Short Story
Ebovid World
The sky was its usual overcast dull gray with the smallest hint of blue around the edges. Sure someplace out there beyond the walls of what people called civilization there could possibly be a blue sky and an open field. Who knows? I sure didn’t. I was born in this horrid place that we called home. It once was the United States. Now it was a bunch of individual sovereigns, each with its’ own egomaniac that controlled it.
By Carrie Green5 years ago in Fiction
What A Mother Does
Erica always felt inadequate, but never more so than when she became a mother. Her mother, Eleanor (Nora to her friends), had always been the definition of perfection, and by that scale, she never knew how she would measure up. From her mother's perfect hair, makeup and flawless style, to her compassion and patience, there wasn't anything you could count against her. And she didn't have it easy by any means.
By Krystle Lynn Rederer5 years ago in Fiction
In The Dark Together
This is my recollection of that day when I was ten. It was about three months after the volcanoes in the Ring of Fire erupted almost simultaneously. Then, unexplainably, new volcanoes grew and erupted in a matter of weeks, sometimes days. I called them pimple volcanoes. The worst part was that they kept growing farther and farther inland from the Ring of Fire.
By Heidi Mitchell5 years ago in Fiction
Tragically Saturated
With the sun glaring down and bouncing off the nearly glass-like water, I look towards the front of our aluminium canoe and see my younger brother with his arms crossed and eyes closed, and feel suddenly grateful for this moment of peace and absolute quiet.
By Tessa Rising5 years ago in Fiction
Relic of a Terrible Time
"Stop!" I screamed as they held me and ripped the locket from my throat. "It's too powerful! You can't do this!" I flailed and thrashed as hard as I could, deperate to return my precious, heart shaped locket to my neck. That locket, that ever so tiny locket was the key to everything. Everything I worked so hard to protect, and just like that, it was gone.
By Hope Shelley5 years ago in Fiction
Utopia
The sun shone down upon woman and field, warming and revealing the glowing hint of life in both. The summer heat was tempered by humidity hazing the air, and restrained by fluffy clouds above. As she walked along vibrant green fields, one hand rested upon the gentle swell of her belly. She stooped and gathered a handful of dirt. Running her hand through, moist, dark-brown, loamy soil full of life and potential. As her soft hands sifted the soil, it fell away in the mild wind leaving ladybugs, and worms that made it so vital, and one curiosity that caught her eye. She turned the object in her hands revealing a lone penny. Old and tarnished with verdigris, it dated from 1903. She turned her gentle brown eyes to the horizon as he stood. Nearly as far as she could see, were verdant green waves, as different crops were planted in organized rows. In the distance tractors moved through picking summer grains and vegetables to send to distant places, Chicago, and Denver two likely shipping locations. She turned and continued walking back toward her distant home. The beautiful old-style farmhouse painted in vibrant colors, lovingly maintained. Her regular path, walked often, was free from obstacles, as with the new life swelling inside her it became more difficult to walk every day. Her nose crinkled with her odd enigmatic smile, as she remembered her husband teasing her for waddling along the path.
By Brian Amonette5 years ago in Fiction
The Tin Man
A gentle plume of smoke rises from a clearing within an isolated forest, a spot where the remains of the old world are at peace. A can of black beans sits empty in the embers of a near-extinguished campfire, where a solitary figure with melancholy eyes, clad in armour, stares at the tin helmet by his feet. His face is hard, dirty and covered in rough stubble, his dark disheveled hair falls limply across his brow. His stomach grumbles in agony, but the man can do nothing to sooth it. The wind washes over him and carries off with his stench, the scent of dirt and blood long unwashed. Eventually he breaks his stillness and, reaching underneath his breastplate, he pulls out a golden heart-shaped locket. With a thumb the man clicks it open, though its hinges have stiffened with time. His eyes focus on the old picture inside, at three individuals: a woman with long blonde hair cascading over a bright summer dress, a tough man with a mighty mane of hair and a perfectly groomed moustache, and a broad-shouldered individual with hair as stiff as straw. In the photo they are smiling before a great emerald statue, the features of which had worn over the years. The man’s lip trembles at the sight of them, but he fights the tears. He closes his eyes and holds the locket to his chest longingly.
By Lewis Holcombe5 years ago in Fiction
The Glass Sea
Pushing through the sandstorm fist clenched tightly. This storm would pass shortly, but it was beating down on Michael. His goggles were caked with a mixture of sweat and sand. He had been walking for what seemed like an eternity. He was barely even sure of what direction he was heading in. He just knew it would be home when he reached it.
By Brian Wood5 years ago in Fiction
Dust
The sun shone down upon man and field, burning and revealing parched crags in both. The summer heat was unrestrained by wispy clouds, nor tempered by humid haze. As he walked along dead and dusty fields, one hand massaged the other, as the twisting of age caught up to him. He stooped and gathered a handful of dirt. Running his hand through, dry silty-brown, crumbled earth more like sand than topsoil. As his experienced hands rubbed the dirt, it blew away in the mild wind leaving nothing but desiccated insects, as even they need water to live. He examined the dead insects, and the dry crumbled earth, no life left in the soil any longer. He turned his sharp blue eyes to the horizon as he stood. Huge clouds of dust were blowing west in the clear blue sky, taking the topsoil that made this the breadbasket of the world and sending it to smother distant lands, not stopping until it hit the front range, or Denver perhaps. He turned and continued walking back toward his distant home. The striking old-style farmhouse painted in fading colors, had seen better days. His path, not walked frequently, was strewn with debris. He had to pay close attention as he walked, with the new pains and swelling in all his joints it became more difficult to walk every day. His eyes squinted with remembered pain, as he recalled his wife teasing him for being too serious, walking this way often.
By Brian Amonette5 years ago in Fiction
