Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Fiction.
Paradiso
The plan had been to die there, in paradise. It had been two years and six months to the day according to the etchings Polly had made on the walls inside her concrete box. One small line with every new sun. Inside of her tomb she had a small mattress that was nailed to the floor, a toilet, a tiny slit at the bottom of the wall where once a day one orb of something edible slid through and an aluminium vase that contained one stem of what she supposed was once a bouquet of orchids. The stem hadn't been watered in the time that she'd been there yet was as alive and living as it was the first day she woke up in the box. There was no door but one wall had a large convex window made of some reinforced material that had been heavily tinted so as nothing apart from the light of the sun and the moon could be seen from inside. In times of desperation she had tried to smash it with her hands and her head to no avail other than leaving a few tiny scrapes that could be wiped away with saliva. Above the window there was an ornate inscription in the concrete that read, 'Paradiso'. This, she assumed, was some sort of feeble attempt at humour by her captors. She'd imagined so many times whoever it was laughing as they hammered a chisel into the wall with extreme and delicate precision. Two years and six months, a long enough period of time that Polly had lost all hope of ever escaping her grey prison. On that 913th day as she sat against the back wall nibbling on the tasteless round thing that had slid through into her box she was surrounded by a great light so magnificent that it blinded her. Her brain fizzed and her ears rang with a screech of a thousand pigs at the slaughterhouse. She curled up in a ball and fumbled her way to the corner, scratching at the mattress praying for it to absorb her like some dried up bed bug. There she lay waiting for the sickness to pass. The screeching in her ears dissipated to a low hum and the fire balls that were her eyes began to cool as her brain began to recognise true sunshine again. She pulled herself upright with the help of the wall and rubbed at her eyes seeing the concrete room for what felt like the first time. The convex window was glowing a bright white as if the dark tint that had been there for two and a half years was suddenly ripped of like a band aid. She took slow steps toward the glow and saw tiny shapes starting to form as she got closer, tiny shapes turning into big shapes turning into buildings and trees. Her stomach flipped with vertigo as she realised that her concrete box was so high off the ground that the street below looked like a penciled line on a piece of paper. She fell back onto the cold ground and hugged her legs, shaking with fear and confusion. She didn't recognise the city in front of her. Was it her city? Was it where she once worked? Where she loved and played? She tried so hard to locate the memories of the alien place but found nothing. She cried and in a fury threw herself at the window, yelling and screaming and scratching hoping for someone out there to see her, to look up and see a woman trapped in a concrete box and call the police or rouse the cavalry. Anything would do, she just wanted saved. With energy depleted she slipped back down to the floor. Her filthy clothes soaked with a salty lament she saw movement from each side of the plastic bubble. She pressed her wet face against the curvature of the reinforced material and saw that there were hundreds of windows on a concrete wall. Bubbles in rows like hives and behind each an insect like her, all simultaneously coming to the same realisation.
By Kris Platt5 years ago in Fiction
Apocalyptic/Post-Apocalyptic
This subgenre centers around characters and plotlines after a significant world debacle has happened. You'll regularly discover topics like local area and its job in endurance, annihilation of biological systems, human instinct, and tragic governments.
By waqar jameel5 years ago in Fiction
The Many Deaths of Deacon
Pain, so much pain! My bones are on fire, I can’t think… Feels like a damned elephant is sitting on my chest! where’s that bloody nurse? What kind of circus are they running here, anyway? I need my pain meds, this doesn’t feel right, not right, no… oh no, oh no! I’m not ready to die!
By Angel Whelan5 years ago in Fiction
After
She eased herself down onto the formed plastic, her bare skin breaking out in gooseflesh. Teeth grit against the aching cold, she unfurled the body suit and found the feet. Ignoring the hiss of her partner’s own discomfit, she slid her toes inside the slippers and pulled the supple material up, slipping her arms in with practised efficiency. She stood as the suit sutured closed at the nape of her neck, attaching automatically with the sub-dermal neodymium implants. She glanced at her partner, himself standing now too.
By John Riley5 years ago in Fiction
Thirsty
Thirsty.docx 1 / 2 Thirsty By Tawny Moody The Colorado River Basin from Wyoming to Mexico had truly become THE VALLEY in THE SHADOW OF DEATH. Jason, Jamie and Buddy grew up there and adapted in order to survive it. They were only toddlers when the economy crashed in the west. The trio never knew the neon lights and tourist filled extravagant nights of the Bellagio Fountain times. As teens Las Vegas Blvd is where they went to lose their virginity, drink their first beer and throw roof top bon fire bashes. The city was occupied by those who were too poor to pay their way through Idaho and buy their way into Canada. Congress abandoned the Basin and everything west of it. When their parents could not pay the Exodus Tax their United States citizenship was revoked. Buddy and Jamie’s Moms got jobs in the prison as intake administrators. They greeted new arrivals, had the privilege of collecting and recording their personal property and filling it away. Jason’s dad was the head of the strongest prison gang. He compensated Buddy’s mom well for raising Jason. Buddy’s mom was his number one mule. She could smuggle anything. She rarely had to. She just funneled the incoming personal property into Jason’s dads’ cell. The privately owned prison was the wests only source of revenue. It housed the Easts worst offenders and all the wests’ offenders. They received more money for each prisoner per year than they paid their top 2 employees combined. Nobody fought for higher wages out of fear they’d be let go and lose their only water source. The prison was the only way to access water legally. The trio, Now in their early 30’s were all wanted for GTA. Grand Theft AQUA. They loved outlaw life. They knew that desert valley better than any bounty hunter or hired henchman.
By Tawny Moody5 years ago in Fiction
The Price of War
“If you are hearing this, it means you have triggered the event. I am sorry, my brother, that it has come to this. Honestly, even though I know it is for the best, I still hope you never hear this message. This plan was my idea, one born from desperation. I found a quote from a woman from Earth that I hope you understand, now. 'The cost of war is like an immeasurable tremor that knows no borders, its shockwaves reverberating across the world resulting in universal suffering.' You‘ve destroyed too much for me not to try this, but you’re still my brother... and I love you. Goodbye. End message.”
By Eloise Robertson 5 years ago in Fiction
The Investigation
October 31st, 2021 8 PM - The team has assembled, they are hyped up and ready to roll. Our tech specialist this evening is Kamila Holm, she'll be holed up in the van to monitor the equipment from a safe place while we do what we do. If we don't get much for activity, I may attempt to scare her to liven things up a bit. The youngest member of this ragtag investigation team Karl Omis and his older brother Theo Omis are set to make history with me, Ikara Thumbling as we set out to prove and document the impossible.
By Tiggerish Eeyore (Aaron Wood)5 years ago in Fiction
In the Red
I always thought of space as dark. The truth is, when you get sucked into the void by the will of God, there’s a lot of light. It’s just so far away. Thousands upon millions of little white dots, and colourful galaxies in the distance. They’re all blues and greens and purples, and they’re all so, so far away. I float untethered through the middle. Although I suppose it could be the edges, for all I know. I can’t tell and it burns a hole in my brain. I try not to think about it.
By Blake Smith5 years ago in Fiction
