Short Story

The Broken Locket
53...54...55...56...57...58...59...60...61...Always exactly 61 steps to the top of the landing. Never more...never less. It makes it easy and seems to go so much quicker when I count each step. I also can’t make a mistake that way, and in this world making a mistake can be foolish and even dangerous. And so I count each step. And now I stand before my office door and turn the knob and open the door to my waiting room. I don’t need a key because the door is never locked. No doors are ever locked anymore. And why would they be. We all have everything we need to be happy and complete. At least that’s what they tell us on the Big Screen every morning. No need to steal someone else’s stuff. So no need for a key. No one is going to break in. And if someone broke the rules and were suddenly overcome with the need to break into my office uninvited and were discovered to have taken something, they would be deemed unnatural and unfit to live in our oh so perfect society and would quickly pay the ultimate price for their transgressions and be taken to the official Other World, the world referred to by them as simply the Darkness. And we live in the Light and should consider ourselves blessed to live in the Society of the Light. And so as I open the door to my office and walk in as I do everyday, I remind myself once again how important it is to live in the Light.
By Steve Mandell5 years ago in Fiction
Seen
“Understand this if you understand nothing: it is a powerful thing to be seen” ― Akwaeke Emezi, Freshwater In her mind she sat at the water's edge, her toes dug deep in the coarse moist sand, admiring a sun-pillar on the horizon - light stretching to the heavens like a beacon of hope. The view was reminiscent of the Star Wars poster her mother had hung in their home office that had previously been her sister's bedroom. She clung to the imagined rhythm of the lapping waves, seagulls cawing, taste of salt in her mouth, and children giggling somewhere in the distance, the breeze coming off the gulf coast carrying the scent only found close to the ocean - a sweet, pungent smell that she knew was caused by bacteria, but she chose not to focus on that detail and instead revel in the calm it’s imagining brought. With her eyes closed, she inhaled deeply and was accosted instead with the smells of those in, near, and around the small room she now occupied. She was disappointed not to experience the floaters one gets from accidentally looking at the sun when she opened her eyes and fixated on the woman sitting in front of her.
By Michell Witt5 years ago in Fiction
PAEAN
The last of the funerals was now a year gone and diminishing into the cataracts of memory. Jason and his son were the last and there would be no others. A jagged pyre of dry shattered wood waits by their white swing set which had grown sullen with rust for there were no more children to come after him. I had broken down the fence, the dead spruce, pale chaparral and even the peeling dog house they left long after the animal had refused to return. But there was still not enough wood for this.
By Kevin Rolly5 years ago in Fiction
The Raid
An arid wind blew through the dust covered town in northwestern Arizona. It was one of those small towns that the world had forgotten after the outbreak, and this made it the perfect place for people to settle. Lives of luxury were gone, and those who enjoyed them were gone, too. What was left were those with the will to survive, and those who could avoid falling prey to the prior.
By J.M. Moran5 years ago in Fiction
In the end it was the zombie earwigs
It would have been better if it had been butterflies. Marjorie loved butterflies. They were soft and lovely and flitted from flower to flower. Would being smothered by soft butterflies have been better though? Earwigs, on the other hand, were ugly and creepy. And had those nasty pincers. They did not flit. They scooted and scurried. And they killed a lot of folks. They killed her Marcos.
By Linda C Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Housefire
Her hair was the color of the house fire, and I think that’s why I chose to stand beside her. There is something about symmetry that attracts the human brain, and subconsciously it must have drawn me. There’s also something about tragedy and devastation that draws a crowd. She didn’t stand out otherwise. Her peacoat was charcoal, and her scarf was a riot of color against the dark grey. It looked so soft. She was warm and comfortable, and you can’t help but seek that out in a situation where someone’s life is literally up in smoke.
By Danielle Mullineaux5 years ago in Fiction
Ode to Mr. Calvin and Miss Mary
Ode to Mr. Calvin and Miss Mary I worked for Mr. Calvin Cobb and Miss Mary for nearly twenty years. May they rest in peace. Was with them through the sun and snow and even when the wind was pissing like a drunk. No matter what people said. Even when, sometimes they called Mr. Calvin things.
By James McMechan5 years ago in Fiction
Lost Heart
Items containing an emotional connection are considered taboo in this day and age. Many do not see the point in holding onto things for sentimental value. Considering that when one must move from place to place, it is easy for that item to be lost and create immense heartache. Sometimes, though, people get away with keeping their belongings. My caretaker told me that some items contain memories for those who hold onto them. People wish to hold onto those times, she would say. When she reminded me of this, she would tap her finger against the locket around my neck. As if trying to tell me that this heart-shaped piece of jewelry contained something that I could not see nor feel. I could not understand what she meant.
By Corinne Borchers5 years ago in Fiction
The Resistance
As Shorty digs himself from the rubble of the safehouse he had just reentered seconds earlier, he mumbles curses to himself about the Dictorate’s military actions. Shorty begins searching for other survivors. The dust is finally starting to clear as Shorty picks his way through the rubbish. Shorty suddenly spots the pile of concrete and rebar that was the command center before the explosion. The first thought to explode in Shorty’s mind is, the Commander! As he rushes over and immediately begins digging through the debris. Shorty eventually exposes the broken and battered body of the Commander. As the Commander struggles to speak, Shorty leans in to hear the Commander say, “Find Kymberly and give her this.”
By Kenan Levesque5 years ago in Fiction
Beyond the Rubble
The warm hand led her through the endless rubble, as it had done for years now. She didn’t know where they were going but she trusted the man. She trusted him more than anything. He had rescued her and cared for her for seemingly no reason. She knew it was hard enough to survive in this world by yourself let alone with a child like her.
By Mae Namwob5 years ago in Fiction
Message in a Bottle
Hey there. This your first one? There are a few out there, not sure how many. You lose count after a while. Pens aren't that common anymore, ones that work, anyhow. Something to write 'on' is easier to find than something to write 'with', but I guess that was always the case. Even 'before' I had an aversion to pens, or was that the other way around? Was it just me, or does that sound like you, too? Still, with that in mind, I have to tell you that this pen is about done, and I don't have another, so if this message suddenly stops then you know why, and I apologise in advance.
By Paul Wilson5 years ago in Fiction
Hearts Broken Open
Faint golden rays break over the half standing remains of ruins, the ruins of unfinished foundations from a time before the "uplifting". Back when people crowded in and around and through, monuments of stone and glass and metal, endlessly paying reverence and tithe to their gods of falsehood and decadence, their gods that depressed them and oppressed them. Their gods that gave them scarcity and they celebrated for "having" while truly lacking; their gods that gave them addiction and they celebrated for "feeling" while seeking after numbness; their gods that gave them death and they celebrated for "living" if you could in fact call it that. That was how "she" painted them.
By Asheton Torry5 years ago in Fiction