Horror
Chapter 2: The Incident at Farmer Krum's Cabin
Time slows to a crawl as Kannan tightens his grip on Dawnbringer’s hilt. Closing both eyes, his heart thundering like a raging winter storm, he readies himself for the impending battle. The sword’s circular pommel stone flares momentarily with bright light. Soon after, the great sword’s blade sings softly as it slowly unsheathes from its scabbard. Heat radiates through Kannan’s body as the blue runes engraved in the sword ignite with an azure glow, enveloping the sharp edges of the blade in a spectral pale aura. Kannan experiences a heightened clarity of thought, a sudden rush of strength, and his mind is flooded with ancient knowledge of countless battles as the spell-forged sword becomes an extension of himself.
By Dylan Crice3 years ago in Fiction
Time Over and Again, Chapter 2
To read the previous chapter, click here. Len and Sasha stared down the deserted, broken-down streets of the once-somewhat-nice neighborhood. They walked down the sidewalk, Sasha trying to chew the clearly dead grass. Len picked her up and pulled her away from the grass, but she just ran back over to it.
By Tanner Linares3 years ago in Fiction
A Small, Happy Town
Some say that Estes Park, Colorado was one of the last pleasant places in the world. The crime was low- maybe a murder every five years, and a few troublemaking young fools that run away to the big city- happiness was high, and every person who lived there was at least charming and respectable, if not infectiously happy. Yes, indeed, Estes Park was the last of its kind- a true small town, charming, idyllic, and seemed just like those small town that painter Thomas Kinkaide likes to paint.
By Delise Fantome3 years ago in Fiction
The Black Ibis Case
I stared at the piece of paper for a long time, trying to understand its meaning. I decided to fold it up and place it in a plastic bag to examine it later. I checked the remaining offices but found them as empty as all the other ones I had seen before.
By Georges-Henri Daigle3 years ago in Fiction
The Trees Swallow People: Part 10
The invitation to meet Shepard was hidden amongst the clutter of post I had let pile up over the days. It was late August by this point. I'm only now okay. Okay-er, anyway. The village is growing quiet. Of course that's due to the desertion. People have continued to vanish. It's no longer just strangers disappearing. Now it's people you know the name of; Jack the newsagent, John the barman, Colina the trad singer. The once giddy gossip of Mr. So-And-So has turned tactless. Tragedies are only fun at a distance. Besides the disappearances, people were also hitching up posts, so to speak, and leaving in droves. Many weren't even bothering to wait for the "for sale" signs to go up; houses were gutted overnight.
By Conor Matthews3 years ago in Fiction
Flooding Destruction
Check the local weather forecast: We live in Florida and we always check our local weather forecasts before going to bed or waking up in the morning. We also check again before leaving home. When checking the forecast, we pay attention to the amount of precipitation that might fall in the coming days. We look for places with excessive amounts of rainfall. This means having enough time to prepare for possible flooding.
By Muhammad Abrar3 years ago in Fiction
The Sunset Mountain
The attack was over in seconds. The wolves had run off and left the girl for dead. Broken bones, bruised ribs and blood seeping from her left shoulder. She could feel death slowly creeping upon her. Vultures circle in the sky waiting for her to pass out so they can pick at her bones. The sun blazes in the sky, the heat burns her skin badly, scorching and melting her slowly.
By Sara Sparrow3 years ago in Fiction
RENAISSANCE
RENAISSANCE But for the rain riveting against the glass, the view from the first floor bedsit window would have been magnificent. Tonight, great drifts of spume hurtled across the road, leaving shallow lakes to creep across the promenade and pour back into the ocean.
By Malcolm Twigg3 years ago in Fiction
In Service of the Dead
London-England Her hand was sore, she could still feel the burn of the punch as her knuckles cracked in the officer’s face. It was a hard punch, one that he’d find difficult to recover from. She left him in the open street bleeding his mouth out while she ran off not looking back. She picked up her pace, running even faster into the night as she heard the officer call in support.
By Stultus the Fool3 years ago in Fiction
