Short Story

Sixth Grade
The sun peered through her basement window and illuminated the twin-sized bed where Frankie slept. As her consciousness slowly surfaced, she clung to the images swirling behind her eyes: thick tree trunks, an underground bunker, and a folded piece of parchment. Was it a map? Noticing a chill crawl up her bare arms, Frankie instinctively felt around for cover. Her fingers found her bedsheet bunched around her feet and pulled it up over her head. When she turned her attention back towards the dream, she realized it was no longer in reach.
By Paige Benson5 years ago in Fiction
My Friend Death
Everyone on this planet they call Earth is afraid of one thing above all else. Falling from the sky, dogs, physical contact, being social, but all of that is trumped by death. I see it differently, death is beautiful and that’s why I befriended him. When I was seven my Mother was taken from me in a car accident (broken neck and ruptured spleen). That’s where I seen him the first time, taking my mom away. We talked about life, his job and me. This sparked my interest in the power of being forward and ripping away a life. By ten with Death’s help I had killed multiple animals. Dissecting them, stitching them up and bringing them “Back to life”. I wondered why they didn’t move the same when I gave the life back. He explained to me how souls work and how energy cannot just randomly be created even if the heart transplant is a success. That next year my Father was murdered. Caught in gang violence he had become the middle man between them. He was hit in the middle of a crosswalk breaking both knees and projecting him thirty feet. The flight left him with shattered ribs, a punctured lung and road rash on his arms, legs, and back. They just left him there bleeding out and it was another six hours before police arrived on the scene.
By Tetrenius5 years ago in Fiction
On Second Thought
Roger was rarely given a second thought. For the most part, Roger liked it that way. In his mid-fifties, medium height, medium build, Roger was very much an average man. Clean-shaven, brown-eyed, and hair trimmed close, nothing about Roger really stood out. Sure, he’d developed a little paunch over the years, but all in all, Roger was quite unremarkable.
By Stu E5 years ago in Fiction
Death Rot
My breath came in gasps as I ran. I could feel the creatures' breath on my neck. This was going to be my end…and it all started with a locket. Oh God how I wish I had never come across the bloody thing! It was both a blessing, and a curse. It’s what set all of the current events in motion. I still remember as if it was yesterday….
By Trisha Escamilla5 years ago in Fiction
Freedom is tied with you
“Do you love me?” the silence after those words resonated deep down to my heart and it shattered like glass breaking from a high note. Inimical was the silence. I looked at him with eyes that have never doubted his feelings but now these eyes want more than simple feelings. Love is intricately fragile. I began to ruminate about my love, the feeling was something which was heavy now, usually it wasn’t a burden.
By Gregory Salvador5 years ago in Fiction
The Down Maker Crawled Away!
Story #3: Fall 1957 We siblings came in sets of two. Two oldest are two years apart, then a four year gap. Two more arrive, though not twins they share the same age for two weeks. Then a three year gap followed by myself and the baby brother. There were six children altogether, five boys and a girl. We lived on an acre of land, surrounded by 94 acres of woods. Our house was very small by today’s standards. There were 3 bedrooms and one bath. The boys were all in one bed room stacked in bunk beds and a roll-away. My tiny room doubled as the guest room, or ubiquitous extra person in the house room. There was always an extra person in the house.
By Carolyn F. Chryst5 years ago in Fiction
Where Are They?
"Where are mom and dad?" my little sister asks again. It breaks my heart that I don't have a good answer to the question. The truth is simple; I don't know where our parents are. And that is not right. None of this is right - not by a wide margin; it is all wildly, unforgivably wrong. How is it that I, a fifteen-year-old high-school sophomore, should be left to babysit my two younger siblings?
By Shawn Ingram5 years ago in Fiction
Day 534
Dear diary another day and another day questioning why the fuck I care about going on. The bleakness and hopelessness of our situation is soul crushing some days. We stopped caring about anything except counting the days. I'm not even sure why I haven't killed myself. Am I too strong to do it or too much of a coward to do it? Whatever is after this has to be better. Still as we break camps and move on and try to scavenge what we can it gives us some purpose. Hell, I was stupid enough to bring a child into this world. It should be a crime but with so few of us left it also felt like a blessing.
By Jim Martin5 years ago in Fiction
Memes
You’d think ah take a lot ae shite but its’ your do- gooders actually that right piss me aff. Them that picks their way roond their pronouns like they’re crossin’ a rope bridge. It disnae sound right in Scots anyway, like you're bein' awfy polite or something. ‘ This is whit they will be wanting for their breakfast… They will be wanting two slices of black puddin’ wie their Lorne sausage..!’ Ahm no even ‘non-binary’ anyway but ah suppose folks are jest tryin’ tae dae their best.
By M J Tait5 years ago in Fiction
Freyja
It’s setting in once again, that well known primal urge. Run. Run far and fast as though your life depends on it. It may very well be the case. Though living by the hospitality of strangers is often a necessity, a means of survival, no mortal may be trusted for too long. Sooner or later, they all show their hand. When resting in their homes, feeding from their tables, sharing their ale in joyous frivolity, it is important to remember one universal truth - trust is for the weak, and I am not weak.
By Bree Beadman5 years ago in Fiction
The Last Treasure Hunter
One, two, three, I don’t know why I count these over the sink four, five, I just know one is going to slide down the drain eventually six, seven. Not that it’ll matter soon; I can feel the sickness setting in and my vision is beginning to fail. Eight, “8!” My once lucky number, eight teeth have fallen out in total now. The radiation is too strong here and I don’t have the strength to run any longer. Preparations must be made. The goal now is to die in comfort or as comfortable as one can make themselves here at the end of days. I am seeking a way to wash and maybe one last half decent meal. Is that too much to ask? A check list of items needs to be gathered and there’s no time to waste. Welcome to my funeral.
By Katy McManus5 years ago in Fiction
Opt-Out.
I often wondered how many of us remembered. The virus was gone now, but the remnants of its existence still lingered in the air of our new streets. It echoed in silent whispers and obnoxious distances between shopfront entrances.
By Aelish healy 5 years ago in Fiction