Short Story

A LITTLE PREYER
JUNE 24 This is the journal of Ron Bergoin. I am 37 years old and, as far as I know, I am one of the few survivors. I am leaving this book in the RFD mailbox with the red flag up in the hopes that someday someone will read it. I don’t know why. I just have to write it down. Bear with me. I haven’t had to write by hand for many years. Bloody computers!
By Randall Berger5 years ago in Fiction
Corruption
Corruption Charles Freeman was a stout middle aged man who lived for two things. Power and money. Charles had money, always did. His grandfather opened his own restaurant; his father took over and made the restaurant a franchise. His father was a successful business man that had restaurants in every state from New York to California. Charles’s mother was a doctor, not much is known about her parents, she was an orphan. Charles himself was a successful business owner, he owned the local bar. With the money his father and grandfather made Charles lived a nice life, the only thing he wanted was power.
By Heather Skelton5 years ago in Fiction
The Holiday Party
Holiday Party The email was sent at 7:00 EST. The message was simple: Join us for the annual Holiday Party. The Party will be held on Saturday December 15 at 7:00 pm. The Party will be held at the Snowline Restaurant, the address is 1587 Hwy 41 N. We look forward to seeing you all for such a delightful time.
By Heather Skelton5 years ago in Fiction
The Days After
One locket in the shape of a heart, some clothing, and tennis shoes is all I had left of my family. Everything they had given me was long gone by now. Probably taken by the looters in the days after the attack. The looters didn’t care what they took, as long as they thought it valuable. I suppose everyone has to earn their way to the top of the food chain somehow these days. I heard that after the first bomb in D.C. dropped, people were out in the streets just waiting for some kind of god to come take them away. Many committed suicide in those first days after, my brother included. My parents, both long gone before this, had taught me how to survive no matter the circumstances. I guess you could say they were conspiracy theorists, but they were not far off of their “theories”. After the next few bombings of Austin, New York, Houston, and several other key cities, the survivors finally realized nobody was coming for them. This was a new age, not of millennials or gen X, but of survivors. Let us not forget about those who hurt anyone and everyone they can TO survive, however. We’ve just had those types since the beginning of time I suppose. In this age, you don’t trust anyone. Ever. Trusting someone will get raped and murdered, everything on your person taken for gain. I used to have a backpack, you see, and it was full of family heirlooms. I trusted the wrong person one day, hoping and praying they would help me find food. They didn’t; they helped me find my true purpose, which is getting to Canada and finding the last of a broken society. I don’t know if I have any hope of making it there. I have to try, though. Between bombings, I had heard that most Americann survivors went to Canada, to seek sanctuary from whoever was dropping the bombs. I don’t even think the government knows who razed the US to the ground. It all happened so quickly. Living in this new world is terrifying. Friends have turned into monsters, and the normal every day monsters are worse than my worst nightmares. I crave being around people again. I crave feeling loved and whole, oblivious of everything going on around me. I don’t think that is how this new age works, though. Anytime I think I hear people, I hide. It has become instinct now. Yesterday though, I found a boy in the street scavenging for food. His name is Michael. He is a young boy, 10 years old or so. Not that age matters right now either. He asked if I would help him, and against my better judgement, I allowed him to tag along. His family has all died as well and he has nobody else to take care of him. I suppose that is my job now. We haven’t eaten in days, so today I went to the abandoned convenience store several blocks away. Michael is with me still and his visibly shaking from lack of nutrition. I give most of my food, but it usually isn’t enough for his weak body. We grab some cans of potatoes off of the ground and start heading back to the place we are sleeping. We try not to stay too long in one place, for fear of being heard or discovered and the unimaginable happening. It is night by this time, but we are still just trying to get to our shelter. We are a block away when we hear a group of people talking. We weren’t close enough to hear what they were talking about, but I decided to make a run for it. I told Michael to stay hidden until I had given him the signal. This time, he was shaking with fear. I give him my locket to hold until he could get to shelter, and take off. The people were closer than I thought, because they heard me start running. They were much faster, and now, Michael is alone. All he has is some clothes, shoes, and a heart shaped locket.
