Adventure

The Painted Town, Part 1.
When my brother and I returned home after our final day of school for the year, it was late May and we were both cheered being home after another long year at the Flore Educational School. My brother would be a 6th grader now and I would be moving on to 11th grade. When we got home our mother had a cake waiting for us, it was a cookie cake, just the way we liked it. When we asked what the occasion was she simply stated that she was proud of us for exceeding her expectations for this past year; both of us put in a lot of time studying and completing various projects before there due dates. I'd be moving to college within a few years and it was even assumed that--due to following in my footsteps--that he would even achieve more than I did when competing in the Science Bowl. That was a big event, don't misunderstand, a lot of kids base their entire years on that project. Some even receive offers from prestigious universities and well-established businesses because of their research and work-ethic. This year I worked on a topic that I had been thinking about for a long time, I had gotten into the arts years ago, mostly just doodling on my notepad and sketchbook. I bought myself a few books with my allowance and even managed to squeeze in an art class or two along the way. I loved to draw, and I especially loved drawing people.
By James Tucker4 years ago in Fiction
Bastet's Box
“What does it mean to have someone to truly have your back, to have unwavering loyalty, to have someone you would go to the ends of the Earth for you and you would do the same. What does it feel like... to love and lose, to hope and have faith, to trust and feel. Questions like this make you look deep within yourself and wonder how much are you missing by not paying attention to fractures of yourself the mirror holds the key. We ask who the greatest story ever told, your story defines life, pain, hurt, love, and hope. It shows you what you are missing when you create a painting a stroke of the brush represents you. So, you ask yourself are you doing enough? Creating enough? Reflecting enough? Not one person reacts the same, they could do the same thing but for different reasons, they can share similar experiences with different backgrounds. They say when you have no one nobody will save you, we can save ourselves reach out for help. The next time you look hard on yourself look deep within your shadow and face the darkness”
By Allesandra Luadragon4 years ago in Fiction
Hero's Conundrum /Chapter 8
Bloody and confused again. Where am I? You know what? I don’t even care anymore, why keep fighting? I always end up with more questions than answers. I don’t even know what time I am so I’ll wonder around, I’m hungry but I don’t want to eat. I decided to go back to the cabin, make it my retirement home. Fuck Bansao fuck Sammael, fuck my people and fuck everyone I just want peace, let them kill themselves. On my way I hear someone following me and I ignored him, it must be Bansao, he can kill me again for all I care. I kept walking and the steps I hear are closer then I heard a growl, when I looked it was a bear. I stood in front of him, closed my eyes and opened my arms, ready to die. Then I heard a loud gunshot, I opened my eyes and the bear was dying on the floor. I looked around and it was Joseph and Sarah pointing their guns at me.
By Angel Delgado4 years ago in Fiction
From Underneath
“Are we there yet?” asks a disgruntled voice from the back seat, followed by a deep sigh. “What, are you five? No, we’re not there yet,” says Shelly with a sigh, while driving the wintery path. “I told you when we left the main road, the chalet where we will be staying is seven miles from the main lodge.”
By Merrie Jackson4 years ago in Fiction
Das Fever of Dachau
Wayne looked at the positive Covid-19 test result as he lay down in his bed. He had felt horrible for several days starting with a backache. He found it hard to believe, a year ago a severe concussion injury than a broken limb, now Covid.
