Fantasy
As the Wheel Turns
Soft winds blew as the morning sun rose over the fields of wheat rolling through the countryside. Autumn’s chill was in those winds as a covered cart went down the road towards the next town. The wooden wheels creaked as they turned, moving along the dirt road. Hooves of a caramel-colored horse pulled the covered cart along. A yawn escaped from the driver sitting on the bench of the cart before she covered her mouth.
By Angila Marks5 years ago in Fiction
Archived
The sun was fading to a soft peach glow when I awoke in a daze under the old pear tree. Golden fields of Marigolds stretched to the horizon, glowing softly in the magic light of golden hour. When had I come all the way to Grandma's place? I couldn't have walked ten miles without knowing it, could I? The heatwaves have been known to play tricks on people, I suppose.
By The Creative Chimera 5 years ago in Fiction
The Prison
The alchemist stood in a silent, empty corridor. To her left and right the hallway vanished in terminal darkness. Directly in front stood a single door. There was something terrible on the other side. Though the thought of facing it filled her with dread, there was nowhere else to go. She tried to open the door but the handle would not move. Suddenly, inexplicably, she found herself on the other side. The walls of the room were black, sparkling with stars. Off in the far corner lay a box of gleaming, polished onyx, the entire surface elaborately carved, made up of human bodies in various agonized poses, mouths opened in mute horror. Somehow she recognized them, knew them: alchemists now forever bound to the surface of this box. She tried to stop herself but her body would not listen, acting of its own accord as if under some compulsion. Approaching the box her trembling hands reached out to open it. Her face reflected an emerald glow as she saw what was within. She screamed but there was no sound. Then she too was part of the box, frozen, twisted, and distorted.
By Michael Rinella5 years ago in Fiction
Acceptance
As he pushed the doors to the barn open, they protested loudly. Clearly comfortable the way they were, they did not appreciate the fact that his equipment lay beyond them and that he, to afford this very barn, needed access to them. How very rude of him.
By Christopher Kelly5 years ago in Fiction
Curiosities of a Postman
The package was simply labeled with crisp, succinct handwriting. Merely ‘John’ followed by the address, no flair, no flourish. The paper was a traditional brown, unmarked and neatly wrapped with creased edges and glued down at the folds; perhaps tape was too untidy. Even the delivery driver was impressed at the craftsmanship of an otherwise unremarkable box. It was a medium size, an un-noteworthy weight and made no sound as it was transferred from the postal office to the delivery van. He didn’t shake the package, he would never shake any packages, that would be disrespectful and should be left to enthusiastic gift receivers, not professionals. He couldn’t deny the temptation though, especially not as it sat, the last delivery of the day, on the front seat of his van, bathing in the afternoon sunlight. So unremarkable. So intriguing. As he continued towards the address, so neatly penned onto the box, his thoughts wandered to possibilities of what could be tucked away inside. With the tidy packaging and simple labeling he was led to consider practical items. A toaster perhaps, or another kitchen item; maybe some nice glassware. The handwritten element determined that it was more than likely a personal acquaintance or a small business that had yet to move beyond the quaint hand-addressed stage. The lack of a title or last name made the latter option less likely though. Businesses would also usually include a label which his curiosity was often thankful for. If he delivered to a place frequently enough, he was often well acquainted with the recipient and able to politely inquire about the contents of their package, but he had never delivered to this particular home before. The length of the drive only helped his curiosity to grow and with it a strange courage. He would see if it felt appropriate but he knew already that he would do his best to find out about the contents of this strangely, seemingly benign, brown-paper wrapped box. His hopes shrunk as he arrived to see the drive was empty and the house with no lights silhouetted in the dusk. He walked slowly, frustrated in his inability to satiate his curiosity but unsure what to do to ease his predicament. He had been in the postal delivery service for upward of thirty years and had never once been so intrigued by a package in all that time. He placed the box on the front step of the quiet house and knocked despite the low probability of an answer. He waited for a beat then turned away deflated. He would not sully several decades of professional service for the sake of curiosity. He tried to tell himself it was probably nothing of note anyway. However, returning to his van he took a little longer to log the delivery, unable to let go of the chance while there still was one. Glancing up one more time he swept his eyes over the scene before him. The box looked strange, waiting expectantly on the doorstep in the dimming light. A brown box, next to a red brick house, surrounded by a dry yet tidy yard. An uneasy feeling crawled over him as he continued to study the suburban house. For a moment he could have sworn he saw a curtain twitch behind the darkened window of the front room. The feeling of unease grew at the thought of that and he started the van, quickly pulling away from the curb. His heart pounded with a rush of adrenaline that had spiked with the thoughts of a stranger hiding in the dark, watching him. His curiosity diminished as the home with that strange brown box faded into the distance and he decided that perhaps it was best he didn't know.
