Fantasy
The Yellow Scarf
Zale Victor watched the clouds drift lazily across the sky as he lay on the soft grass thinking about how his life might have been if his parents were still alive. He had been living in an orphanage for as long as he could remember, and it had not been a pleasant life, to say the least. It was a bright summer afternoon, and all the other children were busy making the most of it, playing and enjoying themselves in a park near his locality. Zale was lying on the grass, in his favourite spot, a meadow that was a little further away from the park. It was the perfect place as it was hidden away behind a clump of willow trees and Zale found this convenient as he could stay hidden from an older kid and his bunch of cronies. Zale, who was scrawny for his age of 13 years, was often bullied by them. Although the park was buzzing with activity, Zale had tuned it all out and he was lost in his thoughts when he heard someone call his name.
By Binayak Khatri4 years ago in Fiction
Ode to the Inspiration that Launched it All
My name was on it, but not much else. The heroic soul who went out of their pretty little way to save my package from the clutches of a conniving postman who desperately tried to get a peek as she claimed neighbors should look out for each other. “Is that why a piece of your press-on is stuck under the tape,” I said, not honestly expecting an answer despite her immediate and silent eye roll as I shut the door in her face. I gather the box in a box is a better defense, although looking at it, I couldn’t imagine what I ordered that would need a thick iron casing. A five-by-four-inch cask with no label stamp or company name. Without my address under my elegantly stenciled title, it’s no wonder it sat in the lobby of my building with a Thieving Thelma. Where’s the handle, latch, or thin flush line that indicated this wasn’t a poorly measured, unfinished die? Sharp edges and corners left me looking at it like an oversized Rubric’s Cube lacking the where with all of a first move. Amid contemplating whether a box cutter blade would be thin enough to probe for a hidden prompt built within, it snapped open so hard the twenty-pounder leaped against gravity’s direct order, landing in a thud that left scratched on the lazily done wood finish. “I’m calling Chelsey.”
By Willem Indigo4 years ago in Fiction
The Phoenix Chronicles
Chapter 3 Suddenly she was looking into the eyes of the boy from her vision this morning; same eyes, hair, everything that Ayalet could remember, not a hair out of place. Seeing him in real life, she could tell that the spectacular tan also came with a side of long muscular arms and legs; making him a good 6 feet tall. He was built averagely, not too thin but not bulky like what you would see on a football player. His body was built like a soccer player. Moving back up to his eyes, she noticed his intense gaze on her. At first she couldn’t make herself look away, his eyes drew her into them. She felt like she was losing herself, while also in a way understanding herself better than she knew she could. As if something clicked in place somewhere in the depths of her core. Embarrassed and confused, Ayalet looked down at her book and pretended to read; the entire time, fully aware that his eyes never left her face. The teacher finished introducing him to the class and he returned to his seat; his chair creaked again as he sat down. She then felt a tingling sensation on the back of her head, as if someone was trying to stare into her brain like an x-ray; to figure out her thought process or what she was thinking.
By Amberle LuzBelle4 years ago in Fiction
Ancestral
There was a certain mystique about the box that lay in front of me. One that I couldn't get over. I had to know what was inside of it, there was no second thought about it. I had already decided if it was a bomb or some sort of chemical agent meant to dispatch me, that I would be ok with that. What did I have to live for anyhow?
By Michael Butler4 years ago in Fiction