By Bruce Curle `4 years ago in Fiction
The Stranger
It seemed to the little crowd on the wharf that she was never going to move again. There she lay, immense, motionless on the grey crinkled water, a loop of smoke above her, an immense flock of gulls screaming and diving after the galley droppings at the stern. You could just see little couples parading - little flies walking up and down the dish on the grey crinkled tablecloth. Other flies clustered and swarmed at the edge. Now there was a gleam of white on the lower deck - the cook's apron or the stewardess perhaps. Now a tiny black spider raced up the ladder on to the bridge. In the front of the crowd a strong-looking, middle-aged man, dressed very well, very snugly in a grey overcoat, grey silk scarf, thick gloves and dark felt hat, marched up and down, twirling his folded umbrella. He seemed to be the leader of the little crowd on the wharf and at the same time to keep them together. He was something between the sheep-dog and the shepherd. But what a fool - what a fool he had been not to bring any glasses! There wasn't a pair of glasses between the whole lot of them. "Curious thing, Mr. Scott, that none of us thought of glasses. We might have been able to stir 'em up a bit. We might have managed a little signalling. 'Don't hesitate to land. Natives harmless.' Or: 'A welcome awaits you. All is forgiven.' What? Eh?" Mr. Hammond's quick, eager glance, so nervous and yet so friendly and confiding, took in everybody on the wharf, roped in even those old chaps lounging against the gangways. They knew, every man-jack of them, that Mrs. Hammond was on that boat, and that he was so tremendously excited it never entered his head not to believe that this marvellous fact meant something to them too. It warmed his heart towards them. They were, he decided, as decent a crowd of people - Those old chaps over by the gangways, too - fine, solid old chaps. What chests - by Jove! And he squared his own, plunged his thick-gloved hands into his pockets, rocked from heel to toe. "Yes, my wife's been in Europe for the last ten months. On a visit to our eldest girl, who was married last year. I brought her up here, as far as Salisbury, myself. So I thought I'd better come and fetch her back. Yes, yes, yes." The shrewd grey eyes narrowed again and searched anxiously, quickly, the motionless liner. Again his overcoat was unbuttoned. Out came the thin, butteryellow watch again, and for the twentieth - fiftieth - hundredth time he made the calculation. "Let me see now. It was two fifteen when the doctor's launch went off. Two fifteen. It is now exactly twenty-eight minutes past four. That is to say, the doctor's been gone two hours and thirteen minutes. Two hours and thirteen minutes! Whee-ooh!" He gave a queer little half-whistle and snapped his watch to again. "But I think we should have been told if there was anything up - don't you, Mr. Gaven?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Hammond! I don't think there's anything to - anything to worry about," said Mr. Gaven, knocking out his pipe against the heel of his shoe. "At the same time--" "Quite so! Quite so!" cried Mr. Hammond. "Dashed annoying!" He paced quickly up and down and came back again to his stand between Mr. and Mrs. Scott and Mr. Gaven. "It's getting quite dark, too," and he waved his folded umbrella as though the dusk at least might have had the decency to keep off for a bit. But the dusk came slowly, spreading like a slow stain over the water. Little Jean Scott dragged at her mother's hand. "I wan' my tea, mammy!" she wailed. "I expect you do," said Mr. Hammond. "I expect all these ladies want their tea." And his kind, flushed, almost pitiful glance roped them all in again. He wondered whether Janey was having a final cup of tea in the saloon out there. He hoped so; he thought not. It would be just like her not to leave the deck. In that case perhaps the deck steward would bring her up a cup. If he'd been there he'd have got it for her - somehow. And for a moment he was on deck, standing over her, watching her little hand fold round the cup in the way she had, while she drank the only cup of tea to be got on board ... But now he was back here, and the Lord only knew when that cursed Captain would stop hanging about in the stream. He took another turn, up and down, up and down. He walked as far as the cab-stand to make sure his driver hadn't disappeared; back he swerved again to the little flock huddled in the shelter of the banana crates. Little Jean Scott was still wanting her tea. Poor little beggar! He wished he had a bit of chocolate on him. "Here, Jean!" he said. "Like a lift up?" And easily, gently, he swung the little girl on to a higher barrel. The movement of holding her, steadying her, relieved him wonderfully, lightened his heart. "Hold on," he said, keeping an arm round her. "Oh, don't worry about