By Chelsea Holland5 years ago in Fiction
Lessons Are in the Living
One day, I will wake up. When I do, I will regain my bearings; I will blink a few times to get reacclimated to the present light; I will look around and see the machines and monitors; there will be people observing and taking notes; and I will quickly calm down from the split second of the startled state of awakening. And on that day of waking, I will be asked by the main note taker, “So, how did you like that life?”
By Craig Hall5 years ago in Fiction
A Piece of my Heart
I awake to the sound of my mother moving about the kitchen. She is moving quickly, preparing breakfast for my 3 siblings and me. She does this even today, the worst day of our lives. Today the Sovereign is going to execute my father.
By Kara Thomas5 years ago in Fiction
Searching For Peace
I could remember the last day of my life as Shiloh. I was driving my jeep with my friends downtown, we were unapolegetically loud. Then out of nowhere a car T-bones into the driver side. In the hospital all I could feel was a throbbing in my spine, later learned I had become paralyzed. I was lucky until they found internal bleeding. I was already dead in some parts of my body, so it was no shock that I would die soon after. My mother cried and cried. She went on rambling when she thought I couldn't hear, about how my father had left and now she’s going to be gone. She spoke to herself and swore she was going to end it after I had passed. She couldn't take it. What a careless mistake I had made, going out with friends, feeling immortal, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I couldn't even speak to her, reassure her or tell her to stop. I was so distant already but what could I do. I closed my eyes and was dragged into death later that day.
By emmanemm5 years ago in Fiction
Heart Lock
The founders teach us that what brought the world to its knees was the irrationality of the human heart. The human heart, they tell us, was its weakest link. It’s what betrayed us. It drove us to want things that we couldn’t have, and to fight for unrealistic passions that turned us away from our innate usefulness. Correct the ability of the heart to overrule the mind, and you’ve saved humankind from itself.
By Nick Jameson5 years ago in Fiction
Penny Candy
Since the first trip to the city with Dad and Morty, I hadn’t been allowed to go back. “You’re too young to see all that destruction,” Dad said.
By Paula Shablo5 years ago in Fiction
Little Cemetery in the City. Top Story - June 2021.
“You brushed my hair and tucked me in, made me laugh for hours on end. You kissed my boo-boos when I fooled around. Mommy, you never let me down” I stood in front of the mothers of Mrs. Watkinson’s first grade class, listening to my classmates’ stupid poems that sounded to me like stolen greeting cards. I stood there silently and picked at the runs in my tights. I decided on my finest skirt and tee shirt combo that morning in an attempt to be what my Aunt Lora called “presentable”, but in that moment, on display in front of everyone, I missed my ripped jeans that had a crooked yet lovingly hand-stitched cat on them. My tights itched and my feet were cramped. Everything was wrong.
By Josephine Smith5 years ago in Fiction
Bloodied Glass Slippers
The sun shone down upon the small house just like it did everyday. Cinderella cleaned the dust from the window seals, humming a tuneless melody as she went. She frowned at the dust, wondering how there could possibly be so much when she’d cleaned the same window just the week earlier. It didn’t matter how it got there, she’d have to clean it no matter what.
By Alexis Moreno5 years ago in Fiction
Love to a Witch
Setting Medieval Dark Ages 1584 Aiden Price @a.pricey Her eyes sparkled as the evening sun kissed her face while she wept in agony. She was clawed at, held vigorously in the grasp of the sea of petrified civilians. Her screams were ear-piercing, causing the harmonious choir of the birds to halt. The atmosphere was grim as dreary people swarmed, their chants growing in intensity. The repulsive stench filled her lungs, she could taste the approaching death. The jagged narrow blade was unsheathed. The roar of the crowd fell silent and transformed into a deep inhale. The adrenaline pumped through his veins, in desperation and torment, the constraints preventing him from protecting his world. Glares of disgust caught his attention; the crowd had no remorse or sympathy. Instead they whispered and snarled under their breath “Witch Lover”. The knife was held high in the air, time slowed, before a strike penetrated her chest causing drops of blood to ooze and seep into the puddles in the mud. His stomach curled as he aggressively threw up, her eyes closed gracefully as she collapsed into the mud. She had been slaughtered like an animal as that is how they saw her, it was their way of comfort accusing someone for this infectious, lethal disease. She was marked a witch.
By Aiden Price5 years ago in Fiction