Adventure
The Tower Trip
The sky still seemed far away as Clay climbed the narrow stairs. Their tightness was harrowing as they rose toward the tall tower. The view grew higher as the hills dropped below. Alex wiped his brow and looked up at Clay during a brief rest. The sun beat down on them as they climbed to the top. Katie urged them to keep moving as Clay started up the stairs again. The others followed, sweating as they went. The end was near, but the journey was strenuous. The top was almost in sight, and the rusty stairs creaked beneath their feet. Clay reached the metal grating and pushed the door up. He checked the tower’s integrity and saw it was holding. He then opened the door for the rest. Alex and Katie joined him, ready for a needed break. The heat had only increased as they sat. Alex closed the door, and the trio sat down to take in the view.
By Sarah Danaher3 months ago in Fiction
The Chrome Legacy: The Last Campfire
Humanity finally did it. We left Earth for the stars. The oceans remained. The mountains endured. Cities of glass and steel became monuments buried beneath sand and ivy. Somewhere beneath a desert sun, Las Vegas surrendered itself to time while humanity chased distant suns across the galaxy.
By Alejandro Arango3 months ago in Fiction
Swirling
Zito Park: Autumn 1969 "Who left that toy in the tree?" Abigail Anosetti asked as she played with her friends. "I don't know, but it's tangled there and it doesn't look like it can be loosened without cutting its strings." Louie Binetti said, staring at it.
By John Scipio3 months ago in Fiction
I am Bexley the Bloodletter’s Scourge
Bexley’s interlude: Missing Shadows Early spring, 2072 Once upon a time, I had written my story down for you to read. Once, I had admitted that I had anger and fear, red-hot anger surging inside of me. This was something I thought zombies should not feel. To have a problem, any sort of problem, big or small, was not how we, as zombies, did things. I felt an anger for the humans, who were trapped in caves and bunkers as we zombies had homes above the dirt. They spoke with a timid tone as we watched in our high and mighty reflection, our sign language ruling over the cries of the so-called lower human class. Zombies could not speak, only using some form of American Sign Language to communicate their will.
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 months ago in Fiction
I am Bexley The Bloodletter’s Scourge
Chapter one: The Ultra-mutated zombie’s scattered memory —— The mirror showed a reflection that wasn’t my own. I knew it was that horrible witch who disfigured my reflection in such a distorted way. It was like a dream.
By Melissa Ingoldsby3 months ago in Fiction
Lavender Girl
They sat on the dirt patches between the rows of blue and purple lavender. The English, Spanish, French, and Lavandin plants were grouped by type and planted in rows. I prefer the English type, but the girl seemed to gravitate toward the blooms of the rabbit-head Spanish lavender. Her hands gently swiped upward on the spikes as she giggled. Her mother tickled the girl’s nose with a piece; the girl exclaimed, “It smells so good, Mommy!” Pulling scissors from her pocket, she began cutting the stems, creating a small bouquet. When the girl spotted the pink lavender, she ran to the rows and sat behind the tallest plants, trying to hide.
By Andrea Corwin 3 months ago in Fiction
A Flash of Lightning. Top Story - July 2026.
It's hard to understand the importance of connections without having lost them or finding one you never knew you needed because time comes in waves and the moments of our lives are shifted like loose sand; even carefully guarded structures can wash away with enough passes.
By S. A. Crawford3 months ago in Fiction
SWIMMING IN CIRCLES
It was after 1 am when we silently escaped the cabin with the remaining case of beer and a worn plastic case of cassette tapes scrawled simply with the word “SPARTACUS!” and headed out into the night. It was just the four of us – Steve, Leslie, Laura and me. The tapes were Steve's and we were taking his car because he was the only one sober enough to drive and was the only one who knew the way.
By Kevin Rolly3 months ago in Fiction
The Bell at Friday Harbor
After Seattle, I learned that arrival is not the same thing as stopping. For three months, Marlinda became the world beneath my feet. She was about one hundred and thirty feet of polished wood, steel, glass, salt, and quiet labor. After crossing the country on a red Honda Shadow named Suzanne, I found myself moving again, only now the road had turned blue.
By Alejandro Arango3 months ago in Fiction
