Fantasy
The Gift
I suppose it would be best to start by explaining how we even got to this point so there is an understanding of how the world is the way it is now. I woke up and prepared to head to work just like any other day of my predictable life. My life as Gwen gossip columnist by day and boring homebody by night. Little did I know my life would become anything but predictable. Who would have thought that everything in the world as we knew it would get turned upside down by a simple piece of jewelry? So, like I said, it was a normal day, I got ready for work and arrived at the office fifteen minutes early like I did every day. I made myself a cup of coffee with the normal vanilla creamer no sugar. I sat down to start working on editing my first article of that day so it would be submitted to the editor before lunch time. When the world was normal, I wrote for a newspaper in my city. I loved writing from the moment I learned how and even though I was writing articles about scandals of our local socialites, which I did not particularly like to be a gossip, I was still writing and that is all that mattered.
By Vanessa Waag5 years ago in Fiction
Tracker A003:
It is not quite light out when I pull my boots on and shove my arms into my jacket sleeves. I shuffle down to the silo. This is my last day before I start my first mission. My Guardian is already there. He looks up when I enter, nods, and turns his head back to the wall, covered in screens of live faces and bodies in motion. I am early by seven minutes, but in order to have an edge against the other two Trackers, I am always early. It is a hard role to fill-to be destined for greatness. When I wanted to be a silly child, I had to be poised. When I wanted to be carefree, I had to act controlled. When I wanted to play, I worked. When I wanted to forget, I was called to remember. When I was too tired to think, I was made to be wise. There was no rest from preparing to save a world I didn’t know; a world that took my childhood, and yet promised me nothing in return.
By Shanti Mateika5 years ago in Fiction
The Power of Painting in Year 3000
It's the year 3000 and sheesh, did THAT escalate. Back before time travelling was part of the equation; the human race dealt with racial equality issues, global controversy, Jeff Besos and Elon Musk competing for world domination, white supremacy (but I guess that falls under racial equality issues) and people murdering each other for money. Nowadays if you’re human, you’re lucky to be alive and you fall under one category: the human race. The thing is, I was born in the age where humans caused problems for each other and through time travel along with a fated meeting I am now in year 3000 with a mission to save the human race. Before I get into the details of that I need to explain the current disposition of the world.
By Patrick Oleson5 years ago in Fiction
How To Make A Ghost
The first thing I noticed was not the long darkness, or the peaceful oblivion, or the empty coldness predicted by so many works of fiction. It was the absence of my heart beat. The small, fluttering, fragile thing in its cage of bone that had been my most faithful companion since before I was alive, had died. The reliable, steady rhythm of my life ceased, and in its place throbbed blank desertion.
By Jackson Howling5 years ago in Fiction
Resin, Second Chance
Early morning dew clung to the grass of a goat field. The herd had been moved away to provide an open space to work in. Jake and Peter were at the edge of the badlands about two miles south of Vacilia. A cool mid-spring breeze blew across Peter’s face as he concentrated on the melon sized rock that sat on the grass twenty feet away.
By Andy Ahart5 years ago in Fiction
Bunker 56
Bunker 56 July 28th, 2347 Sophie Miller. They announced my mother's name as if it was a blessing, something to be excited about. It was not. She was chosen to be the first to step foot on land in fifty years. Leave the bunker, her home. She was born in here, just like me. And now she was going to leave.
By Emma Bayne 5 years ago in Fiction
Fault Line
Underground, there’s no telling the seasons or the weather and the windows are fake and painted in bright renditions of old above-ground artwork from days gone by, imperfect but lovingly hand painted. The air coming through the vents is room temperature and filtered, giving no hint as to the state of the outside world.
By Felicia Jowett5 years ago in Fiction
