Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Aged
"How did it come to this?" His lip quivered as he held the weapon over the young woman's body. Guilt pierced through him like a gust of winter wind. He studied the new corpse with pain, but he felt that he owed it to her to at least look. He could pay her that much respect, this unfortunate stranger. Blonde, acne-stricken, thin. Just skin and bone, really. Maybe she was hungry, out looking for food at the wrong place and the wrong time. She shouldn't have been out by herself. One thing that stuck out to him, one thing that was a rarity now a days, was her necklace. It was a heart-shaped locket, probably contained a picture of her family or something. He wondered how she had held on to that for so long, people would kill for real silver like that. He wouldn't. He would let her keep the locket close to her heart, perhaps it would do her some good by escorting her to the afterlife. He liked to think that he would be pleasantly escorted to Heaven (which, coincidentally, looked very much like Florida in his mind) when he passed on.
By Samantha Crites5 years ago in Fiction
Awaken the Dreaming. Top Story - June 2021.
The corridors were lined with ancient texts and old oil paintings set in golden frames and crackled shellac. Rich tapestries of silk and wool decorated the floors as ornate carvings protruded from the earthen walls casting shadows and story from the candles that flickered nearby. The air was thick and sweet with a subtle aroma of jasmine and chai spiced tea.
By Donna Raymond5 years ago in Fiction
Losing Myself To Find Myself
Day 4380, 0645: Though it has only been a short time, I barely remember the past. As I look up to the sky, I remember it not being a hazy yellow/burnt orange inferno, but a happier color. I can almost picture it. What color was it before all this? I dreamt the same thing again; loud explosions, tremors that shook the ground, and the annoying siren that sent ripples through the falling debris raining down on us. Hard to believe that was 12 years ago. I will continue writing after I do my patrol.
By Brandon Austin5 years ago in Fiction
Calamity
‘Sit rep. I repeat – sit rep.’ The light sliver she held tightly glowed blue and then disappeared. Litten pounded the ground in frustration – her only link to the outside world was gone. She lay in a shallow depression gazing at the roiling dust clouds forming above her. Not good. Winking her left eye to engage her neural enhancement – all she got was a blur. Her own eyes would have to do. Not much to see in a hole – she needed to break cover to see if the DPIWE had returned for her.
By Heather Hankinson 5 years ago in Fiction
Free
Sitting around a fire no longer feels absurd. Spending most of your life in a major city, it’s seeing a fire like this that would have been strange before. A fun ‘campfire’ then, maybe. Just a fire now. A sharp glint hits my eye every so often from across the flames. I shift to my left and my gaze lands on a diminutive girl, no more than twelve or thirteen, wearing a large, heart-shaped locket, much too big for her. She’s crying openly without any shame. I hadn’t noticed her before earlier today. I look away.
By Sarah Swanson5 years ago in Fiction
Barren
The mud covered all surfaces in the landscape of her dream. It was black and stank like the bowels of the oceans. She walked a step, slipped on the stones and fell. When she looked up a small light floated above her. It was green, like a vibrant forest, the likes of which hadn’t been seen on earth for hundreds of years. She lifted a hand in front of her face to block the brightness of it. She brought her legs up beneath her and managed to stand. She was now covered in the mud as well. It seemed to swallow everything that it touched.
