Sci Fi
The Sovereign
I do not know how l have been here. My troop and I became trapped in this cave when “The Sovereign” forces invaded our site. We managed to grab enough food and supplies to last us two months, and I’m not sure if it has been two months or close to two months, but the supplies are dwindling fast. Montgomery has claimed most of the rations. He says he has to be the one to distribute them because he is the only one who understands what the human body needs to survive, given his background in human biology. The rest of us called horseshit, but no one else has a medical background, so no one could truly pose a debate.
By Elizabeth Krantz4 years ago in Fiction
Sunset Mine-State
The sun sets earlier this time of year. James yearns for days beyond recall when the sun would shine past nine - Before daylight savings was abolished, before farming became an outdated profession - James is seated upon his apartment building’s rooftop with his canned fruit and cup of instant filling the air with an artificial bitterness. A tutorial video teaches the crosshatch brush stroke. A practice completed by the lust of his life, Mia. He’s painting a tree in the sunset, where the sun rests on the branches of a fruit tree – A scene Mia had described to him in poignant detail - The brush leaves crosses on the canvas before him. As above so below in the dusk sky, a similar pattern is drawn by planes leaving condensation trails to seed the clouds. A practice completed by The Weather Bureau department of the ‘New Life Corporation’ - The weather is designed and foretold rather than read and reported - James lets his gaze follow the whispering wind further outside the city than he’s ever physically been. Out past the minefield he spots a single tree peaking above a distant hill - Surprising for the soil is sour where weeds dare not grow - He wishes to capture the specifics of the lonely tree but the emerging fog clouds its clarity. Through an opening in the fog that looms, James notices a feminine figure wandering minefield to lonesome tree. The sun sacrifices itself so the moon can shine, its last rays catching the light snow falling from the crosshatch pattern in the sky. An orange glow with embers climb to his attention. The last book store had its final day and the police are burning the books. The council made an event out of it to bring the community together.
By Brode Foscaro4 years ago in Fiction
The Promise of the Pear Tree
It was in the iridescent green that I caught a glimpse of the future. The barren panorama that I had been trudging was wearing on me. All around the terrain looked like a dry Martian landscape. A useless vista. As I lifted my eyes to heaven it was like hell rained down on me. I don't remember much except the sound of bombs and explosions. It was as though the ground had opened up and was taking no prisoners. The doorway that got me to this place had been heralded to be a haunted one. No one ever heard it creaking open because they were either asleep, away, or in another room and not in earshot of the rusty hinges that held it to the frame of the house. Had I known then what I know now I wouldn't have gone through that door. What started off as a family-fun day with a picnic and then scary stories around a bonfire that night about the haunted door at our granny's house had turned into an experience none of us would forget. I rushed the door with every bit of irreverence I could retrieve. Hoping to elicit some laughs from my cousins and disprove the mysteries of the door I threw myself into the door dramatically. Everyone there now says they saw it open by itself only moments before I rammed into it. I fell to the floor unconscious. My body was there...but I was somewhere else.
By Cozett Dunn4 years ago in Fiction
One More Conversation With Mom
I gaze out the window at the midnight sky. I feel as small and insignificant as the tiny pinpoints of light in the wide expanse of darkness. I never felt that way while Mom was alive. Now that she's gone, I struggle to find any purpose in my life.
By Rebecca Key4 years ago in Fiction
Raindrop Memories (Part 2 of 2)
Whispering showers tap along the windowpane in harmony with a low electrical hum; the only sounds save uncomfortable breaths in the silence between the Wanderer and their aged daughter. Worn and tired, Lydia looks to her suspiciously youthful parent and grunts.
By C.S. Meigs4 years ago in Fiction
Quartz
Quartz On the other side of the Black Hole, which exited in what we refer to as another galaxy, what was left of Epsiton, the consciousness and the Interface was found by the God of the Quasar/Blasar who was Quartz, who breathed life into me, and he called me Asterick Epsiton, son of Epsiton.
By Lawrence Finlayson4 years ago in Fiction
CYCLE IV
On a warm sunny day, a twenty-seven-year-old Lebanese woman reads beneath a pear tree. Her attention sways, hearing sounds of laughter from a distance. She glances to the side, observing the merriment of children. As she returns to her reading, her book slips from her lap. A handsome, tall man with long dark hair and kind eyes retrieves it for her.
By A. W. Knowland4 years ago in Fiction
My Name is Attached to the Bark of the Dark
Aioli, I am the sauce of my own dreams, then again my mother named me by her own means. She was entertained by a cooking show and heard the name blow, got a pen and wrote it down it seems. And to top it all off, what's next— you know, my middle name is Cake, she likes to bake sweets; can you imagine if she liked different kinds of meats? Thank God it wasn't a name with something more in common with what we all eat, how often Italian is set on many of our programs in specific, for us to observe their treats. It would have been horrific, just like this name that sounds oily, if it were an Italian cuisine show it would have been an echo of Cannoli or Rizzoli. Terrific. Shove a name onto a child because the impression seems good. Let me mention again for the greater observation of food, it sounds nice for the sake of a plate; but for a friend or a mate, it's an unkind mistake. The sound of a block of wood sliding up and down a grater, or an irritating deflater— If I could change it I would, it's in need of a tabulator, to sort out what's misunderstood.
By Jamelia K. Fynn4 years ago in Fiction
The High-Tech Lynching
The error prompted a red light to illuminate. “I’m sorry. You have a forty-six point six percent melanin count. You may not enter the Wilmington, Delaware courthouse.” The checker moved onto the next patron and a green light passed. Her blond hair, cerulean eyes, and pearl-colored skin flew by in a blue light as she entered the building. The checker was black as the patron he whisked away. Paula Gander shook and raised her head. She walked back to her car. In the passenger seat, sat chemicals that would make her skin snowy white.
By Skyler Saunders4 years ago in Fiction