By Obsidian Words5 years ago in Fiction
The Mirror
Amy and Eric ran into the old, run-down barn. They had been told repeatedly not to play in it as their granddad was afraid it might collapse on top of them. But as young explorers, they were determined to roam around the barn looking for old treasures. Their grandmother had always hidden things for them around the farm for them to track down, but after she died, they hoped to see if they could find the very last treasurer she had hidden. It had to be in the barn. Where else could she have hidden it? They had looked everywhere already.
By Catharina E Santasilia5 years ago in Fiction
Bail Me In
Hello new friend! Welcome to my cobweb. My name is Straighty Hay Man. I am a piece of alfalfa that was turned into hay over 40 years ago, then named by an angel and saved by a gust of wind. I still can't believe I have a name...most hay is simply clumped together for animal feed. Lux is my angel, and it is she who taught me, "I am more than just a cut, dried, and yellowed piece of alfalfa.” She was wide eyed, full of laughter and she always left life in her wake. Her hands plucked me out from a bale, held me tight, then eventually placed me here, in this old barn to be given purpose. That was over 40 years ago now. I’d love to tell you a few stories about Lux and life in this old barn if you’d listen.
By Isaac Haldeman 5 years ago in Fiction
Sweet Summoning
Each line hand drawn with painstaking precision; it had taken hours to complete the entire form. Each line connected to exactly three other lines, The pentagram in the center surrounded by a true circle, and another larger pentagram surrounding everything. The form drawn in two different bloods, and demonic ichor as well. It was the most complex summoning form he had ever attempted. The grating voice of his familiar prattled on about the theory, and the needed perfection for this most puissant summoning of his career, nay his entire existence. He began to apply energy to the spell form within the summoning circle. The red, brown, and green, lines began to glow as his power touched them; one line touching three more lines in an ever-widening crescendo. After three minutes of concentration, sweat began to form on his forehead. By five minutes, he started to become fatigued, hands began to shake. After fifteen minutes, his subvocal chanting naturally rose to audible levels gaining in strength; after twenty, his throat began to burn and his voice grew raspy. At thirty minutes in, his nose began to drip, but his will was iron, and he persevered, maintaining his concentration until the end. Finally, after 45 minutes, as the very last of his innate strength was funneled into the construct. All of the blood lines burnt away, save one lonely spot that somehow was disconnected. One small, tiny detail was missed. For a moment he feared that this one mistake might cause his summoning to fail. His familiar continued berating him now that a flaw was seen. To fail after all this time, effort, and expense was unthinkable. His nose bleed became a steady drip, and pain centered in the front of his skull was nearly enough to cause him to fall. He refused. His will was adamant, and he would die before he would succumb. Pushing through the pain, with one more convulsive effort of will, he screamed the final words of power and emptied his pool of magical energy. It was enough.
By Brian Amonette5 years ago in Fiction
The Barn on the Edge
Barry pulled the car up to the old barn and stopped the engine, exchanging a look with his wife Cynthia. They thought they’d been lucky to find the listing; it was a valuable piece of land at an extremely low price, and they’d only happened across the obscure advert by chance in a local paper on holiday. As the estate agent had indicated on the phone, it was very run down. To be fair, it was a couple of hundred years old – and it looked like it hadn’t been maintained for a long time. Full of holes, but somehow still standing when the rest of the farm was long gone.
By Chris Cunliffe5 years ago in Fiction
To Dellman's Ridge
Erin’s daily rituals were the same. Unending. Unchanging. She had chores to complete, a garden to tend as her brothers ploughed the fields and herded sheep. She had chickens to feed and a cow to milk in the old barn to the west of the farmhouse. Everyday was the same, calm and uneventful. But not today. Today was different.
By Cerys Latham5 years ago in Fiction
King Ransom
My bride flows toward me like jenny gold, her silk dress a shimmering infatuation of silk and electrified wire. I fully expect the child to burst into song at seeing me, the impervious King dressed in full military regalia. I am, after all, raising her in an instant from lowly miller’s daughter to Queen of Hevn, my high mountain valley.
By Barbara Steinhauser 5 years ago in Fiction
