fantasy

Celebrating the fantastical. Let your imagination run wild.

Only Slightly Twisted
I never dreamt that I'd be seeing the front door of my dream house for the first time, through the scope of a sniper rifle. However, neither would one sanely consider that becoming immortal would be a legitimate career choice thirty-six years ago, but here we are. I took a sip of coffee from the flask resting on my briefcase and lined up my shot to the door. Once prepared I shifted each leg until I was comfortable. I had tucked myself away out of view, on a mound I'd been laying on for the past fifteen minutes. Patiently focused with only the elements for company, I caught my breath in my peripheral vision. One eye poised on the scope, and the other on the regular puff of steam dissipating quickly in the breeze. I should have been freezing, the surrounding snow had carpeted the county the night before, but my body pounded with caffeine-infused adrenaline. For every day of the last two weeks, mine and James' routine had been the same. He would leave his house at quarter past nine, his boyfriend, or husband- No, let's call him, the gold digger, (I don't want to be too generous) would kiss him on the cheek. They'd be classically 'cute', a luxury James never treated me to, and I would vomit into my mouth. Then he'd saunter to the car parked on the drive, with myself watching from the mound I'd grown oddly attached too. It was no different today, although this time I wasn't watching through a pair of binoculars, and there was a fresh, white backdrop of snow. Most would say it was picturesque, but not today. the white calm of winter was a stark contrast against this stale but still bitter lover holding a sniper rifle. My pocket vibrated. I reached in keeping an eye on the cottage whilst pulling the phone to my face. It was a text from my manager, Ms Marrs who I had already missed five calls from. The text read:
By Warrick Arnold-Archer5 years ago in Futurism
A Ship Called Absolute
The two moons rose, pale and sullen, in the frigid air, as Primrose and her family boarded the ship called Absolute. It was absolute that their world was falling apart and that this mighty un-sinkable vessel was their last hope. Primrose was not yet twenty-five, but she was the wife to a man, Will, whose will to save his family was resolute, and she was the mother to four-year-old twins.
By Sally H5 years ago in Futurism
words against her skin.
It took every ounce of her will to show no reaction when she saw the black book slide silently out of the fidgeting candidate’s oversized cloak and gently onto the floor; her bony fingers dug fiercely into her arms hidden deep inside the long sleeves of her shapeless outer robe, sharp reminder to keep herself in control even as her spirit screamed in shock. Her face maintained the habitual blank mask that all women had learned to cultivate in public as she deliberately steadied her breathing, sinking deep into her carefully created facade, perfected since infancy.
By Ninsidhe 5 years ago in Futurism
Woozy Wonks and the Little Black Notebook
Woozy Wonks wakes up. Wait! Who is Woozy Wonks? Simply a man who lives in a purple electric van. Do you see the man in the purple electric van?
By Charlie Le Fol5 years ago in Futurism
Dream
~~~~~~~~~~~~~Dream~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Realm of Reality (Short story) Part 1 “I could make you happy….Really happy Ryan….Please”. Stacey pleading through each text she sent and through sobbing eyes. She waited. No reply. She sobbed louder into herself. How can he not respond? After two years. Nothing. Stacey tossed the phone to the foot of the bed and sobbed silently to herself until she fell in to a numbing sleep. The phone vibrated incessantly. She woke up groggily, grabbed the phone and peered at the screen with blurred eyes. ‘Accident, Hospital. Get here NOW!!!!!’
By christina diaz5 years ago in Futurism
Within the Pages
It began with a fairy’s spell. When I was born, my mother had two best friends. It goes without saying that they would be there the day I arrived in the world. As fairies, they wanted to grace me with a gift to ready me for the rest of my life.
By Rebecca Booth5 years ago in Futurism
High-Pitched Sounds Never leave me Alone.....
You ever feel like your world can just end, and begin within that same moment? I don’t know, I don’t believe in synchronicities or that I’m saved by “our father who art in heaven”. I mean you would think me mad, hell I would think you were too. The one thing I do believe in though is me still being able to breathe... and laugh…. and smile while I tell you this story. One of such misfortune, and the highest of victories. One of hope and grace. One which involves this very coffee shop which we sit in, on this rainy day. One I can smile and laugh and remember the reason why I am breathing.
By Egypt Alnique Campbell5 years ago in Futurism
Seed of Light
Jandoo muttered next to me, “Look at her, hunched over that little black book, scribbling away. What does she think? That she mustn't miss
By Brianna Wertman5 years ago in Futurism
The Unexpected Gift of Mr. Money Bags
When Nana Jenkins gave Janice her little black book, Janice would have never guessed it with yield a spell that inadvertently granted her $20,000 from a shady, city official. Growing up in Bayview-Hunters Point gave Janice Jenkins a genuinely honest perspective on white people, particularly those from the liberal haven known as San Francisco – a city where people openly embraced diversity, while neglecting the Black community.
By Jawanza Barial-Lumumba5 years ago in Futurism
Sullivan's Book
Oxana drove for seventeen hours before finally arriving at her late brother’s home. If anyone knew Oxana, her driving a pickup truck existed in the same alternate universe as a hare hauling shell for shelter. She lived with a dogged affinity for climate change. Still, she suffered the truck, grateful in her present circumstances to have something to drive.
By M.E. Negron5 years ago in Futurism
The Book That Wrote Itself Backwards
This is an excerpt from a short story that was inspired by The Little Black Book challenge. I began writing but got carried away, and is too long to submit to this challenge. The original text is not yet complete but can be found here. I look forward to turning this idea into a series of short stories titled The Journals of Curiosity.
By Almost Bo5 years ago in Futurism
Death Danced Betwixt the Lakes
Acrid hung the air about the city of Hollágard. It was the kind of air that burned the eyes and stung the nose; that left the throat as parched as the desert, and parted with a foul taste. An oppressive air filled with unfriendly smoke, mingled with death.
By Nikolai Rambo5 years ago in Futurism