Fantasy
Something Alive at the Bottom of the Dead Sea
Something Alive at the Bottom of the Dead Sea Magnesium, sodium, calcium, potassium; silicon dioxide, aluminum oxide, magnesium oxide, iron (III) oxide, sodium oxide, potassium oxide, titanium (IV) oxide, sulfur trioxide, phosphorous pentoxide; chloride, bromide: the composition of one of earth’s largest and most potent mineral cocktails. Such a spontaneous organic phenomenon as that occurring within the Dead Sea has been scrutinized, questioned, and observed, as well as—something we humans excel at—commodified, extracted and diluted from the poisonous to the palatable in the form of rows upon rows of high-end beauty supplies. And, though I shake my head in retrospective shame, in this despicable custom I gleefully took part.
By Sydney Bulthuis4 years ago in Fiction
The Lantern
The night sky did not care for the earth. That was a fact that had remained constant, even as the rest of the myths surrounding it shifted with the centuries, trickling like water through the collective consciousness of mankind and smoothing the stones that made up their stories. While the sun and day regularly danced with those earthly creatures humans, the moon and stars were loath to notice them. It was considered improper for any child of the night sky to visit the planet.
By Sophia Milner4 years ago in Fiction
Of Kin and Cloud
Your mother and I sat in plastic, neon green chairs in the empty preschool room as your speech therapist shuffled through chart-filled printouts. A rainbow of plastic beads hung from her neck, matching her tap-tap-tapping fingernails. She sighed, and looked up at us, throwing on a bright smile.
By M.J. Weisen4 years ago in Fiction
Ashes and Honey
Outstretch your arms as I glide aloe along your earthly skin and ancient wounds. I once said that I’m a healer, but that’s not what you feel in my touch. My fingers dance across your body, striking like lightning, and you can’t tell if I’m aiming for your bleeding heart in restoration or in death. We’ve completed this ritual before, a dance of sorrow and sacrifice. We perform in hope of absolution to no answer, but we’re not surprised—our voices withered long ago, along with them any chance of acceptance or forgiveness. You still my hand, and I read the erratic pulses in your wrist to know it is finished. But it won’t be the last time.
By Arianna Crawford4 years ago in Fiction
The Narlington Chronicles Vol 1-3
Chateau Boudreaux was a small village nestled between two intersecting mountain ranges, where Bianca La Bouchère's family had existed for many millennia. This once-thriving federation with her lineage-linked deeply and eerily to La Bouchère's namesake; however, the terrain was outwardly similar to her tragic birthplace. She escaped from overwhelming emotional and physical traumas, unleashing her on this unnatural course. The landscape was uncharacteristic, packed with lush vegetation covering the countryside, without any modern-day infrastructure, effects, or modernization byproducts.
By Tony Messina4 years ago in Fiction
The Fall of Haringa
The Palace lounge was possibly the most expensive room in the whole nation of Haringa. It was built with real stone from the mountains far South, giving it a pale pink complexion that stood in stark contrast to the dull parauri sandstone city that sprawled out around the Palace. The room itself was adorned with soft pillows of red and gold silk, and tables made of mirror-polished wood from the Eastern Rakau Orchard. However despite the fine furnishings of the room, a thick air of anxiety surrounded the royal heirs of High King Runoko as they were fussed over and plucked at by the many servants of the palace. The oldest of the four heirs was Tarn, a tall boy with a mop of curly black hair the servants had desperately tried to control, to no avail. He wore a cascading cloth gown of red and black patterns that stretched down to his knees, clearly marking him as the first born son. Yet despite the grand garb, his young face still naively expressed his anxiety as a nervous eye darted over to the balcony of the palace that overlooked the hanging gardens. It was typically relaxing, to be able to sit on the wide balcony and look over the grand halls. Walls 30ft high and adorned with plants of every size and shape; trees the size of pillars; terraces overflowing with fruit-bearing bushes; and the sweet aroma of blooming flowers. All of this: ruined and spoiled by the mass of people bustling and crowding in the halls of the garden to try and get a look at the balcony to see Tarn’s father. Oh how he hated being anywhere near this many people, seeing them all look at him, judge him, and having to be perfect for them. He hated it all…but he hated that man even more. His eyes darted over to the side of the balcony where a figure was already sitting, seemingly unfazed by the huge crowd that had come to see his ‘masterpiece’. Why did father have to let him sit up here with the rest of the family? Tarn’s face turned to a scowl without an ounce of effort as he stared at the back of the silhouetted man’s head. His brooding was cut short by Itara carefully picking a white dog hair off the dark cloak that swamped Tarn’s body. “Why the long face, Prince?” He met her eyes, his attention instantly arrested by her familiar face and held there for a long moment before he gathered himself hurriedly, puffing out his chest to stand up as straight as he could. “Me? No! I was just…” He coughed into his fist nervously, looking around the room to see if anyone else was paying attention to him. “I was just looking at all the people that had come, there’s surely over half the City here, no?”
By Jonathan Smith4 years ago in Fiction
Guienevere
Even in the darkest of times one can always find the light within. The shrill cries of a baby erupted through the stone walls of Eros. A young woman, barely older than twenty years, lay writhing in pain, alone, and with only the sins of her soul to deliver her first and only child. It was a short labor, shorter than her mother and her mother’s mother had. How much she yearned to have her mother with her in this moment. She had no one to guide her as she delivered her baby in the hidden basement of her home, in the hopes no one would hear or see. Like many of the things in her life the baby’s birth caught her off guard. Her baby was three weeks early and decided to arrive in the dead of night, just before midnight. She was small, smaller than she should be, with barely a tuft of hair growing from her head. But she appeared healthy. Her skin was pink and plush, her heart strong.
By Kathryn Comitz4 years ago in Fiction
The Girl Who Met The Moon
Feeling Unfulfilled Twenty year-old, Mari sat in her room, sad, depressed, & overthinking! She felt alone, unworthy, & unfulfilled. She knew she had a purpose, but she didn’t know what! It bothered her. She was tapped into the spiritual side of things. She would receive signs from her angels & guides such as birds, feathers, and sometimes even see tree people that gave her faith that she had physic gifts & that she was on the right path, but Mari wanted to put those gifts to use! She loved having metaphysical support but she just couldn’t find a way to actually use those gifts to serve a purpose in the world.
By MirMir The Writer4 years ago in Fiction
Birth of the Einar
The old man stood in front of the fire. The flickering blaze gave the old face an other-worldly appearance, magnifying the wrinkles that marred the weathered features and lengthening the shadows under his serpentine eyes. His hair, now gray, was shaved close except for a length of hair down the middle of his head that was tightly braided, as was the custom of the men of his people. His gray-blue eyes, which have seen over a century of this world, peered out to those that sat surrounding him and the fire. His people, his heart swelled at the thought, HIS people that stared, watched, waited for a story to be told. A tale that they all had heard before. A legend that never got old. The old man cleared his throat; a reverent silence fell overall. The old man’s voice, strong and loud, sounded from his barreled chest as the story, their story, their beginning, their truth, began. The fire snapped, the audience’s gaze shifted to stare into the fire as the forms began to take shape. The story plays out in the smoke and flames of the crackling fire.
By Tamara McNeill4 years ago in Fiction
