Short Story
You Can't Keep a Good Dog Down
The dog's howl cut through my sleep and had me instantly awake. I opened my eyes and made out a dark shape standing on my bed. Totally disorientated, I flailed out with my hand and managed to hit the light switch. The light revealed a large Springer Spaniel standing on my bed.
By Robert Michael Warr5 years ago in Fiction
The Ember
Lorenzo stepped away from his dyes and plucked the picture from the ground. Frowning, he tossed it away again, clicking his tongue. In the bustling marketplace, the picture was kicked and stepped on and brushed along this way and that. Anulti stepped away from her butcher’s booth to pick it up. Her brow furrowed as she studied with curious eyes. She slipped it into her pocket. Perhaps, she would manage to find its owner.
By Nicholas D Greiner 5 years ago in Fiction
One Step More
He heavily drug one foot in front of the other, as the weight of the heat danced on the distorted horizon. On and on the figure marched through the sweltering heat of the day. He had been walking for… He wasn’t sure. It had been two and a half days in truth. But the unrelenting sting of the sun had burnt the truth out of his mind. It had burned away the thought of her green eyes, and the last night he had spent in the company of humans. It had burned away the nightmare that was the last two nights. Burned away the glowing white eyes in the darkness of the decrepit buildings they had taken refuge in. Burned away the screams of the children and the horrible thrashing and tearing sounds that echoed out of the darkness after they were silent. All of it, burned away by one of the only real things that existed here. Heat. With all of his thoughts gone there was only to walk. One step. Then, one step. On and on until… He thought he saw a tree.
By Alexander Cantrell5 years ago in Fiction
The Anniversary
The red marker dangled at the end of a strand of 550 cord, bouncing back and forth in the breeze of the recycled air. Jim Green picked up the marker and marked another day off the calendar. Today’s date was circled in the same red. Diagonally across the block was written “anniversary” in small, succinct letters.
By Jon Messenger5 years ago in Fiction
Generation P.
From birth, his world was plastic. When he toddled up to the windows, they were covered in a film of the stuff. When Grandmother took him for his little walks, his stroller was covered in a sticky, staticky curtain of polythene. In school, the children had clear plastic cubicles, so that when their wax and paper encapsulated crayons rolled to the edge of their desks, they no longer fell off.
By Anna Zagerson5 years ago in Fiction
My Superman
Another screeching scream from a not too far distance. Another father or mother trying to avoid the fiery hailstorm coming down like rain. 2030 and Chicago is no more. What used to be a vibrant, exciting city with millions of Chicagoans is now a city filled with crumbled High Rise buildings. The EL is just a mass of melted tracks and the trains just disintegrated Steel. I am Mari, 15 and currently staying under the Dan Ryan bridge with my parents and my sister of 8 and baby brother of 2. My dad is one of the parents out there trying to find food and water for us. Of course there are no jobs to go to, no banks to withdraw money from. Only way to survive is looting from Costco or Jewels and pray they don't get caught by the Red Squad. They are the group of thugs who have taken over the city and make the lives of most of us more miserable with their demands for goods that we barely have. I hear my little brother laugh and turn around to watch him try to catch the rat that was scurrying away trying to also find crumbs to eat. I look at my mom who gives me a crooked smile. She tries to be strong and resilient for us but I can see the strain and the sadness on her dirt scorched face. Yes, one of the fiery balls got her one day as she went looking for food. I scratch on my arm which gets worse every day from the spider that bit me the other day. I try to keep it from my parents. There is nothing they can do, no ER to take me to. How did this happen? Why are we here? The diplomatic talks ended with North Korea and they made good on their threats. They finally nuked us. New York and Washington also got hit. There is no cellphone towers, so no cell phones. We don't know what is going on in the world now. What I miss most is chatting with my friends, especially my best friend Chelle. I hope theleveryone is okay . When the explosions hit, we were just about to have dinner. Everything shook, like an earthquake hit. Thinking that's what it was, my parents grabbed us and led us to the basement. The house started to breakdown right in front of us. Ceilings, walls crashing down. My brother and sister started screaming. We made it to the basement and huddled under my father's steel work bench. I don't know how long we stayed there. Everything around us was just a chaotic mess of rubble and a bunch of lumber in pieces. I literally thought we were dying that night. We couldn't breathe, we couldn't see anything. At one point, after what seemed days, we heard voices above us. They finally found us. We were extracted from what was once was our home. We were given oxygen, they tended our scratches and bruises. We didn't know at the time, but my father's arm had been broken on his way down to the basement. He is my Superman. As I looked around, as far as my eyes could see, there were no standing houses nowhere. I couldn't comprehend how something like this could happen. It seemed like I was in an Apocalypse movie. Unfortunately, pinching me wasn't going to help. There was nothing to recover. All our possessions, all our mementos were gone. My parents had bought our house before I was born, and just like that, seemed like someone just lit a match and poof, our home became ashes. For some reason, tears didn't come. I was in a daze or someone may say I was in shock. Paramedics asked if I was ok. Would anyone ever be again? I just nodded my head yes so they could leave me alone. I reached for my cellphone but I must have dropped it. Someone mentioned it wouldn't had mattered if I did since all the towers had been hit. A nice old lady put a water bottle in my hand and I opened it and guzzled it down. Water had never felt so good going down my throat. I searched for my family and once I seen them I just started laughing, uncontrollably. They were covered in dust from head to toe. Only thing not covered was their eyes. I'm sure I shouldn't be laughing from the looks I was receiving. I wished I had a mirror to see what I looked like, probably the same. This started another set of uncontrollable giggles. Since they didn't know how stable the area was, they took us to a temporary shelter where they provided us with a set of new clothes and we were able to shower. During the night, we were awaken by loud sirens and yelling. We had to leave right away. It was no longer safe. Where we are at, has been our home for a week. Am I angry? Of course. Do I want things to go back to the way they were before the nukes? Most definitely. My dad always said we do what we do with what we have. As I stop revering, I hear some shuffling feet coming towards me. It's my father. He has this huge smile on his face. I smile back wondering what is he happy about. I hope he was able to find my Cheetos, so love them.
By Damaris Abreu5 years ago in Fiction
Memory Maintenance
I cannot believe I am using my lunch break to write. All I do is write. People with more money do not come here. They do not need to use these second-rate Memo Booths, taking home their recordings to squirrel away in some drawer, to pick over when they feel lost. I imagine them curling up to their own stories at night. I wonder if they are shocked by themselves. I wonder if they are bored.
By Heather Griffis5 years ago in Fiction
The Dream Journey by Train
1. Samuel Peterson, a frantic, stubborn man, leapt forward in huge strides, as he targeted the 1615 from St. Pancras station. The tannoyed voice ricocheted violently across the air, entering Peterson’s ears presumptuously. A female, high pitched tone droned on about the train he was about to catch, so he hoped. His legs moved swiftly now, like a greyhound chasing that ever-moving plastic rabbit. Lurching and pitching from left to right, with his hand luggage in tow, Peterson dodged several worried looking commuters on the train station platform.
By J W Nelson5 years ago in Fiction
