Mystery
Air Force None
A General Atomics MQ-9 Reaper drone dropped off a sizable rectangular box. On the side read “USAF” in blue letters against the gray body. It was like a stork leaving a giant baby at my doorstep. Well, actually my driveway in Wilmington, Delaware. I fetched my hand truck and moved the monstrosity in my garage.
By Skyler Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
The Womb
She stood in the nursery and placed her hands over the belly that held her baby. Her hands were cold, as they always were, but soon began to warm up as she stroked back and forth, and she tried to imagine her palms radiating a protective forcefield around her developing child.
By Cheyenne Leigh3 years ago in Fiction
The Past Doesn't Forget
Paul’s headlights skimmed over a package awaiting him on the front stoop, as he pulled into his drive. The wipers kept perfect time with the increased pounding of his heart. He watched, as the flashing red light of a drone disappeared over his rooftop.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden3 years ago in Fiction
THE MYSTERY BOX
THE BOX CAME LARGE and tattered, marked with directional signals pointed in every direction as if Santa himself had taken the tour to deliver it. A humourous note card with "LOVE" in red emboldened letters and someone's scribbled artwork hearts drawn on and around the "send to" placard signaled that it was indeed shipped to me. My name and the directional "side up" and "left side... right side" were clearly marked on the cardboard box dropped on the doorstep by a delivery robot drone seen wheeling up to the door from the corner curb to drop roll the heavy item that tipped it a bit as it deposited its package in a completed delivery before rolling gingerly away. A little red dot glimmering on the RING DOORBELL image captured on the video told us that it recorded the drop spot before leaving our property. "Grandmom!" the familiar voice of my youngest grandson rang in the hollow cavity of the foyer in his excitement at the discovery. His overwhelmed review of the robot delivery man... instead of John, the mail carrier, brought his eight-year-old frame trotting from the upstairs bedroom to the front door before anyone else could move. The door was flung open and as he tugged and then rolled the box inside his dad appeared from his own bedroom to lift and carry the box to the dining room table. "What is it?" I asked, pulling the knots out of my back after having been sitting for so long in front of the morning news and weather. They read the label in a scramble of mushed utterances craning their necks to catch the words on each pastie applied for the travel stops made by the package. "From Alaska," it says, "Alaska Air Lines," then after a brief pause and turn of the package, "Here's another one... Dallas Fort Worth" and "SATO." My own head tilted a bit to one side and a suspicious eyebrow raised itself without the support of a questioning word. "Here it has your name, mom." I took a deep breath and motioned for them to open the box. Within seconds the labels were bypassed and taped ends ripped and cut away. "Be careful with that knife, we don't know what it is... don't damage it!" I bellowed from across the room now. My son raised then, in one quick jerk on the remains of the outer packaging, slid the interiors free of the container. Their faces turned to drop-mouth and bulged eyes at the sight before us all.
By CarmenJimersonCross3 years ago in Fiction
Eli's Project
Rashmi Dube was going to work. Like a billion other 26 yr old men all over the world at 6 AM. But most men didn't have to try and commute via an open-air rickety train alongside a couple of thousand people. Women holding children, men holding huge bags of garbage, and even a woman holding a chicken under one arm. This was a combo of a New York City subway and every rickety bus flying through a jungle in South America. This was the dirty side of Mumbai, India. The side the tourists never saw. Mumbai was a city divided. There was the downtown district, with so much to see and do there. Everything from Museums, Art galleries, and Ancient Temples, to booming nightclubs and Bollywood. And then there was Dharavi.
By Angela Mabry3 years ago in Fiction
The Danger Signal
I was standing on my doorstep trying to find my keys in the torrenting rain that had been pouring for at least an hour and a half. I thought that I'd placed them in my pocket, but they weren't there. Out of desperation I kneel on the soaking-wet concrete of my doorstep, and search through my bag, swearing and cursing out of frustration. After ten minutes of searching and getting another drenching, I finally find them.
By Carol Ann Townend3 years ago in Fiction
Don't look inside
I was going to fill up the tank on my way home. I'm running on less than a quarter tank. It's only Tuesday, so the gas prices would have gone up since Sunday when I planned to go along with a grocery run, but the wife did the Uber Eats thing instead. She's obsessed with some tv show I lost interest in six episodes earlier. How do I break the news to her?
By Earl Carrière3 years ago in Fiction
