Short Story
Hate'n Those
I have no hate in my heart for them. Those that don’t look like me. I’d be lying if I said it was easy though. Most of the others do, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s just that I was lucky enough to be able to glance at a history book before they were all destroyed by the Bloods. I’ve yet to come across another soul that has even seen a book, let alone read one. The book I saw had a five hundred year old quote from a man who was a powerful king in the old world. I believe his name was Martan Lugger or something. He said that a person should be judged not by his appearance but the content of his character. I really love that quote. The book said he was a black man. I omit that fact whenever I tell any of the others about him. I used to tell them, but they would always get angry at me. One fella was so upset about it that he launched at me in a rage. It would have been a merciless battle too had not a few of the others intervened. Needless to say, after that encounter, the king was always of european descent. It’s not that I was incapable of handling my own. It’s just when you’re held up at one of these camps, you need to conserve every single ounce of energy you have.
By Larry Gunter5 years ago in Fiction
North
Mia had lived here for as long as she could remember. Existence rested on a delicate precipice and survival through each night was never guaranteed. Snow and ice bits sliced through her fragile skin as she stared out into the dimly illuminated darkness. Torches were lined along walkways, carved by the legs of various workers. This place was horrid, even after over a decade but Mia hardly remembered the times before this life. People came, and they went, usually by death, sometimes by banishment. If you didn’t pull your weight, you weren’t worth cultivated resources that others perished to retrieve.
By Jacqueline Wilson5 years ago in Fiction
Happy Birthday, Richard.
Nova shoved the stack of dusty papers from her mom’s jewelry box she found in the basement. She only had a minute, two at the most, if they were looking for her. She knew her fear was ridiculous, she hadn’t broken any laws yet with her 18th birthday still two days away. To be safe, she’d spent yesterday holed up in her house, while waiting to hear from Richard.
By Sherri Rolfs5 years ago in Fiction
In The End
It had become an unspoken rule that whoever you’d been back then – before the black steel tendrils of their ships had dropped beneath the surface of the clouds to change our world forever – it didn’t matter anymore. We were all scavengers now, desperately ransacking the burned husk of what remained and scurrying between sanctuaries like drowning rats on a sinking ship.
By Shawn Starkweather5 years ago in Fiction
The Jaws of a Rodent
Fifteen years ago, when the very ground below us became blanketed with the thick, unbreathable smog, the only way we had left to go was up. The few who didn't manage to fall ill spent months attempting to build skyscrapers to salvage all that was left. They turned out to be mostly just skeletons of a sound structure, warped wooden platforms held together with metal beams and wooden planks hundreds of meters above the ground. Despite the distance, the fog is still smothering and grey, though my grandfather insists that it was much worse during his time below. When I was younger I used to pry for information about where the fog came from, but my grandfather would often just look askance and somehow avoid my questions. I still often find myself wondering how my mom could have possibly welcomed a child into a world full of wretched smog and swaying towers, but I'd never say that directly. I'm well aware that my family does all that they can for me, despite the circumstances.
By Devyn Lofthouse5 years ago in Fiction
Epilogue
She doesn’t listen anymore- not that she ever really did. I think, sometimes, she could hear me or sense me and direct the story accordingly. Now, she simply ignores me, pays me no mind or attention. She got what she wanted, after all, she got the satisfaction of typing out a pretty, perfect ending to a tragedy she didn’t have to survive. I think she enjoyed it, honestly. She invented a world and smashed it to pieces with plague and fascist warfare. She invented me, gave me long, black curls that flashed violet in the sunlight. I should be grateful to her that she went out of her way to make me exceptionally beautiful. My creator birthed me to be perfect. Then she took her perfect creation and battered, tortured, and exhausted it. Why breathe something so lovely into existence only to ruin it?
By Laurena Fauie5 years ago in Fiction
Recoil
My alarm going off was like a bell swinging back and forth in my head and rattling my brain. Those two hours of sleep were as useful as an umbrella in a hurricane. Since my husband died last year, I haven’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in a day. I finally went to the doctors last week to try to break this cycle, and the doctor started by recommending melatonin and a regular nighttime routine. Clearly, that hasn’t been working too well. I have another appointment today where I will hopefully get something stronger for my insomnia.
By Mikayla Plett5 years ago in Fiction