By Molly Hopwood5 years ago in Fiction
The Refuge
The girl wiped away beads of sweat from her soot-smeared forehead. She sighed with relief at the sound of the whistle filling the chamber. “Shift over, back to your bunkers,” a voice spat over the loud speaker. She was relieved to finish her shift shovelling loads of grimy stinking coal, a job she deeply loathed. The girl had never been outside the Refuge; a mining facility turned make-shift bomb shelter, kept functional via an archaic coal-powered system. It was the only place she had ever known, but instead of a home it felt like a prison to confine her until death made its claim. The only person close to her that had seen the world outside was her grandmother. Her family were evacuated from their village in the summer of 1952 when the war turned hot, and bombs were sent everywhere. She arrived at the Refuge when she was only ten-years-old, living most of her 60 years underground with the ‘Last of Humanity’. Or so they were told when the MAD signal came through. The Guardians of the Refuge, the cruel authority in charge, were the outcome of wealthy evacuees gradually corrupting and usurping poorly organised military forces. They turned what was intended to be a safe haven into a draconian nightmare for the underclass majority. Their rules were clear; no education of any kind – education leads to ideas and ideas are dangerous; work is the only priority – if we don’t keep the furnaces burning, we die; and no questioning the authority! "We survive by the will of the Guardians," was ingrained into every facet of their lives, playing repeatedly over the loud speaker together with the sounds of air-raid sirens. All to remind them about the apocalyptic wasteland outside, and to ensure the workers remained afraid enough to respect the order of things. The girl saw how living in the Refuge was especially hard for her grandmother after knowing life on the outside. But her grandmother found purpose in secretly teaching the girl to read by drawing letters in the film of dirt beneath their beds, and telling stories about her childhood studying the flowers in the woods beyond her home. Her grandmother’s dream was to build the world’s largest botanical garden holding a million plant species, a dream that was never meant to be. The girl longed to feel the warmth of the sun her grandmother spoke about and to breathe air that didn’t carry the stale remnants of the furnaces. The Refuge was cold, industrial and devoid of colour other than patches of rust coating the walls and ceilings, making it difficult at times to envision the world full of beauty her grandmother had described. The girl was always careful not to reveal she could read in front of the Guardians as they enforced the rules with extreme malevolence, often beating workers for their own amusement. They would also refer to them as 'shelter rats' to reinforce the status quo. She had witnessed many of them brutalised beyond recognition for even the slightest remark. No one spoke-out though, because they likely feared the consequences of doing so. Even though they outnumbered the guardians, they didn’t have the strength to fight back. Her grandmother died 10-years ago, one of the last evacuees from the 20 thousand that arrived 50 years earlier. Five years before her grandmother’s death, her mother and father both died of exhaustion and malnourishment, a common death among the workers. The girl didn't expect she would live much longer as she looked much older than fifteen, with sickly pale skin pulled tightly over her withered frame, grey rotting teeth, hair falling out in clumps and a constant feeling of fatigue from enduring years of heavy labour. She wanted nothing more than to just die in her sleep, at least then she could rest in peace with her family. But every morning she awoke to a familiar sense of dread. “Oi you, shelter rat, did you not hear the announcement? Shift is over back to your bunker,” one of the guardians snarled at her. She nodded obediently before being forcefully shoved to follow behind the others.
By Renee Brown5 years ago in Fiction
The Delivery
It was a hot day indeed for Arthur Fennec. Too hot for his liking, yet it was a heat he was well acquainted with. Dry, and without a lick of wind. The Chief had been gracious enough to provide with him an extra water skin for the journey, but he had politely declined. The village needed it more than he did, after all. Behind him, the rattling of his wooden wagon was all he had to fill the deafening silence of the road. Although he had no lack of companions in the village, it was well known that Arthur Fennec turned his nose up at the thought of assistance, though many had offered. Too proud to accept help, some would say. Sucking up to the Chief, others would say. It was neither of those, so the rumors brought a half-smirk to his lips. He was determined to make his rounds alone and in silence, save for the wheels. He had hoped to one day find a replacement for the stiff plastic wheels that scraped across the asphalt. Once, he tried binding some old leather around the tire, but it never took. Maybe it’s for the better, Arthur thought. I might go mad if I had to make these journeys in complete silence. He was a dreadful singer, but a decent whistler. The whistling made his lips dry, though, and they hurt when they cracked.
By Keegan Post5 years ago in Fiction
The Heart Locket
I walk across the desolate wasteland. I don’t know what happened, I always ask why. All I know is that I must find my beloved whose picture I keep in this heart-shaped locket. That tan hair, hazel eyes, gorgeous smile. I can’t believe…I lost her! Tears are streaming down my face. We got separated in the cataclysm, and I’ve been tracking her ever since. Tears fall down on the picture. I wipe it off and close it, moving forward. These were once streets of a bustling city, now all torn apart by the ravages of time. The concrete upheaved by forces unknown, buildings no longer straight. Instead they are in several different angles, held up only by their weakening support structure. Some have already fallen. My blue eyes look to the distance on my side, but my sight is obscured by the ruins of a knocked down skyscraper. I look up into the sky wondering when the madness will end.
By Jeremiah Ellison5 years ago in Fiction
Mirror's Edge
Mirror’s Edge The hollow light flickered above, swaying back and forth like a metronome. Left, right, left, right. Its clock-like cadence illuminated the tattered walls of one edge of the small room, then lost itself beyond the crumbling wall of the other.
By Andrew Davis5 years ago in Fiction
