Adventure
Dry Tears
"Have you seen this girl?" A dry wind sweeps into the tavern from the arid area outside as one of two men at the bar question the barkeep. The tavern's dreary atmosphere is disturbed only by the blinding sun shining through cracks in the ceiling. The bartender looks up from his stand at the most well-preserved item in the bar: a silver heart-shaped locket. The locket is opened to show the contents to those opposite its bearer. The bartender inspects the item further. There is a picture of a young girl, no older than twelve, with caramel skin, brown eyes, and braided ponytails wearing a rose-colored dress.
By Christian Gray5 years ago in Fiction
Anaria
Anaria gazed out across the wintry horizon, her fingers stinging with frost. Her breath was a fog before her eyes as she surveyed the countless empty buildings. The setting sun shimmered against the litter of broken glass, twinkling like glitter. Anaria rubbed her nose, warming it against the cold, as she watched for people.
By Juniper Woodstone5 years ago in Fiction
The Locket
Raven exhaustedly hobbled over to the abandoned rustic vehicle; nearly tripping over her feet. Her run in with the Rebels most dangerous one yet; nearly costing her life. Even with all the survival skills she picked up over the last few years, Raven knew she couldn’t possibly survive that fight. The whole forest was overran with them. Their camps were so well hidden, no one even knew they were there until it was too late. They had swiftly surrounded Raven, pointing their weapons at her. Overpowering her like a lion with it’s prey. Her only defense were her wits and a bow. Terrified, sweat dripping from her brow, she looked at each and every one of them in the eye; waiting to see who would make the first move.
By Miranda Blanton5 years ago in Fiction
#dysvanlife
I’ve been searching for weeks now, but haven’t found any sign of a waypoint. I should have known it wasn’t true. If a way across had been found, people should be lining up to get back to the mainland. Those late believers that thought they’d have more time have been stuck for years—isolated in California. Maybe they’ve all perished.
By Christine Reed5 years ago in Fiction
The Nesting Doll
He couldn’t stomach anything beautiful anymore. He was alone, and nothing is beautiful alone. He could only tolerate beauty if it reminded him of her. In his opinion, there were only three beautiful things left in this soggy existence. The two brilliant red objects perched on his desk, and the machine sitting in the chair opposite. The rest of the apartment looked bleak to the man, so he shuffled over to the colours that beckoned at his desk. As he got closer, he found comfort in the familiarity of the objects. He knew these objects intimately. He knew what their weight felt like as gravity pushed them down into his hands. He knew each texture, each ridge, each corner. He liked how dependable they were. Every day he would wake up to be greeted by his very brown apartment. It had brown cracked plaster walls. A brown table in sat the centre of the room, kept company only by a solitary light. A brown bed sulked on the floor dressed in brown linen sheets, whilst a brown desk looked longingly out the window. Everything was brown. Even the air in the place felt brown. It was thick, ripe from years of the man's breath. Murky brown seemed to consume everything in the room with its regret. Everything except for the little red sanctuary that consisted of two objects: A vivid red nesting doll and a crimson picture frame.
By Emily Kirby5 years ago in Fiction
Jherica
Jherica walked along the Interstate Bridge alone; the sound of broken glass crunching beneath her steel toed boots echoing across the water, a gas mask on her face, and a Glock 17 pistol strapped to her hip. Every vehicle around her had their windows smashed and contents stolen ages ago. Graffiti covered the bridge- some childish, inappropriate words scrawled along the cars, while the words “THE PLANET IS DEAD” were repeated across the concrete. None of this bothered Jherica anymore. This is not the first time she crossed this bridge, and if everything goes as planned, it won’t be the last.
By Alanna Finnie5 years ago in Fiction
Desert Wilds
As the unchanging desert landscape rolled by, the wind blowing through Olimar’s hair did little to relieve him from the draining heat of the sun. Unlike the fully-furnished, well-shaded, two-story bus that their captors drove, the cramped wagon in which he and Joel were being towed had no roof over its cabin. He glanced around to see if they were anywhere close to the gang’s hideout and groaned when he found only mud and dust in all directions.
By Robert Bennett5 years ago in Fiction
The Lightning House
Dear Son, I hope this finds you well. It’s been a long time. I’m on an anthropological dig in Palenque, Mexico. There are rebels in the area, and we have been hearing gunshots from the forest at night. I'm afraid I might not be able to contact you for a while, but I love you and hope to see you again. You can find me in Quintana Roo. It’s a small town and I have no address. I live at Casa Relámpagos.
By Sickness and Heart5 years ago in Fiction
In Her Hips, I see Revolutions
Like a monk with prayer beads, her absentminded fingers rolled the tiny links of her small silver chain. Wrapped around her palm the necklace had become as much of a fixture as her fingers since she last saw her. The soles of her boots shifted inky ash and dust as she took a seat on the frame of a blown out window, high above the hollow city.
By Courtlen Beckett5 years ago in Fiction
Follow Your Sol
“Follow Your Sol.” Sarah ran her fingers over the engraving. She had read those words again and again over the last three years. There hadn’t been anyone to teach her to read; her mother said that written language was inefficient and caused confusion. Confusion led to conflict. And when she said conflict, she meant the end of humanity and the deaths of billions of good people. Reading was a relic of that lost world. Now they had to learn how to live in the new world. She didn’t know. She hadn’t lived it. All there was were stories.
By Sean Anderson5 years ago in Fiction
