Liz Burton
Bio
writing for fun and just giving it a go
Stories (25)
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Strike Arena
Hector stood slightly apart from his team. Their nervous chatter and bursts of laughter grated on his focus. Some Strike teams entered the dome for glory or thrills—but not his. For them, this was survival. A brutal winter loomed, and the winnings from the Strike were their only hope of securing enough rations and power cells to make it through.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
The City of Springs
The reality of the thieves' tunnels was not what those who reside above ground picture or believe them to be. Above ground, it is pictured that those who live under it, live in damp, cold, barely habitable conditions, with penetrating darkness and unforgivably unsanitary conditions, with tunnels that are so complicated that it remains a mystery as to how anyone can navigate even a small well known portion of them.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
Mystery of the mist
Lem looked out over the city, the mists had started to decend, and they decended quickly, he stood stock still watching, the cool air began to make his skin tingle with cold, he felt the hairs on his arms stand up on end. The air became thicker and mistier, down below he watched as a few people scurried along the streets, he could feel thier panic as they scuffled in doors. Lem was not afraid of the mists. He had not dismissed it as an old wives tale, he had witnessed the horrors that dewlt within, and seen what they had done to people he knew. There was something more though, Lem didnt know what it was, but he felt that there was someting more to this, a higher power, he sensed it, he knew it from within. Lem closed his eyes and felt with his mind, willing it to locate whatever the horror in the center of this mist was, searching. He felt his senses sharpen and his ears pricked for every unexpected sound. He felt the air become thicker around him, and controlled his emotions, not giving into doubts or fear, listening hard he could almost hear screams from far off, he concentrated everything on this voice, cries, screams, but what was it saying.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
Dealings at Dusk
Aart’s eyes adjusted to the moonlight as he hauled himelf out of one of the grates in the side of the street. Replacing the grill he begun to stalk down the narrow side streets of the city. He was headed towards an Inn that was close by with a hand written note from one of the thief bosses. Aart had of course already read it, he liked to keep himself as informed as possible. With as many peoples businesses as possible ‘Two g, three days from now, Pipers’. Aart wasnt very interested by this bosses opiate dealings, as thats what he interpretted it to mean. He just made a mental note not to accept jobs from him unless he really needed the money. Aart didnt like to get involved in the movement of drugs, he didnt like the effect it had on people, and he never trusted the dealers. It was too easy for them to get thier own fix then blame it on the carrier. However having acceptd the job, he would carry through with it. Aart arrived at the Two Brewers Inn and decided to enter through the front door. It was full which was how he liked it. Slipping subtly to the edge of the room, he manoeuvred himself in between two groups of men drinking and talking loudly. He silently swiped a drink from a nearby table and slipped further round the room to a dark corner. Sipping the drink, not because he wanted it, but to be unnoticed in a crowd. Scanning the room he spotted his target immediatly, a tall man with a large forehead and a scar running down his cheek. Aart decided that this scar was probably caused by a scrap over drugs, and his instant dislike for the man was heightened when he grabbed the arse of a lady stood near by. She squealed and turned and smiled at him. The shallowness of these people in Aarts eyes annoyed him, and it was all Aart could do to keep his face neutral and not allow his disgust and judgement to show on his face. Aart had over the years perfected the art of subtlty, secracy and he prided himself on being able to blend into almost any situation or move around without being noticed. This wasnt hard in a crowded inn when half the clientel were most of the way to a morning headache. He slithreed through the bar to the otherside and stood right behind old scar face, he decided he didnt want to engage in conversation or even allow this man the chance to make the connection to his face, so he simply slipped the note into one of his pockets, and lifted some tax for himself out as he removed his hand. So quick and nibble he was with his fingers that the man didnt feel a thing. Aart ducked away and quickly examinded his loot, a small coin purse with several low value coins inside, a pocket watch and a key. Aart returned the key as he brushed past back towards the exit. Cant make the man homeless over a few leaves after all he thought.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
Kael
Taking in the cool night air, Lem sat comfortably on top of the tallest buiding in the city, one leg dangling down, as if it was as natural as being sat at home, gazing down upon the thousands of people below him hauled up inside at night. How was he going to find this thief. This was a needle in a haystack task. This particular thief did seem to brave coming out of the underground network far more than others. Lem had seen his fingerprints over several jobs in the past week. However it did not change the fact that he was always one step behind, not a position Lem liked to find himself in.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
An Assassin’s Heart
The residual warmth of his bed began to ebb away as the cold crisp morning begun to penetrate his bones. Lem’s body clock woke him an hour before dawn. Throwing off his sheepskin cover Lem felt the waves of ice air breath in through the window. Training kicked in and Lem forced himself to not react to the signs his body was telling him.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
The Lavender Hour. Top Story - August 2025.
The hillside was bathed in lavender light, the kind that only appeared at the edge of summer evenings. The grass swayed gently, touched by a breeze that smelled faintly of salt and honeysuckle. In the distance, the ocean shimmered like glass, and the sky was so clear it felt painted.
By Liz Burton6 months ago in Fiction
The Summer that wasnt
Scene One: The Archives The Archives were colder than the streets above. Elias pulled his coat tighter as he descended into the vault, the air thick with dust and silence. The lights flickered overhead—old fluorescents that hummed like insects trapped in glass. Down here, the world didn’t ask questions. It just waited to be forgotten.
By Liz Burton7 months ago in Fiction
The Cold Embrace of Loneliness
The first day of June arrived with a sky so blue it looked painted by a child—too perfect to be real. Eliza stood at her kitchen sink, hands resting on the cool porcelain, watching the neighbour’s children chalk suns and hopscotch grids onto the pavement. Their laughter floated up like bubbles, bursting just before they reached her window.
By Liz Burton7 months ago in Fiction
