Young Adult

Angel of Death
I tugged my hair loose from its braid, golden waves cascading to my shoulders. Running my fingers through it, I grimaced. I couldn’t remember the last time I had taken my hair out of its braid, forget about the last time I had washed it. The stream gurgled invitingly next to me, offering the promise of reprieve from the grime that seemed to have become a living part of me. Tossing my clothes on the bank, I waded into the water. It lapped at my thighs and the sun warmed my bare skin. I sank below the water and only then did I allow my mind to wander.
By Lynne-Grace Wooden5 years ago in Fiction
With Love, G.W.
The chirping of cicadas is the only sound that occupies the dimly lit intersection of Citadel Road and First Avenue. It’s 1:55 a.m. and her window of opportunity is just ten minutes from closing. The night patrol is turning in, and the early morning shift never starts their rounds before 2:05. With one final glance at the nearest guard post, Robyn lowers herself down from her flat’s second floor window and proceeds toward the graveyard.
By Wahneta Berry5 years ago in Fiction
The Heart
Winnie hunches over to support herself on her knees. The shouts from Orion’s amplified voice reduce to whispers in a startling instant. Though, even through the sturdiest of steel walls and the soundest of soundproofing, the megaphone echoes dimly.
By Gabriel Gotiangco5 years ago in Fiction
Worth Holding
June 2nd I’m going to kill myself today. God, writing it down feels good. Weird, but good. I know I said I would wait until winter before giving up, but I can’t imagine waiting an entire summer here, pointlessly looking for the people I know to be long dead and gone. I used to hope they were alive, but not anymore. It feels like relief, knowing my mom and my sister Stella never had to crawl through hot garbage, looking for a place to hide after scaling the wrong side of Trash Mountain. They’ve never been spotted by a group of armed men, cackling and hollering with glee at the thought of a hunt. Hope used to be worth holding on to, but I’m past that now. If the people I love are alive, then they have left – like I should have last year – and then how would I ever find them again? No radios, no phones, no clue or breadcrumb trail for me to follow.
By Sarah Joseph-Alexandre5 years ago in Fiction
When The Darkness Came
Ten years ago the darkness rolled in unexpected like a deadly wave. It poisoned everything it came in contact with. The trees dried out, they no longer bloom and shed leaves. All they do is rot their trunks turning to charcoal and dying bit by bit.
By Galia Rosado5 years ago in Fiction
What'll Happen to the Kids?
I told her I had a motorcycle. What was I thinking? She was going to laugh when she saw my Vespa, a glorified liquor-cycle, as we used to call them. I don’t know how to drive a motorcycle, but my aunt had this scooter she used to zip around the neighborhood in Alexandria, Virginia. I thought it would be good on gas and could get me out of town.
By Jen Mearns5 years ago in Fiction
Day 13
The radiance of sunshine, beckoning the shadows to disappear from the makeshift tunnel I found solitude in the night before, stifled the lingering congestion of smoke-filled debris and dust, as I stumbled my way out. I was eager to bathe away the stains of defeat and a hardened heart; to allow the purity of the sun to strip and wash away the torments of a recent, yet piercing past. I believed in the generosity of the sun, in that its giving rays offered the miraculous gift of healing a spirit broken. I believed if I cloaked myself in its warmth, then somehow, the spirit of my hope could be restored.
By C.Davis5 years ago in Fiction
Mind Made Dystopia:
Everything changed after The Event. The world as I knew it was no longer. All the things I believed to be true about the world we live in now laid at the wayside and I had to continue trudging through life with these new inconsistent and convoluted rules. The Event affected those of low economic status the most. Being low economic status meant you were destined for a low quality of life, poor education, if any at all, and hard back-breaking labor. The privileges they received for the long hours of grueling work were less than those of basic human necessity. Upper class individuals have privileges of leisure time and social relationships, and are required to perform less work of an easier nature. I belong to the lower economic class, but my experience before The Event was different than most. I was raised by a single mother plagued by mental illness from a culmination of generational trauma. My mother had a tenuous grasp on reality and consequently I was raised to believe that the delusions my mother created were the reality everyone lived in. I work hard, performing physically demanding tasks for long hours, only to live in a shack style home that is, by the skin of one’s teeth, livable, providing nothing more than mediocre shelter and a place to eat. I don’t get much free time outside of strenuous labor and sleeping, but what time I do have I like to spend reading. With limited access to books, I incessantly reread the tattered pages of the ones I do have, cherishing when I am able to get my hands on new ones. I yearn to escape my reality into a fantasy world, where I learn the power of triumph, overcoming challenges and adversity.
By Mike Shaw5 years ago in Fiction
Heart shaped locket
Heart shaped locket Chatters, howls, and humid viridescent green shocks me into consciousness as I come to and feel a blanket of moist dirt cushioning my unresponsive body. Shafts of golden sunlight filter down to the forest floor where I lie; the primal part of my mind flags that I am vulnerable and exposed.
By Leigha Thomson5 years ago in Fiction
What'll Happen to the Kids?
It’s been several weeks since Jack and I started living together. That sounds really strange. It’s totally platonic and mutually beneficial to both of us since we have no family left. For a spoiled rich kid, Jack is a great person and knows surprisingly more about survival than I would’ve credited him for.
By Jen Mearns5 years ago in Fiction
The Locket
From outside the treehouse you could hear them weeping. For something built by a couple of nine year olds, the rickety old thing had held up as well as could be expected. The same could be said about the bond between the builders, Talulah and Yamil, who over the years had shared drinks and stories here countless times. Their secret place was one of the last few around, there really were not many surprises in the growing city of Limbo. Over the last decade there were fewer and fewer strange little paths in the woods, abandoned houses to be explored and trees to be climbed. As Talulah has said many times over, the only thing that made one neighbourhood look different from another were the names of streets. It was a dull place.
By Chris Caulfield5 years ago in Fiction
It’s Go Time, Daisy
“How am I supposed to cry myself to sleep if you’re going to sit there judging me?” I shuffled in my sleeping bag and gave Marnie a stern, unappreciative look. Her judgmental eyes stared back at me. They weren’t really eyes, they were x’s I drew on her fabric head when the second of her sewn-on eyes had fallen off.
By Maggie Turner5 years ago in Fiction