Short Story
To The Stars
I sat on my windowsill staring out at the stars. The darkness of the night was minimized by the city lights illuminating the hazy could of smog that floated above the buildings. Even though it was hard to forget that our planet had become too toxic to live on that the air outside was unbreathable from centuries of careless polluting the twinkling glow of the stars shining in the distance reminded me that there was still hope. That there was a goal, something tangible that I could, even just as one lonely girl on a big dying planet to make a difference, to save the world.
By Clara Jennings5 years ago in Fiction
Table for Three
We gathered ourselves just beyond the single-doored entrance of the restaurant, ushered in under the harsh confluence of the dark and the cold that titled that ordinary winter evening. Or, perhaps, not so ordinary when considered in light of the occasion that brought us there that night. Ms. Sabel, our close friend of two decades, had just turned twenty-seven, and Sira and I, harbouring a semblance of appreciation and respect for social ceremony, had insisted on our taking her to dinner to celebrate.
By Brandon Lever5 years ago in Fiction
Served Chilled
Food. That's all I could think about. My stomach audibly cried for me to eat something, anything. A man at the other end of the car carried an apple, half rotten. My face twisted at the sight of such disgusting food. I was already failing at attracting attention as I rocked back and forth. Pulling my sweater closer around me, I took the time to scan the train car.
By Kaitlyn Therese Bouchard5 years ago in Fiction
One Hundred and Fifty Beats
All I can think about is the way the stubble on my legs is catching on the fabric of the chair I am sitting in. Or my feet, sticking slightly to the cold and clammy floor of my home. The cool air passing behind my neck and raising goosebumps on my arms. The way the sun, red and hot and slowly setting through my window, is reflecting off of a mirror in the cover of the book my daughter is reading at just the right angle to cover my vision with angry dots that multiply when I blink. I can look directly at her, but I cannot see her through the white hot replicas of the sun in my vision. I can look directly at her, but I cannot see her.
By Victoria Mizel5 years ago in Fiction
Missing Peace
The explosion was something random and widespread. I remember walking out of Macy's with my sister, we'd had just got done birthday shopping for our dad. In New York, there are many unique and particular people so when we see a random guy running around and yelling "IT'S THE END" we casually brushed it off and laugh, not knowing that it really was the end. I can recall when it all happened, the sky turned dark momentarily before buildings came crashing down, the once sunny sky, happy faces and joyful music was now replaced with fear, crying and screaming. Chaos was being displayed in Manhattan, this day. I grabbed my sister's hand in attempts to try and find a fall out shelter near by but she pulled back when she seen a mother and her daughter struggling to be released from a heavy brick slab that had fallen from them. Aniah has always been a caring and selfless person, quick to put people before herself. I shouted for her to hurry back but before I knew it, a heavy pressure hits my back causing me to fall to the ground and slamming my head on the concrete.
By Tania Hill5 years ago in Fiction
Renaming Dragontail Peak
The stage is set. The meager applause dies in the air, its praise fading faster than it had come. All the middle school students sit in rows on the retractable bleachers in the gym which, on days like today, doubles as an amphitheater. The teachers have constructed a makeshift stage underneath the basketball hoops, a simple raised platform with a decorative garland stapled all around its edges, little paper stars hanging from the shiny purple plastic fringe. The cheap decor doesn’t do much to make the gym look any less like a gym, with its giant scoreboards all over the bland cinder block walls. P.E. is Sascha’s least favorite class, and as such, the gym is her least favorite part of the school. Today, in particular, has done nothing to change that.
By Natale Felix5 years ago in Fiction
High Anxiety
I used to love the English composition challenges at school – you were given an opening sentence or two, and had to use these as a springboard for your own composition. The trick, supposedly, was to come up with something original, so that your work stood apart from that of the others, making any bored examiner sit up and take notice. You know the sort of thing; if the title were “A Summer's Day” you should avoid any seasonal mentions and instead plump for something about the life of an accountant. This story came following my son being assigned the opening line, “Forbidden to remember, terrified to forget; it was a hard line to walk.” The next line pretty much wrote itself and set the tone for the rest of the piece.
By Bryan Hallett5 years ago in Fiction
There was no warning.
You would think that the end of civilization would be global warming; with how bad the pollution to the environment and ozone was. Nothing could have prepared us for this. Even with all of the monitoring from the scientists; they couldn't have prevented this. The government had no disaster plan for such a catastrophic event. So we're all on our own now.
By Rachel Slater5 years ago in Fiction
