Mystery
I see the Queen
As I feel my final days approach, I can not help but think of my first days. How is it that all of the journeys of my years have brought me to this point? My mind has brought myself and many, through the whims of God's pen, making marks on the pages to distract from the world's problems, and create stories to satisfy all senses. My body, however, has taken the ship straight to the fragility of a vase, feeling the cracks, as time races on. It's as if months turned to minutes, and this pain has shifted moments into decades. My only peace, it seems, is to recollect the times, not of comfort, but of wonder. To the time before I realized the connection between dusk and dawn.
By cole jackson 3 years ago in Fiction
Orange Gulper
Orange Gulper oozed slightly up from the bottom of the pond, glancing up from the glinting moon-lit, murky water, and gulped soundlessly at the fat, orange fish flirting about the surface. The lily pads and lotus blooms kissed the goldfish and their swishing, colorful tails.
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 years ago in Fiction
Stolen Identity: Chapter One
I sit at my desk at Leigh's Incorporated, where I work in secret protecting the government's secret officers. Nobody knows what we do here; it is top secret. If anybody in the outside world knew what we did, we would be at risk of cloning, theft, and murder. We have a strict company policy, stating the following:
By Carol Ann Townend3 years ago in Fiction
Pacificalia
Bubble City: a term of derision. Hundreds were planned once - great, domed sub-marine enclosures, colonised by a genetically modified population who were to be the salvation of an overextended world. Then, the phaser-field technology that made it possible found a more exciting application. Instead of looking inward, the heaving hoards of Earth took to the stars in their million in phaser-driven bubbles. Abandoned, the Bubble Cities slowly died until only Pacificalia remained,i ts population evolved to life beneath the waves.
By Malcolm Twigg3 years ago in Fiction
END PAPER
Lucien Booker had a reasonably profitable business, as well as an apposite surname and a very bookish demeanour to go with it. It had always been a family story that the Booker Prize was, in fact, connected with them. It wasn’t. It was just a fanciful notion promulgated by a grandfather who had more creative imagination than sense which was offset by a good nose for the book trade, even in his dotage when he came up with the notion. Hence, ‘Booker’s Independent Book Shop’, despite all the odds, was still going strong some 100 years after it was founded in Victorian buildings whose antecedents had been a public lending library and an early photographic studio. A mock Gothic structure, it lent the premises an air of authority and verisimilitude which had stood the business in good stead over the years. It looked like a proper book store. One where you could get lost amongst the shelves. One where you could pick up long out of print volumes at - it has to be said - a hefty mark up, but apparently worth it to Lucien’s clientele, because the antiquarian trade was probably worth more to the business than the modern stock.
By Malcolm Twigg3 years ago in Fiction
The Black Ibis Case - Chapter 6
McMillan Exports’ old warehouse didn’t look any more inviting in daylight than it had at night. In fact, daylight made it more ominous than before, the worn concrete, rusted steel and broken windows made this eye sore stand out from the rest of the scenery. Yet, the building’s dilapidated state was only the second thing I noticed as I drew closer. There was a feeling of dread in the air, one I had felt on my first visit and felt even more now. I couldn’t have said where it came from, or what caused it, yet it lingered in the air as surely as the cold wind had announced a fresh layer of snow since this morning.
By Georges-Henri Daigle3 years ago in Fiction
