Horror
Unknown Abyss
Observing how individuals adjust to conditions has always been a subject of a weird obsession for me as I become more interested in the flow of order in society. But what if you turned the world upside down? I'm a sixth-form student at Christopher Whitehead who is fascinated by dystopia and has a passion for creative writing, intending to make you think.
By Zain Rehan4 years ago in Fiction
A Portrait of the Ann by the painter Virgil Day
The Sargasso Sea. An empty and vast space of ocean and sky and winds. Emerging upon the canvas splashes a great wooden vessel called the Ann, made from more than two thousand trees, steering through the ocean’s hurling might in chiseled and hushed buoyancy. Driving up enormous volume of waves, crashing into their tranquil and rabid foam that spews against the planks, creaking and throbbing, casting out in its drive a vortex and flattened pyramid wake. A mote of shark fins glide in ceremonial-dance circling the ship.
By American Wild4 years ago in Fiction
The Confessions
Scene 2. In Gilu’s hut. Morning The two men sat in a corner of the traditional highlands roundhouse – the roof and walls made from kunai grass (also called cogon grass). The building had a small window to the left side of the room but it was sealed. They were seated on a wooden form which was placed to the right hand side of the door. The warmth from the smouldering log from the night made the place cozy on that mid-morning.
By Thomas Hukahu4 years ago in Fiction
Rescue
I come to the beach late in the day, so I don’t detract from the happiness of others. The ones who throw frisbees, or skate on boogie boards. The ones with children digging holes or making castles with upturned plastic pails of wet sand. The squealing kids who outrun the oncoming wave, or the brave ones with their surfboards who challenge it. I come here clothed in a shirt and cargo shorts, I don’t intend to go in the water.
By Ed N. White4 years ago in Fiction
A Portrait of Elga
2. Berlin Steve had heard stories enough of the war from his father who was born a few years after the conflict ended. His grandfather had died fighting for the resistance, against the Nazis and then against the Russians. This had shaped his ideas about the German character and it was unsettling to see them confirmed in a strange way as he walked out of the gate into Templehof airport.
By Mark Newell4 years ago in Fiction
Guardian Angel
It was a warm midsummer night, and Elijah lay sleepless in his half-empty bed. Accepting the fact that he wouldn’t be asleep anytime soon, he shifted the blankets off him and stood, the wood floor cold on his feet despite the humidity outside. He opened the window beside him, gazing into the miles of tall grass stretching to the horizon that expanded into a moonless sky. He loved the rural American Midwest, adored the isolation and the endless plains. To him, it was the best place on Earth. A breeze blew in, carrying the scent of a coming storm. Taking in a deep breath, he left his room and wandered the hallways.
By Erin Lockhart4 years ago in Fiction
Flesh-Colored
My name is Samuel Weaver. I am writing this because it ought to be recorded, though I must admit the more I think about it- the more pointless it becomes. I sit here on a large boat typing, hoping perhaps for an alien species or a… at least semi-aquatic subspecies of homo-sapiens, to find the technology to read the data on a (most likely) water-logged personal computer. A stretch, to say the least; but hey- isn’t it within our DNA to wish to be remembered? Death only comes after we’re forgotten, or so it goes. I think it’s fair to say, in the midst of the immense cataclysm before me, that I simply need to hold on to some glimmer of hope. Even Pandora was able to go on upon finding hers, after all.
By Justy Robinson4 years ago in Fiction
Finding Grandmother
When Frank Arrived at Millie's house, he was just in time. Every neighbour was trying to get a good look at what was going on. The local rag was also there trying to get a story for the nightly news, and all were being held back by witches.
By Karen Eastland 4 years ago in Fiction
Ho Ho Ho
“Ho Ho Ho” Santa Clause Killer The 000 call came through just after midnight. Frank Stevens had returned home from and interstate business trip to find his wife’s body under the heavily decorated Christmas tree. The post-mortem results found she had been straggled sometime between 8 and 10 that evening. There were very few defensive marks nor was there any sign of sexual assault.
By Paula Duggan4 years ago in Fiction
