Adventure

Legend of the Captain Jack
Our little sloop had been on the hook (that is, anchored out) all afternoon. We arrived that very morning at the island’s west end, which is usually pretty quiet with few if any party boats nearby.
By Brad Bailey4 years ago in Fiction
Endure the Abyss
- The splinter in my thumb itches like hell. I pick at it with my pocket-knife under the desk while pretending to listen. Sister Gable is babbling something about fire, I can never follow these religious lectures; they’re so boring. I squeeze my thumb hard with my finger and try to get under the splinter with my knife, it hurts, but the pain is better than this unrelenting itch. I’ve almost got it.
By Abated Apotheosis4 years ago in Fiction
Great White Mystery
I respected my father. He was a man born with a heart yearning after the sea. My grandfather, his father, crafted boats by hand during his youth. Hence, my father was not only a skilled sailor, but he also became a trained carpenter as a living. He was great with home repairs too, teaching us that the most ''neglected pieces or creatures'' of history were treasures waiting to be appreciated.
By Austin 4 years ago in Fiction
Crown of the Grand Horn
Ortiana was a land of chaos and blood, broken in ages past when kings held petty wars for personal pride. None can tell when the fall happened, which army ran amuck where, only that the old castles were in ruins and lands shattered to separate villages. Now it was ruled by the sword, the horse lords of the north and barbarian hordes of the south would not let the bloodshed end. Any village had to spend its days worrying about an attack, rest and peace were far off dreams.
By Patrick Marrero4 years ago in Fiction
Left for Dead
Day 6 Tensions are rising. It's been six days since Chris, Henry, Charlie and I were kicked off the ship. Left for dead on this nine-foot-long sailboat in the middle of the Pacific.
By Ryan J4 years ago in Fiction
Shiro’s Hunt
My name is Shiro. It has been a very exhausting night because I spent most of it on the move constantly. Sure, I took a break every now and then to enjoy some fresh tuna, but that didn’t eliminate the fact that I had to keep moving. I glance up towards the sky and noticed the sun is starting to peak over the horizon, signaling it’s time for me to retire for the day. I generally don’t like moving during the day time because I don’t want to be seen by others. Interacting with others is overrated; I prefer to be alone.
By Iris Harris4 years ago in Fiction
The Sleeper Shark
The only dangerous rumor was the one no one was keeping an eye on and for a field where everybody knew everybody it was a rare thing for a rumor to exist with an immediate truth undecided. The rumor played out in conferences, multi-organizational projects, professional retreats, and just about anywhere involving two or more shark biologists, but still not one person could confirm or fully deny the rumor. As a result, there was suspicion and leading figures within the field warned younger associates that nothing good could come from such a mangled collection of supposed ‘interactions’.
By M. J. Luke4 years ago in Fiction
Diving Deep
The wake of the boat left a lone white trail behind us; a solid, singular, spreading marker showing our way back temporarily, until the water resettled. This was it for me, there was no going back now, the boat just bounced along the waves, into the seemingly never-ending horizon. This trip was gifted to me from another group of survivors and the scientists who claimed to have helped them to shed their fear like an old skin, letting it slide off back to the depths of their minds, forgotten. I haven’t been able to forget though. I can still remember the day it happened like it was yesterday.
By Nicola mcfarlane 4 years ago in Fiction
The North
My uncle was taking us north, where the German planes hadn't yet launched their attack. With the man seated up front, he took turns sipping from a bottle.
By kings4 years ago in Fiction
Before She Escapes
“No, no, no, no, no...!” A cold, cruel wind scoured her face and teared her unprotected eyes as she bent into the classic skier stance, racing down the long, steep slope and into the snowy wood on homemade skis.
By Timothy James Turnipseed4 years ago in Fiction
A day at the cricket
A day at the cricket. A normal life. The orchard snoozed away the afternoon sun. The warmth of an English August lulling even the bees into silence. The pear tree stood among the Apples, being a conference it did not need a pollinator buddy tree; the Coxes Pippins ripened earlier and the Bramley later, so the pear was in the middle of everything. The gentle breeze was so very gentle it did not even move the tips of the grass which grew between the trees. Stillness and warmth, after yesterdays rain, slowly but surely, swelled the fruit and gave peace to the world. Two people lay in a small clearing, a blanket between their bodies and the lush grass. They lay still and silent, seemingly so taken over by the ambiance that they too were part of nature at rest. The human dressed in summer skirt and flimsy blouse, pulled herself onto her side, rested her head on a hand and spoke. “Will you still be here when it's harvest time, will you help with the apples and pears?” “unlikely” came the soft spoken reply, without stirring from his rest, the older man continued “this is too good to last, orders will come, and I will be on the march again.” These two, despite being so very different, are actually brother and sister; the orchard was part of their family home. A sprawling twenty acres of gardens, outbuildings and a large old farmhouse, one that has seen better days but was still loved and lived in. The days of live in servants had long past but they still had a gardener and he still lived in the proverbial gardeners cottage but now one of the outbuilding housed a complex array of mechanical devices that allowed this one gardener to do the physical work that used to employ ten others. The gardener's wife helped out with the laundry and the bed making while the two family daughters helped out with the catering and cleaning, whenever they came back home. Other wise the patriarch fended for himself, now that his wife had died. Both father, and son were military men, and like the gardener, they are ex special forces. The father and the gardener had served together and had that unbreakable bond that only men who fought side by side, experiencing death and survival, together, can have. The son was a generation later but shared similar experiences, he was officially retired and now a civil servant with a desk job in an obscure government department based in London. Only here at home, could he relax and not have to be constantly on guard, so careful about every word and action. Only here was he among people who knew and understood his real work well enough to never ever ask questions.
By Peter Rose4 years ago in Fiction
Salvation
The taste of salt water and blood filled his mouth with each passing stroke. His limbs were becoming heavy, and he struggled to keep his head above the waterline. Before him he could see his salvation, but exhaustion was taking hold, choking what little hope he had for survival left. Shock kept the pain from the gash in his leg from overtaking him, but Samuel knew that slowly blood was flowing from him, mixing with the water of the dark salty sea, and ensnaring him in the cold grip of the unknown. Only the raft ahead of him could save him, but it was drifting further and further away. Every time he breathed, fresh saltwater rushed in to fill his lungs and he spat it back out when he surfaced again, but he was losing the battle against the tide. He couldn’t believe it, until in a moment of panicked strokes, his fingertips collided with the hardwood of the raft, its coarse and splintered hull ripping into his waterlogged and pulped fingertips.
By Jonathan Medrano4 years ago in Fiction