Short Story
The End
The world looks different now - duller. Like one of those old world photos, the western style ones you’d get taken at a theme park and then would put in a draw for years to grow dusty as forget about it. That same coating of dust is everywhere, it saturates the surfaces of our town, thick and powdery, footprints cut through it and it almost makes me laugh. It reminds me of the first snow of the year when everyone would race outside to their gardens to leave defined footprints. Snow doesn’t fall these days. These days the world only has one setting; hot.
By Karla hardiman5 years ago in Fiction
First Sunday
That first Sunday had faded from her memory just as its recording had slowly sunk into the memory banks of her somewhat dilapidated desktop. However, she had already reconstructed much of what had come before. She had only recently realized that the motivation for that first Sunday had been brewing for years. It had started as a nagging restless feeling, occasionally mutating into irritation, even outbursts of frustration, sometimes climaxing in feelings of disgust and, eventually, anger.
By Jerry Smeding5 years ago in Fiction
Semi-Scarred Dirt
The dilapidated house stood forlornly against the grey horizon, the lone dark sentinel keeping a careful eye on a dead world. John looked at it as the last dredges of daylight slunk below the horizon, rapidly turning the pasty grey frame of the sky a hungry mauve, then a deep velvet black. He sighed and rubbed his hands together out of habit, wondering if the winter weather gear in the box by the front door was still full. He could use a good pair of gloves for the future; especially one’s knitted by his mother.
By Patrick Davin5 years ago in Fiction
Hold Onto A Piece of You
“This is special,” the woman said as she placed the warm piece of metal softly in young Lexi’s hand. Her mother had the sweetest voice. It always put Lexi at ease. “It is now a part of you. Always hold onto a piece of you, who you are, and never let go. No matter what, never let go.”
By Joseph Dib5 years ago in Fiction
The Awakening
First impressions are crucial, or so I’ve been told. Those first few seconds of meeting someone create an impression that will last a lifetime. All I can remember of Reeva are her heart shaped locket and her infectious smile. It’s been two years since the awakening when she was ripped from my arms. I still don’t know if she’s alive or not, but I still see her every night when I close my eyes. As soon as the darkness sets, I see those piercing brown eyes staring so deeply that it seems she sees the innermost, darkest depths of my soul. What I would give just for one more minute. But since it happened, it’s too dangerous to leave whatever shelter survivors were lucky to find before the bombs hit. I guess I should explain just what this great event is we refer to as an awakening. Two years ago, the world was hell, everybody was fighting everybody was wrong nobody was right. Politically correct is what we all strived to be. Anybody who dared go against the grain was brutally punished. Riots had become a way of life, murder was such a normal occurrence that eventually the detectives and police gave up trying to solve them, it was dangerous just to step foot outside your home. Eventually, country turned against country, ally against ally, and then the sirens started. It was a normal June night; it was my turn to make dinner, so I ordered pizza.
By Molly Willis5 years ago in Fiction
The Protector
“Quiet, now. Everything will be fine.” He says. In the twilight sky above them, patrolling ships in slow formations drag their search-lights between streets. Flames rise from the wreckage of burning buildings. The Thought Police are nearby, scouring the streets in regimented fashion, seeking out the cries of the wounded and afraid. They will take the young back to the State, and kill the rest.
By Matthew Reilly5 years ago in Fiction
Trekking to Kirra
“Gonnnng!” “Gonnnng!” The warning church bells rang loud in the distance. Milla woke to see her camp mates scrambling around in the fire light to pack everything at their tent sites. How many times did the bells ring already? The sound of boots scuffing against the dry red clay of the ground rustled in her ears. She felt drowsy from the lack of a good rest, but she jumped to her feet and immediately began breaking down her tent. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt safe enough to fully rest. Her memory of the last 7 months felt both like a blur and like a fresh wound. She often got lost in her own thoughts and memories of a time before the “Awakening”.
By Elora Keagan5 years ago in Fiction
I Can Succeed
Only a few Elders remembered what the world was like before the fall. They say society collapsed. Governments and corporations pushed too far. Bled the people dry of money, time, and sanity. People fought back and it was a bloody war that lasted many years. Now humanity is just a shell of it’s former self, using whatever old technology we can find just to try and survive.
By Matthew Daley5 years ago in Fiction
Lost Sanctity
LOST SANCTITY BY TIMOTHY S PURVIS You stand on the battle field trying desperately to blink. Smoke, and burning flesh, the pounding of warheads against the ancient soil, the screams of dying men (those who would be your friends), lay siege to the bitter taste that should be upon your tongue. Yet, it isn’t and you worry what this means.
By Timothy S Purvis5 years ago in Fiction
Atrophia
The end of the world was wholly, completely, painfully mundane. The preppers prepped, the religious prayed, and the larpers polished their collections of assault rifles and played a lot of Call of Duty. Only they did all those things over the span of decades, not weeks, like all the movies had predicted.
By Rebecca Sexton5 years ago in Fiction
