Short Story
The Box under the bed
Dear Diary, As I sit here writing in you for the last time. I thought I should tell you about the events that have taken place today. As you know it’s been three years since the pandemic that almost wiped out all of humanity. Life has become more of a struggle every day. We never know if someone is going to find us and kill us for all that we have. Then again fear is becoming a normal thing to my family and I. We used to be a family of four and now were down to three. My father died a month due to an infection from a cut on his leg. It’s so hard to go on without him and a lot of days I just want to give up. But I have to stay strong for my little sister and my mother. We were still in the old house that I grew up in and only left to find food and supplies. But things have been getting a lot worse around the neighborhood, so our mother decided it was time to find a safer place. So, we each packed a bag and headed north.
By jessica corr5 years ago in Fiction
Olivia
It was cold for a July. It was always cold. Livi remembered the warmth, but there was no point in missing it. It wasn't the nature of a cat to question the world, only to survive it. Livi did survive. Her family did not. They couldn't make it through the cold from the ash and the smoke that filled the sky the day the rock fell to the Earth.
By Donald Keller5 years ago in Fiction
An Ode To The Past.
No one remembers what happened that fateful day. The Earth seemed to fall into a silence that would shake even the strongest of hearts. I was a lucky one, given fair warning about the global catastrophes that would befall all of humanity. Me and so many others were given the chance to recreate the Earth, better, stronger, than the one that was to be washed away. A clean slate if you would. And we bunkered down, safe with the knowledge that although so many would die, we, the chosen, would continue to lead humanity into a glorious future. A new dawn, a better day. At least, that was the dream. And just like any dream, it too was fictitious. It started well, the concrete haven protected us from the storms, and the screams. We counted down the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until we could emerge and start planting the seed of rebirth. This was the most difficult task. Not the planning or rebuilding, or the hiding from those who needed a safe space from the apocalypse. No, it was the waiting, the time we had to ourselves. Of course anyone would kill for time alone, burying themselves in the safety of homes and just live out the day like you’re the only one in the world. That is what we used to look forward to, but when it became reality, it was too difficult to be left alone with your thoughts. Friends, family, pets. They say when you die your memories flash before your eyes. This is true when you’re alone. And unlike death, there is no sweet embrace, no end. Just you and your thoughts. That is until the day came, the day it was safe to survey what damage was done to mother Earth. The day when all pressure was on you to do what was right. It was easy, the hard part was trying to forget the past.
By Sam McCarlie5 years ago in Fiction
Spitfires
The door screeched, metal scraping on metal as it rose, letting the cool morning air rush down the stairs that lead above ground. Haydn took a deep breath in. The ventilation system in the colony had artificial wind, but it wasn’t the same as the gentle breeze that danced across the surface, nor was the simulated sunlight that lit the colony quite the same as the warmth of sunshine directly on her skin.
By Kelsey Beard5 years ago in Fiction
The Purpose of Life Is to Be Happy
"The purpose of our lives is to be happy."-Dalai Lama For millennia, people have ascribed to the above theory. The one true purpose of life is to pursue happiness above all. It's so entwined in our societal fabric that it might as well replace the human condition.
By Hudson Riggs5 years ago in Fiction
All That's Left
Better to sweat than to blister and burn. That was the first lesson of the new world for anyone who wanted to survive it. Thomas Whittemore removed his goggles just long enough to clear the condensation from them and wipe the sweat from his eyes, but no longer. The vibrant greens of grass and trees were now only memories replaced by choked, sparse weeds. Most of the trees were now twisted and charred from the fallout, reaching up with blackened fingers to the unforgiving skies. Where the old world was one driven by a thirst for material wealth, the new world was one of survival. Long gone were the conveniences of fast food and microwaves.
By Adam Carden5 years ago in Fiction
The Man in the Doorway
The erstwhile god exhaled a plume of cheap smoke into the stale air of my tattered apartment. “Why did you do it?” She asked, leaning back on my one chair with one foot up on my ash-stained desk. It rested amongst crooked cigarette butts, scattered like so many withered husks of scorpions that had died in writhing agony.
By Brent Giles5 years ago in Fiction
