Fantasy
Hand-In-Hand
Luvlace was like my father's spear. A skinny, crooked thing with a sharp head, and a dirtiness that could never be completely cleansed off no matter how much one scrubbed. She's also tall, something she used against me when we played Conquering the Kingdom of Atlas. She liked to make like this additional height created her a better fit to lead. And maybe it did.
By Meeno Bryes4 years ago in Fiction
The Banshee of Fluglen
The field of Luster was Mara’s favorite place in the whole world. No matter the season there was always beauty to be found. In summer the wildflowers grew tall and enclosed her in warmth. The fall brought a gentle breeze that caused the grass to brush her skin in a gentle touch. The winter remind Mara to be thankful to be alive. She would sit in the center of the field watching the snow fall. The spring was like the returning of a dear friend, new life spring from the frozen ground. It was the one place that she was truly happy. The place where she could be a young woman and not just a curse.
By Emilee W Stacey4 years ago in Fiction
The Human Experiment
There was no sound but the clip of her boots against the remnants of the city. No breeze stirred. There were no signs of life here. A piece of glass ground beneath her heel as she stopped sharp and surveyed the scene before her. Cracked bitumen and crumbling brickwork, beer bottles, litter and debris, rusting frames of automobiles. Fleeting reminders of human civilization and all that remained of the Old World, slowly being taken back by Mother Nature.
By Sophia Leighton 4 years ago in Fiction
The Mirror
I awoke from a nap with a feeling of sharp discomfort. I peered lazily out the side of my window blinds and caught a glimpse of what appeared to be the midday sun. I had obviously slept in later than usual but despite this, it was a typical Monday in my household during school holidays.
By Carlos dominguez4 years ago in Fiction
Once Upon an Owl
Once upon a time I knew a woman who showed me her pussy but would not tell me her name. I thus called her Pussy. It is her name to this day. I think that she still lives in El Paso, or is it Chicago. I do not remember Pussy so much any more. It has been a long while. More than a couple of years. I would say five but M would disagree. He always disliked the number five. He even wished we had six fingers on each hand. The feet, he did not care, as long as the toes were nice. A dozen fingers actually sound nice too. With the extra two we could finger some things more. You know. New gloves. More nail clippings. Faster typing, I suppose. More itching coverage. Another finger couple. More status quo.
By Patrick M. Ohana4 years ago in Fiction
The Ballad of Prince Eliad
“Sing to me, o Grand Matriarch, eldest and most wise of your sisters the harmonious Sisterhood, and through me tell us the tale of that man, who, in the eyes of the heavenly deities, was gifted with many abilities to outmatch of his rivals’, so skillful was he in many ways that even the celestial winged servants, the angels of the Most High, or even human-minded Olympians, coming to power from the reign of their brutish parents, the Titans, could not turn away but instead adored him. He who roamed from one land to another, to and fro, in search of the world's greatest treasures that could make the eldest of man shriek in joy, like that of a youngster when receiving a contemporary toy. The man also learned the ways of many distant men, onto which he gathered for his team a group of large and diverse men, who, in the eyes of the Creator are different from each other. Each with his or her customs and beliefs of the never ending wonders of the world. He also overcame the the scorching heat of the day in the blistering sands of the spacely dunes, and the bone-chilling eerie nights of the evergreen groves infested with hazardous perils lurking around in every corner , while he, during his nomadic life, fought long and hard to bring peace to his kingdom of the Rikalidonians, which, at the recklessness of his strong-willed father the scaly-footed king Abdima, was brought to ruin by the notorious quick-minded Drakul-Nizaar, supreme commander-in-chief of the Plaqinean army, and its people were put in exile from their beloved home; once was the kingdom built in riches and splendor, castle walls ascending to the clouds of the gods, now toppled down onto the busy streets of the city, along with the innocent lives of many civilians, rich and poor alike, most of them crushed by debris of stone. Hear the cries of the small infants as their parents get violated by the hankering hoplites of the quick -witted commander in front of their helpless offsprings. Hear the wailing of the priests of their deity the fleet-footed Artemis as her temples, shrines, and statues get torn apart by the ill-bred soldiers whose main goals are to take what they need, and to destroy what they found useless. See the very abundant livestocks of cattle and goats and horse, all being ravaged for the use of extra supplies for the opposing, of the livelihood in which the goodfolk under the sun have been ripped away from by such boorish fiends, those boorish Plaqineans the wielders of that unbreakable stone that is adamantine that they’ve cultivated into strong blades of destruction and cut down defenseless peasants like ripened wheat during harvest. Oh how terrible were the crimes of such men and equal that to their sharp-witted and shifty transgressor, that lord of the shifting wave like sands flowing across the unkempt borders of Terra Alaetuunapo, that lord Drakul-Nizaar of the dry yet fertile plains of the world beyond civilization, he who is the dreaded cockatrice hatched unto the lands to do evil and other unspeakable horrors upon the house of the Abdimades, to be the very fox that steals into the night and massacres a farmer’s harvest and his livestock, that desert wolf Drakul-Nizaar! Now is the calling sent unto Him Who Sees by the hosts of the celestial plains, his destiny to bring order unto the kingdom which was stolen from him and his father by the enemy, his destiny to bring down the blade unto the serpent’s dreadful venom filled head and to lop it off with his divinely coated Argis, the blade of the Celestials. Prince Eliad, the Exiled One, the disgraced Prince of the Abdimades, stolen away through the night of the howlings and shrieks in the wilderness by a host of his father’s slaves and concubines, here he resides within the the lands of beasts and other beings of the dark. Here, the lion-hearted Eliad shall master the ways of a warrior, to slay many abyssal minded foes and to recruit a following of vagrants and outcasts alike to take up arms for the banner that is for his name, Him Who Sees, Prince Eliad”
By Chris Osborne4 years ago in Fiction
The Beckoning
A voice beckons her. She wasn’t sure she heard the voice at first because she was too engrossed in her own thoughts. Despite listening carefully, she cannot make out who it is coming from, therefore, gaining her full attention. Shifting in her seat, she looks around to see if the people in the Cafe, or the people on the street, can hear the voice—they don’t. The voice seems to be coming down from somewhere near the ocean. Before she has time to register her actions, the girl stands up—the Cafe and her toast long forgotten—and begins walking down the cobblestone pathway towards the ocean.
By Emma Ogilvie4 years ago in Fiction
The Bible 1.5: Putting the ‘Syn’ back in Synagogue
Jesus awoke drenched in sweat to clattering coming from right below him, his head throbbing with pain. He was lying alone in the safety of the gargantuan king sized bed in his bedroom. It seemed almost comical for a man of such small stature to be in such a huge bed, but Jesus didn’t need anybody but himself.
By Angel Ribo4 years ago in Fiction
Grief, and other horrors
When my brother Sigur died, his sweetheart Bryn took to sleeping in a ring of fire. Sigur's body lay on my mother’s table for a day and a night. From all over the town, women and daughters came and mourned jealously over him, each mother swearing on this and that thing that if only he had lived, he would surely have married a daughter of theirs. “My Gudrun,” said Gunnar’s mother, “certainly caught his eye but a week ago.” The ladies left flowers and trinkets on his body with equal jealousy. If one girl placed a lock of her hair over his heart, no sooner would she have turned her head away to weep than another would snatch it up, and install her own in its place.
By Alice J. Barker4 years ago in Fiction
