Adventure
Dinner Is Ready
Jesse and his men were not prepared for the frag grenade that landed right in the middle of their squad. Who was ever prepared to be blown up? Sure, it was always a possibility in war, especially in a battle this fierce, but one was never really prepared to die.
By Sean McEntee3 years ago in Fiction
Hiding Places
There is something to be said for punctuality. Dominic said he would be here at 11:00. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt he would be here on time, and he knocked on the door at 10:59. I'm glad I followed my intuition to be ready on time. I wasn't sure where we were going for lunch, so I made sure to dress casually in a simple malibu blue maxi dress and nude sandals. He wore khaki shorts, an olive green polo, and Sperrys. We looked ready for a day at the beach.
By Kathy Saunders3 years ago in Fiction
A Woman and her Van... I mean Man...
It’s a distinct possibility that I’d completely lost my mind. Juniper’s headlights illuminated the dirt road as it unfurled beneath the back bumper of Landon’s 90’s era Dodge van. A thousand times I wondered if I’d be murdered, if I should just turn around and hightail it out of there, if I’d ever find my way home again.
By Christine Reed3 years ago in Fiction
The Chronicles of Cerberus | Part One
Cerberus looked ahead and took a step back. The hound of Hades felt fear. How could this be? The guardian of the gates of hell was trembling. This had never happened before. It was not even supposed to be possible. His countless battles and exceptional bravery had sealed his reputation as one of the most powerful mythical beasts. What had happened during the eight days that followed his departure from the underworld for cracks to suddenly appear in his indomitable spirit?
By Ashley BOOLELL3 years ago in Fiction
Instant Regret of Opening Packages Not Addressed To You
There was no note or warning, just a simple package left on my doorstep wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. I shouldn’t have opened it, I kick myself every day for giving into the mystery. Now I cannot take it back. My name is Shae and this is my story.
By Ashleigh Holmes3 years ago in Fiction
Minnie and the Bull
A field of tall grass and marigolds stood between the picnic table and the line of woods at the edge of the property. ‘It’s a fairytale meadow!’ Minnie would say as she danced with her seven sisters every sunny Sunday afternoon. This was their favorite place to enjoy their one day each week without chores on their family’s farm. Dressed in their Sunday best, little prairie dresses with small flower print and full calf-length skirts, they would spin and spin, letting the air fill their skirts up into little puffy ballet tutus. They’d spin for so long that they’d become dizzy, falling over into the marigolds together, laughing. Minnie, the youngest at age five, would watch her skirt with intense concentration, waiting for it to turn into a little hot air balloon and carry her off into the skies of her imagination. Sometimes, when she thought hard enough, she would feel it start to happen, lift off, a sense of weightlessness, excited for this adventure away from reality; she’d close her eyes tightly, preparing to open them and be in the air, floating above a meadow of unicorns, a forest of fairies, and a valley of magical unknowns ready to be explored. Then she’d hit the ground next to her sisters, yellow and orange petals surrounding her, thrown into the air from the force of their bodies falling back to earth, grounding their sundress-clad physical forms moments before their minds would rejoin them. She’d feel mild disappointment before laughing when the butterflies returned to her tummy and the happiness and giggles of her sisters brought her back to her favorite place in the world. Why would she want to float away from it all anyway, she’d think. Weaving marigolds and dandelions into little crowns and dancing the day away was the best use of a sunny afternoon that Minnie, or any of her sisters, could imagine after all.
By Joanna Langemak3 years ago in Fiction
Brief Innings
Hambly thought; it was a colosseum, not bruised by old blood and the accretions of millennia, but of freshly cleaned bone, refined by an aeonic process of repetition, to a pure and shadowless white, not the pristine white of Christmas, nor the phantom-white of a suddenly billowing gas flame, but the white of masks and ash and funerals, now smeared by the shapes cast under a lowering sun of men brought to a halt, and in the throes of catching from the blue air, the ghosts of their breaths.
By C S Hughes3 years ago in Fiction
The Legacy
High in the rafters of the cattywampus old barn, first one golden eye and then the other opened in the absolute blackness of a moonless night. Old Owl spread sharp talons pushed off the beam perch. The small, furry critters that shared the old barn as their homes scurried between cracks, into open knot-holes, beneath scattered straw . . . anywhere safe and unseen from those see-everything-that-moves-in-the-dark eyes.
By Katy Doran-McNamara3 years ago in Fiction