Aida Fakhry
Stories (6/0)
Keep Swimming
My hands were plastered, maybe even molded against this fluorescent fish tank. My fingers etched against the glass as I stared into the bright, flowy, squirming creators of the sea—how could anybody leave them all alone? I gulped down the breath I didn’t know I was holding in as my fingers grazed the roof of the fish tank. I’ve always been alone since Mama and Papa have left. I wondered how this fish would feel. How it would feel to be shoved underwater, drowning forever in front of an audience that practically snarls at you for being a fish. My eyes swiveled from left to right, left to right, left to—
By Aida Fakhry3 years ago in Petlife
Stolen Stars
We are all prisoners of the galaxy, of The Galaxy Lords, and the mortal world. The holy night of the stars will be different this year; the stars will shine, blinding us with the light that makes our eyes bleed from the creases of our cornea to the tips of our chins. I can just feel it through my mortal veins. Mama said it had been centuries since someone from the town of Luriada has been out in the open sky. The Holy Asartar night is a night where every star in the galaxy lights up with flames, my favorite being the star of temprata. As a child, my parents kept me and my little brother Hyphen well away from this night; they feared there could be outliers, those who go against the “normal” capabilities of humanity and pick up on the greediness of the starian sixtation. The starian sixtation are told to have picked up on the souls they have stolen during this night. Nobody has ever returned from the open sky, Mama said they could be dead, Papa said they could be sacrificed, and I say they could be killers.
By Aida Fakhry3 years ago in Futurism
Leave Me
“Liaya?” I try to whisper as my tears fall to the collar of my tuxedo—I fail when I hear pleading screams echoing through the speeding train. My lungs collapse, and my heart sinks to the pit of my quivering stomach. They couldn’t have gotten to her. Where are the police? Where is my fiance? I hear gunshots flying across the train as I hold on to the pillar. My knuckles turn white against my bronze skin as I bite down on my lower lip. My nostrils flare, and the intoxicating scent of flesh and blood and gun powder fiddle with my nostril. I grit my teeth as I sink back under my seat, hiding from the gunmen as they step through the train, their boots nearly entering my line of sight.
By Aida Fakhry3 years ago in Humans
War of Hearts
123rd Ave, Parkland County I let my breaths run loose through the thickening winded airs of Maryland as I slammed my body against the shielded realm. It was protected. Of course, this was the Azerial Hawke realm; he was the last man to survive what some like to call “The Women War.” I just call it a victory. We hadn’t had any commotion between ourselves since the war ended; everything was calm and still. But everything that dies comes with sacrifice; I knew this. I knew this first hand. I dared myself to face the war as a single soldier during operations; I practically used myself as bait. It worked until it didn’t. Until my blood was tingling with a different kind of sensation, one that had felt like boils of thick ooze and misty fog beneath my darkened skin. My blood was cursed with power, a power that let me rip through flesh with the anger beneath my stare. I never used it, and I never plan on using it in the future. Never. Well, not until now.
By Aida Fakhry3 years ago in Confessions
She Spoke
My soul is cracking. It’s my twentieth birthday, and no one has touched me in years. I’m so touch-deprived. So lost and yearning for the feeling of warm skin. I can feel my heart thud, echoing under my sticky skin and intertwined branches of veins. The smell of dirt and pine trees tickles my nostrils, playing with the hairs on my upper lip. I’ve lived amongst the nonis for years. We escaped politics underground with nothing more than shackles around our ankles, food from witches, and underground tombs for company. My parents gave me up after I began to shake uncontrollably, flinching at everything and nothing. My father was an alcoholic—a typical father in the twenty-first century. He would come home stressed from his witch-dome duties, and my mother would try to calm him down. He would try to shake her off, threatening to beat me if she spoke.
By Aida Fakhry3 years ago in Horror