Short Story
Doomsday Diary
Diary entry, August 26, 2071 Our family is driving back to the, now burned, home that we had to abandon when the wildfire entered and devastated our town. We want to look for anything salvageable in the ashes. As we drive along the “escape “route, by the burned -out cars, with burned bodies in them, and more burned bodies on the roadside, where people had tried to escape on foot when traffic was jammed, I wish I could say that I’m surprised or shocked by this. But how could I be surprised, when this scene is so common?
By Janet Robinson 5 years ago in Fiction
Franklin Evermore
In Alaska in the spring, great grizzly bears gorge themselves on berries. A diet of northern red currants, raspberries, low-bush and high-bush cranberries, and crowberries turns bear fat pink. Berry-fed bear fat is melted down and mixed into teas with honey. It’s used for making biscuits, pancakes, and waffles. Women, and men, too, apply the rosy fat on the skin and it cools and tones the complexion, and it gives hair a healthy shine. It’s believed by some to restore hair, fortify gray matter, and increase sperm count. Berry-fed bear fat may as well be rose gold — it’s as expensive. An ounce can sell for a hundred dollars. Each year in the spring, hunters come to Alaska in search of brown bears, kodiak, glacier, and black. Franklin Evermore is one such hunter.
By Tony Marsh5 years ago in Fiction
She Searches For His Soul In Someone Else's Body
She walks the streets at night as though she’s the crusader of her heart, her body and her soul. But all she rules is a dark and murky empire where stale tobacco smoke fills the air. In her kingdom are stains on the bar counter, surround by stools reserved for the lonely. When she takes her seat on her throne, her wine glass becomes her magic wand. Each night she arrives just as the darkest of the night sets in, dressed in a silky dress, sparkling jewels and shoes that are slightly frayed.
By Author Alice VL5 years ago in Fiction
THE TINY TITAN
Cracked. Scattered and lost. Pushed away by the rend in the path. The little ant was out searching. The dedicated soldier marching in the wild. I wondered what it was that caused to navigate so. His road was rough and covered with gaps and spidery cracks. Why was it that it came this way?
By Grant Kininmont5 years ago in Fiction
The Locksmith
The Locksmith The sound of gunfire faded as I pressed my back to the steel brace door. Darkness enveloped me, the blanket of night keeping me safe… for now. The uprising had started quickly and rapidly grown out of control, as was our aim. Yet, I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me. They always found us eventually.
By Jodi Nicholls5 years ago in Fiction
Only Human
The building trembled lightly as another explosion echoed from the distance, causing the ceiling to cough out dust from between its crevices. Constantly and without fail, the alarm system’s buzz rang over and over again. Its loud persistent sound was rivalled only by the clearly spoken recording of a woman’s voice as it echoed through the room, “Warning, the city has been breached...”.
By J. R. Lowe5 years ago in Fiction
The Pomegranate
The Panera Bread was on a cross street where a highway met residential back roads. It stood between a Pet Value and Anthony’s Pizza behind a roofed outdoor patio with a mosaic floor, and a fountain that people mistook for a wishing well. College students collected the pennies and nickels after dark, and stood around it after the Panera closed, shrouded in shadows like spirits waiting to cross into the underworld.
By Amanda Marrero5 years ago in Fiction
The Garbage Man
He moves through the barren streets on legs that refuse to give out, feet tapping on the pavement in uneven patterns of one, two, one…..two, onetwoonetwo, one, two. His excitement grows at each passing pile of waste, and he cannot help but be born again every time he finds a dirty old towel.
By Savannah Eve Henley-Rayve5 years ago in Fiction
The Last Optimist
The Man stepped into the ransacked store. Glass shards crunched beneath his worn boots. Like in most places he searched, the windows were all broken. He smelled the air. It was dry. No sickly sweet smell of death, or the distinct stench of animal droppings greeted him. He smiled, reaching into his back pocket and producing a worn leather journal. He drew the pencil safely tucked in its spine.
By Logan Watkins5 years ago in Fiction
