Adventure

The Emancipation of Walter Allen
Walter Allen lived in a fortress of his own making. Every brick in this fortress was a rule, a habit, or a ritual that shielded him from the unpredictability of the world. His apartment, a stark one-bedroom unit on the third floor of a building in downtown Seattle, reflected this structure perfectly. Everything had its place, its purpose, its exact orientation. The beige carpet was vacuumed in straight, parallel lines. The stainless-steel appliances gleamed without a single fingerprint. His closet was a rainbow of monotony: white shirts, blue shirts, gray shirts—all ironed and hung with precision.
By K-jay5 years ago in Fiction
Happiness in a suspicious box
When Amy and Eric woke up the following day, they felt more rested than they had in a very long time. They stretched and looked over to where their grandma and uncle had been sleeping. But they weren't there. They looked around, and suddenly they smelled freshly baked bread. Quickly they got dressed and ran out through the only door in the room, and they found themselves in the same kitchen they had arrived in yesterday. Their uncle looked up, "good morning, you two, are you ready for a day full of adventure," he asked. Amy was more than ready, "oh yes, you bet, I am ready. What will we be doing today?" she responded. Eric was busy munching on a warm scone his grandma had just placed in front of him, but he nodded along. Oh yes, he was ready as well.
By Catharina E Santasilia5 years ago in Fiction
The Wanderlustrous Misencounter of Milos Verde
Milos Verde liked his job, but wasn’t fond of the uniform shorts, which kept ridding up his backside. He was tall and slim – much slimmer than he’d been in high school – with a mess of brown tresses that fell over his eyes, giving him the effect of a sheep dog. He was in his mid-twenties and had little ado about his youth, as he’d been working so long that he had begun to feel a certain uninvited blanket of monotony fall across his existence and wished to escape his small town of Connecticut.
By Casia5 years ago in Fiction
Anything You Could Imagine
A box could contain anything you can imagine. He’d been walking home from work when he spotted it on the park bench. It was seeping something. A slow, ichorous dribble ran down the side of its crumpled packaging. The rain had soaked it, and now, something dark was sweating out of its weakened seams.
By TrivialPunk5 years ago in Fiction
Brown, Paper Box
“Smith! Get up here. You are going out on patrol today. Garland is out for the day. We need a gunner for B flight.” “Yes sir. I will go back to the armory for the gun. What squad am I on?”
By Chad Wedge5 years ago in Fiction
Defeat The Queen
Writer's disclaimer: This is a really old story (written in 2009), but wanted to share it regardless. It has not been edited, so be warned. It ends on a cliffhanger, and I've debated re-writing the existing chapters and continue the story. For now, here is Defeat the Queen.
By Kinsey Persson5 years ago in Fiction
Welcome to Paradise
6 inches of steel. Hardened, of course. Serrated blade. Mahogany handle. As I sat, kneeling, in coarse, biting gravel, I could feel every one of those 6 inches buried deep in my shoulder. It was bleeding, no doubt – I could feel the thick crimson elixir of life slowly trickling down my back – but I couldn’t see it. I still had the sack over my head; my own little face prison which smelled of vomit.
By Benett S5 years ago in Fiction
All the Pretty Fishes
The island of Maui was the perfect spot for romance and adventure. I didn't know it would also prove to be the perfect place for sheer terror. All I wanted to do was to see pretty tropical fish.
By Linda C Smith5 years ago in Fiction
De'Coration Academy for Exceptional Rabbits Part 3: Bunny VS Box
Part 1, Part 2 The field research notes of Sprinkles Prissyfeet, second year student of the De’Coration Academy for Exceptional Rabbits.
By Rebecca harmsworth5 years ago in Fiction
By the Light of the Dutchman
I stand atop the highest mast, in a crow’s nest towering above the galleon. I’ve always liked it up here, the salty winds whipping through my hair. From this point, the sounds of the bustling crew are nothing but a faint whisper to me.
By Kevin Barkman5 years ago in Fiction
A Jack Burgoyne Story
Time moved slower back then. Or so it seemed. It’s only now, now that I am older, that I can truly hear the infernal ticking of the clock. There is evil in that sound, I am sure of it.
By Michael Goodison5 years ago in Fiction
Predators and Prejudices
Emily had to admit, the view was spectacular. The pool area of her resort overlooked the beach across the street and she watched as the waves crashed at regular intervals. She sat there with her coffee, enjoying the solitude. The sun lit up the sky in citrus hues and, for now, it was just for her alone.
By Nancy Gwillym5 years ago in Fiction