Fantasy

To acknowledge the Truth is to thirst for more.....
“Damn” she muttered into the silence as she checked her watch. The word cut through the empty silence around her. She grabbed her notebook and phone hurriedly stuffy them and her printouts into her bag. The flashlight fell to the floor leaving her in darkness. She continued to mutter as she slowly made her way back to the door. The dim light of the stars her only guide. She followed the path she’d made through the thick layer of dust that covered the carpeted floor.
By Chaurice Williams4 years ago in Fiction
Letter from the unknown
Sunday morning. Cloudy autumn day but this is the first weekend for Rosie after a long time, so it`s a wonderful day. No need to rush, so girl decided she could afford to sleep in. However, you can`t sleep all day long. The clock on the nightstand showed that it`s 11 am already and a huge desire for black coffee made her get up. A cold shower helped to wake up and after Rosie switched on the coffee machine, she decided to go through her mail. Bill, fresh newspaper, another bill – nothing special. Wait! What is this? A weird looking black envelope with no stamps or address. Perhaps somebody threw it into Rosie`s mailbox by mistake.
By Ana Frowley4 years ago in Fiction
The Volvo of the Vole
My dream fling had just dumped me. I was speechless, listening to her talk, and then a barn fell on my $100 thousand dollar baby, my Volvo XC90 T8 Excellence.
By Anton Crane4 years ago in Fiction
HIDDEN WONDER
Not much had to be said the moment Diedra heard the news of Sol’s death, she just understood it was her grandmama’s time to go, she sat on the floor silently with her face between her knees and her arms wrapped around her head, trying to hide the tears coming down her cheeks, more than sadness Dre, as everyone called her, felt at peace knowing that her grandma had lived a full happy life, Dre and Sol had a special connection after all Dre was raised by Sol who was wonderful, smart, creative and possessed a vivid wondrous imagination, Sol told the best stories, As a very young girl Dre thought all the stories, the places and fantastic creatures truly existed, Dre was always looking for signs to prove the stories were real and not just fantasies, like looking at the mudslides trails far away on the mountain after a rainy night and wondering how a giant snake fell from the sky with such a force and heaviness that took all the trees down, or the little people living in the old sewing machine helping to make wonderful dresses out of fabric from old clothes. Dre had a happy childhood because Sol was always there, Sol was the wisest most caring woman Dre had ever known and because of that Dre chose not to attend Sol's funeral, she wanted to remember Sol the way she was, a beautiful, kind and strong woman.
By Allyofmine4 years ago in Fiction
The Marigold Clearing
Elle walked towards the marigold clearing, which was surrounded by trees; it was her favourite place. The air was clean, the birds chirping, a small creek’s water bubbling slowly on it marry way, oblivious of the world around them. Sitting with her feet tucked under her, she brushed her fingers along the marigold peddles. The sun shining made the field even better.
By Amanda Hutchinson4 years ago in Fiction
Repeat
Long before there were iPhones there was a world separated into three parts. There were people who lived at the top of the hills, people that lived at the edge of the sea, and the people who lived at the bottom of the ocean. The only thing keeping everyone connected was said to be hidden in a brown box.
By K. Waterss4 years ago in Fiction
Is it a tree or is it me?
Is it the tree, or me? Is it real or a dream? The pear tree had been planted on the day of my birth. It started to bear fruit when I was three years old, it was at its most productive from five years to forty five years, which is the normal and average for a conference pear in this part of England. Then into a steady reduction in the yearly crop of the best cooking pears you could find. Now it was past its best, just the occasional show of blossom and even more rare, a small crop of fruit, to remind of its past glories. All exactly like myself. The most creative years seem to be behind me. The tree and I are both sixty years old; yet I still strive to burst out with meaningful production, still keen to claim my former place as a success and a worthwhile provider. Like the tree, my roots are firm in the ground, the spirit is willing but the bees no longer buzz around the blooms and no one expects to harvest my out put. When you start to make comparisons they become uncanny. The conference pear is almost self fertile and I never needed outside inspiration to start creative work. The pears were best picked before full ripeness, stored and then cooked with skill. My writing was best when a skilled editor got me to rework the final draft before any publisher saw it. The last fifteen years have been an ever increasing rate of failure and ineptitude. Just as the tree lost is productive vigor, so did I. Now young people do not even realize the tree is a pear tree, one that once provided well for the household, similarly they do not know I was once a popular author. My work no longer in fashion and never was good enough to be called a classic. Out of print, out of mind, just like the tree.
