Historical
Time Travel Paradox
The acrid tang of ozone filled Amelia's lungs as she emerged from the shimmering portal. The once-gleaming chrome of the time machine was now dulled with rust, a testament to the ten years she'd spent relentlessly pursuing this moment. She was back. Back in the crisp autumn of 2013, the day her life fractured.
By Yakise Raphael Etim2 years ago in Fiction
Resuscitating Nessie
"Well, where is she?" "She washed up on the shore, just like I told you." "Oh, she just washed up on shore, did she? — and you’d have me believe that she’s real, that she even exists. Like all those other hallucinations of yours — or what was it that you called them again? Ah yes — portals! — gateways into your fantasy world. All I have to do is follow you down the wormhole, that’s it, isn’t it? You’d think I was born yesterday, too, wouldn’t you, now? Why, you know what you could do for me? You could go and write some of that fresh bullsh*t down for me. Chisel a few lines into some stonework, or even carve out a sculpture of this whale of yours, as you see fit. No, hold on — better yet: Write a full ream of that fantastical delusion out for me, would you? You can’t even make this stuff up! Listen, kid, when you’re all done writing and you’ve got a copy ready, hand it over on glossy coloured paper — make it out on aqua green — coloured A4, you hear? I want a record of it — a hard copy. I reckon one day — sorry to say, probably when you’re long gone, that’s just the way it goes for the lot of you writers; ain’t it the truth, boy? — maybe it’ll sell for something substantial, you little nincompoop you. All you’d have to do — I’d swear it on Nessie herself — is write some of it down, and maybe date it with your own hand; and just like that, they’d make a Nobel Laureate out of ya. That’s how it’s done, kid. Ten, twenty, fifty — or perhaps a hundred years from now, some sorry soul may be forced to dredge through some of your delusions in a literature class. And during this quest — whether it's the first they've heard of you or not — you may just make the grade as someone's new favourite author; it’s possible, you know? Anything is possible. But, someone — no doubt about it, kid, some ‘cowboy general’ — will finish skimming one of these books with your stories, and upon reflection, will promptly slam the book down on the desk in front of him with one hand, in an emphatic fashion — right in the middle of class while the teach is going on about allusions and metaphors — and preach that you were mad as a hatter and there’s no sense in reading any of your works, at all. But, of course, you take the piss better than anybody, don’t you? If I were as high as a kite I couldn’t dream up a piece quite like this nonsense — not in the least like this, kid. And, supposing I tried, I’d probably have a seizure before I even got to the climax of the story; and even then I’d probably fall into some sort of coma, no doubt one that I’d never wake from. So, there’s only one explanation for it, kid: you've got a tumour. Yes, that's got to be it! I just often wonder how dangerously big it’s gotten; yet, it doesn't seem to stop you from writing like a magician, now does it? If I were you, I’d take a crowbar to it before you start tripping over your feet. But in the meantime, there’s certainly no harm in writing down some of these sensational ‘event horizons’. You keep putting off your next written piece — but boy, I’d say this is it, kid. You know what else they’d do? I'll bet the real fans, the ones with all your stories on their shelves back at home — they’ll take quotations from your work and have them framed in their bedrooms. I tell ya what — they’ll do it! So, go on, now: I want it in writing first before I go on any of these expeditions with you.
By Delusions of Grandeur 2 years ago in Fiction
Rolling Hills | Part 2
Sicily | 1943 Rosalie dropped her arms and immediately began pursuing Garret - frequently looking back to see if she needed to fire her weapon. They made it to the next patch of trees, except this grouping was bare, and appeared dead from lack of water. It wasn’t a suitable position to take cover behind, which they quickly realized when bullets began tearing up the deadwood.
By Kale Sinclair2 years ago in Fiction
Vampire Hunters
I sat there staring at the TV, which I had turned off. My pistol, badge, and phone which was tossed on the coffee table. Jake was in the kitchen reading an old leather-bound book. We just got home from work about thirty minutes ago. It has been two days since we received the message from the demons. My phone buzzed continuously, I looked at it and it was Zach who was calling. I picked up my phone to answer it.
By Jorden Dunbar2 years ago in Fiction
