 Mum.” I sigh as I stare at her photo on my night stand, “Wish you were here.” I jump out of bed, tying my unruly curls in a high pony, and throwing a pair of ripped jeans on, I pull a hoodie over my head, slip into my converse and make my way down stairs.
By Charlotte Price5 years ago in Fiction
Legend of Inane
Ryzania: Once a land known for beautiful landscapes of endless greenery, now a smoldering landscape nearly uninhabitable by mortalkind. The fae-kin departed the world, either fleeing to another or entering eternal rest with a majority of the original inhabitants of the land. Children born during the crusade never knew the country’s glory, merely the darkness of the tunnels to which they found their homes. However, a few fae kin remained, attempting to right the wrongs of the war. They were considered seraphs, with ashy gray wings, and tan skin which contrasted the wingless pale mortals. Seraphs had exquisite features which were exhausted from their exposure to endless rains, while the mortals had a more delicate appearance, which appeared dirty and worn from their lives underground.
By Crystal Ayers5 years ago in Fiction
Summer Falls
Other Glassview High students pushed past me as the final bell rang. Everyone was always thrilled about the last day of school and to start their summer vacation. Why was I getting trampled? Because I hate summer and I was in no hurry to sprint toward it. The best part? My name IS Summer.
By Kenzie Bishop5 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Doorway
The erstwhile god exhaled a plume of cheap smoke into the stale air of my tattered apartment. “Why did you do it?” She asked, leaning back on my one chair with one foot up on my ash-stained desk. It rested amongst crooked cigarette butts, scattered like so many withered husks of scorpions that had died in writhing agony.
By Brent Giles5 years ago in Fiction
Imagine Michael Scofield, Professor and Assane Diop’s Working Together
You may not have heard of these three characters. But they are the most intelligent characters that the world of television series has ever released. All three are characters from different series at different times and different scenes, yet their performances are breathtaking.
By Casimiro Filipe 5 years ago in Fiction
Last Vestige
An overcast of dark clouds stretched over an open road with nothing but barren wastelands filled only with wreckage and ruin on either side of it as the diffused light of the sun gradually began to rise over the horizon. The air was already warming up as it gusted over the dusty badland, and as the light grew brighter through the haze and the overcast, a cloaked figure could be seen walking from the horizon, his parka worn and tattered as it flapped and flickered in the wind. He had been walking for what seemed like an eternity with a distant promise being the only thing keeping him going. With the shrouded light of the sunrise bringing about another despondent dawn, this lone wanderer pulled back his hood, revealing a worn, unshaven face with terracotta skin and eyes half-dead topped with a scalp filled with long, thick, dusty, grey dreadlocks that covered his ears and the back of his neck. He stopped in the middle of the road, only having been able to get a few hours of sleep at best due to the constant threat of attacks from other scavengers and wanderers of this world. He began to take in the bleak but ever-growing light as he took a deep breath. He reached into his pocket with a weathered, fingerless glove wrapped around his hand and pulled out a chain with a small, heart-shaped locket on it. His hands jittered slightly as he clicked the tiny latch out and opened it to reveal the vibrant image of a lovely woman in white surrounded by chrysanthemums. She had a meek smile on her face, a pleasant but quiet demeanor, and a warmth that managed to brighten even the bleakest of days, even if only a little. His tired eyes gazed upon her image just as he did every morning, like a silent prayer, a routine that kept his mind rooted and firm to his task. He took in another deep breath, emboldening himself before closing the locket once more and lovingly pushing it deep into his pocket where it was safe and sound, where She was safe and sound. “Just keep going,” he whispered to himself as he looked toward the western horizon. With that, he took yet another first step down a long and lonely road. Another leg of the trek was about to begin.
By Ashrael Skyfire5 years ago in Fiction
