Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Fiction.

The Little Black Book
The car drove by way too fast, and the object thrown from the window landed on the sidewalk ahead of her. Her instinct was to keep walking and pretend she did not notice. But...she was going to pass it, so she may as well see what it was.
By Lynn Jordan5 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
THE SPORTS GUY CHRONICLES
Chapter One: Meet "THE SPORTS GUY" Hello, I am "THE SPORTS GUY". Obviously, as "THE SPORTS GUY, I, of all people KNOW my sports stuff. Ever since after my third year of college athletics, I have been a freelance sportswriter. That mostly means that I have complete control of my own time. That is right youth, I have ALL day, 7 days a week to do whatever I want. Well, if you have ever met me, or read any of my stuff, then you would know what I love to do most. SPORTS. COMPETITION. GREATNESS. The one sport that I LOVE most is basketball, when I became aged 15, I had to decide which ONE sport I would DOMINATE, and I chose basketball. 15 is a typical age for a multi-sport athlete to choose one sport (at least trim down to 2 or 3 sports). It is just a part of life. To be great you must focus, not to mention high school athletics and beyond become VERY DEMANDING of elite athletes. Trimming down on sports can be an important safety precaution for an athlete who wishes to have a long successful career. After all, MOST pro athletes only play one professional sport. (Pay close attention to the word most. That does not mean ALL, professionals play only one sport. There have been special athletes that could play two and even THREE professional sports in their athletic careers.)
By Elijah Davis5 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
The Thomas Code
Chapter 1 The Year- 1889 A baby born, named Thomas Prescott Jr, in the rugged backwoods of Western Virginia, would change the world. A log cabin with its dirt floor and weeping walls contained the sounds of the unattended birth process.
By J. S. Wade5 years ago in Fiction
Doomsday Diary Challenge
As I walked down the old, abandoned street, I realized I could barely remember what it looked like before the carnage, the bombings, before it all went to hell. To the right of me was the park. The beautiful rhododendrons would be in full bloom and the breeze would blow the petals across the grass. Now, in their place, were broken trees, swing sets ripped from their places in the ground, old picnic tables torn and strewn about. The other side of the street was the Farmers Market. Rubble and turned over cars littered the street that once buzzed with electricity. Merchants selling their wares and customers bartering for the newest in organic vegetables and fried food. I have been asked the question several times since the end. Where was I when someone pushed the button. I was here with my family. We were sitting in the park munching on hotdogs and waiting for next band to come out on stage. Suddenly there was a loud “BOOM” and we saw something hit the Interstate bridge. Then the chaos seemed to take a movement like a slow-motion picture. We watched the freeway bridge, and its cars slowly snap each cable support and slide into the cold river.
By Lori Best5 years ago in Fiction
Dear Diary
“Dear Diary, The end was sudden, and bleak. Survivors of the end were left scrambling for resources as governments, leaderships, corporations’ etcetera had crumbled. People had to fend for themselves, and it turned ugly. With neighbour against neighbour, no sense of unity survived or occurred. Those first few days tempers flamed, fights occurred, fires blazed. But no one worked together, to solve the biggest crisis at hand: what to do?
By Jay5 years ago in Fiction
Too Much Horror
The wine arrives in small barrels that bang down the chute. It’s red. They only drink red, so they only sell it, and as employees we have the opportunity to buy it, bottled and heavily discounted, as we leave our shift.
By Heather Ewings5 years ago in Fiction
Prometheus and Armageddon
It was when we entered through the fourth door that we found floating in the liquid space an immense stone, almost spherical, flattened on the sides, with an igneous center still alive.
By Juan Laborde5 years ago in Fiction
In the Arms of Morpheus
Fresh rain pooled in the broken crevasse of the old brick walkway. The morning doves sang their song above from the newly established power lines. In the distant one of the many trollies of the city squelched out their miserable horn. The bustle of the city's streets echoed down the thin corridor. Though the sun was out, positioning of buildings shadowed the small brass door, the only true illumination would beam from the neon glow of an “open” sign. On the door, neatly pressed in, was the nameplate: J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye.
By RW Hughes5 years ago in Fiction
In the Arms of Morpheus
The clouds thundered in the distant skies, the morning hues of burgundy and maroon gently kissed the exposed blue. The sun merely signaled the time of 9am. Stepping into the fresh morning sun from the narrowed brick corridor, J. Edward Liveon, Private Eye, sniffled at the sight of the bustling crowds of Market square. As a trolley squelched past, spewing its’ enraged ashen debris, a toll booth could be heard in the distance, two dings, a pause, two more dings. The sounds of voices were amplified, ricocheting off the dark stoned buildings, soft water droplets propelling the rocky exteriors. The square was wide, with many off-shooting streets of varying sizes. The larger ones bustled with motor carriages and trollies. Moderately sized pathways, which dipped and curved throughout the region, were jam-packed with bustling foot traffic, Thousands of mysterious faces traveling to mysterious places. The smaller paths were harder to spot, shady characters decorated the mouths to the dangerous alleys. Edward would fall within the shared classification of a shady character, the slight scar on his face often allotted a swift judgment by strangers.
By RW Hughes5 years ago in Fiction
In the Arms of Morpheus
Rain splintered heavily against the tin walls of the warehouse. Adding to the sweet melody of rain was the sporadic array of thunder, which decorated the sky in the ravishing dance of lightning that often went hand in hand. The thunder would roll in menacing waves, a double blast of bangs- pause for the flash of lightning, with a pursuing double blast of thunderous eruptions in the sky. The waves of the nearby sea lashed out in violence at the cemented docks. Occasionally the tentacles of water would aggressively assault the tin walls of the large dockside warehouse. Within the walls, the loud smash of water on metal echoed endlessly through the wooden crates marked with miscellaneous papers.
By RW Hughes5 years ago in Fiction