Jean, Mr. Hammond!" said Mrs. Scott. "That's all right, Mrs. Scott. No trouble. It's a pleasure. Jean's a little pal of mine, aren't you, Jean?" "Yes, Mr. Hammond," said Jean, and she ran her finger down the dent of his felt hat. But suddenly she caught him by the ear and gave a loud scream. "Lo-ok, Mr. Hammond! She's moving! Look, she's coming in!" By Jove! So she was. At last! She was slowly, slowly turning round. A bell sounded far over the water and a great spout of steam gushed into the air. The gulls rose; they fluttered away like bits of white paper. And whether that deep throbbing was her engines or his heart Mr. Hammond couldn't say. He had to nerve himself to bear it, whatever it was. At that moment old Captain Johnson, the harbour-master, came striding down the wharf, a leather portfolio under his arm. "Jean'll be all right," said Mr. Scott. "I'll hold her." He was just in time. Mr. Hammond had forgotten about Jean. He sprang away to greet old Captain Johnson. "Well, Captain," the eager, nervous voice rang out again, "you've taken pity on us at last." "It's no good blaming me, Mr. Hammond," wheezed old Captain Johnson, staring at the liner. "You got Mrs. Hammond on board, ain't yer?" "Yes, yes!" said Hammond, and he kept by the harbour-master's side. "Mrs. Hammond's there. Hul-lo! We shan't be long now!" With her telephone ring-ringing, the thrum of her screw filling the air, the big liner bore down on them, cutting sharp through the dark water so that big white shavings curled to either side. Hammond and the harbour-master kept in front of the rest. Hammond took off his hat; he raked the decks - they were crammed with passengers; he waved his hat and bawled a loud, strange "Hul-lo!" across the water; and then turned round and burst out laughing and said something - nothing - to old Captain Johnson. "Seen her?" asked the harbour-master. "No, not yet. Steady - wait a bit!" And suddenly, between two great clumsy idiots - "Get out of the way there!" he signed with his umbrella - he saw a hand raised - a white glove shaking a handkerchief. Another moment, and - thank God, thank God! - there she was. There was Janey. There was Mrs. Hammond, yes, yes, yes - standing by the rail and smiling and nodding and waving her handkerchief. "Well that's first class - first class! Well, well, well!" He positively stamped. Like lightning he drew out his cigar-case and offered it to old Captain Johnson. "Have a cigar, Captain! They're pretty good. Have a couple! Here" - and he pressed all the cigars in the case on the harbour-master - "I've a couple of boxes up at the hotel." "Thenks, Mr. Hammond!" wheezed old Captain Johnson. Hammond stuffed the cigar-case back. His hands were shaking, but he'd got hold of himself again. He was able to face Janey. There she was, leaning on the rail, talking to some woman and at the same time watching him, ready for him. It struck him, as the gulf of water closed, how small she looked on that huge ship. His heart was wrung with such a spasm that he could have cried out. How little she looked to have come all that long way and back by herself! Just like her, though. Just like Janey. She had the courage of a - And now the crew had come forward and parted the passengers; they had lowered the rails for the gangways. The voices on shore and the voices on board flew to greet each other. "All well?" "All well." "How's mother?" "Much better." "Hullo, Jean!" "Hillo, Aun' Emily!" "Had a good voyage?" "Splendid!" "Shan't be long now!" "Not long now." The engines stopped. Slowly she edged to the wharf-side. "Make way there - make way - make way!" And the wharf hands brought the heavy gangways along at a sweeping run. Hammond signed to Janey to stay where she was. The old harbour-master stepped forward; he followed. As to "ladies first," or any rot like that, it never entered his head.
By shiv4 years ago in Fiction
Adventures of Tommy Finn
ADVENTURES OF TOMMY FINN Under The Sea Of Love
By Eladio Del Castillo4 years ago in Fiction
The Fall
Chapter One: Amaia Nightwalker Auckland, New Zealand. 63 years after The Fall. For three generations they lived in the dank, darkness of the underground car parks and subways. Three generations of malnutrition and struggle, where a simple injury led to untold suffering and chest infections were the crackling sound of death. It had been 63 years since The Fall, as it is known. That was a time the older generation tried their hardest to forget. But to the younger generation, the dark concrete dungeons was the only life they knew. Hunger, cold and disease took their toll on the people. The nightmares were like an infection too. Fear spread like an incurable virus attacking the minds, bodies and spirit of the community. Very few spoke of survival or the future. Hope was buried under the toxic rubble above ground. Hope was the cold, white ash that had no chance of reigniting.
