Mia J. Mitchell
Bio
Writing is my breath~ I write in every spare moment I have... blogs, books, short stories... I can't NOT write!
www.miamays.org
www.historyofthepromise.com
Stories (8/0)
SADDLEBAGS, Trunks, and Tombs
Chapter 9 For some reason I felt like the old man and I were headed on a journey of some sort. I was meant to see this story, meant to write it down and he unfortunately was meant to walk. There was no longer any panic over the changing window. Over the next year I would find that I looked forward to it.
By Mia J. Mitchell4 years ago in Futurism
A Hole in the Moon
Zen’s Log: September 8, 2026 This is the one time I hope I’m wrong, but I am impressed that I am more right than I ever wanted to be. Why in the hell did I… never mind that Zen, it doesn’t matter. These past six years have been strangely quiet, but strangely long as well. What on earth possessed me to watch the numbers? Math. Just Math. I like math. Actually, I liked math, now I think I hate it, but I don’t understand why. I want to be right, because, well, I like being right. I also want to be wrong, very wrong. But the numbers. Numbers don’t lie, they never have. Math, equations, graphs… Three more days.
By Mia J. Mitchell4 years ago in Futurism
SADDLEBAGS, Trunks, and Tombs
Chapter 6 Jackson: As he struggled to sit up, he was again amazed that he felt no pain. He was most certain that he had been shot four to five times, yet here he was, pain free and strangely rested. He tried to shield his eyes from the blazing sun of the high noon, though it seemed the sun was not only above him but all around him. It was at that very moment that ‘Old Jack” jumped to his feet. Something was wrong, very wrong, with his hands. Not moments ago, his hands had been soft and cream colored, with the small size and velvety feel of the eastern gentleman, which of course he was.
By Mia J. Mitchell4 years ago in Futurism
SADDLEBAGS,Trunks, and Tombs
Chapter 3 Jackson: The smoke was clearing, though he could not truly see it. There were screams. No one screamed at gunfights anymore. The women, who might be around, were very good at keeping it down as gunfights were illegal. Gunfights were a thing of the distant past now a days, but every once in a while.... He had felt the bullets sear into his skin. Four? Five? Yet he felt no pain. Nothing but utter stillness hung in the air around him. Jackson could feel the noonday sun beating down on his skin as well as what felt to be numerous pairs of hands grabbing him on every side. Still, he could hear the screaming and now what sounded like the muffled distress calls of a child. There had been no children around when he had run into street, yet the cries were definitely those of a child. Something wasn’t right. He would bet his life on it, if he was lucky enough to have a life left after all was said and done.
By Mia J. Mitchell4 years ago in Futurism
My First Time in a Deprivation Tank
A float tank, which is also called a sensory deprivation tank or an isolation tank, is a tank that completely closes you off from the outside world. Once the door, or lid closes over a person, it is completely dark and soundproof.
By Mia J. Mitchell4 years ago in Longevity
