Satire
Silver Line of Power
A fiery rain poured over my head at sunrise as the field artillery fired from the other side, sending their led balls hurdling towards us. All I wanted was to get out alive. This dreadful war was the worst thing I had gone through. It was worse than when three of my cousins died the same day of cholera. If only the South would just surrender. They were on the path to defeat, why delay the inevitable and cause more death. They called what we were doing ‘Northern aggression,’ but I had called what they were doing land theft. Jefferson Davis was the one who wanted to break off from the union, but maybe Lincoln could make a few concessions, give the South some of their own land in exchange for every slave and draftee on their side being freed. I had no preference as to which side won, I just hated fighting. I was no cowardly deserter though. I had fought gallantly with my honor and integrity intact.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Black Coat
It was getting late on Sunday, and Jacob Waknosky had been working since eight. His boss had called him in on his day off because another employee was sick. It was against the law for Jacob to say no to his boss because enough pro-capitalist extremists had gotten elected to office to make what they called 'pro business' laws. This made it very difficult to be an employee, but businesses were thriving. The government made it illegal not to have a job, so everybody worked, even those with severe disability’s. Have you ever seen somebody with no arms try to mine for coal with a pickaxe in his mouth? Jacob had, and it sickened him. To make matters worse, they had converted everything to solar a decade prior, making coal obsolete.
By Alex H Mittelman 3 years ago in Fiction
Toddrick's Worm-Bone Soup
"Dragon tails or Dragon tales, maybe it was Dragon nails?" Why'd it matter. He wasn't going to eat his own kind, that would be barbaric. Toddrick thumbed through the tattered soup-stained rolodex in annoyance. He had standards after all. “It has to be here,” he moaned. His mother’s famed worm-bone broth recipe had eluded him—as it should. You see, there wasn’t actually a worm to be had in the soup; besides, worms didn’t have bones, and not to mention— it appeared he had forgotten why it was called that to begin with but that was neither here nor there.
By K.H. Obergfoll3 years ago in Fiction