By Peter Rose4 years ago in Fiction
Dagda's Cauldron
“Ssshhh.” Aengus pushed me down onto the ground, covering my mouth to stop any noise from escaping my mouth. “Don’t move.”
By Lolita Civic4 years ago in Fiction
How Pedong Became an Arbularyo
The power of an Arbularyo to heal sick people with a malady caused by either witchcraft or mischievous elementals is normally bequeathed to him by his ancestors. It is passed on from one generation to the next through a ritual performed before the demise of the expiring bearer. But for Pedong, his ancestors didn’t give on him such power. He became an Arbularyo through acuity and bravery.
By M.G. Maderazo4 years ago in Fiction
Dagda's Cauldron
I was surrounded by black feathers, instead of a monster I opted for an animal, a raven. The raven was my spirit animal, the raven had gifts of prophecy and protection. My golden hair shined like the sun, standing out against the backdrop of black. A young man, who was fair and tall, hair like the raging sun was walking towards my father and I. My father’s sadness turned to uneasiness, the change in the atmosphere made me want to run back home and hide in my bed, I was not good with confrontation, I was meek and found it easier to just do what was expected of me. My father made room for this young gentleman, a name that he went by was Cuidightheach, my father arranged with Cuidightheach father for us to be wed by the next full moon. All that I know about my groom to be was that he was tall, handsome with red hair, his father was a carpenter. I never spent any time with him but there was a week until the next full moon and I guess meeting at some point was inevitable.
By Lolita Civic4 years ago in Fiction
Totem
Louise would never forget the morning she had woken up to find her home in a state of dramatic stillness and of perfect architectural proportions. Everything was as it should be, and yet this was the most troubling thing of all. I will explain shortly why this was a disturbing morning for Louise, who had never in her 10 years living on the 5th floor of her studio apartment on La rue Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth, woken up to such a balanced interior ratio. She did not open her eyes to a ceiling that was only a finger’s length from the tip of her nose, or conversely, an intimidating 2.6 meters away which as you’ve probably guessed is almost the exact hauteur sous plafond. All of her limbs were rationally contained well within the perimeters of her mattress, cradled and centered so that none of her body parts were involuntarily spilling onto the floor, nor was her minuscule form swimming in an endless sea of sheets. Everything else that had legs was intact—coffee table, dresser, lamp, stool, and arm chair all stood motionless, feet firmly planted on the slightly slanted wooden floor. Even the tiny package wrapped in brown paper that she had mistakenly received in the mail weeks ago was propped in the center of the coffee table, adamantly unopened. The little brown paper box was rather standard, maybe even a little boring, but Louise found it extremely suspicious that the appellation of the intended receiver was Lucifer Iblis. She considered this an omen and refused to open, discard or even destroy the box. Though the sealed and unmoved package was a harbinger of strangeness, it had with time become a consistent oddity that had conformed comfortably to the living space, and was therefore no longer an oddity at all. In fact, I am digressing from the actual peculiarity of that morning, which was that everything was exactly as it had never been before: upright, in place, and well ordered. Many things startled Louise that morning but none more so than the Japanese Noh mask of Magojiro that hung stably on the wall across from her little kitchenette. She noticed the woman’s beguiling smile from an angle she had never seen before since Louise was used to greeting the mask either by pulling it from underneath her bulky appendages, or seeing it from the bottom up, which fascinated her every time it so happened to be that kind of morning. What I mean by that kind of morning, and by all of this you see, is that Louise’s apartment had a strange way of scaling up and down overnight, causing her to wake up filling far too much space or barely any at all. This wasn’t an Alice in Wonderland situation though, because Louise hadn’t eaten either side of a mushroom, nor did she change sizes, it was the little studio on La rue de Notre-Dame-de-Nazareth that would shrink and grow, while Louise was merely an experiencer of the fluctuations.
By Jean Loup4 years ago in Fiction
Dagda's Cauldron
“No, sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. I do not know who you are nor where I am.” “My apologies, I have not been around a human in some time, I am out of practice.”
By Lolita Civic4 years ago in Fiction