By Himiona Grace4 years ago in Fiction
Beyond
A week later, Bisesa taxed Trejago with the flirtation. She understood no gradations and spoke openly. Trejago laughed and Bisesa stamped her little feet--little feet, light as marigold flowers, that could lie in the palm of a man's one hand. Much that is written about "Oriental passion and impulsiveness" is exaggerated and compiled at second-hand, but a little of it is true; and when an Englishman finds that little, it is quite as startling as any passion in his own proper life. Bisesa raged and stormed, and finally threatened to kill herself if Trejago did not at once drop the alien Memsahib who had come between them. Trejago tried to explain, and to show her that she did not understand these things from a Western standpoint. Bisesa drew herself up, and said simply: "I do not. I know only this--it is not good that I should have made you dearer than my own heart to me, Sahib. You are an Englishman. I am only a black girl"--she was fairer than bar-gold in the Mint-- "and the widow of a black man." Then she sobbed and said: "But on my soul and my Mother's soul, I love you. There shall no harm come to you, whatever happens to me." Trejago argued with the child, and tried to soothe her, but she seemed quite unreasonably disturbed. Nothing would satisfy her save that all relations between them should end. He was to go away at once. And he went. As he dropped out at the window, she kissed his forehead twice, and he walked away wondering. A week, and then three weeks, passed without a sign from Bisesa. Trejago, thinking that the rupture had lasted quite long enough, went down to Amir Nath's Gully for the fifth time in the three weeks, hoping that his rap at the sill of the shifting grating would be answered. He was not disappointed. There was a young moon, and one stream of light fell down into Amir Nath's Gully, and struck the grating, which was drawn away as he knocked. From the black dark, Bisesa held out her arms into the moonlight. Both hands had been cut off at the wrists, and the stumps were nearly healed. Then, as Bisesa bowed her head between her arms and sobbed, some one in the room grunted like a wild beast, and something sharp--knife, sword or spear--thrust at Trejago in his boorka. The stroke missed his body, but cut into one of the muscles of the groin, and he limped slightly from the wound for the rest of his days. The grating went into its place. There was no sign whatever from inside the house--nothing but the moonlight strip on the high wall, and the blackness of Amir Nath's Gully behind. The next thing Trejago remembers, after raging and shouting like a madman between those pitiless walls, is that he found himself near the river as the dawn was breaking, threw away his boorka and went home bareheaded. What the tragedy was--whether Bisesa had, in a fit of causeless despair, told everything, or the intrigue had been discovered and she tortured to tell, whether Durga Charan knew his name, and what became of Bisesa-- Trejago does not know to this day. Something horrible had happened, and the thought of what it must have been comes upon Trejago in the night now and again, and keeps him company till the morning. One special feature of the case is that he does not know where lies the front of Durga Charan's house. It may open on to a courtyard common to two or more houses, or it may lie behind any one of the gates of Jitha Megji's bustee. Trejago cannot tell. He cannot get Bisesa--poor little Bisesa--back again. He has lost her in the City, where each man's house is as guarded and as unknowable as the grave; and the grating that opens into Amir Nath's Gully has been walled up. But Trejago pays his calls regularly, and is reckoned a very decent sort of man. There is nothing peculiar about him, except a slight stiffness, caused by a riding-strain, in the right leg.
By ranjit4 years ago in Fiction
Brave person
The sound of his voice seemed to rouse "Burnham" to renewed life and raging hate. "Surgeons be damned!" he gasped. "I'm past all surgery; but thank God I've given that ruffian what'll send him to hell before I get there! And you- -_you_"--and here he made a frantic grab for the revolver that lay upon the floor, but Gleason kicked it away--"you, young hound, I meant to have wound you up before I got through. But I can jeer at you--Godforsaken idiot--I can triumph over you;" and he stretched forth a quivering, menacing arm and hand. "You _would_ have your way--damn you!--so take it. You've given your love to a bastard,--that's what Zoe is." Baker stood like one turned suddenly into stone. But from the other end of the room came prompt, wrathful, and with the ring of truth in her earnest protest, the mother's loud defence of her child. "It's a lie,--a fiendish and malignant lie,--and he knows it. Here lies her father, my own husband, murdered by that scoundrel there. Her baptismal certificate is in my room. I've kept it all these years where he never could get it. No, Frank, she's your own, your own baby, whom you never saw. Go--go and bring her. He _must_ see his baby-girl. Oh, my darling, don't--don't go until you see her." And again she covered the ashen face with her kisses. I knelt and put the flask to his lips and he eagerly swallowed a few drops. Baker had turned and darted up-stairs. "Burnham's" late effort had proved too much for him. He had fainted away, and the blood was welling afresh from several wounds. A moment more and Baker reappeared, leading his betrothed. With her long, golden hair rippling down her back, her face white