Fantasy
Heart Strikes Ten
Legend says that when the heart strikes ten, it will open again. I wish I believed in legends. I want to believe in legends. Yet time beyond time, they fail me. I’ve given up my former conviction that a legend, either person or tale, will end this dread. Ancient legend said that when the heart strikes three, we will all be free. And yet with each turn of our world, the world in which we were free before the melt, we cannot talk with whom we wish. We cannot walk where we wish. We cannot admire another or another’s possessions. We cannot learn. We cannot love. For love is a freedom that ends our breath.
By LENORA QUARTO5 years ago in Fiction
Doomsday Diary
Diary entry 196 I do not think I have slept in days, and I have had an eerie feeling that this may be my last entry. I cannot let my guard down; they are always looking. It has been 3 years since I left home, and I am not returning. I have found a real family since I left, and the good thing is, they are all like me. I know one day someone will find this diary, maybe all covered in mud and torn up, but someone will see. So, I might as well let my side of the story be known.
By Zakariyya Muhammad5 years ago in Fiction
The Pigknuckles
The fall of the five sisters Near the town that would soon be called Thermogate lived an old farmer. Phil Pigknuckle was his name. He made his living keeping … chickens. Phil Pigknuckle was a widower, left to take care of his five daughters after his wife succumbed to the fever a few years prior. From eldest to youngest, Catherine, Agnes, Patricia, Polly, and Morgan were all beautiful young ladies. Some with red hair like Phil the others with black hair like their mother. All with hazel-green eyes, as unique and beautiful as their dead mother’s. The girls would travel together all over the lands surrounding the budding new town. They would do anything to stay away from their father.
By Garrison Vereen II5 years ago in Fiction
all we are is stories
In the old times, one day, the mightly warrior Fionn mac Cumhall and his band of warriors, the Fianna, were hunting deer on the shores of Loch Léin in Kerry when towards them across the waters they saw a vision: a lovely young woman with flowing golden hair, dressed in robes as blue as the summer sky, riding towards them on a white horse. Though she rose over the waters, neither her rich garments nor her horse's hooves were wet when she reached land. The men bade her greeting, and Fionn asked her "What is your name, and what land have you come from?"
By Sabrina Downey5 years ago in Fiction
The Son of the General
I pull up my hood as the rain starts again. Nobody bothers to retreat under awnings on the busy boardwalk; the brief respite was welcome, but normalcy returns with the downpour. Vendors continue to shout into the crowd as people rush past, offering fresh fruit and bread at prices that are far too high for any Underling’s family to afford. Many will go hungry tonight, just like most nights.
By Avery Woods5 years ago in Fiction
History
History. It’s funny, I am not quite fond of history, it's important in its own way I am sure, but the truth is that no matter what way I look at it, I can't bring myself to become immersed in it, in any way. It's as old as time itself, here from the beginning, and it'll be here long after I've gone. I've never given much thought to history, we are taught it in school, but besides the basics such as dates and the information I used to cram into my head for exams, nothing quite seems to stay. We are taught history to avoid making the same mistakes and to pay homage to those that came before us. Yet, rather than learn, I believe humans repeat. We're repetitive creatures, imitating the simplest of things from when we first talk, too much more complex things like war. This world is cruel, there's no doubt about that, or rather more accurately people are cruel. I know I'm ranting, and you might be bored. Heck, I'm sure you probably aren't aware of what my point is. Well, do I even have a point...I can't say I do. I began to write first to record what is happening, but now mainly because it feels right. I suppose I should write as if I'm writing a story, but it feels more comfortable to write as if I'm talking to someone, which in a way I will be when someone reads it, in this sense you. My name is, well that doesn't quite matter, we'll say I'm X, not to be mysterious, although that certainly has some charm, but just because I feel it isn't necessary. I don't know you, and you don't know me, but everyone has a story to tell and needs someone to listen, so with this maybe you can get to know me, and I can tell my story.
By Katherine Beltran5 years ago in Fiction
Heart of Parchment and Ink
Blight and infertility had nearly consumed the world, leaving behind a bleak landscape. Only the mysticisms of the Magistoria could slow the encroaching rot. A rot that could not reach them in their elevated, dome-protected cities. Down below, most people were focused on surviving and allowed the mystics to handle the blight. That information was as immutable as gravity and just as unquestionable.
By S.W. Tredwell5 years ago in Fiction
The Apocalypse Isn't Too Bad
The thing I miss the most about the world before things went to shit is New York style pepperoni pizza with a dewy can of Coca-Cola. I think about all the times I grabbed a napkin to soak the pooled oil from a slice. I wouldn’t bother with that now. Give me all the pepperoni flavored oil you got. I would drink it from a cup just to get close to the flavor.
By K. Wallace5 years ago in Fiction
A Moment To Think
Her fingers reached haltingly. She had to be sure. Was it still there? It had to be there. It had to be. This was the last piece of who she was. Where she came from. The one remnant of another life in a universe that no longer existed. Well, it existed. But it no longer looked like, felt like, or even smelled like what once was.
By Paulette Dickerson 5 years ago in Fiction
T.E.B.O.N. 2087
Chapter 1 "Two copper wires, all six jars, and the last of my twine, not a scrap more old man!" "Ha! That's a curse o' a deal you're proposing. I didn't get these scars from tuslin' with runts like you. It was the desert clopse that took me eye during the war! There I was, in the middle of..."
By Kevin Grant5 years ago in Fiction
Mirage
“What do you think is over there?” a boy, no older than seven, asked from Dante’s side as he clutched at his sweaty hand. “Do you think it’s beautiful?” He fumbled over the last word, getting caught on the heavy B where his chapped lips didn’t stick together properly and instead, dry and raw, slid over each other to blur into the rest of the word. He made a face as if he were thinking about correcting himself, but it faded away quickly. He was a child after all and the air around them was too hot, too heavy, to worry about anything much more than getting one foot above the next as the pair climbed the mountain. But still, he muttered, “I think it will be.”
By Anna McCuaig5 years ago in Fiction