as death, and her eyes wild with dread, she was yet one of the loveliest pictures I ever dreamed of. Obedient to her mother's signal, she knelt close beside them, saying no word. "Zoe, darling, this is your own father; the one I told you of last winter." Old Potts seemed struggling to rise; an inexpressible tenderness shone over his rugged, bearded face; his eyes fastened themselves on the lovely girl before him with a look almost as of wonderment; his lips seemed striving to whisper her name. His wife raised him still higher, and Baker reverently knelt and supported the shoulder of the dying man. There was the silence of the grave in the dimly-lighted room. Slowly, tremulously the arm in the old blue blouse was raised and extended towards the kneeling girl. Lowly she bent, clasping her hands and with the tears now welling from her eyes. One moment more and the withered old hand that for quarter of a century had grasped the sabre-hilt in the service of our common country slowly fell until it rested on that beautiful, golden head,- -one little second or two, in which the lips seemed to murmur a prayer and the fast glazing eyes were fixed in infinite tenderness upon his only child. Then suddenly they sought the face of his sobbing wife,--a quick, faint smile, a sigh, and the hand dropped to the floor. The old trooper's life had gone out in benediction. * * * * * Of course there was trouble all around before that wretched affair was explained. Gleason came within an ace of court-martial, but escaped it by saying that he knew of "Burnham's" threats against the life of Lieutenant Baker, and that he went to the ranch in search of the latter and to get him out of danger. They met the Chinaman outside drawing water, and he ushered them in the back way because it was the nearest. Potts asked to go with him that he might see if this was his long-lost wife,--so said Gleason,--and the instant she caught sight of him she shrieked and fainted, and the two men sprang at each other like tigers. Knives were drawn in a minute. Then Burnham fled through the hall, snatched a revolver from its rack, and fired the fatal shot. The surgeon from Fort Phoenix reached them early the next morning, a messenger having been despatched from Crocker's ranch before eleven at night, but all his skill could not save "Burnham," now known to be Pierce, the ex-sutler clerk of the early Fifties. He had prospered and made money ever since the close of the war, and Zoe had been thoroughly well educated in the East before the poor child was summoned to share her mother's exile. His mania seemed to be to avoid all possibility of contact with the troops, but the Crockers had given such glowing accounts of the land near Fort Phoenix, and they were so positively assured that there need be no intercourse whatever with that post, that he determined to risk it. But, go where he would, his sin had found him out. The long hot summer followed, but it often happened that before many weeks there were interchanges of visits between the fort and the ranch. The ladies insisted that the widow should come thither for change and cheer, and Zoe's appearance at Phoenix was the sensation of the year. Baker was in the seventh heaven. "Burnham," it was found, had a certain sense of justice, for his will had been made long before, and everything he possessed was left unreservedly to the woman whom he had betrayed and, in his tigerish way, doubtless loved, for he had married her in '65, the instant he succeeded in convincing her that Potts was really dead. So far from combating the will, both the Crockers were cordial in their support. Indeed, it was the elder brother who told the widow of its existence. They had known her and her story many a year, and were ready to devote themselves to her service now. The junior moved up to the "Burnham" place to take general charge and look after matters, for the property was every day increasing in value. And so matters went until the fall, and then, one lovely evening, in the little wooden chapel at the old fort, there was a gathering such as its walls had never known before; and the loveliest bride that Arizona ever saw, blushing, smiling, and radiantly happy, received the congratulations of the entire garrison and of delegations from almost every post in the department. A few years ago, to the sorrow of everybody in the regiment, Mr. and Mrs. Harry Baker bade it good-by forever. The fond old mother who had so long watched over the growing property for "her children," as she called them, had no longer the strength the duties required. Crocker had taken unto himself a helpmate and was needed at his own place, and our gallant and genial comrade with his sweet wife left us only when it became evident to all at Phoenix that a new master was needed at Starlight Ranch.
By ranjit4 years ago in Fiction
The Princess & The Dragon
The Princess & The Dragon By Sam Eggertson “A pleasure to meet you… I am Lyra Ramgrin, daughter of Hiriam--” “I know who your father was, Princess. Did he tell you who I am?”
By Sam Eggertson4 years ago in Fiction
Kings of Macedonia
When the Coldhearts invaded there was panic, we had been invaded by other races and universes before, but it never gets easier. We all went to our pocket bunkers, and the army took up defensive positions all around the world, but this time it was different. We always lose people if we can't negotiate, and usually they do too, but this time we lost too many. The government never sent the all clear, most people are still in their bunkers.
By Donte Deliano4 years ago in Fiction